“Fulton and Front streets,” the laborer said, not looking at Braddock. “The Brooklyn
Union
Building.”
Tom started off across the bridge on foot.
“Ain't allowed to cross the bridge,” the man called after him. “Hey, you hear? It ain't allowed.”
Tom kept walking. It took him twenty minutes to walk over to the building that housed the bridge offices. Tom reminded himself to take the ferry back. He didn't much care for walking the wooden planking where the roadway wasn't finished. The river looked a bit too far down.
It took another twenty to get a fix on what construction crew Bucklin had worked on and where they were supposed to be this morning.
“We got hundreds of men on this job, Detective,” a clerk had told him once he'd identified himself and explained his need to check on Bucklin. “I'll have to go over the payroll to make sure he's with us, first off.”
“I'd appreciate it. I'll wait,” Tom said.
It was some time later when the clerk asked, “Bucklin, eh? Got a Buckland, a Bucklin, and two Buckmans. You sure how it's spelled?” Tom spelled it for him. “Okay. Give me a minute, maybe I can tell you where he's assigned today.”
Tom sat in the small lobby, reading a copy of the
Union
while he waited. The clerk buried his head in the day's work assignment sheets, rustling papers as he flipped through.
“Got it!” he said at last, holding up a slip of paper. “He's supposed to be
working masonry on the New York side, doing brickwork on the vaults. His foreman's a fellow by the name of Hightower.”
Tom got up, tucked the
Union
under his arm, and walked to the big desk that served as the office reception area. The clerk spread the sheet out for him.
“Does it say where exactly: north side, south side, which cross-street, anything? I saw a lot of men over there a little while ago,” Tom said as he peered at the paperwork.
“Doesn't say,” The clerk frowned. “Lots of times it don't,” the man said apologetically.
Tom thanked him and headed for the Fulton Ferry Terminal. He'd had enough walking. He didn't notice that one of the other clerks who had been standing nearby watched him with special interest as he left.
A
half hour later, after a delay on the ferry due to river traffic, Tom was staring up at the anchorage on the New York side. He looked left and spotted some men up on a scaffold under the Franklin Street overpass. He walked over and shouted to get their attention. “Any of you men know Terrence Bucklin?”
“Wha'?” someone shouted back.
“Terrence Bucklin,” Tom called again.
“He ain't here” came the reply from somewhere up in the scaffolding.
“Any idea where I can find Hightower?” Tom tried next. The clerk had mentioned that Bucklin had been assigned to that foreman's crew.
“Thought you said Bucklin?” a voice came back. “Make up yer fuckin' mind.” Tom started to explain but thought better of it and waited.
A minute later a head popped over the edge of the scaffold. “So, what is it?” the head asked.
“I need to find his crew, Bucklin's and Hightower's that is.”
The head cleared its throat and spit down in Tom's general direction. “Supposed to be brickin' up the vaults. Up a ways,” it said. An arm appeared and waved in the direction of City Hall.
Tom waved back, grunting an acknowledgment.
When Tom got “up a ways” he came upon another crew doing brickwork. He walked up to the man who appeared to be in charge.
“Hightower?”
“Who wants 'im?” the man shot back, standing with his hands on his hips.
“Detective Braddock. I'm investigating a murder. You know Terrence Bucklin?” Tom showed his shield.
“Don't know him. Heard his name, though,” the man said, taking his
hands off his hips. “Works with Hightower's crew, all right. They was supposed to be with us today but we got bricks enough for just one crew, so they moved on up to the roadway.” The foreman pointed back to where Tom had started about an hour before. “Think they're doing some damn thing up there.”
“What's he look like, this Hightower?”
“Round sort of fella. Suspenders, an' a bowler,” the foreman said over his shoulder as he looked up at his men laying bricks.
Tom took the three-block walk back to where he had started, feeling as if he had wasted a lot more time than he really had. He checked into the train terminal first as long as he was there. The ringing of hammers echoed from the cavernous roof of the half-finished building. Once again he was given a wave of an arm and the general direction where Hightower could be found. Tom figured he had found his man at last when he spotted a bowler perched on a big head and an even bigger body.
“You Hightower?”
“What can I do for you, mister?” the fat man said. Tom identified himself and asked if he knew Bucklin.
“I would say I do. Worked with him for three years past. James Hightower,” he said, extending a thick hand. “What's this about Bucklin? Been wonderin' where he took himself off to.” Hightower tilted back his bowler to scratch his head. “Hain't seen 'im for a coupla days.”
“Bucklin's dead. Found yesterday in the alley behind Paddy's.”
“Jaysus! The hell you say.” Hightower almost shouted. “I tell you, this city'll just eat you up and spit you out. No fit place for humanity. I'm a Brooklyn man myself,” he said, seeming anxious to make the distinction. “What happened to 'im?”
Tom told him without giving too many details. “Tell me, how many men on this job?”
“Well, I got twenty-odd on this crew, but there's dozens more workin' steel and cable. Then there's those what's workin' on the train tracks and stations. All told, maybe three hundred, give or take. That's both sides, mind you.”
“Anyone else besides Bucklin been out of work the last day or so?” Tom asked, looking around.
“Nope, not on my crew. Can't speak for the rest, o'course.”
Tom spent maybe fifteen minutes talking with Hightower, asking a lot but not getting much of use. The foreman hadn't been aware of anything going on with Bucklin; no troubles to his way of knowing, no fights or disagreements, just a good hard worker. He was aware of Bucklin's misfortunes and had gone
to the wake of his wife and little girl last year but couldn't claim to be really close with him, he said.
“Must be a big job making sure everything goes right on a project like this,” Tom observed casually. “Got to be a million ways to screw things the wrong way.”
“Maybe, mister, but I run a tight ship. Can't speak fer others but my crew's tiptop.”
“Fine-looking bunch of men,” Tom observed, looking around at the group. “You ever come across any shenanigans on the job? You knowâwork not done right, maybe shoddy materials, that sort of thing?”
Hightower gave him a stony look. “Not on my crew, mister. They had the cable fraud back years ago, but that was none of my affair.”
“You ever hear Bucklin say anything about something not being right about the bridge?”
“What're you getting at, Detective?” Hightower asked defensively. “You think we're in on some fraud or somethin'? You're wrong if you do.” He hooked his thumbs behind his suspenders. “Nothin' but honest work goin' on here. And to answer your question, Bucklin didn' say nothin' to me about any such shenanigans.”
Tom raised a hand. “Not implying anything. Just a theory. It doesn't seem as though Bucklin had any enemies, but someone sure did seem to want him dead.” He pointed a finger at Hightower's ample gut. “You figure it out. By the way,” he said, looking around at the men, “how many men would you say chew tobacco on your crew?”
“What's that got to do with anything?” When Tom didn't answer, he just said, “I don't know, maybe half or more. Pretty common habit, ya know.”
Braddock spent two long hours questioning everyone on the crew, including the German, Rolf Mentzer, Matt Emmons, and Earl Lebeau.
“You from down south?” Tom had asked Matt.
“Yup. Thought we'd come north after the war. Not much money to be had back home, and with the niggers takin' jobs it's harder than ever.”
Tom just nodded. “What unit you serve with?” he asked casually, taking notes as they talked.
“Robertson's Brigade. Company B, Fifth Texas,” Matt answered, unable to hide the pride or the tinge of a challenge in his voice. He'd never been able to mask his pride in his service, not even after years in the North. It had always been a badge of honor for him, always would be, and be damned to anyone who thought otherwise.
“You were at Gettysburg, then.” Tom said, looking up from his notes. “Might be we saw each other. I was with the Twentieth New York.”
“Uh-huh,” Matt said appraisingly. “We weren't in it till the second day really. With Hood.”
“Then you're the boys that almost took Little Round Top! Say, did you know that Roebling was a Lieutenant then and helped save that position? You know, Roebling ⦠the chief engineer for the bridge?” Tom waved vaguely toward Brooklyn. “How's that for a coincidence?” Matt tried to look surprised. “Is that a fact? Small world, ain't it? If they hadn't reinforced, we might just have won that one.”
“I'll not argue with you. You boys fought like the devil. Close thing.” They both knew what an understatement that was. “The Twentieth was near the center on the third day,” Tom said, knowing what it would mean to Emmons.
Matt put down his cement trowel. “You get in the thick of it?”
“Oh, yeah. We were at the southern edge of the rock wall, and by the time Pickett's line got across, it had concentrated on that little grove of trees a couple hundred yards north. That ain't to say we had it easy. We moved up to reinforce the center. Got into it pretty heavy.”
“Never should have made that charge,” Matt said sadly.
This was the first time Tom had actually talked at any length to someone who fought for the Confederacy. There was a kinship there, a shared experience too awful to voice. Tom figured it was somehow the dead that bound them. The sorrow for those who did not come home knew no side. A soldier became just a man again in death, an enemy no longer humanized and dehumanized at one stroke.
“Come July, it'll be twenty years.” Earl shook his head slowly, as if this was the first time he had thought about it. He had sidled over as Tom and Matt spoke. Earl's brow wrinkled at the effort, and he chewed his tobacco contemplatively. Matt introduced Earl and told him Tom was investigating Bucklin's murder.
“Damn! Murder, you say? Well, you can count on us to help any way we can,” Earl said with a sincerity that almost had Matt believing him. “How'd it get done, an' who done it?”
“Rather not say just yet,” Tom said. “And as to who did it, well I have my suspects.” Tom lied.
“Oh, I get it,” Matt said. “Smart to keep quiet on the details till you nail yer man.”
Tom just smiled knowingly, wishing he really did know anything of value. He continued to ask them both the usual series of questions, checking on Bucklin's friends, enemies, debts, quarrels, girlfriends, if any, and anything else that might seem productive. Matt and Earl appeared helpful but ultimately
gave him very little except vague notions about Bucklin's finances. Earl spat tobacco with precision, Tom noticed. Braddock kept up this line of questioning, asking about the job, the pay, and anything he could find out about labor problems, shoddy contractors, and the like. He felt that he was going in circles, though, so he branched into another area.
“How many came north from your unit?”
“Three; us and Simon Watkins yonder,” Earl lied easily, pointing to Watkins on the other side of the roadway. “Mr. Long-shanks over there by the train tracks.”
Braddock sized Watkins up. “He
is
a lanky one. Watkins, you said?”
“Yep. Served with us most of the war, 'cept when he got wounded.”
Watkins glanced over at them, then looked away quickly.
“Oh ⦠ah, you boys ever socialized with Terrence ⦠you know, go drinking, that sort of thing?”
“Sure did,” Matt said.
“He was out with us at Paddy's two weeks ago, Friday. First time in a dog's age he even went out for a pint,” Earl added.
Tom remembered Mrs. Bucklin saying Terrence was drinking more lately. He wondered who with.
“Couple Fridays ago, you say?” Tom perked up at the information. “You didn't mention that before,” he said casually. He couldn't help but wonder why.