“I tell you what, Mike. I've got a proposition for you,” Tom said, pointing his fork at the boy once they had stopped the last of the giggles. “You know what a proposition is?”
“Sure, it's a deal.”
“Exactly. So, here's the deal. You've got to start going to school. I don't mean once in a while either. I mean every day.”
Mike looked glum. He started fiddling with the remains of his pancakes, his head hanging so his hair fell over his face.
“What's so bad about that?” Tom asked innocently.
“I dunno. Nothin', I guess,” Mike mumbled.
“You have to go to school, you know. You're only going to get into trouble again on the streets.”
Mike's hair nearly brushed his plate.
“You don't want to take up residence in the basement of the Thirteenth, do you?”
“No, sir,” Mike said to his plate.
Tom sat looking at the top of the boy's head. He tried to remember what it was like to be ten. It didn't come back easy and it didn't come back whole. He tried to put on the clothes of his youth, the shoes, the pants, the shirt with the
plaid checks. They didn't fit, but he remembered when they had. He began to think of himself in them and as he did he recalled how he felt in the clothes of a ten-year-old.
“How long's it been since you were in school, Mike?”
“I don't know.”
“How do you feel about seeing the other kids? You have friends there?”
“Sort of.” Mike took a nibble at a pancake.
“Most of your friends are on the streets, right?” Tom asked, knowing the answer. “You know, Mike, I never said you'd have to stop seeing your friends. You can see them after school.”
Mike shrugged. “Yeah, I know.”
Tom still fished for the real problem. “So, what is it ⦠your friends don't like kids who go to school?”
“Maybe.” Mike's tone made Tom feel he was getting closer to the mark.
“You think they'll be your friends even if you go to school? Or kick you out of the gang, or something?”
Mike still didn't look at Tom. “Something like that ⦠maybe.”
“Probably don't have many friends in school either, right?”
Mike just shook his head, the tips of his hair brushing the syrupy plate.
“That's pretty rough,” Tom said gently. “Can I tell you something?” Mike didn't say anything. “You can't control what other kids do, Mike. You can never do that. All you can do is be yourself.” Tom started off, not sure exactly where he was headed but feeling it was the right direction. “You can be a friend to them and you can be a friend to the kids in school. The important thing is to be yourself no matter what.” Mike seemed to look up at that. “The ones who like you,” Tom went on, “and are your friends when you're yourself ⦠those are your real friends.” There was a glimmer of understanding in Mike's eye, the one he could see through his hanging hair. “Real friends don't try to make you into something else. They like you for yourself.” He thought of some of his friends in the department, wondering just how many were real. “Sometimes it's not easy finding out who your real friends are. Worth knowing though.”
“I know who my real friends are, Mr. Braddock,” Mike said defensively.
“I'm glad,” Tom said, not really believing him. He paused in thought for a moment before saying “Going back to school might test your friends ⦠you too. I'm thinking that if you stay in school you're going to need a special reward.” Tom began to grin as Mike's head came up. “When did you say the circus was in town?”
Mike's head shot up. “I'm not sure, Mr. Braddock. But I can find out.”
“You do that. And if you're still in school a month from now then you're going to the circus, Jumbo and all.”
“Wow, you'd take me?” Mike asked, not believing his luck.
“Sure would,” Tom said, happy to see the boy perked up. “I want to see that Jumbo too. We got a deal?”
Mike hesitated only an instant. “Deal!”
Tom flipped the small key in the air for emphasis. It glittered as it spun. Mike watched, suddenly distracted. Tom caught the key, and with a small flourish of his hands, it disappeared. Mike smiled, but it was a puzzled sort of look. Tom reached over to him. “What's it doing behind your ear?” And when he pulled his hand away, there was the key again. Mike didn't smile at all this time. In fact, he frowned as his hand went into his own pocket.
“What are you doing with my da's key?” he asked as he held a hand out to Tom. A small brass key rested there. Tom looked at Mike in a piercing sort of way that made him nervous. He thought for sure he'd done something wrong.
“This was your dad's key?” Tom asked, holding it up.
“Sure. He had the only other one. When he gave me the box, he told me to keep it hid. He didn't even want to know where it was, but he wanted to keep a key. I don't know why.”
“You have the box this key goes to?”
“Sure. My da said not to tell anybody, but I guess I can trust you, Mr. Braddock.”
“I'm glad you feel that way, Mike. I hope you can trust me.” As Tom said this, he had a sudden fleeting image of Finney lying sprawled on his office floor.
“I do,” Mike said instantly.
“So, what did your da tell you, Mike?” Tom asked shaking off Finney's ghost.
“He told me there were bad men, and there are, I know. I guess they were the ones killed my da. One of them came after me when I was emptying the chamber pot.”
Tom shook his head, not sure what to believe. This was starting to get real strange.
“Mike,” he said. “I want you to tell me all about this, but you have to do it on the way to your house. I need to see that box, partner, and I have to see it right away.” Tom rose, rummaging in a pocket for some money. He slapped it on the table without counting it and started to go.
“All right, I guess. Nothing in it, just a couple of pictures and some hard money,” Mike said sulkily.
Tom made himself slow down for a moment, noticing the change that had come over the boy.
“Listen, Mike ⦠this is real important. It might give me a clue to who killed your da.” Mike said not a word. “And don't worry. I promise we'll see the circus â¦
absolutely promise
. We made a deal and I'm not going back on it, partner.” Mike gave him a doubtful look. Tom crouched down so he was face to face with the boy. “Mike, I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to. I've got to see that box right away, okay?”
Mike shrugged his shoulders and mumbled, “Nothin' in it anyway.”
Tom just stood there, puzzled at Mike's reluctance. He figured that the sudden interest in the box had Mike thinking he'd forget about the circus.
“You swear we'll go see Jumbo?”
Tom gave him a steady stare. “Mike, so long as I'm alive, I've got a debt to you that only the circus can pay,” he said as they walked out to the street. “We'll see Jumbo ⦠and all the rest. Count on it.”
Mike nodded a bit more willingly but said again, “Still nothin' in it.”
“That's okay. Now tell me everything about this bad man and the chamber pot,” Tom said, trying to sound as if he believed the tale. He would come to believe shortly.
They walked to Suffolk Street as fast as their legs would take them, Mike occasionally running to catch up with Tom. Tom listened to Mike's story of the dark man by the outhouses, he fingering the two keys as they went. There had to be something in that box no matter what the boy said. There
had
to be. They were at the Bucklin place in fifteen minutes. Once Mike was able to extricate himself from the relieved hug his grandma immediately had him in, he removed the baseboard by the fireplace and brought out the box from its hiding place. All the while Patricia Bucklin was thanking Tom in a steady stream. She stopped when Mike produced the box.
“Well, I'll be!” she exclaimed, as surprised as Tom to see it.
“Mind if I take a look, Mike?” Tom asked, barely able to keep himself from reaching to it. The boy handed the box over. Tom took Terrence's key and, after a moment's hesitation, put it in the keyhole. It opened the little lock with a small click. Mike was right. All that was in the box was a couple of photographs and three coins, which Tom emptied out on a bed.
“See, I told you there's nothing in there,” Mike said, the resentment showing a little.
“Looks like you're right, partner,” Tom said, turning the box this way and that. His shoulders slumped, belying the optimistic tone he tried to keep. “That's all right, Mike.”
Mrs. Bucklin offered him tea.
“As long as you're here, Tom, sit and have a drop o' tea with us.”
He did, sitting at the small table in the kitchen, sipping the hot tea. Patricia brought a cup to Eamon, who rarely left his bed now. Mike told his grandma of the deal he'd made with Tom, when she sat with them, the excitement lighting his face.
Tom nodded and said, “That's our deal. You've got to hold up your end of the bargain though,” he warned Mike. “No slackin' off. 'Cause I'll be checking on you.”
He idly turned the carved oak box over and over in his hands. It was a beautiful thing, obviously quite old. The carving had worn smooth in places, and there were some nicks and scratches on its surfaces. Looking inside again, he noticed that the green velvet that lined the bottom wasn't as old as that on the sides. It was a minor difference, barely noticeable, in fact. His fingers reached in and ran across the fuzzy material, which should have been threadbare if it was as old as the box. More interested now, he tapped at the bottom. It made a sound like an empty coconut. With a sudden rush of excitement, Tom said, “Mike, would you mind if I tried something with your box here?”
Mike looked at him with a small frown.
“I won't hurt it,” Tom promised.
Mike nodded but watched intently. Tom fished in his pocket for his penknife, unfolding it in his hand. Carefully he wedged the tip of the blade in along the edge of the velvet, twisting and prying as he moved it around the seam. He felt it give, then suddenly the bottom of the box was in his hand. But it wasn't the bottom really. It was a false bottom, creating a slim compartment on the bottom of the box. Fluttering to the floor were photographs and some papers that had been hidden there. The three of them stared open-mouthed.
The first photograph that Tom picked up was of four men. One was Terrence Bucklin. Standing with him somewhere on the bridge was Earl Lebeau, Matt Emmons, and Simon Watkins. Mike and Mrs. Bucklin crowded close to see. The other shot was just of Matt and Watkins. They were smiling. Tom turned to the papers that had fallen out of the box. One was a newspaper clipping from the
Times
, about the fire in the Brooklyn caisson. Dated December of 1870, it was yellowed and frayed around the edges. Bucklin must have either saved it, or gotten it from the
Times
. It was an odd thing to hide. Odder still was the second clipping. This one was from the
Trib,
and seemed to have been torn out in a hurry. The papers seemed to be bits and pieces of articles, but none whole. The one that stood out was a story about the trains that would soon be running on the East River Bridge. Tom scanned it quickly and turned the sheet over to check the other side. There again, nothing seemed whole. There were ads and an article on the Manhattan social scene as well as
something about Memorial Day festivities, but nothing that stood out and no notations. Turning the page over again, it seemed obvious to Tom that the key had to do with the trains. It was the only thing with a direct link to the bridge. If Terrence had discovered something about the trains, some fraud, or maybe something more, then perhapsâTom stopped himself in midthought.
“Awful lot of maybes,” he muttered, wishing for more to go on. He was disturbed too by the old clipping about the caisson fire. Obviously there was a connection, but what the one could possibly have to do with the other he couldn't fathom. The fire had been nearly thirteen years before. The only connection seemed to be that the two stories both concerned the bridge. Aside from that they appeared unrelated, at least on the surface. Tom knew there had to be more. Bucklin hadn't taken the time to collect this stuff for no reason. He knew too that Watkins had been involved in some way. With Watkins gone, that left Lebeau and Emmons, and he sure as hell hadn't gotten anything out of them yet.
T
om met with Dolan and Heidelberg when he stopped back at headquarters about an hour later. They spent some time going over the case from the beginning, taking a step back, trying to get a clear picture. Tom had the idea of charting out everything they knew so far, laying it out on a blackboard at the back of the squad room. It wasn't standard procedure, but it helped get things in perspective. He drew boxes and lines connecting them. Inside each box was the name of some person connected with the case. Bucklin, Watkins, the four Plug Uglies, Bucklin's family, Earl Lebeau, and Matt Emmons each had a box, as did Clora Devine. Others they left empty for persons unknown. One fact at a time, they went over what they knew. As the facts were ticked off, any connections between the boxes were drawn in solid lines. Suspected connections they drew with dotted lines. It didn't take long to get a graphic picture of the case as they knew it so far: what they knew, what they guessed, and what they needed to know to complete the picture. Dotted lines outnumbered solids by about three to one.