“Mostly the three of themâEmmons, Lebeau, and Watkinsâworked on the masonry. Never was any involvement with the trains. Lebeau and Emmons did work in the caissons years ago, but it didn't seem to be worth the effort to go that far back. Whatever is going on is current, we figure,” Pat Dolan said.
“Could be. They were working in the caisson when the fire happened, though. That's too damn coincidental for my taste,” Tom muttered as if talking to himself.
“Couple dozen others worked in the caisson at the time too. We'd have to track 'em all down. Besides, the fire marshal ruled it an accident.”
Tom gave a grudging grunt.
“Probably not worth the effort,” Jaffey added. Nobody disagreed.
“Things match up on the masonry contracts too,” Charlie said. “We went over the paperwork on the stone, brick, concrete, and paving, both at the bridge office and at the contractors. Nothing.” He threw up his hands. “It all looks legitimate.”
“We might be missing something,” Dolan said slowly, shaking his head, “but I don't think so. Ain't too many stones we left unturned.”
“Goddammit, there's something missing.” Tom growled in the back of his throat. He was getting as frustrated as the rest. “We're not looking in the right places ⦠or asking the right questions,” he said for what seemed the hundredth time.
“I know,” Jaffey said. “Got the feeling it's right in front of us but we just can't see it.”
“Should've turned up something before this,” Charlie said with resignation. “I'm with you, Tom. Whatever's going on has nothing to do with the things
we've been checking.” His tone sounded as if he were closing the book on this phase. “Would have found it by now.”
Tom paced back and forth before his desk, hands stuffed in pockets, shoulders hunched. “People are dead because of whatever the fuck is going on!
Got
to be something ⦔ Tom almost pleaded as he crumpled some paper and tossed it in the general direction of the already overflowing wastebasket.
“There's one thing, Tom,” Charlie said. It was clear from his tone that he hardly thought it worth bringing up.
“Well ⦠hell, Charlie, spit it out so the whole class can hear it.”
“It's nothing, really,” Charlie started slowly. “It's just that when I was at Haigh's, checking on their paperwork, I noticed that there was one other customer for a small batch of Crucible steel wire, just like they're using on the bridge.”
“That's it?” Tom asked.
“Well ⦠I know it don't sound like much, but Pat came up with the same name on an invoice at the Edgemoor Iron Works.” Charlie's voice had the slightest inflection of hope.
Tom's mouth twisted in an ironic grin. “That's real exciting, Charlie.” There was silence in the little group around the desk. Heidelberg stared at Tom evenly, careful not to let his feelings get the better of him. Jaffey too gave Tom a small frown.
“Listen, Tom. Spare me the sarcasm, okay. We're all frustrated here. Me and Pat been goin' blind looking at fucking records. Not fun, in case you were wondering, and you're not makin' it any easier.” His voice rose as he went on.
Tom held up a hand. “Sorry, Charlie,” he said, patting the man's shoulder in a silent peace offering. “You're right. I owe you a beer.”
Charlie gave Braddock a sideways look and a small smile. “A big one, you bastard.”
Tom took away his hand like it had been on a hot stove but grinned his agreement.
“Okay,” Charlie went on. “The interesting thing is that in both cases the invoices were for the exact same kinds of items being used on the bridge. Difference is that the quantities were small.”
Jaffey broke in. “Somebody else building another bridge or something? I mean, this isn't the only suspension bridge in the country, is it?”
“Don't know. But even if it isn't, the orders are way too small. It's just a couple of spools of wire, cable, and one or two each of a bunch of other things, like roadway beams, brackets, flanges, couplings, all sorts of shit.”
Braddock grunted, deep in thought. “Probably nothing, but it should be
checked,” he rumbled almost absently. “Nothing connected to the trains?” he asked, looking up hopefully.
“Sort of ⦠in a way. One or two components were to the trusses running over the tracks,” Pat said, looking at his notes. “Going to Trenton tomorrow to check order books at the Roebling works. There's another two or three suppliers we thought we'd check with too. Probably nothin'.” He shrugged.
Tom nodded. It probably was but it was the only “nothing” they had. “So who's been placing orders for this stuff?”
“An outfit called Sangree & Co.,” Pat said, looking at his notes again. “Funny thing is that the invoices are going to an address on Water Street, but the delivery address is in Richmond, Virginia.”
Tom stopped his pacing and turned in his tracks, folding massive arms across his chest. “Now that is a curious fact, gentlemen.”
M
ike knew what had happened as soon as he saw the wagon waiting at the curb in front of his building. Gramps had gone to see his da. He didn't need the long faces of his neighbors to tell him. A small, curious band had gathered to watch the ambulance wagon and its tired horse as it dropped steaming turds on the cobbles. They watched the motionless wagon and horse as if they'd never seen the like before. As he pushed past, his school books tucked under one arm, there was much sad shaking of heads and clucking of tongues. A mournful murmur passed over like a cloud at his appearance. Mike wasn't quite sure what they shook and clucked and murmured for. Though he'd miss his gramps, he knew that he was with the angels now. Being with the angels was probably a sight better than coughing up bits of your lungs day by day. Though he'd never seen an angel, he'd seen his gramps when he was sick. Being with the angels had to be better. In fact, it was bound to be better than anything on Suffolk Street. He'd trade the whole place to be able to see his da too. So Mike didn't cry or carry on. He didn't put on a show of tears for the morbid neighbors. They just wanted to see Gramps come out covered with a sheet. They wanted a reminder that no matter how shitty their lives were, someone else had it worse. Mike trudged up the dark stairs. He'd save his tears for Grandma.
T
he day had limped by like a three-legged dog. It was late now. Tom's shift had been over for hours. He and Coffin sat in the library of August's town house. The smell of leather-bound volumes and waxed mahogany gave the room a clubby, manly sort of warmth. It even seeped into Tom as he swirled a
crystal glass of port. It had been a good day in one respect, with another fat envelope filling both their pockets. Tom had to force himself to say what he did next though.
“You know, August, I want to thank you for helping Mary. She's doing pretty well now, and she's had not a peep of trouble from Parker or anyone else at the Sixteenth.” Tom almost chocked saying it but in a way it was true.
“Oh, think nothing of it, Tom,” Coffin said, waving a dismissive hand with a smile that seemed genuine enough. “Happy to be of assistance. Always liked Mary myself, so full of life and fire. You're a lucky man.” At times August could be disarmingly charming, thoughtful even. Braddock tried to keep that in mind.
“I know it, August. I've got to take better care of her, though, if I want to keep her.”
“Can't blame yourself, Tommy,” Coffin said, shaking his head. “You can't be there every minute. She's in a business that's prone to certain risks. She knows that. I think she's tougher than you give her credit for.”
“She's hard when she has to be, I'll give her that, practical too,” Tom said truthfully. “Doesn't hold a grudge. Doesn't believe in it. Just gets on with business. She's not one to worry much on things she can't change.”
“A very practical outlook, Tom. It would seem lately that you've taken a page from her book.” Coffin pointed a finger across his desk at Tom. “It's a more productive way of looking at things.”
Tom smiled inside. Let Coffin think what he wanted about his acceptance of the new order, he figured. “I've got to admit, the last couple of weeks have gone a long way toward convincing me of that. Frees more time to work on the things you can change too,” Tom said without inflection, wondering as soon as he'd said it if he'd hinted at too much. He reminded himself to be more careful.
Coffin sat back in his tufted leather chair with a self-satisfied grin. If he'd caught the double meaning in Tom's words, it didn't show. He smiled warmly across his desk. It was a genuine smile, as genuine as he was capable of.
“We're going to do very well together, Tom,” Coffin said at last. “The money's been good, right?”
“Very good,” Tom admitted.
Coffin beamed, like a magician about to pull off an impossible trick. “It can be better,” he said, leaning forward.
Tom's eyebrows arched in interest but his jaw tensed all the same. “I was never against making money, August. One of my favorite things,” he said honestly. Still, he felt the need to add, “You know how I feel about some
things, though, August. That hasn't changed. There's some money we shouldn't take, some people we shouldn't protect.”
They grinned at each other across the desk, each putting his own gloss on their recent troubles. Coffin's smile had a waxy quality, as if it had been painted there. The look passed quickly, a rogue thunderhead on a sunny day.
“This is nothing I think you'd object to, Tommy. Just some areas I'd like to explore,” Coffin said tentatively. “Might open up whole new sources of revenue. Bigger than anything else we've been into.” A suggestively raised eyebrow tested the waters between them.
“Really? I thought you were already into more pies than you had fingers for.” Tom laughed.
“That's a good one. I like that. But I think I might find an extra finger for this particular pie.”
Tom tried to imagine what Coffin had on his mind. There weren't too many opportunities Coffin had missed over the years. If he didn't have a percentage, it probably wasn't worth taking. Of course, his corps was spread through a number of precincts, increasing the opportunities tremendously.
Tom was curious. “So what's so good that you're not already into?”
Coffin seemed to hesitate just an instant, as if weighing whether he should reveal his plans just yet.
“Well, that's something you might be able to lend valuable assistance with,” he said finally, twirling a pencil deftly.
“Oh?” Now Coffin really had Tom's attention.
“Uh-huh.” Coffin seemed to be musing over his next move. “You patrolled for some time in Chinatown, right?”
Braddock's whole body came to attention. Fire engine bells clanged in his head. “You know I did. Three years, give or take.” Tom could not believe the direction this conversation was taking.
“You know some important Chinamen down there still, I believe.” August tapped his pencil lightly on his desk.
“Some,” Tom admitted, not wanting to volunteer anything too soon. Better to let Coffin show his hand.
“You know about their societies, the tongs as they call them?”
Tom took a deep breath, as much to give himself time to think as anything else. He paused to take a long, contemplative drag on his cigar, letting the smoke drift slowly out of his mouth toward the ceiling.
“The tongs are tough,” he said at last. “They're supposed to be business and social organizations but they go way beyond that.” Tom wasn't telling Coffin much he didn't already know. An expectant ghost of a smile painted August's
lips. “The controlling powers are not always clear, especially not to outsiders. Too many barriers. Language, culture, customs, that kind of thing. Not talked about by many Chinese, at least not to us whites.”
“But you would know who to talk to,” Coffin prompted. It was not a question.
Again Tom took his time to answer. He thought of his long talks with Master Kwan, seeing the beginnings of a plan in the drifting smoke. He took a sip of his port as his mind raced ahead.
“I'd know where to start, sure,” Tom allowed guardedly. Figuring to limit the captain's expectations, he added, “Can't say how far I'd get, but ⦔
“Farther than most, I'd venture,” Coffin broke in.
Tom took another long pull on his cigar, eyeing the captain through the smoke, thinking to the next move. “Maybe,” he admitted with a shrug. “So what're you after?” He had a damn good idea what it was, but he wanted Coffin to be the one to lay it out. It hadn't taken Tom long to figure what Coffin's plan had to be in Chinatown, or at least what it centered on. There were rackets, gambling, whoring, and the like going on there, just like anywhere else, but the only thing that set the place apart, made it truly unique as an opportunity for the likes of Coffin, was the tarry, black gold: opium.