Tom showed his badge and asked again for Clora. “It's official business,” he said firmly.
“Better see the manager.” The bartender shrugged his shoulder toward the back of the big room. “Door on the left.”
Tom's visit with the manager wasn't much more helpful. Miss Devine had not come in for three days, and it was apparently a source of some annoyance to the man who ran the place. He was a German, named Haupt, who reminded Tom of an officious burgomeister.
“That girl, she went off und we've not seen her again,” Haupt told Tom, hooking his thumbs behind suspenders that appeared about to snap.
“Was she seen leaving with anyone?”
“Ach, she vas a popular girl.” Haupt smiled. “Lots of gentlemen wanted to dance mit her. Some of these gentlemen would take her out sometimes. I couldn't keep track of all the girls und what they do after work.”
“You ever recall seeing someone with her by the name of Watkins? Tall, skinny fella, with a southern accent?” Tom held a hand up to indicate Watkins's height.
“Got the pox marks on his face?” Haupt asked. When Tom nodded, he said, “Ya, I remember him. Clora vas seeing him sometimes.”
“Got an address for her?” Tom asked, more than half expecting he wouldn't.
“Sure, sure. I look it up for you.” Haupt was efficient about his records apparently, for within a short time he had Miss Devine's address. He handed it
to Braddock, saying “Clora's not in trouble? She's a goot girl, und I'd hate to lose her.”
“No, no trouble. Just need her to confirm something for me. Mind if I ask around, see if anyone might know who she was seen with last?”
Haupt didn't have any objections. He suggested Tom start with the bartender, whom he said knew the goings-on in the place better than anyone.
The bartender wasn't able to help much except to say that he did remember Watkins, though he couldn't say he recalled seeing him on the previous Saturday night.
“Too many men in here on a Saturday to remember âem all,” he said. He looked toward the front door, saying, “Oh, there's Patty. She was pretty close with Clora.” The bartender waved to a girl who had just walked in. “Patty, c'mere a minute. This 'ere detective is lookin' for Clora.”
“Well, ain't we all,” the woman said. “Ain't been in since Tuesday.”
Tom got her name, and asked the usual questions about Clora, whom she was seen with and whether Watkins was one of those. Patty confirmed that Watkins was a regular, but she couldn't be sure if he'd been there last Saturday. “Was pretty busy myself last Saturday, ya understand.”
“You said Clora was last seen on Tuesday?” Tom asked. “Did she leave with anyone? Or was there anybody she was spending a lot of time with?”
After a moment's thought, Patty said, “Well, there was this one fella. Sort of a clerk, you know, bow tie, glasses ⦠little guy, maybe five six, five seven. I think he left with Clora. Seemed harmless. Had kind of a mousy look to 'im.” Patty scrunched up her nose, exposing her front teeth in a ratty parody.
Ten minutes later Tom was at the address that Haupt had given him, a reasonably clean-looking four-story tenement on Broome Street. A few minutes later, after finding nobody home, he was being let into her apartment by the landlord. There was no sign of Miss Devine. The apartment looked as if it had just been left for an hour. Tom looked into the armoire in the bedroom. It was full of clothes, especially the kind of flashy dresses a dance hall girl might wear. Tom took his time, looking through her things for any sign of a connection to Watkins, the bridge, or Bucklin for that matter. He was keeping an open mind on the possibilities. As it turned out, the only thing of any significance Tom discovered was that Miss Devine was not there. She appeared to have left suddenly.
Taking a hack to Suffolk Street gave him a little time to relax. By the time he reached the Bucklins' place, his head was pounding to a less insistent drum. Tom got out and stood in the crowded street for a moment. He had a notion
that Mikey might be out there somewhere. It was nearly four, so he'd be out of school, if he even went. If Mike had been near, it would have been tough to spot him among all the kids running about. Tom turned and trudged up the dark stairs.
W
atkins had almost made up his mind. In fact, he would have stopped Braddock on the street before he went up to the Bucklin apartment, but he was more than a block behind. “Don't matter,” he muttered. He got himself a
Tribune
and sat on a stoop about half a block away. He spread the paper out on his knees, pretending to read, while casting a frequent eye toward the Bucklin place. Watkins never had been much of a reader, but he was so nervous he doubted he could have read a word anyway. He kept telling himself this was the only way. Even though Thaddeus hadn't shot him outright, it didn't mean he wouldn't. The captain was just biding his time till he was off his guard. He knew how the captain operated after all these years, had seen how he handled men who'd done him wrong. He was living on borrowed time by his reckoning. His palms started sweating just thinking about it.
This was the way it had to be, the only way he could see himself clear of the mess he was in. He'd give up the captain. He had to. Just running wouldn't be enough. That maniac would find him wherever he went. No ⦠he'd have to turn him over, Earl and Weasel too, come to think of it. They'd kill him sure if the captain got pinched. Matt and Patrick, they'd see the right of it. They weren't cold like the others. They might not like it much, but they'd be so busy covering their own tracks they wouldn't waste time on him. Watkins wasn't that sure about Earl or Weasel. Those two were as crazy as the captain, maybe more. They'd find him if they weren't locked up. He was sure of
that.
“Kill a man for havin' too many beers,” Watkins mumbled to himself. He glanced toward the front door again, looking over the top of his newspaper. “Still ⦠it ain't easy.” When it came right down to doing it, he wasn't sure he could. It would mean jails and courts and testifyin' and lookin' the captain in the eye when he told the Yankees what they were planning to do. That part of the plan was almost as bitter as getting shot. He didn't know how he'd stand up to that. Turning traitor like that just wasn't in him, nor his family. “Thank God my daddy won't see it,” he said to himself. If his father had still been living, he'd never even think about this.
T
om's visit with the Bucklins was nearly as depressing as before. They had buried Terrence next to Julia and the baby in Brooklyn, Patricia told Tom. It
had taken their last dollars and some credit too, but they felt they had to do whatever it took so Terrence could sleep with his wife and child.
“One odd thing,” Patricia said. “When we got back from the funeral, I could have sworn that Terrence's picture had moved.” Tom had raised his eyebrows at that, and she could see the skepticism on his face. “It's true,” she insisted. “It was as if our Terry had given us a sign.” She looked longingly at his tintype on the bureau.
Tom looked at it too. “Nothing else moved while you were out?”
“Not a thing. It's a sign. He's with the angels now. It's a comfort to know he's at peace.”
Tom nodded silently. He wasn't much of a believer in signs.
Mike hadn't taken it well, Patricia told him. He'd been out nearly all night the day they broke the news to him. He seemed wilder now ⦠distrustful, like a dog that's been beat too much. He cried, they said, but then Patricia and Eamon did too. To make whatever she could, she had taken in some seamstress work and was making lace as well. She had learned lace making in Ireland and had done it on and off ever since. Now it would at least keep some food on the table. Eamon was a little thinner and grayer, a step closer to the end. He didn't have anything to add to what he'd told Tom already, and not much breath to do it with. Mikey was out with his mates most of the time. Patricia worried and sewed. Tom reached into his pocket and took out the small brass key that had rested there since his visit with Doc Thomas.
“Have you ever seen this key before, Mrs. Bucklin?”
Patricia took it, turning it over in her hands. “Can't say so, Tom. Looks something like a key to an old box that Terry had once. I think it was lost in the fire, though. Haven't seen it in years.”
Tom took it from her. He thought for a moment about how to ask his next question, and finally said, “Do you have any notion why this key might have been found in Terrence's stomach?”
The shock was clear on her face. “His stomach? My God, no! What would a key be doin' in Terry's stomach?”
Tom frowned down at the small brass key in his hand. “That's exactly what I'd like to know.”
It was around five-thirty when Tom trudged down the steps to the street. He had an urge for a back table at McSorley's. A couple of ales, some crackers with onion and mustard, and some convivial solitude sounded just about right. Watkins got up from his seat on the stoop when Braddock came into sight. His hands shook as they folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. He stood for a moment, rooted to the spot. Tom turned south down Suffolk, walking slow and thinking slower. The sounds of the street bubbled around him into
an inaudible froth. Snatches of conversation in accented English, or Gaelic, Italian, and a handful of others he couldn't place went by like shooting stars and were gone. He didn't know how many times he heard the name Mikey before it registered, but he turned to the sound of the boy calling the name from across the narrow street.
“C'mon, Mikey. Move yer arse, ye'll miss the fun.”
“I'm comin', Smokes. Keep yer knickers on.”
Tom turned and saw Mike dart across the street, dodging wagons. He stepped off across the cobbles after him.
“Mike! Hey, Mike!”
The boy turned, his eyes narrowing. His friends, three or four of them, stopped a little way ahead.
“Mike, hi. Remember me?”
Mike had the look of a rabbit smelling a fox, and he appeared ready to dash off. He took two steps back.
Tom let him have his space. “Mike, I'm Detective Braddock. I came to see your grandparents last week?” There was a flicker around the eyesârecognition but still the wariness.
“Whadya want with me? I ain't done nothin'.” Mike cast a quick glance at his friends.
“I know. Just came by to see how you're getting on.”
Mike actually liked this Detective Braddock but he couldn't let his friends see him be too friendly with a cop. He wasn't sure if he could trust him either, and lately he felt he needed proof of everything. He'd been nice when he was here before, but that wasn't enough now. “What do you care how we're getting on? You don't know me family.”
Tom was caught off guard and searched for something to say. He unconsciously reached into his pocket, fingering the small key. “Well ⦠that's true, Mike. I don't know them but ⦔ How could he explain to this boy what it was like to sit in his grandma's dark kitchen, thinking that but for the grace of God, it might as well be him whose life's candle guttered low. Terrence's picture stared at him from the bureau, calling to him to do right by a fallen comrade. Would this kid understand that? He doubted it. Still, he needed to say something. “Well ⦠for one thing, Mike, your dad and I were in the same army back in the war. I didn't ⦠well, I didn't know him then, but I knew his unit and I knew some of the men,” Tom started lamely. He rubbed the key in his pocket as if doing so would give him luck. He took it out.
“That don't mean nothin'.”
The kid was right. It didn't mean nothin'.
What did he want to tell this boy? He wasn't really sure. Feelings were hard to put into words. Most often when he did find words, they didn't seem to be the right ones. Tom looked at the eyes, full of hurt and loss. There was the wary squint that hadn't been there just a week ago. This wasn't the same little boy.
“Maybe it's like you say. Maybe it's nothing to you, but it's something to me. If you had been in the war like me and your dad, you might understand.” That wasn't all of it by a long shot, but it was what Mike might understand. There was a flicker in the wary eyes.
“You might just be sayin' that. How do I know you're not lying?”
Tom was taken aback but acknowledged the truth of it. “You're right. You don't know for sure. I guess you either trust me or you don't. Up to you,” Tom said, tossing the key in his hand the way he sometimes would do with a coin. It was an unconscious act, a way to relieve tension, keep his hands busy.
“C'mon, Mike,” one of his friends said. “We got no need o' cops. Lot o' good he did yer da.”
Mike's face darkened. “You go away now, Mr. Braddock. We don't want you here. You couldn't stop me da gettin' his head bashed in, an' you can't help me.” Mike turned and ran with his mates. Tom watched the boys disappear. A great sadness fell over him. He thought of his brother, Billy, who had died of a fever when Tom was thirteen. It was Billy he saw in Mike, and it hurt more than he imagined it could to see the boy run from him. He tried to think of something to say, something to bring Mike back. He knew the boy didn't mean it. He heard the torment in his voice. For an instant he thought to run after them, but he stopped himself. That would do more harm than good. He stood like a post, rooted to the spot, while the tide of the street washed around him. He started to walk again, going slow ⦠thinking. Mike had said things that seemed to echo in his head. There was something there, something important. Someone else had used words very similar, but he couldn't place what or who. He cursed his fuzzy head, still throbbing and a little unsteady. He felt he should know. Tom rubbed the smooth brass of the key, turning it over and over in his fingers. It would come to him.