An amused “Humph” came from the shadow that was the man's face. He made no move. Jaffey put his hand on the butt of the nightstick hanging at his waist.
“Move back, I said, and do it now! Don't be startin' any trouble,” he told the big shadow, “just move back into the bar and be quick about it.” Jaffey gripped his nightstick tighter with his right hand. With his left he poked two fingers hard into the man's chest in an effort to get him moving in the right direction. This seemed to have no effect. Jaffey was a little alarmed at that. Boozer or not, this fellow just didn't have any give to him. The man's features were materializing out of the gloom as Jaffey's eyes became fully accustomed to the light. The stranger started to say something and made a move to get past the patrolman.
This would never do, Jaffey thought. He couldn't let his sergeant see him get pushed around. He drew his nightstick. In his hurry he missed what the shadow-man said. Jaffey thought a crack across the knees would set his man to rights. It was the last thing he thought.
“Sorry about your boy there, Sam. Hope I didn't do any permanent damage,” Tom Braddock said without appearing to mean it.
“Jesus, Tommy, did you have to do that? It's hard enough gettin' the boys broken in without you bustin' em up,” Sam grumbled as he bent over the prostrate patrolman.
“He was going to crack my kneecaps,” Tom said defensively. “I can't abide a pup like him goin' off half cocked, thinkin' the world has to jump 'cause he's got new brass.”
“Seems to me I recall you bein' pretty green when you started too.” Sam hooked a hand under Jaffey's arm. “Here, help me get him up.” Sam and Tom leaned Jaffey against a barrel.
“Sam, we weren't green when we started on the force. Ignorant maybe, but not green. We were green back in '62 when we enlisted,” Tom said. “But when we started here that had rubbed clean off.”
There was a lot of truth in that. When the war ended and they joined the force, they were a well-seasoned pair.
“Sure, you're right, I guess, but we still didn't know a damn thing about police work, as I recall,” Sam muttered.
“There's some that say you still don't, Sammy,” Tom said with a grin.
“Screw you, Braddock.” Sam grinned back.
Halpern and Braddock stood over Jaffey as he came around. Jaffey looked up from his seat against the pickle barrel where the two had propped him. If he thought Braddock looked big before, he looked positively immense from the floor. Two sets of hands sky-hooked him onto his feet, and he saw at once the reason why the big man had not backed down when Jaffey had run into him. Braddock wore the shield of a sergeant detective. In the dark of the hallway, Jaffey hadn't noticed it, and with Tom in plain clothes â¦
“Shit,” he mumbled to himself. He had botched the job again. But that wasn't what was important to him.
“How the hell did you do that?” Jaffey asked with a mixture of surprise and respect as he rubbed the base of his neck. “Feel like I was poleaxed.”
Braddock was surprised. He expected indignance, or bravado, or maybe even a bit of a fight from this kid with the fresh brass. A commendable swallowing of pride, Tom figured. The kid was doing his best to recognize his mistakes. Tom wasn't so sure that if the tables were turned, he'd have the same humility. Perhaps he'd misjudged Jaffey just as quickly as Jaffey had misjudged him.
“It's a form of Chinese self-defense,” Tom said. “I picked it up when I was working patrol in Chinatown. Studied under Master Kwan on Mott Street.” He said this as if it should mean something to Jaffey, but of course it didn't. “I'll tell you that story some other time, Patrolman,” Tom continued. “And from now on, make sure of what you're doing and who you're doing it to before you do it. You understand me, son?”
“Yes, sir, sorry, sir.”
“Right,” Braddock said. “Now go on into the bar and talk to Bob. That poor bastard knows everyone who's been in this place since after the war. Might have to buy him a drink to get anything out of him, though, and get one for yourself while you're at it. You look like shit.”
“Sergeant Halpern said the same thing,” Jaffey said.
“You should listen to your sergeant. He knows a thing or two.”
Jaffey hesitated a moment. “I'm on duty,” he said lamely.
Sam and Tom rolled their eyes and Sam said as patiently as he could. “Jaffey, if Tom Braddock tells you to get a goddamned beer, then you get a goddamned beer. Now be a good lad and put your rulebook in your pocket and see what Bob has to say about our friend over there.”
“Said his name was Terrence Bucklin.”
“Good. Get whatever you can from Hamm too. He's a decent sort for a bartender. Find out if he's seen this fella before, who he's been seen with, that sort of thing. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hm ⦠and Jaffey, don't call me sir. Sergeant will do just fine.”
Jaffey headed down the hallway toward the bar. He stopped to pick up the pad and pencil that he'd dropped when he walked into Braddock and felt himself a fool again at the small reminder.
“Well, Sam, let's get on with it,” Tom said as he walked out into the alley. Sam knew what was coming. Braddock was one of the better investigators in the department by some accounts, though he did have one unsettling habit when it came to murder investigations.
“Terrence, Terrence, Terrence, look what's become of you now.” Tom stood over the corpse, his head hung low and his magnificent handlebar mustache seeming to droop in grief at the terrible end Bucklin had come to.
“Who would want to do this to you, man? Or maybe you just drank too much and knocked your head when you fell? Was that the way of it?” Tom paused as if the corpse would answer. “This is Sergeant Halpern and I'm Detective Tom Braddock, and if you don't mind I'll be askin' your help as we go through this.”
Halpern caught himself nodding to the corpse at the introduction. God, he hated when Tom did this. He remembered the first murder scene he and Tom had worked together and how startled he'd been when Tom started talking to the body like the son of a bitch was going to sit up and tell them all about it. He had kept his peace at the time, feeling that Tom was just trying to keep down his nervousness with the banter. Later, when the body had been carted off in the coroner's wagon, Sam had said “The dead won't answer you, Tom.”
“Oh, Sam, that's not true. The dead have a lot to say. Helps to talk to them, helps them say what they have to, I think.”
Sam remembered Tom telling him how he started talking to the dead. It was during the war, at the Battle of the Wilderness.
“Don't look at me that way, Sam. I know they're not really talking to me,
but they were people once, and if you talk to them maybe you'll get answers you don't expect,” Tom said thoughtfully. “Does no harm. Helps me, anyway. Helps me put myself in their shoes, see things how they saw them.”
Sam remembered that day with a silent grin. He and Tom had seen a lot since then, but Tom's habit of talking to the dead had never left him. And if Sam had to be honest about it, he guessed it didn't hurt any.
Tom looked up and took in the place where the body lay. He turned slowly, his eyes scanning the doorway to Paddy's, the trash in the alley, the three-story rough brick walls, the high gate where the alley opened onto the street. He seemed to be absorbing the place. Like a bird, his blue eyes were unblinking, reflecting back the scene in miniature as if it all were now inside his head, shining out, photographed there and filed away. Finally, as if coming up for air out of deep water, Tom filled his lungs and sighed. “What do you make of this, Sam?”
“Not a whole hell of a lot, Tom. No bullet holes, not much blood, no murder weapon, no witnesses we know of. He looks dead though,” Sam said, nodding down toward the body. “I'm pretty certain of that.”
“He's been gone about two days,” Tom said. “Probably died sometime Saturday night. It's been pretty warm last couple days. Wouldn't take long for him to swell up like he has.”
“With the bar closed for the Sabbath that explains why nobody found him sooner,” Sam observed.
“He's a worker,” Tom muttered as he stooped over the body. “A mason, unless I miss my guess. Did pretty well for a while but he's down on his luck lately.”
“How d'you figure that?” Sam asked, clearly skeptical.
“Cement on his shoes and his pants are worn at the knees,” Tom said, pointing. “See his hand?” Tom turned Bucklin's hand palm up. “Calluses, and cement dust in the cracks ⦠see? Shoes aren't the cheap kind but he's worn them clear through. That's why I guess he's seen better times. Looks to have been pretty healthy, although I'll grant you he don't look too healthy now.” Tom looked at the body closely. “I'd guess he was thirty-four, thirty-five or thereabouts. Did you look through his pockets?” Tom glanced up at Sam questioningly.
“Just his jacket. Nothing in the pockets except an orange. Didn't have time to do more. You got here only about five minutes after me. I was standing off while Jaffey puked up his lunch.”
“Yeah. Thanks for sending for me.” Tom put a hand over his nose. “Wish that rookie hadn't lost his stomach. Smells bad enough as it is.”
Sam gave a grim little laughâIt was shallow, as if the air weren't fit for
laughing. “It ain't rosewater and lilies. Jaffey's all right, though, you'll see. He just needs to get his feet under him. There's something in that boy that shines.” Sam looked back at the doorway toward Paddy's. “Been keepin' an eye on him.”
“We'll see,” Tom muttered. He wasn't convinced by a long shot.
“So, Terrence, mind if I go through your pockets?” he asked the corpse. He searched Terrence's pockets, starting with his vest. Slowly he felt inside and out, feeling the fabric for something that might have been sewn into the lining. Sometimes a man would do that with something he didn't want a cutpurse to find. The vest turned up a few coins, a cheap pocket watch, and a tattered piece of paper. Tom examined the watch, looking for an inscription or perhaps a tintype tucked into the back. It was an ordinary watch, a Waltham with a dented brass case, and nothing in or on it of any note. Tom had hoped for more but was not surprised. A working man rarely had the money for gold watches or inscriptions, for that matter. Next, Tom turned over the yellow folded piece of paper, feeling its worn edges and dirty sheen.
“Been in his pocket awhile, I reckon. Looks like it's been wet too.”
“Might just be sweat,” Sam said, looking over Tom's shoulder.
Tom looked down at the body and murmured, “This meant something to you, didn't it, lad? I'll just have a look at it if you don't mind.” Tom unfolded the paper with surprising delicacy. His big fingers seemed to coax the yellow sheet open, and it almost appeared to unfold itself.
“Looks like a bill,” Tom murmured. “Thompson's Mortuary Service,” he read, stopping to glance at the corpse. “Coffins Made to Order. Embalming. Burial Services. Death Masks and Portraits of the Dearly Departed.”
“Looks as though our man had a death in the family,” Sam said.
“Two. Says he's being charged for two embalmings and caskets, one hearse, flowers, a burial plot, and a priest. Strange, two caskets and one hearse,” Tom mused.
“Jesus, a hundred fifty-three dollars and forty cents. At those prices I can't afford to die.” Sam gave a low whistle. “What's that address there, Tommy?”
“It's kind of washed out. I'd say 242 Suffolk Street, but I wouldn't bet the farm on it, the ink's run pretty bad.” Tom turned to Bucklin and murmured as he crouched near the body, “Buried someone near to you a while back?” His hands slowly emptied the two front pockets of the man's worn wool pants. Their faded dark plaid confines yielded little. A folding knife with a blade worn down from sharpening, a button, and one key was all he found. The key might be useful, but there was no way to tell what it was for. It looked much like any other, a simple iron skeleton key. “Most likely a front-door key.” Tom held up the key.
“Not much help,” Sam observed. Half the locks in the city had keys like that.
“Help me roll him over.”
Sam stooped by the body and together he and Tom rolled the corpse on its left side.
“Well, now, I guess we know what killed you, don't we, Terrence?” Tom said, looking at the back of Bucklin's head. “That's as nasty a bash on the noggin as I've seen. Neat, though, wasn't it, Sam, just a bit of blood?” Tom ran his hand over the matted hair. “Crushed the skull like an eggshell but barely broke the skin.” Tom leaned close to the body and spoke so low Sam could hardly hear him. “Didn't know what hit you, did you, partner, just an unscheduled freight train smack in the back of the head. Next thing, you're looking up from the gutter, with the world spinnin'.”