Joe Hamm pulled another beer for them both.
The clatter of the empty coroner's wagon as it bumped over the cobbled street interrupted their unusually philosophical conversation.
“Looks like Bucklin's ride's here,” Sam said as he turned toward the street.
Jaffey walked in with the driver as Bob, from the corner, now joined by two others started in with the third verse of “Dixie.”
His face was sharp as a butcher's cleaver
But that did not seem to grieve her
Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie-land.
Bob figured “Dixie” for a damn good song, a popular favorite with both sides, so he sang it with gusto.
Sam and Tom went out back with Jaffey and the wagon driver. Tom and the driver rolled the body onto the canvas stretcher that the driver had carried with him.
“Where's your partner?” Tom asked him.
“Sick. I'm on my own today. I'll need a hand with this.” He shrugged a shoulder at the body, his hands in his pockets. Tom and Sam turned to look at Jaffey, who hadn't really been paying attention. He looked back at them like an empty windowpane.
“Well?” Sam asked, nodding toward the body.
“Oh! Oh, sure, let me get an end.” Jaffey hurried to hoist the stretcher, and together he and the driver carried Bucklin out through the bar. When the little troupe marched through Paddy's common room with the body looking like some sort of grotesque, Fourth of July parade float, conversation trailed off and died. Even Bob and his drinking partners fell silent, one of whom was a German, singing “Look avay, Look avay, Look avay, Dixzee.” Tom stopped for a moment to have a word with Joe Hamm, then followed the rest outside. A small crowd gathered to watch the body being loaded onto the wagon.
“Jaffey, I want you to go along to the coroner's office and make sure he has a look at a couple of things. For one, that stain on Bucklin's vest, see it? I need to be sure of what it is. Sam and I think it's tobacco. I also want his best guess on what crushed the back of the skull. I want to know if he had been drinking and what was in his stomach too.” Tom turned to Sam. “You don't mind me sending your boy, do you?”
“Nah.” Sam shrugged. “Go on an' have fun. Nothin like a good autopsy to brighten the day and improve the appetite. Makes me hungry just thinkin' about it.” He grinned at Jaffey, who seemed to turn green at the mere mention of an autopsy.
“And when you're done there, get your ass back here and canvass the neighborhood for witnesses, or anybody seen anything odd. Got it?” Jaffey just nodded, as if he'd thought of that already. Then Eli jumped up on the tall hard seat of the wagon next to the driver, who, with a flick of the reins on his glue-factory team, started a slow bounce down the cobbled street.
The captain stood on the other side of Peck Slip. It was a wide street, with lots of freight wagons and other traffic as well as laborers and men with business among the docks and warehouses of the area. He didn't stand out. Leaning against a lamppost, he watched as the coroner's wagon rolled down the cobbles toward South Street. The cop on the seat beside the driver didn't interest him. He was obviously a new man ⦠of no particular concern. Mainly he had wanted to get a better look at the detective. If there was anyone to worry him in this whole affair, it might be him.
Still, as the wagon went by, Thaddeus Sangree couldn't help but remember the wagons on the retreat from Gettysburg. All through the night of July 4 and on into July 5, the wagons had rolled south. Rain had come, rivers of it. That was the lowest march he ever knew. His mangled brother lay rotting in a muddy Pennsylvania grave. Lee's army was defeated, bedraggled, bleeding. All hope of final victory, lost. Ahead lay an endless vista of sacrifice and suffering. Wagons loaded with wounded wound down muddy roads, men groaning and crying with each bump and shock. The futility of Lee's gamble echoed in the night with the screams of the wounded. The captain recalled being
almost grateful for the dark, which hid the worst of it. He thought when he buried Frank that he had about hit bottom, but the retreat was worse.
The captain put the wagon out of his mind with a little shiver, turning his attention to the detective and the sergeant standing in front of Paddy's. It was wise to know your enemies. It was a principle that had served him well over the years, and he wanted to see the men up close if he could. He had the feeling that the detective would be his adversary. There was no reason to believe these men would discover his mission, but logic had nothing to do with how he felt. What he felt was that he needed to look this detective in the eye, the sergeant too. He needed to take their measure.
He walked across the street, feeling as if he stood out like a Christmas tree in July. He knew there was no fear of suspicion. He was a stranger to these two, a legitimate businessman with offices just down the street. There was every reason for him to be there and nothing to hide. He quickened his step and hurried to cross in front of a freight wagon pulled by a team of huge horses. He didn't want to catch the men's attention, so he matched his pace to that of the others on the sidewalk. Keeping his head down, as if deep in thought, he strode past, nearly bumping into the detective as he went by. Beneath the wide brim of his hat, his eyes were busy, and they took in all they could see and a good bit that wasn't visible to the eye. The sergeant was harder than he looked from across the street. He saw it in his eye. The detective was no taller than himself, but wider by half, it seemed. He looked to be a powerful fellow, and had a piercing blue eye as light as a summer sky. They smelled of beer and smoke. He could have killed them then, he thought offhandedly. There was no need though. They were simply adversaries, and he had overcome so many over the years that he saw them as nothing more. To be respected, perhaps, but his instincts told him that these two would present little difficulty. They may well be capable, they might know the city, its streets and its ways, but they had no idea what they were dealing with in him. If it came to it, he and his band would snuff them like candles and not tarry to smell the smoke. Let them live for now, he figured. They could be dealt with at his leisure, should it prove necessary. The captain smiled thinly. He was supremely confident when it came to his mission. He and his men had planned it well, down to nearly the last detail. They were professionals, not the sort of bumbling street gangsters the cops were used to. They had all the advantages of training, skill, planning, and discipline. Thaddeus walked with a confident stride. They were and always would be one step ahead of the police, and that was all they'd need.
A block farther on he stopped for a moment and spoke in hushed tones to a tall man in suspenders. They parted quickly. Thaddeus didn't want to go back
to his office just yet. There was no pressing need. The small cotton factoring and warehouse business he used as both cover and source of funding was a sleepy affair. It didn't require much of his time and lent an air of legitimacy to his other endeavors. A perfect site for late-night meetings, it would be abandoned when the time came.
Singing my days
Singing the great achievements of the present
Singing the strong light work of engineers.
âWALT WHITMAN
T
om dodged the traffic and flagged down a hack at the corner of Peck Slip and Front Street. He gave the cabbie the address, getting a grunt in response. Tom bounced uptown, passing under the land span of the bridge. Workers were busy adding the overhead trussesâat least that's what the
World
was reporting. Braddock didn't know a truss from a train track. He could clearly hear the hammering as it echoed under the span and through the cables overhead. Looking out over the river, he realized that he was seeing the bridge in a different way. Sam sure had a passion for the thing. He hadn't said that much on any subject since Custer got himself wiped out in '76. The hack continued, past the endless lines of ships at wharves up and down the river. The masts, spars, booms, and rigging formed a graceful geometric forest along the river, reaching up toward the March sky. There were nearly as many smokestacks as spars and sails these days.
The hack made a left on Market Street. As they rode farther into the heart of the Lower East Side, Tom was suddenly reminded of a stop he needed to make. Part of his arrangement with Captain Coffin was that he'd do a little collecting from time to time. August Coffin had quite a network of “clients” who required protection from the scrutiny of the law. Tom, as an officer who owed a debt to the captain, was expected to make collections and enforce a certain discipline on “clients” as a “favor” to Coffin. It was the part of their arrangement that irked Tom from the very beginning. The stop he needed to make now was the most irksome of all, but it was on the way, and he figured he may as well get it over with.
“Make a right on Henry, driver.” He got a nod in response. They went a little more than a block before Braddock said, “Stop here.” Tom got out of the hack, looking up at the dirty red brick building in front of him. It gave no outward sign of what went on within. “Wait for me, driver. I'll be out in ten minutes.”
“Gotta charge ya fer the time” were the cabbie's first words to him.
“Do what I tell you,” Tom said flatly. “You'll get paid.”
Tom went up a short flight of stairs to an unmarked door and pushed it open, revealing a long hallway that extended halfway to the back of the building. Near the back, a tall man of medium build lounged against the wall. His bowler was cocked at a jaunty angle and he chewed on a short cigar. He didn't look happy to see Braddock.
“The mistress in?” Tom asked.
“Guess she is, Braddock,” the tall man said, spitting on the floor for punctuation.
“Yeah, I love you too, Quinn. Just stay out of my way and we'll get along fine.”
Quinn grunted his derision, but he moved out of the way.
A door on the right opened into a sort of parlor, set up as a bar. There were maybe ten or twelve men in the room. Braddock paid them little mind. Through a beaded curtain, he could see into the next room, toward the back of the building. The laughter of young girls could be heard above the conversation in the bar. There was a man laughing too. Braddock turned to the bartender, laid a dollar on the damp mahogany, and asked for a beer. As the barkeep was pulling it, he said, “Do me a favor and tell the lady of the house I'm here.”
The barkeep nodded, set the beer down, took his dollar, and walked into the next room without saying a word.
“Damn expensive beer,” Tom said to his retreating back.
As he stood, facing the bar, one of the patrons got up and walked toward the door. A big slouch hat did a good job of covering the man's features. He seemed to be in a hurry. Tom watched in the mirror behind the bar, eyeing the man over the rim of his glass. Slouch-hat was almost by when Tom whirled around and caught him by the shoulder.
“In a hurry, Grafton?” Braddock asked as he swung the man around to face him. A hand came out of a coat pocket. Something flashed at Tom, but he grabbed the arm, twisting away as he did. Braddock wrenched it by him, slamming the hand into the bar. “Happy to see me, I take it. Drop the knife, you little bastard.” Tom grunted. Grafton tried to wrench away, but Braddock held firm. A quick twist and Braddock forced the arm back at a painful angle,
while bringing his knee up. The arm broke with a dull snap that sounded oddly like the breaking of rotted wood. It could be heard clearly across the room. Grafton's shout rang loud in the bar. The knife clattered to the floor, skittering and spinning like a roulette wheel.
“You're lucky I don't kill you for that, you little shit.” Braddock growled, glaring at him. He pointed a big finger at Grafton. “I told you what I'd do if I caught you in here again.” Grafton just groaned and held his arm as if it might fall off. Braddock had warned him no more than a couple of weeks ago. There was no getting around it. “I told you then that you've roughed up your last little girl, and I meant it.”
“It ain't fair, dammit,” Grafton whined. “Little bitch had it comin'.”
“I'll tell you what's fair, Grafton. What's fair is I shoot your worthless dick off right here,” Tom said with one hand on the butt of the pistol he kept tucked under his jacket. He brought it half out of the holster, his thumb on the hammer. “Ought to do it too. You got one hell of a nerve trying to stick me.” Grafton's eyes above his clenched teeth shone with pure terror. “Ought to,” Tom said, appearing to think about it, “but this is your lucky day. I've got other business to attend to and no time for the likes of you.” The hand came away from under the jacket. “B'sides, looks like you'll be wiping your ass left-handed for a while.” Braddock smirked. “Should serve as a reminder.”
A sigh went out of Grafton, and Tom turned to the bar and picked up his beer.
“Here, have a beer on me, but make it your last, you get my drift?” Grafton took the mug, an astonished look on his face. Quinn watched from the doorway, as did everyone else in the bar. Silence ruled. Grafton took a sip with a trembling left hand, a bit of foam dripping down his chin. His face was turned from Braddock. Tom didn't see the hate in his eyes that rose to smother the little man's fear. Suddenly Grafton smashed the mug on the bar, lunging at Tom again with the jagged glass edge. Tom backed off and sidestepped.
“You truly are beginning to annoy me, Grafton,” he said in an almost conversational tone. A swift kick to the belly doubled the man over, and a crack across the back of the head laid Grafton on the beer-soaked carpet, groaning weakly. Braddock looked over at Quinn. “If I see him in here again, Mike, it's you I'll be havin' a talk with.”
Quinn just nodded and dragged Grafton out.
“Ah, the virtuous knight, the gallant defender of the weak and pure of heart,” a husky woman's voice said from the other room. “Always a pleasure, Detective.”
“Wish I could say the same, Kate,” Tom said, turning toward the voice. “Can't say I care much for your clientele.”
“His money's as green as yours, Braddock. Besides, we've been keeping an eye on him lately. Haven't had any trouble.”
Tom walked into the next room, setting the beaded curtain swaying and clicking.
“What's he have to do to be unwelcome here? How long did you figure it would be before he carved up one of your little beauties?”
The madame didn't answer. Instead she handed Tom a thick envelope. “My regards to your master, Detective.” The sarcastic emphasis on
master
left no doubt about how she saw Braddock in the scheme of things. “Please leave. You've disturbed my guests enough for one day.”
Tom turned and walked out without a word. If it was up to him, he wouldn't be taking protection money from a woman like that. Most of the girls in her place were no older than fifteen, some were as young as ten. For the thousandth time he cursed his deal with Coffin. Tom had been dropping hints to the captain that he wanted out. This was something that had to be handled delicately, though, and needed a preamble before he broke it off. Coffin had to get used to the idea and, most of all, trust that his secrets would remain safe. One way or another, Tom had to end it.
Tom got back in the hack, and they headed farther uptown, past Canal, Hester, Grand, and Broome streets. Slowly the neighborhood changed from warehouses and businesses that catered to the sea, to warehouses of people. The tenements were thick with people, on sidewalks, on stoops, hanging from windows, looking for a breeze, shopping from pushcarts, arguing on street corners. The babble of foreign tongues, the smells of unfamiliar foods, and the Italian, German, and Yiddish signs in store windows gave the blocks he rode through an almost carnival atmosphere. It was disconcerting, confusing, noisy, dirty, smelly, colorful, boiling pandemonium. Like it or not, it was the future. He decided to get out and walk at the corner of Kenmare and Suffolk. In spite of the noise and the smells and the press of foreign flesh, there was something he liked about these streets. They had a vitality and a life like nowhere else in the city, and in his line of work it was best to soak up the street life on foot. That's what he told himself. In truth, he rather liked the mix here, always bubbling and simmering, like a camp stew after a hurried forage. Not everyone shared Braddock's views on the vitality of the Lower East Side.
Children played in the streets, running, stealing apples, selling newspapers, or idling on corners. Tom noticed two packs of boys lazing on stoops with a menacing ease as he passed. He was sure he'd be seeing some of them in a few years when they graduated to more ambitious crime. Their eyes gave them away. Tom recognized the look. He noticed that as he walked down the street a ripple preceded him. It would hardly have been noticeable to someone not
accustomed to looking for it. Eyes averted, backs turned, doorways became suddenly popular. An almost imperceptible stillness settled like snow over the crowded streets. Tom imagined that it was much the same as when a big cat prowled through the jungle. The birds still chirped, the monkeys chattered, the warthogs grunted and wallowed, but they all knew the big cat was there. They kept a watchful eye, and they kept their distance. Tom rather liked that image of himself. In this tenement jungle, a big cat was not a bad thing to be. A glance over his shoulder told him of following eyes, quickly averted, and a gradual resumption of street life. It was as if he moved in a sort of bubble that flowed from his badge. Most people weren't touched by it. But to those who were, it was as if the bubble were electric. Sparks of recognition crackled.
Tom neared the front of 242 Suffolk, a five-story walk-up with a low stoop and an open front door, gaping black. Three dirty, barefoot children, about ten to twelve years old, played with a barrel hoop on the sidewalk. They laughed as one of them sent the hoop rolling across the street in front of a vegetable cart, piled high with cabbages, carrots, and potatoes. The horse, pulling the cart, plodded along, head held low, its blinders giving it a tunnel vision of the street just in front. The hoop, with the perfect timing of obvious practice, flashed before the horse's eyes and the startled animal pulled up suddenly. Potatoes went rolling down the cobbles. What seemed like a dozen little boys appeared from nowhere and like locusts grabbed up the potatoes that had rolled farthest from the cart. The thing was done as neat as could be, and the vegetables were gone before the driver could even get down from his seat. Seeing that he was clearly outnumbered, he contented himself with cursing them roundly. “Ye damned little vermin! Don't think I don't know where yer rat holes is. I'll settle with yer parents on this. Thievin' little bastards. I'll settle wi' ye. Count on it!” He switched the reins and set the sagging horse in motion, propelled by his grumbling. The boys were laughing fit to bust when they turned to see Tom looming. He stared down hard at them, putting on his best stern-cop face. Their laughter dried in their throats faster than spit on a hot stove. Jaws fell open together as if on cue. Tom figured that was about the funniest thing he'd seen in a week of Sundays, and couldn't hide the grin that stole across his face. He tried to hold back the laughing but the pit-of-doom looks from the three street Arabs made him bust. The boys joined in when they saw that they weren't going to be thrown in irons. The other boys looked on from a safe distance. Laughing cops were a rarity in this neighborhood.
“So, which of you bright young lads can tell me where Mr. Bucklin lives?” Tom said when he caught his breath.
“Right 'ere in this buildin' 'ere, sir,” piped up the biggest of the three.
“And whereabouts in this 'ere buildin' might he be found, lad?”
“'Tis the third floor ye'll find 'im, second door back o' the stairs.”
“Thank you, lads,” Tom said as he handed them each a penny. “Go easy on the potatoes, now.”
They all grinned like co-conspirators and the boys chorused, “Oh, yes, sir,” and “We will, sir.” Tom trudged up the slippery unlit stairway. He was glad for the lack of light; he didn't really want to see what made the stairs so slimy, though his nose gave him a clue. Too many chamber pots coming down the dark stairs on the way to the outhouses. Tom could hear the boys arguing out on the stoop, their words echoing up the stairwell. He had a sudden image of his younger brother, gone now so many years ago. It was like a flash of light in the darkened stairs and was gone almost as soon as it came.