There was a cot and a small washstand, with a metal bowl and pitcher. The water in the pitcher smelled funny, so Mike didn't drink it. He did use some to wash the blood off though. Harlan the cop had not been easy on him. The backs of his legs were so sore he could hardly sit. Long welts from the cop's nightstick ran across them in hot, angry streaks. Harlan had whacked him all the way to the station house. It hadn't helped that he wouldn't rat on his friends. Harlan seemed to have no respect for Mike's silence. Each time he got
no answer to his questions, he whacked a little harder. His butt had taken a few too, and he felt like he'd been kicked by a mule. His “accident” on the stairs hadn't helped either. He'd taken no more than two uncertain steps down, the musty putrid air pushing back at him, when a shove came from behind, and he was launched into space. The next thing he knew he was in a cell, on a cot ⦠alone. Bedbugs already crawled in his hair and on his clothes. A swipe at his sore head left his hand streaked with crusty brownish blood. The funny-smelling water stung when he washed the cut by his hairline. He whimpered a bit but it wasn't the bruises and cuts that hurt most. He'd had his share of fights on the street. He'd taken his share of lumps. When his ma and sis died, he'd tried to be strong for his da. But at least then his da was there, and he had someone to be strong for. He was alone now. Though he loved his grandma and gramps, they were not his da. In the gloom of his small, damp cell, he felt the loss down to his bones. It hurt in a way no physical pain could.
The only thing Mike could think, when they asked him whom to contact, was “Detective Braddock.”
The desk sergeant had looked at him with a raised eyebrow, and asked, “Detective Braddock, you say? And what would your relations be with him?”
Mike didn't want to explain how he came to know Braddock nor that he knew him barely at all. All he could think to say was “He knew my father.” He wouldn't say more.
“The nerve of this kid, eh, Theron?” said Harlan. “Wants us to think âe's got big connections. Well, we'll see about your friend Mr. Braddock, but for now you'll be spending some time as our guest. And ⦠if by and by we find out you've been tellin' tales about this detective, it'll go that much harder for you. Come along, boy.”
Mike figured that maybe his naming of Braddock had earned him his “accident” on the stairs.
Mike sat with his head in his hands. He thought of the coins he had put in a small pile on the sergeant's desk. Would he ever see those nickels and dimes again? He thought about Mouse and Smokes. If he knew them, they were staying away from home, watching for cops from down the block. He wondered if they'd go to the circus. He mourned the circus already. There was no way he'd get there now. Bragging to the other boys in the neighborhood had been something he had relished in advance. But there would be no bragging, no Jumbo the giant packy-derm, no nothing. He'd be lucky not to be sent to the Juvenile House of Detention. Even if he got off, his grandma would punish him forever. The future did not look bright from the basement of the Thirteenth.
Mike thought about his da too. Small rivulets ran down his cheeks, carving lines through the coal dust and dried blood. He tried to cry quietly. He didn't
want to give Harlan the satisfaction, but his chest heaved and his throat felt chokey. As he cried, he suddenly thought of the black-faced man by the outhouse. He hadn't thought about that for days, but now it wormed its way back to the surface of his mind. Even though he was in a police precinct house, he knew it would be useless now to tell anyone. They'd just see it as a wild story, a kid's way of trying to get off lightly. They'd laugh at him. Maybe they'd do worse than push him down the stairs. Some of the older boys from the neighborhood had to go to the hospital after a visit to the Thirteenth. Besides, even Braddock's name had been met with sneers. This wasn't the time to tell what he knew about men behind outhouses. He'd have to wait. Maybe if the detective came, he'd see if he could tell him. Right now, though, that was not at the top of his list of worries.
A
fter his talk with Coffin and a predictably unproductive and uneventful visit to Gotham Court, Tom had gone back to get Sam and a roundsman who happened to be with him.
“Nobody ever heard of Watkins in Gotham Court,” Tom told Sam as they marched to the bridge. “Fuckin' dead end. No record of him ever being there, far as I can tell.”
Sam shook his head. “Smells bad. You figure someone set you up or just sent you where you'd be likely to find trouble?”
Tom shrugged. Either way it stunk. The three of them went back to the bridge approach and brought Matt Emmons and Earl Lebeau in for questioning. Tom was certain they hadn't killed Watkins themselves. That would have been impossible. But it was equally improbable that these two knew nothing of who might have done it. They had to know what was going on. But two hours of grilling didn't reveal a damn thing. In fact, their stories were too tight. It was rare to get the same story from different people. In his experience it was more common to get differing accounts from witnesses to the same event, let alone the same relationship. But Matt and Earl's accounts left hardly enough room to pass a knife between them. It could mean nothing, or it could mean a great deal. There was no way to know.
One thing that was significant in his eyes was that they both seemed surprised by the news of Watkins's death. They were hostile at first, thinking maybe that Tom had killed him. But when they were told of how Watkins was found shot in the back of the head, they couldn't hide their shock. From that point on though, nothing seemed to fluster either of them. Most people brought in for questioning showed some raw nerves, sweaty palms, dry throats. Even the innocent ones had a right to be nervous. With the exception
of some fidgeting, they were both as cool as lemonade on a hot afternoon. They didn't appear to hold anything back. It was just the same story in different voices, of their years together serving the Confederacy, the drifting back to their homes after the war, the despair at finding little to go back to and the eventual journey north. The three of them had been working on the bridge on and off since 1870. They liked the work, they said. They had to, to stay on that long, Tom figured. “Any other boys from your unit come up here with you?” he asked both of them. He got virtually the same answer: Just the three of them. Tom didn't think much of it. One thing he thought a little odd was that none of the three had married. Of course, neither had he, but he didn't consider that. What he did consider was that the odds of three young men coming north, living and working here for thirteen years, without at least one of them finding a wife were pretty long.
Something was sure as hell going on. Two men were dead. There had been an attempt on his life. Though it could have been just bad luck to meet up with those four at Gotham Court, Tom didn't believe luck had much to do with it. There was a connection to these men from the South, but what that was, he couldn't establish ⦠not yet. Tom figured to take a different road with them. The War Department might have their records, and Tom hoped there'd be something in them to give him a clue. So much was lost in the closing days of the war, especially in the frantic retreat from Petersburg and Richmond. But if records existed, the War Department would have them or at least know where else he might look. Tom didn't know what he was looking for, but he had to start somewhere. He sat at his desk once they'd released Emmons and Lebeau. With his feet up and hands behind his head, he stared off into space, trying to make the pieces fit. He reached absently into his pocket fingering the little key. Taking it out, he turned it over in his hand, examining it for the hundredth time. He frowned. Trouble was he was missing half the puzzle ⦠at least.
“B
raddock! Detective, I need a word with you in my office.”
Tom was startled for a second, but tried not to show it. He knew what Byrnes had on his mind. In a way he was surprised the chief hadn't summoned him sooner. Tom closed Byrnes's door behind him, knowing this would be a closed-door talk.
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell me about Gotham Court, Detective.” Byrnes stood with his back to Tom. He looked out the windows behind his desk and appeared to be watching the ebbing activity on Mulberry Street as the day faded into night. Tom could see the light of his eyes though. They watched him in the glass of the
dirty windows. His cigar glowed like a little furnace in the dim light of the office.
“I heard about the Plug Uglies, sir. Maybe I should start off by saying that they were alive when I left them, though none too healthy.”
Byrnes grunted and let the smoke drift from his mouth as he spoke. Tom had the odd thought that Byrnes was on fire inside, like a potbelly stove.
“If I believed otherwise, Thomas, we'd be having a very different sort of conversation.”
“Yes, sir, I suppose we would. Well, first off ⦠I was at Gotham Court to apprehend a suspect in the Bucklin murder. Name of Watkins.”
That brought Byrnes around, his cigar poised, ash drooping. “Watkins, you say? Isn't that the man you pursued this morning and found shot on the ferry?”
“The same,” Tom said evenly, a slight grin on his face. He knew what Byrnes's reaction would be.
“Interesting.” Byrnes looked pointedly at Tom. “Go on.”
Braddock proceeded to fill Byrnes in on the Bucklin case. The chief seemed fascinated. His cigar ash dropped to the floor unnoticed. By the time Tom finished his report, the cigar had nearly gone out and Byrnes puffed on it in haste, making little sucking pops with his lips as he tried to get it going again.
“So, you have two men dead ⦠executed, to be precise. You have an apparent attempt on your life, and you have a man's word that his son was afraid of something in connection with the bridge. It would seem, as well, that these former Confederates are involved. Whether that's just coincidence or part of the bigger picture, we don't know.” Byrnes pointed his cigar butt at Tom with raised eyebrows.
“That about sums it up, sir. And that dance hall girl, the one who was supposedly Watkins's alibi. She just plain disappeared. I telegraphed all the precincts to keep a watch for her, but she hasn't been seen.” Tom was having the increasing feeling she wouldn't be seen by anyone ⦠ever. “As for Emmons and Lebeau, I was just writing to the War Department to try to retrieve their service records. Don't know what I'll find but ⦠worth a try. Lots of men served the Confederacy. I'm not sure that means anything.”
“Good, get a warrant, search their places. I want those two to feel the pressure. Might turn something up.”
“Already done. It occurs to me too, sirâ” Tom paused, then went on with his idea. “Well ⦠that it might pay to investigate records, look for contractors who may be dissatisfied, workers who've been laid off under unusual circumstances, that sort of thing. I'll need some help though.” He was doing his best to lead Byrnes to water.
“Of course, Thomas. I'll assign Dolan and Heidelberg to you. Assist you in any way you see fit. Probably nothing more than your garden-variety fraud case”âByrnes puffedâ“but those two will be a big help in digging through records. They've done that sort of investigating before, had some success, so they'll come in handy.”
Tom couldn't suppress a smile. “Very good, sir.” He was amazed it had gone so easily. Dolan and Heidelberg were old-timers and one of the best detective teams in the city.
Byrnes turned to look out the window again, puffing and thoughtful. He said to the glass, “You suppose the four who attacked you at Gotham Court were killed because they failed?”
“Can't ignore the possibility,” Tom said. “The attack could have been random. Down there it's always a risk, but if it was planned, and that's the way I'm leaning, then could be you're right.”
“That makes six men dead because of this and maybe a woman as well. Someone's awful anxious to keep their activities quiet,” Byrnes said almost to himself, obviously deep in thought.
“Yes, sir, quiet as the grave.”
They wrapped up, and Tom promised to report developments to Byrnes at least every other day. He was about to leave when Byrnes said, “I expect you to get backup, if needed, from the precinct whose boundaries you're within, Thomas. Can you tell me why that didn't happen yesterday?”
Tom hesitated. Byrnes, who was watching him closely, broke in, saying “No. Don't tell me. You've not resolved your differences with Coogan, right? You didn't trust him to back you, so you rounded up someone you could count on.”
Byrnes nodded thoughtfully. “Better to keep still, I suppose. Wise man, Tom. I told you to get your misunderstandings behind you. You see now how these things ripple through the system?”
Braddock gave an almost audible sigh. “Yes, sir, I suppose I do.”
“Mmm. This appears to be a dangerous investigation you're into, Thomas. If you could have a man, a roundsman, say, to watch your back, who would it be?”
Tom knew plenty of good stout men who he'd be glad to have in a tight spot, and it looked like Byrnes was letting him have his pick. But almost before he realized what he was doing, he said, “Jaffey, sir.” Tom winced once he'd said the name, mentally kicking himself for speaking too quickly.