Sam snuck a look at Tom out of the corner of his eye. Tom was looking closely at the back of Bucklin's head, peeling back the blood-sticky hair to get a better look at the large depression. The skull was soft there, like a melon that had been dropped days before. A chill went through Tom at the feel of it. He pulled his hand away sticky with the cool brown blood of Terrence Bucklin's broken head. Tom had plenty of experience with blood, and it rarely affected him one way or the other. He stood and pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket. Tom wiped the blood away and tried to keep from scrubbing too hard. He gazed around at the alley on either side of the body, his eyes measuring the place. He measured the distance from the body to the door to Paddy's, the width of the alley, the packing crates that had once hidden the corpse. The alley was too narrow, too small. There was no way anyone could be out there and not be aware of another presence. Tom could not believe that a man could stand there and have his head crushed by surprise. The tall brick walls echoed and amplified every sound, and a step would be clearly heard from ten feet away. Then he fixed an eye on the tall gate that opened on Peck Slip.
“Caught him comin' over the gate,” Tom said with certainty, his words ringing off the brick walls.
“Wha'? How you figure that?”
“Look,” Tom said as he walked to the gate. A small brown rivulet of dried blood ran down the green-painted boards. Braddock stepped on a crate to peer over the top. “Thought so. Came over the gate. Got hit as he went over. See the scrapes? Killer came over to finish the job.”
Sam gave a puzzled frown, nodding as if he knew what the hell Braddock were talking about.
Tom looked back at Sam. “See the cement dust? There's scrapes from two different kinds of shoes here too. A little hard to see, but I'm pretty certain. He
was running from someone. Figured to duck into the alley and throw him off, I guess. Probably slipped getting over the gate. That would account for the scrapes. Lost some time and got caught going over. At least that's how I'm seein' it.”
Sam nodded sagely. Tom looked back at the body. Terrence stared back up at Tom and Sam.
He
knew.
Tom walked back to the body, bending over to feel in the back pockets. He tugged a wallet out. “A few greenbacks here. Looks to be a pay stub too, from the New York and Brooklyn Bridge company.”
“So Bob was right. He did work on the bridge,” Sam mused. Bob was something less than reliable.
“So it would appear. Did all right. Says here he was paid twelve dollars last week. He's got, let's see, ah, three and five is eight dollars and some change, maybe nine and a quarter all told.”
“So our killer didn't care for money, or got scared off before he could take it. Plenty would kill for less than nine dollars and change,” Sam said.
Tom nodded at the truth of that. “Seen men killed for less: a pair of shoes, a pint of rotgut. Strange the killer left it,” Tom said after a pause. “If you kill a man for money, you don't leave before you have it. I think Terrence here is dead for some other reason.”
Sam gave a huff of agreement. “So what do you think? Jealous husband, revenge, debtsâcould be any damn thing.”
“Terrence knows, but he's not talking,” Tom said, looking down at the body. “Well, Terrence, my lad, anything else you'd like to reveal to us?” Terrence was mute. The silence echoed, and Tom waited. Sam shifted his feet, feeling more and more awkward as time and silence conspired. “Damn.” Tom's eyes fixed on Terrence's vest. Sam gave a little jump as if Terrence had actually said something. “Why didn't I see that before?” Bending over the body, Tom looked closely at the dark wool of Terrence's work-stained vest. “This look like a tobacco stain to you, Sam?”
Halpern joined Tom, bending low to get a closer look. “Hard to tell with that dark cloth,” Sam muttered. “Might be. What of it? Most every man who ever chewed tobacco ends up wearin' some of it.”
Tom looked at Sam, a question in his eyes. “You find any chaw on him? I know I didn't.”
“No, but ⦔ Sam trailed off while he searched for an explanation.
“You look in his mouth?” Tom asked with a little grimace. The two of them looked at each other and then down at the body. If he had been chewing tobacco, there might be some left tucked in his cheek, a particularly unappetizing thought given the body's condition.
“Shit.” Tom grumbled. He could have waited for the coroner to do his autopsy, but waiting to find out something he could learn for himself was not Braddock's style. “I'll look in his mouth.” “Give me your gloves, Sam.” He held out a hand as if he really expected Sam to give them up.
Halpern chuckled, shaking his head. “Not mine, partner.” The ones in his pocket happened to be his last good pair. Fishing around in a dead man's mouth was not his idea of a productive use for them.
“Thanks a lot!” Tom said with a sarcastic twist to his mouth. “All right, now look here, Bucklin.” He wagged a finger at the body for emphasis. “I've got to play dentist for a bit, so you just relax and don't go biting one o' my fingers off.” Tom half meant it. After prying Terrence's mouth open, he looked inside, pulling the cheeks away from the swollen gums as much as he dared. Tom was as gentle as he could be, for he feared that Bucklin's well-aged cheeks might tear away. The thought sent a cold trickle of sweat rolling down his back. His probing fingers turned up nothing, and he stood quickly, almost wiping his hands on his pants. “Be right back.”
Tom washed his hands three times in the washroom of Paddy's without really feeling clean, but he went back out to the alley anyway. Sam was twirling the end of his mustache the way he did when something bothered him. He had a puzzled look on his face, and he said, “It's odd, you know. Back when I was still chewing tobacco, I managed to spit some down my shirt and it always made sort of a dribbly run down the front. Ruined a couple o' good shirts that way. Tobacco stains are hell to get out. Funny thing is, Mr. Bucklin here just has a big old splotch on his vest.”
Tom nodded and said softly. “I was thinking the same thing while I washed up. Killer spat on him. Bashed his head in and spat on his dying body. Tobacco juice don't run when you're flat on your back.”
They stood over the corpse, Sam's thumbs hooked in his pockets, Tom's arms folded across his chest.
“Bucklin was probably still alive when he did it,” Tom said slowly, knowing it as if he'd seen it done. Sam just nodded.
“Says something about the kind of man we're looking for, don't it?” Tom grunted. Whoever had done it was not going to like it when he caught up with him. It was both decision and promise.
C
aptain Sangree lowered his field glasses and, with the corner of his shirt, rubbed the dust from the lenses. It wasn't dust that clouded his vision, though there was a bit of it, catching the light like smudgy stars. It was remembrance. Watching the sergeant and what appeared to be a detective examine the body
of Terrence Bucklin put him in mind of another body nearly twenty years before. Unlike Mr. Bucklin, there was no mystery about that death.
He stood a few feet back from his office window, nestled in shadow. The body was inconveniently close, with a clear sight line from his third story window to the alley where Bucklin lay. It was nearly impossible not to watch. Considering the man had been killed on his orders, it seemed wise to observe what he could. He was going to have to have a serious talk with his man about his sense of timing and locale. The man was an expert, and as calculating and cold-blooded a hunter as he'd ever seen. He was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt, with all due deference to his skill, but killing Bucklin almost on his doorstep was something else, and he had better have a damn good reason for it. The captain raised his glasses again. At this distance he almost didn't need them. Bucklin's sprawled body was barely a block away. There wasn't much to see, just the cops standing above the body, mouths moving occasionally in mute conversation. He made careful note of the two, their demeanor and appearance, the way they acted and related to each other. The big one was the man to watch, he could see that immediately. The breadth of shoulder and trimness of waist gave him an air of physical power. He looked like a boxer. The smaller of the two was unremarkable. They appeared to know each other and seemed on friendly terms. There was no stiffness between them like he had seen in the young cop who got there first. They had worked together before, a factor to be taken into account. It wouldn't do to underestimate them, he decided.
Bucklin had been an unexpected threat to his plans. He had, by chance, come to stand in the way of Sangree's mission. His life was forfeitâa casualty of war, one in a long line, counting no more than any other. True, it was a shame, as all casualties are, but it was necessary nonetheless. The field glasses saw the body once again. It looked no different from countless bodies that populated his dreams. The well-worn pair of brass field glasses caught a glint of the sun as they were lowered. Tom and Sam might have seen it if they had been looking that way. A scarred hand lowered the shade and snapped the binoculars closed.
Take in the import of the quiet hereâ
The after-quietâthe calm full fraught;
Thou too wilt silent standâ
Silent as I, and lonesome as the land.
âHERMAN MELVILLE
B
raddock and Halpern sat at the bar in Paddy's drinking cold beer. They had sent Jaffey off to the coroner to get a wagon down there to haul the body away. It seemed like a good plan to wait just where they were till the wagon arrived. They counted on it taking some time. They were both quiet, lost in their own thoughts, while Bob the crippled veteran sang snippets of “Lorena” and some other songs that had been popular during the war. It always gave Tom strange, mixed feelings to hear those songs. They conjured memories, some warm, some cold and brittle, as if some part of him might break if he held onto them too long. That kind could leave him feeling empty for hours, his head aching where a bullet had creased his skull in '63. Tom slowly sipped his beer, remembering his years with the Twentieth New York.
He remembered the endless drill, the lonely hours standing guard, long miles of marching, his feet bleeding in his shoes. He still knew how it felt when fear nearly overcame his will, and it took everything just to stay in line with the rest of the regiment, amazed that the fools weren't running. He had been ashamed of those times, still was, and he didn't like to recall them, never spoke about them either, not even to Sam. They had been eighteen, he and Sam, full of fight and itching to whip the rebs. He chuckled silently to himself. How young and stupid they had been.
Bob was singing in his surprisingly good tenor:
The years creep slowly by, Lorena
The snow is on the grass again;
The sun's low down the sky, Lorena
The frost gleams where the flowers have been
But the heart throbs on as warmly now
As when the summer days were nigh;
Oh! The sun can never dip so low;
A-down affections cloudless sky
A-down affections cloudless sky.
Tom sipped his beer and felt tossed about by his memories. An image came into his head of himself as a poplar tree, his leaves blown by the wind of Bob's old songs. The leaves were his memories, and as the songs swept through the leaves those memories sometimes turned and showed a different side. They were part of him, those leaves, and they made him what he was. It was strange sometimes the things that stirred them, but the songs always did. Always.
It matters little now, Lorena,
The past is in the eternal past,
Our heads will soon lie low, Lorena,
Life's tide is ebbing out so fast.
There is a future! O, thank God!
Of life this is so small a part!
âTis dust to dust beneath the sod!
But up there, up there, 'tis heart to heart.
But up there, up there, 'tis heart to heart.
Tom looked up from his beer and stared at his reflection in the dusty, cut-glass mirror behind the bar. He looked older than he remembered. He had been a young man when he had sung “Lorena” around the Company D campfire at night. His face was thinner then. So was Sam's. His mustache had been a little scraggly, not like the luxurious specimen he sported now. And there was a look in his eye then that he had not seen in the mirror for a long time. It was the look that said he saw the world in blacks and whites, a look of fire and optimism. He had been so certain then when the war was new. The world had yet to color his vision in shades of gray. Though Tom still saw where the blacks and whites were, a lot of grays had crept in over the years. In some ways he missed that naive vision of the world. It was comforting to see things so clearly. But the real world wasn't like that. That young man was gone and those days were gone, and that was all there was to it.
With a small start, Tom noticed that Sam was staring into the same dusty beveled-glass mirror, its dark mahogany frame surrounding them both in its
carved embrace. Sam looked at him in silence. Tom knew that Sam was stirred by the old song too. Their silence bound them. Shared memories blew through Paddy's bar on invisible winds. Tom realized with a sudden self-consciousness that Sam was watching a tear roll down his face as it shone dully in his silvered reflection. Too quickly, he raised his beer in its sweating glass and held it to his cheek with a small sigh. It was a warm day, after all. Sam looked away.
Joe Hamm washed glasses behind the bar and served up beer or sometimes whiskey or gin to those who had the taste and the money for it. He and Bob had given Tom everything they knew about Terrence Bucklin, which wasn't much. Bucklin came in from time to time, actually more often in the last year. He didn't drink too much or start fights like some of the other bridge workers. He had been seen mainly in the company of about six to eight other men, most of whom Hamm didn't know except by sight. There were a couple though that were known to him: Rolf Mentzer, a rough but good-natured German who was fond of his pints and had a habit of booming out German drinking songs when the pints had lubricated the vocal cords sufficiently. It was Joe's understanding that Mentzer worked on the bridge with Bucklin in one of the masonry crews. Watkins was the only other of Terrence's friends Joe knew, but he wasn't sure of the first name. Watkins was tall and kind of skinny, with a pockmarked face, probably from the smallpox. Watkins was a fairly quiet sort when he was sober but loud and boastful when he had a snootful. He worked on the same crew as the rest, Hamm figured. The rest of the crew Joe knew by description only, and being a pretty observant bartenderâan asset in his professionâhe had given Tom a fair picture of four or five others he recalled seeing with Bucklin. Neither Joe nor Bob could recall anything odd about Bucklin recently. There hadn't been any fights, arguments, or incidents. Joe did mention that he seemed a little quieter in the last week or soânot quite his old selfâbut he didn't make anything of it. Tom had hoped for more, but apparently Terrence Bucklin had pretty much blended in with the rest of the working crowd that Paddy's catered to.
There had been many, hundreds of bridge workers through Paddy's over the years since the New York Bridge was started in '69. Dock workers, carpenters, caisson workers, common laborers, stonemasons, bricklayers, cable menâ“riggers,” as they were calledâthey all found their way to the dusty old saloon on Peck Slip. Most were immigrants. Most were from Ireland, although there were some from Germany and Italy and other countries. Beer was one of the few comforts for most of the men. Life was hard and the work, harder. Most lived in tenements. Ten to a room was not all that unusual. Packed into four and five floor walk-ups, one toilet per floor in the newer tenements, outhouses in the old. Tuberculosis, smallpox, measles, diphtheria, whooping
cough, typhoid, and a long list of other maladies carried off the weak and the healthy alike, the young and the old alike, the good and the bad alike. With the Lower East Side housing nearly 300,000 people to the square mile by some estimates, it sometimes seemed that the dead were carried out faster than the living moved in.
For those who needed to get across the East River, the only way had been on a Union Ferry Company line. Though the boats were large and ran every five minutes during peak hours, they were still not enough. Winter months were the worst, with ice floes sometimes blocking the river for hours. The story went that in â53, John Roebling, the great bridge-builder, and his son Washington, then about fifteen, had been stuck in the ice during a ferry ride on a brutally cold winter day. It was then, during the three-hour delay in getting the ferry free, that old man Roebling first envisioned his bridge across the river. It hadn't been till '67 that the state legislature authorized the construction of the bridge he'd proposed and '69 before work actually began. In the fourteen years since, there had been more triumph, tragedy, and scandal than old John Roebling could ever have imagined.
The bridge was almost done now. The towers had been up for six years, looming over the city in monumental anticipation. Only the top of the spire of Trinity Church was higher, and that was only a needle point on the skyline, while the towers of the bridge stood massive, cathedrallike. The bridge was a colossus yet at the same time it had an almost weightless quality to the eye. The soaring roadway, now nearly complete, seemed to literally defy gravity. The slender cables, in harp-string tension, sang in the wind high above the river. Even the massive granite and sandstone towers had an airy feel when seen from a distance. Their gothic arches flew gracefully over the twin roadways. On certain days, when the sun was just right and its rays lanced through clouds above Manhattan, the towers seemed to frame the cities beyond in an almost religious way, and it was hard not to see the hand of God in it. It was altogether appropriate that the bridge was called the Eighth Wonder of the World.
Tom could see the top third of the New York tower from where he sat. It loomed over the tops of the nearby buildings. He was no engineer, of course, but he found it hard to believe that the slender cables were strong enough to support the weight of the steel-framed roadway, let alone the trains that would be running across it. Tom wondered about all the weight it was supposed to hold, the horses and carriages and freight wagons and pedestrians. A team of draft horses and a loaded wagon could top seven tons. At any one time dozens of them could be driving across the span. How could they be so sure the bridge could stand that? Sometimes in winter the East River froze nearly solid;
and the surging currents and massive chunks of ice mangled docks and even iron-hulled steamers. The press had speculated that a strong northeaster could carry the span away. It wouldn't be the first time a suspension bridge had collapsed from the weight of the elements. The river could be a vicious place to fight the winds that were funneled by Brooklyn Heights and the man-made canyons of Manhattan. Once a mass like that flying roadway began to twist in the wind, no cable would be strong enough to hold it.
“It's amazing, isn't it?” Sam said. Tom turned and saw Sam looking past him out at the bridge tower. It was as if Sam had read his mind. “You know, each of the main cables has three thousand five hundred fifteen
miles
of wire in it, and they're designed to have a strength of sixty thousand tons. I've read somewhere that old man Roebling designed them to be six times stronger than needed.” Obvious wonder filled his voice. “Those four cables are each attached to twenty-three-ton anchors, and they're buried under a hundred twenty million pounds of stone at each end of the bridge.”
Tom looked close at Sam. Enthusiasm lighted his face in a way Tom hadn't seen in a while. “Sam, sometimes you scare me. How the hell do you know that?”
“No great trick. Just got to read the papers. Over the years I've picked up about everything there is to know about that bridge.” Sam motioned toward it with his beer.
“Yeah, well, I've read the papers too, but I don't remember that stuff.” Tom frowned.
Sam took a sip of beer, then said, “Tom, it's probably the most spectacular thing I'll ever see built in my lifetime, that's for sure, and I just feel kind of lucky, I'd guess you'd say, to be here to see it. I want to be able to tell my grandkids someday all about how it got built ⦠all the technical stuff that most folks won't remember. I tell you, Tom, what you're looking at is like science and art all rolled into one thing.” Sam paused for another sip. “You know, the truly great thing is that it'll bring people together and help get them from place to place withâ” He stopped for a moment, looking out at the tower as if seeking just the right words. “I don't know how to put it.” He thought for an instant more, then shrugged. “Maybe a sense of ⦠of wonder almost. In three months you'll be able to cross the river while the tallest ships pass under your feet. That's a gift, Tom.” Braddock could tell that Sam meant that quite literally.
“And you know, it will outlast us all. It will still be here when our children's children's children are old and gray ⦠just as beautiful as it is now.”
Tom just stared out the window, trying to see what Sam saw so easily.
“I wish I could have made something like that,” Sam said almost reverently,
“something people would look at and use, and say, you know, Sam Halpern built that. That would be something.” Sam took a bite of pickled egg, while Tom gave his old friend a closer look over the top of his mug. “That's a kind of immortality, if you get my meaning, leaving something behind that the world knows you by,” Sam said wistfully. “I tell you, Tom, Washington Roebling is sort of a hero of mine and the closest thing to being immortal this world has to offer. By my reckoning, he's one of the greatest men of the century, right up there with Grant and Lincoln.” It was clear Sam wasn't exaggerating. “I swear, I would trade places with him in two shakes if I could say I had built the Brooklyn Bridge. Shame about the old man dyin' of lock-jaw like he did. Would've been proud.”
“Christ, Sam.” Tom was amazed. “I knew you liked the bridge, but I never realized you felt that strong about the thing. It does have a grace about it,” Tom admitted, “like a church ⦠I suppose. So I guess I know how you see it. To tell the truth, though, I can't say I've been all that anxious to get to Brooklyn any faster anyhow.”
Sam smiled doubtfully. “I'm not quite sure you get my point, Tommy-boy,” he said with a shake of his head.