Tom went to his desk feeling as if his cats had died. Byrnes was turning up the heat. The pressure was on to produce results. Not everyone was paying the cops for protection, after all. Those who didn't needed catching. Mostly it was the violent crimes they concentrated on, those and the minor criminals who couldn't afford to pay. The irony of the situation had not escaped Tom. It took money to break the law. So long as the money flowed, finding its way into the right pockets, the lawless didn't have too much to worry about. He spent an hour or so finishing up his initial report on the Bucklin case, made a new file, and placed it at the top of his stack.
H
eading out of 300 Mulberry, he ran into Sam coming up the front steps.
“Sam, good to see you. What brings you to the sanctum sanctorum?” Tom asked, shaking his hand.
“The what?” Sam asked, perplexed. “Is that what they're calling this place now?”
“Nah, just me showing off my eighth-grade education. It means holiest of holies, or something like that.”
“Hmph. Sort of fits. You always were a kidder. Only thing holy in this place is the shitter.”
Tom laughed hard but cast a glance around his shoulder. “Best to keep that talk low around here though,” he said softly. “Ears around every corner.”
“Good advice. But I've got some advice for you. That's why I came up here. You planning to see Coffin today?” Sam asked hopefully.
“Why?” Tom already knew the answer.
“He was asking about you. Said he hadn't seen you much lately.”
Tom just nodded, his lips pursed in thought.
“You'd be smart to keep in touch more. As long as you're one of his boys, you've got to play by the rules.”
“We shouldn't be having this conversation here, Sam,” Tom said, looking around. The two of them started south down Mulberry, the hustle and noise of the street making their conversation impossible to hear for anyone more than a few feet away. “I got myself in with the wrong man, Sam. I don't like it. I don't like some of the things I hear, and I don't like some of the things I have to do. He's got into things, taking money from some people who we shouldn't be protecting. I know you know what I'm talking about,” Tom said as they passed one of the old-law tenements on the block. It reeked, just like his deal with Coffin.
“Listen, Tom, you don't have to like it, just play the game,” Sam said, sounding reasonable. “Pay the bastard off and go your own way. You'll be rid of him. Listen, he was askin' for you yesterday afternoon. He sounded like he ⦠Well, I think you should see him, is all.”
“I understand, Sam. I was planning to pay him a call today anyway,” Tom said as they passed the old St. Patrick's.
“Good. No point pissing him off. No time at all and he'll be off your back.” Sam was trying to be reassuring.
“Don't think so, Sam. Coffin's a fucking tar baby ⦠and I'm stuck.”
The two men parted company a block farther on. Tom split off toward
the east and Sam went to finish his morning rounds. Tom was in no hurry to get there, though, and walked the ten blocks or so to Suffolk deep in thought.
Tom found himself rationalizing the contradictions of his life more and more. He was a good man, a good cop, and he served the law well. His reputation as a solid sergeant detective and his record before that was well earned. He was proud of it. The fact was that he also did bad things. But the bad things he did were to bad people ⦠people who made their money on the edges of the lawâat least that's what he told himself. The numbers were against them. Too many homeless, hopeless, and penniless souls willing to do anything for their next crust of bread. Twenty thousand orphans running wild in the streets, selling newspapers, if they were lucky, or themselves if they weren't. Some said as many as 100,000 homeless lived in the city, in shanties, squatting on the evaporating vacant land, dying of disease in the summer, frostbite in winter. And seemingly as numerous were the ones who preyed on them, in a sort of urban Darwinian cycle. Criminals should be made to pay, though. They did pay ⦠more often in dollars than in time behind bars. But for every dollar that found its way into Tom's pocket, he lost a little piece of himself in the transaction. He wondered if a Daniel Webster would come back and get him off this deal with the devil. He thought not.
F
or the next couple of hours, Tom canvassed the short list of Terrence Bucklin's friends. The story was pretty much the same. It was remarkable, really. His pastor, a sickly looking man named Father O'Brien, summed it up well.
“Detective, Terrence Bucklin was a man with nothing to confess.” Tom had run into him as O'Brien was leaving the Bucklin apartment, where he had come to comfort the family and make final arrangements.
“I'm hearing that all over, Father. Nobody I've come across has had a bad thing to say about him. I've spoken to a number of people who knew him, and it's all the same lyrics, different tunes. I'm headed upstairs to the Loftus family now. That's my last stop. How're the Bucklins holding up and the boy, Mikey?” Tom asked, looking toward their door.
“As well as can be hoped, Detective. They've seen more than their share of sorrows,” he said, his head hanging. “There's a toughness that God sometimes gives those in need, and the Lord has seen fit to bestow it on them, I think,” the priest said slowly. “Mike is a worry to me, though. Children are so easily lost.”
“I know what you mean, Father,” Tom said. “It's hard.”
“Indeed it is, Detective. I'll be keeping an eye out for him.”
“Me too,” Tom said. “Well, it was good to meet you, Father. I've got to get upstairs to talk to the Loftuses, see if they can tell me anything new.”
“You'll hear the same from them too, Detective,” Father O'Brien said. “A good man by all accounts, and not an enemy in the world.”
Tom shook his head, his mouth pursed. “That's where you're wrong, Father. He had at least one, and I mean to find him.”
Probably no great work was ever conducted by a
man who worked under so many disadvantages.
âEMILY ROEBLING
T
he Third Precinct was pretty quiet by the time Tom got there later that morning. Sam was out; Jaffey too. The desk sergeant nodded Tom upstairs to Coffin's office without breaking stride on his paperwork. Tom took the steps two at a time. He hadn't been looking forward to his meeting, especially not after his stop yesterday, but now that he was here, he figured to get it over as soon as possible. He knocked on Coffin's door, letting himself in before the captain even called, “Who is it?”
“Morning, Captain,” Tom said evenly. He called him captain only in public. Behind closed doors it was August, mainly because he knew how much the captain disliked it, or Augie if he really wanted to piss him off. Coffin got up from his desk, half in surprise, half in anger at the interruption.
“Tom! How good it is to see you. I didn't expect you this morning,” he said for the sake of anyone in earshot. “What brings you to our fair precinct?” They shook hands like old friendsâa small show for those outside Coffin's office. Tom gripped his hand hard, grinding the bones. He could see the color come up over August's collar as he tried to pull back. All the while Coffin smiled and mouthed platitudes.
“Come on in to my office, Detective. Sergeant Halpern told me you're working on that body his man found on Peck Slip yesterday.” The door closed behind Tom hard enough to rattle the big glass panel.
“Let's cut through the shit, Braddock,” Coffin snapped as he sat at his desk. “You have something for me?” Tom didn't say a word, just passed two envelopes to him. Only half a dozen more payments, Tom thought.
“You're late,” Coffin said. “And what's this?” Coffin fingered the second envelope, measuring its thickness.
“Made a stop at Madame LeFarge's yesterday,” Tom said. “Had some trouble with that little pervert Grafton. You know the one?”
“'Fraid so. Beat up one of Kate's girls. Put her in the hospital.”
“The same.” Tom put his hands flat on Coffin's desk, leaning over it, so he loomed over the captain. “Had to impress on him the need to stay out of LeFarge's, which brings me to my second point.”
“Which is?” Coffin said with an innocent stare.
“Which is that we shouldn't be taking her money, August.” Braddock growled. “You know the kinds of things that go on down there.” Tom felt somehow naive before Coffin's even stare. Coffin knew very well the kind of things that went on down there. Rumor had it that he'd been taking part in some of them himself.
“Let me set you straight on a couple of points,” Coffin said with a raised hand, interrupting Tom in a low but powerful tone. “First thing is that I'm in charge here. I say who we protect and who we don't. Understand?” He didn't wait for an answer. “Second, what you like and what you don't is your affair, not mine. I value your opinions, Tom.” He went on, trying to temper the hard edge of his voice. “But you must respect the fact that there are others involved in certain matters, and I am in a better position than you to judge what I do and don't do.” August waited a moment. “We clear on that?”
“As crystal, Captain,” Tom said flatly. What he thought was another matter.
“Good. Let's not dwell on these things, Tommy. Leave the decisions to me. It's my responsibility, which brings me to
your
responsibilities.” He paused, tilting his head in an inquisitive stare. “Where have you been of late?”
“Been busy. Besides, we have a business arrangement, and you know very well I honor my obligations.”
Coffin seemed to ponder that for a moment while he put his feet up on his desk and squeezed the envelopes once again. Tom took the chair across from him. August said nothing, just took up a pencil and commenced flipping it in the air. It was perhaps his most annoying habit. Tom sat silent, watching the little display.
Finally Coffin said, “Good man, Tommy. I knew my concerns were groundless. I won't even count it.” He waved a hand at the envelopes. Tom wondered how it would sound when Coffin's neck snapped in his hands. He pictured his fingers digging into the flesh, the color draining, eyes bulging, the tongue lolling stupidly. He smiled inside.
“You're a bit of a rebellious spirit, I suppose, but that can be a strength as well as a failing. It's one of the reasons I decided to help you advance in the
department,” Coffin said as if all was forgiven. Tom figured that was the least of August's reasons. “How are things up at the bureau?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Pretty much as you'd expect. Byrnes is feeling the pressure from the brass. We got another one of his homilies this morning,” Tom said with a raised eyebrow.
“Hmph. Tough job he's got forming a new department. A great opportunity though. Stick close to him and you'll go far, Tommy. The Detective Bureau will be a success, of that you may be assured. Byrnes won't have it any other way.”
“Was a little rough at first,” Tom observed. “Some of the boys in the precincts don't understand how we're supposed to operate. Think we're stepping out of bounds, sticking our noses in their cases. Makes for some awkward encounters.”
Coffin twirled his pencil. “But you're doing well, I take it? You've prospered since your promotion, haven't you?” He stopped twirling his pencil in expectation. “Didn't I tell you it would be worth the investment?”
“That you did, August,” Tom admitted with a shrug. “And I have done well, no denying it.”
“Indeed. And I'm gratified to see you moving up, I truly am. It's very satisfying to me to know of all the very deserving gentlemen whose careers I've helped advance,” Coffin said with a look that was smug and disingenuous at the same time. “They're a credit to the department, most of them. But, you know, Tommy, some have disappointed me ⦠from time to time. And disappointments, even if they seem small ⦠well, they add up, you know. I put a great deal of faith and confidence in my boys, and I don't expect to be disappointed. Makes me doubt. I hate doubts ⦠really I do. Complicates things. Don't you agree?”
“No question, August,” Tom said in an even tone. He knew where Coffin was going with this.
“Now I'm sure I can rely on
you
, Tommy. Isn't that correct? I can rely on you despite an occasional small
disappointment
?” Coffin pointed his pencil at Tom's chest.
“You can, August. We are bound, you and I. Sort of like a marriage, you could say,” Tom said, praying marriage would never be like this.
“Just the point, Tommy, that's exactly it. And a marriage brings people together ⦠joins them in the common enterprise of life, does it not? A marriage requires trust and confidence. That's the very glue of a marriage, don't you agree?”
“Love would come first in my book, August, but I see your point.”
“You know, in a way I'm married to all my men and them to me. We have that trust and confidence for the most part. And I'm thinking now that perhaps a small disappointment here and there is nothing to end a marriage over. No need for that. A marriage is sacred, after all, and not to be broken lightly. Of course you wouldn't know about that, Tommy, you not being in that state of bliss, you old dog.” Coffin forced a chuckle.
“Oh, I believe I know something on the subject, August,” Tom said evenly.
“Indeed. Indeed, I'm sure you do. No, no need to break up a marriage over a trivial matter, like I was saying. But you know, Tommy, if one partner betrays the other's trust and confidence, then I feel that union should be broken. Don't you agreeâbroken swiftly and permanently, for the good of both parties?” Coffin flipped his pencil idly, tossing it by the end, setting it spinning a couple of times before he caught it.
“I suppose that would be best. No point prolonging a union that cannot possibly work,” Tom said, playing along. He crossed his legs with a casualness he didn't feel and stared at the captain.
“I'm glad you see my point, Tommy. But I want you to know that I have complete confidence in you. No breakups going on here, oh no. We're a team, you and I. We're like a pitcher and a catcher; giving the signs, throwing curves or fastballs, watching for the steal and ready for the bunt.” August smiled widely, pleased at his analogy. He caught his pencil in midspin, pointing it at Tom. “If I thought otherwise, Thomas, you'd be out of the game.”
August no sooner threatened Tom than he asked a favor of him, knowing that he couldn't refuse. It was a trivial matter really, according to Coffin. “A small annoyance.”
“I have a problem with the operator of a gaming parlor, and I was hoping you could do me a small favor.” Tom said nothing, just sat in anticipation of the dirty work. “You see, this man Finney thinks he can carry on his activities without making the proper arrangements. He doesn't seem to understand how business is done in this town.” Coffin wore a concerned frown.
A bored grin oozed across Tom's face. “I see. You'd like me to give him a lesson in economics.”
“Precisely,” Coffin agreed, smiling at Tom's euphemism. “Nothing extreme, mind you. Just a reasonable appeal to his better business instincts.”
“So, he should not be inconvenienced by ill health or a sudden misfortune, I take it?”
“No, no. Not necessary at this point. I believe he'll see that we have his best interests at heart. Finney just needs a reminder of how those interests
might best be served.” Coffin twirled his pencil pensively. “Don't want Finney to go sprouting any false hopes about prospects, so the sooner the better, Thomas.”
“All right, Augie,” Tom said. He relished the frown the nickname brought to Coffin's face. “So where's this Finney character?” The captain told Tom how much he was expected to get from Finney. It was higher than usualâsomething Finney had brought on himself by not playing ball sooner, August had smugly assured him.
“Here's the address. When can I expect you to get back to me, Tommy?”
“Give me two days,” Tom said over his shoulder as he opened Coffin's door to go. He didn't want to stay a moment longer than he had to. Coffin's feet were still up on his desk, but there were thunderheads hovering around his brow as he watched Tom walk away.
Tom was boiling as he walked out of the precinct. This was a new low for Coffin. It was the first time he had actually been threatened. While Tom didn't think much of August, he had to take his threat seriously. Not that he feared Coffin himself. Coffin didn't have the stomach for his own dirty work. If Coffin came after him, it would be with the corps. That's what he called it. It had taken time to build it up, man by man, with men just like him. In many ways it was a private army, men he had bought, corrupted, and manipulated over the years. No one knew how many there were. Tom knew of some but always figured there were others he hadn't heard of. Coffin had made quite a career of advancing “deserving” individuals. Once the hook was set, and the new sergeant, or wardsman, or captain, or detective started paying off the loan, he found that Coffin's interest wasn't the only price to pay.
Tom had every intention of getting the Finney problem out of the way as soon as possible. No point putting it off. It would only mean trouble for him, and for Finney too, not that he cared much on that account. The fact was that he was a lot closer to the bridge than he was to Finney's at the moment, which was a few blocks north near the corner of Baxter and Centre streets. So, Tom set his sights on the bridge, and crossed Park Row to the bridge approach. There was still a great deal of work going on on the Manhattan side. The approaches were elevated roadways that connected the bridge with the streets. They extended inland for blocks. Whole neighborhoods had been leveled to accommodate them. Tom paid closer attention to the details of the bridge as he walked alongside the approach beside the new train terminal. The roadway was supported by a series of stone arches, growing from about two to five stories high down closer to the river. The one at Franklin Square had the El running
through it on its way uptown. The granite and sandstone contrasted with the small shabby-looking brick-and-frame buildings that surrounded the bridge, their fronts covered with signage on nearly every floor. As Tom went further he slowly rose above the surrounding rooftops. Tom had walked about two hundred yards up the approach before anyone bothered to ask what his business was there.
“Say, fella, what're you up to there? We don't allow no sightseers. You can just turn around and go back the way you come.”
“I'm Detective Sergeant Braddock,” Tom said, sliding aside his jacket to show the badge pinned to his vest. “I'm making inquiries about a man who worked on the bridge, maybe you know him, name of Bucklin, Terrence Bucklin?”
“Ya need ta go to the bridge office,” the man said, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of Brooklyn.
“All right,” Tom said, seeing he'd get no help from this one. “And where would that be?”