I feel perfectly competent to take care of
the East River Bridge.
âWASHINGTON ROEBLING
M
ike listened to his grandfather's watery snoring. Gramps slept a lot, even in the afternoon. The wheezing gusts sounded shallow and labored, not at all like the healthy snoring his da used to do. Mike could still remember his father's snores. He used to think that a lion had found its way into their house. He'd cover himself with his blanket, hoping if the lion didn't see him, he wouldn't be eaten. For hours he had lain awake, listening to the lion snoring, almost too frightened to breathe till sleep finally took him. In the morning he'd told his mom and da and they'd laughed. They told him it was only his da's snoring and he needn't be afraid. He'd been a little afraid just the same.
Mike's grandmother was out, down to the police station to claim his da's things. There wasn't much to claim. Slowly he got off his small cast-iron bed and went to the corner of the room, beside the fireplace. He had discovered this secret place almost the first week they had been in the tenement. He had been playing by the fireplace when he first noticed that a board was loose. If the small piece of baseboard beside the hearth was pulled out just so, it was possible to take up two of the pine floorboards, which at that point were quite short. The space in the floor between the floor joists was perfect for the box.
His da had given it to him just a few days before he died, and though there wasn't much in it, he had taken to hiding it right from the start. His da had told him to, but he didn't really know why. There was nothing in it when he gave it to Mike, just a beautiful box with a curved top. The box had carvings like he
had never seen before. His da had said they were Celtic, and they seemed to interlock and wriggle around the outside like some charm against prying hands. It was a beautiful box, and his da had told him that it had been in the family since the time when Ireland was free, which he knew was a long, long time. Inside, it was all done in green velvet, but most of it was threadbare now, except the bottom. Mike had told his da that he would always treasure it and keep only his most valuable things inside. The only things in the box now were two pictures, one of his mom and sis, one of his da. There were some coins too, but the pictures were the real treasures. He took them out one at a time. He held them up to the watery light that filtered down between the buildings and through their dirty window. His mom and sis had already begun to fade in his mind. Without their pictures he didn't know but they'd disappear altogether. Mike sat long in the midday gloom of their bedroom. Sometimes if he looked at the pictures long enough it almost seemed they could move. They weren't moving now, though, so he put them away. The box closed with a solid sound and Mike locked it with the little brass key his da had given him. His da had the only other, and even he hadn't known where Mike had hidden the box. It was strange, but that's the way da had wanted it.
T
om and Emily had gone to find Charles C. Martin, locating him finally, near the terminal, discussing some alterations with a foreman. Martin had suggested to Emily that they go for a quick bite. The lack of an invitation to Tom was of no particular concern to Braddock. He hadn't expected one. The engineer reluctantly included Tom after Emily's none-too-subtle reproof. Martin accepted it in the fashion of a true gentleman, though, asking Tom to join them as if he'd meant to from the first. The three of them managed to get across Park Row dodging wagons, horsecars, stages, and carriages. Drivers had no inclination to stop for pedestrians. Once across, they strolled down along City Hall Park, enjoying the trees and the grass, which were starting to become scarce in New York. Tom liked this area. The addition of the bridge, which would terminate just opposite City Hall, made this small part of the city seem like the hub of the universe.
The traffic was incredible. In spite of the general movement of business uptown, the intersection of Park Place and Broadway was still the busiest in the city. A number of horsecar lines terminated there, and at certain times of the day the crush of stages, wagons, horsecars, carriages, and pedestrians made the streets seem to boil. There were times when traffic was so tangled, it came to a complete halt. Tom nodded in the direction of the Western Union building. Its clock tower poked above everything though it was some blocks south
on Broadway and Dey. The ball on the flagpole atop the tower was lowered every day at noon, keeping time for half the city and all the ships in the harbor.
“Seems every time I look at that building there's another ten wires sprouting out of it,” Tom said in an effort to make conversation.
Emily looked in that direction with a skeptically arched eyebrow. “I can't help but wonder what the telephone will do to the telegraph business. They may not be sprouting wires for too much longer.”
“Do you think so? I don't know. From what I hear the sound isn't that good. Can't misunderstand a well-written telegram,” Tom said with a certain grin.
“I think people will always want to talk to each other,” Emily said as they walked. “This is just the very beginning. They'll clear up the sound and wire the whole country eventually.” Tom just listened. He had never heard a woman talk like this before. “Electricity is taking over,” she went on. “It's the steam power of tomorrow, and there's no stopping it. Did you know we'll be putting electric lights on the bridge?” Emily said proudly. “It will be the first bridge in the country to be lit with electricity.”
“Really? That's marvelous. Electric lights?” Tom actually didn't know what to say. This was a bit out of his frame of reference.
“Seventy, to be precise,” Martin said. “The United States Illuminating Company won the contract. Underbid Edison by about three thousand dollars.”
“We'll generate our own electricity too.” Emily was obviously excited about the whole idea.
“Shocking!” Tom said with a straight face. They all shared a chuckle, and Tom started to feel almost as if he fit in.
They had crossed Broadway opposite the Astor House, at the south side of the park, an act of some bravery in that traffic. The Greek Revival hotel built by John Jacob Astor many years before had been the finest hotel in the city. Its style and grandeur had long since been surpassed by others such as the Fifth Avenue Hotel, on Madison Square, but it still held its cachet as the downtown meeting place of the powerful. Famous for its indoor plumbing on every floor, it had been a sensation when it was built. The interior courtyard and fountain presented a tranquil contrast to the hurly-burly of Broadway.
“Have you dined here before, Mr. Braddock?” Martin asked, appearing to know the answer before he asked. Tom figured he was just making a point.
“Haven't had the pleasure, sir.” His flinty smile at Martin showed the engineer that the slight snub hadn't gone over his head. “But I am looking forward to it. Have you, Mrs. Roebling?”
“Oh, yes, but infrequently. My husband and the bridge keep me entirely too busy to be able to enjoy a luncheon very often.”
Martin turned to Tom and said pretentiously, “They have the very finest continental cuisine here. I think they're a shade behind Delmonico's but that's just to my taste. As for the clientele, I think you'll find it the equal of the best the city has to offer.”
Tom must have looked nervous, although he didn't think it showed.
When Martin turned to lead them through the lobby into the restaurant, Emily gave him a reassuring squeeze of the arm, whispering, “Just follow my lead.”
They were seated at a table with a window on the garden courtyard. Its fountain gurgled and splashed in a calming counterpoint to the large dining room, bustling with lunch for the powerful. Tom noted Mayor Edson at one table with a gaggle of toadies. An assortment of people at other tables were doing their best to be seen. As he glanced around the room, he noticed Thomas Nast in a far corner. Nast, whose cutting cartoons for
Harper's
had hounded Boss Tweed into a jail cell, was regaling his table with glories past. For his part, Tom felt rather out of place and insignificant, a condition he wasn't used to. In his world, people took notice when he entered a room. Nobody cared a damn what he wore. The badge was the important thing. In his world power ruled. In many ways it was the only thing that the criminal types respected. The name of Braddock was known and perhaps even feared on the streets but not here.
A waiter arrived, in starched magnificence. After regaling them with a list of the chef's specialities, most of which Tom had never heard of, he took their drink orders, handing them each a menu. Tom had wanted to order a cold beer but contented himself with an iced tea. He was glad to see that the menu was in English. Most of the finer Broadway hotels did up their menus in French, but the Astor House refused to bow to the trend. Tom ordered a steak, with mashed potatoes and string beans. Not terribly creative, he knew, but what he wanted. No point putting on airs, when he'd probably never see either one of these fine people again. Martin ordered oysters to start, pheasant for his main course. Emily had a salad and the squab, which, when it came, hardly looked big enough to feed Tom's cats. She claimed to be pleased with it though. Tom's steak was big enough to feed a family in the tenements.
“So, Mr. Braddock, ah ⦠may I call you Tom?” Emily said, playing to Martin's sense of propriety.
“Sure. I mean ⦠you may indeed. I'd be ⦠honored.” Tom grinned while kicking himself for stumbling.
“And you must call me Emily.” Tom played along. Martin, he noticed, didn't ask Tom to call him anything. “Tell me, what were the circumstances of this man Bucklin's death?”
“Well, Emily, I'd prefer not to go into too many details over lunch. Don't want to spoil your meal ⦠but I can tell you that it appears he was struck in the back of the head with a blunt object. He was found in an alley behind Paddy's. It's a saloon on Peck Slip. No one saw it happen that we know of, and there doesn't seem to be any motive either, at least not any of the usual ones.”
“Such as?” Martin asked with a raised eyebrow, clearly not conversant in the usual motives for murder.
“Well, robbery, for one. Bucklin's money was still in his wallet. It doesn't appear to be revenge or a chance fracas either. From what everyone has told me so far, this Bucklin was a pretty quiet sort. No troubles with anyone that I could find, not yet anyway.”
“How puzzling,” Martin said dryly.
“I was thinking,” Tom said slowly, fork poised over his steak. “You know ⦠being that there's none of the usual motives and all ⦠that the bridge might be a target in some radical's mind. I mean, maybe this Bucklin was killed for something he knew or found out. Just a thought. After all, it represents a lot, if you follow me. Nothing could have greater ⦠how should I put it ⦠recognition, and ⦠symbolism too.” He halted for a moment to judge Martin's and Emily's reactions.
Martin nodded and cleared his throat as if about to reveal a great truth. “In many ways the bridge represents the triumph of the industrial age over the agrarian, the factory over the farm. It embodies all the greatest efforts of man to harness and tame the world around him. Maybe most significant, it bridges a great divide. There's powerful symbolism in that, don't you think?”
Tom wished he were able to use words like Martin. The assistant engineer went on. “If one were to draw that symbolism even further, it represents the industrial and political triumph of the North resulting from our recent civil war. It is not only in the North, it is in the heart of the greatest city of the North, a city which to some of our southern countrymen represents the very worst of industrialism, commercialism, greed, and corruption.” Martin gave Tom a satisfied look, obviously pleased with himself for summing up Tom's awkward attempt.
Tom wasn't deterred. He admired the engineer's ease with ideas and language, but those gifts weren't everything. It was Tom, after all, who'd come up with the idea first. He sallied back as best he could. “I don't think that the importance of the bridge as a symbol is well appreciated, but I think that to some it may be a tempting target.”
“Quite perceptive, Detective,” Martin said, wiping his mouth. “An interesting theory, but somewhat outlandish, don't you think?” Martin's slight smirk said it all.
“Outlandish, sure,” said Tom. “But as Booth proved, an anarchist who's willing to risk everything can do outlandish things. Lincoln was a symbol too as I recall.”
“Point well taken, Mr. Braddock.” Martin's voice had just a touch more respect. He seemed to have lost interest in his food. “It would be wise to keep the possibility in mind, however outlandish.”
“What sad and gruesome work, Tom,” Emily said as she dissected her squab. “What kind of special desperation must take hold to make one a murderer? I can't imagine it myself, the actual deed: the pulling of the trigger, the plunging of the knife. I know there are dangerous men out there. But it seems to me almost as if the taker of another life is not really human, not really one of us.”
“Oh, I don't know about that, Emily. The depressing thing is how ordinary they are. Most murders are committed by someone the victim knows. Most are done in the heat of the moment and mostly for the stupidest reasons. Some people are just not able to control their impulses or emotions.” Tom was cutting his steak as he talked. The knife sliced smoothly through the tender meat, which swam in a bloody pool on his plate. The knife's sharp edge ground the china with small screams.