“There is absolutely no cause for panic or alarm,” the mayor said, giving what had become the traditional post-9/11 exhortation for calm and equanimity in the face of the unknown.
Five minutes of reassurance were followed by introductions of all the parties who were playing a role in this crisis. The mayor was clearly stalling for time, for someone to give him a better understanding of the potential danger to the city.
“As of now, there is no reason to believe this event is the result of a terrorist act. The brave men who have worked underground since this project began its development almost forty years ago-in 1969-have faced death in ways most of us have never contemplated. This subterranean world that provides New York with all the water it uses daily has been created out of sheer bedrock by dynamite. We expect that tonight’s blast and the resultant damage will prove to be simply a terrible accident, not an intentional act-not part of a scheme intended to cripple our city.
“But,” the mayor went on, summoning the man he’d appointed to lead the NYPD to step forward beside him, “but I’d like Commissioner Scully to tell you what precautions we’ve taken to keep you and your families safe.”
“It’s the damn buts I hate so much,” Mercer said. “Give us the bad news.”
The commissioner was a head taller than the mayor. He removed his hard hat and handed it to an aide, then leaned over to speak into the mike. I had known Keith Scully when he had been chief of detectives more than five years ago, and I had watched his hair whiten and fine lines become etched in his brow since the time of his appointment two years earlier.
“We have been keenly aware of the vulnerability of our tunnel systems in this city since the tragedies of September eleventh. Our counterterrorism plans have included increased manpower at all entrances and exits, upgraded with video monitors and intercoms,” Scully began, then referenced additional sophisticated techniques adapted and improved after Moscow’s subway explosions in 2004, the Madrid commuter train bombings that same year, and London’s 2005 coordinated Tube attacks.
“One of the repeated threats we’ve picked up from international surveillance and through the Department of Homeland Security,” Scully went on, wiping sweat from both sides of his face, “has been to the aging system providing water to the five boroughs of this city. The original structures-Water Tunnels Number One and Two-have been in service for more than a century. They are”-he paused for emphasis-“they are extremely antiquated and terribly fragile.”
Scully turned his head to the mayor, who gave him the nod he was looking for to be the bearer of bad news. “If one of the old tunnels is breached, if one is damaged in any substantial way, then the collapse of the system will be catastrophic.”
We could hear reporters calling out to Scully from behind the wooden barricade, asking what he meant. Clearly, he was not ready to take questions from them.
“In cooperation with the Department of Environmental Protection, we have dispatched teams to every site throughout the five boroughs of the city in this monumental construction project. We are urging you at this time, however, to conserve your water usage in every way possible.” Scully went on to list how households and businesses could do that, encouraging people to stock up on bottled water as well.
The reporters were rowdy now, trying to get an explanation that would make sense to their viewers.
The mayor elbowed Commissioner Scully aside and regained the mike, speaking in his folksy way, as if his more relaxed manner would do anything to downplay the possible dangers.
“If you ladies and gents don’t remember your history, then perhaps you may not understand that New York is a great city-but it simply doesn’t have the one element we all need to survive. We can live without a lot of things, but water is not one of them. And on this island, we don’t have any source of fresh water. None at all.”
“Better learn to drink your Scotch neat,” Mercer said, leaning back and sipping his vodka. “People open their faucets every morning and never even think about where the water comes from. That’s the goddamn but about it-but, if the old tunnel system that is literally our lifeline blows up or implodes anytime soon, the NYPD has a one-word plan for the island of Manhattan.”
“And what’s that?” I asked him.
“Evacuate.”
8
“This is Teddy O’Malley,” Mike said, introducing Mercer and me to the man who followed him into my apartment a few minutes after midnight. “He’s one of the workers from the blast site. The commish teamed each detective up with one of them so we can learn our way around the tunnel system pronto.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Teddy said, standing awkwardly to the side of the Oriental rug in the hallway. “Sorry to be bringing in so much soot with me.”
“It’s not a problem. Make yourselves comfortable.” I led them into the dining room so that Mike could put the two large pizza boxes down on the table. “You must be starving.”
Teddy’s T-shirt, jeans, and steel-tipped work boots were caked with mud. His freckled skin was smudged with dirt on both his face and well-muscled arms, but his curly orange hair must have been shielded by a hard hat while he had been in the vicinity of the explosion.
“Teddy’s gonna be my guide dog for the week, starting tonight. We’re on our way to the Bronx now, so I figured we’d stop here for a snack. Can you live without me in court tomorrow?” Mike asked me.
“Absolutely. This is a hell of a lot more serious than the Quillian trial. I expect half my jurors will go into hibernation over these news accounts. You okay, Teddy?”
“I’m fine, ma’am. Wasn’t there when it happened. I’m a union rep, so I came back into town to make sure the cops had what they needed from us. Shooed me right out of there, they did, and assigned me to this character,” he said, pointing a finger at Mike. “He’s trying to make a copper out of me already.”
“May the force be with you, Teddy,” Mike said, turning to Mercer. “She hasn’t packed her bags yet, Mercer? How’d you keep her from skipping town? Any minute now I’d expect Coop to step out of those leggings and-let’s see-whose monogram is on the cuffs of that fine-looking shirt? Some jerk she kicked out of bed must have left that behind. I figured by this time she’d have traded in her civvies for the hazmat suit she keeps under her bed and headed for the border.”
“I briefly entertained the notion of leaving town, but Mercer reminded me that I’d have no one to badger me if I left you behind. Imagine how lonely I’d be.”
“What do you guys think happened?” Mercer asked, while I went into the kitchen to get plates. “Teddy, what are you drinking?”
“I’d give my right arm for a couple of beers.”
“Coming up.”
Mike took the lead answering Mercer. “Too early to tell. The shaft into the tunnel is so narrow and the smoke was so intense the fire department couldn’t even get a man in the hole by the time we left.”
Mercer served the drinks while I handed out napkins and Teddy opened the first pizza box.
“Don’t give the blonde any anchovies, O’Malley. Coop’s fine with dead bodies, but she’s squeamish about oily little fish. Pepper-oni’s for her.”
“Bomb squad there?” Mercer asked.
“Running the show,” Mike said, adding crushed red pepper to his slice. “You’ve got a school day tomorrow, little girl. You’d better get some sleep. Lem Howell’s probably deep into his REMs by now, dreaming about ways to make you look bad.”
“You must be kidding. Nobody’ll be closing their eyes tonight. I’m glued to the news. What’s going on out there?”
“Unfortunately, you got some folks taking this terror stuff seriously. Whichever idiot at City Hall came up with sending that message public has screwed us up completely.”
“Yeah,” Mercer said, “but heads would be rolling if they didn’t put it out since there have been actual threats to the water system.”
“Now there’s already a lot of traffic heading for the bridges, and the PD’s
doing car checks at all the tollbooths and tunnel entrances so every skittish New Yorker trying to get to his bunker in the Hamptons or her secluded corner of Connecticut is going nowhere very fast.”
Teddy O’Malley was on his second slice.
“You don’t buy the terrorist theory?” I asked.
Mike looked at Mercer as he talked through his impressions. “I don’t know. It doesn’t fit the pattern of what we’ve been expecting, but nobody’s ready to rule it out yet. I would have thought the Al Qaeda signature would be multiple blasts in different parts of the system timed to go off at once, or following each other an hour or two apart. Besides that, it’s the original old tunnels that are their best targets. A good hit to either one of them would be cataclysmic. There’d be no water in this city for at least a year.”
Teddy’s arms bulged like those of a weight lifter on steroids as he lifted the bottle to his lips before speaking. “It ain’t outsiders. We got enough turmoil going on among ourselves to blow each other to kingdom come. I’d like to see a bin Laden-type bastard with a towel on his head try to get past the guard gate with the Daugherty brothers and the McCourts on the watch.”
“Spoken like a true sandhog,” Mike said, laughing as he reached for his second slice.
“A what?”
“Teddy’s a sandhog, Alex. It’s like Skull and Bones for micks. A very secret society that does its best work underground. You never met one before, did you?”
“No.”
“We’ll tell you about ’em, but before I forget, maybe Mercer can take over for me and stop by the hospital in the morning. One of us needs to keep the heat on Marley Dionne. Make sure he’s still with us.”
“Will do,” Mercer said before turning back to Teddy O’Malley. “What did you mean when you said bad stuff is going on among yourselves that could lead to this kind of thing?”
“You know our business?” Teddy asked, letting his third pizza slice rest on his plate while he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Not well.”
“First of all, you can’t ever rule out an accident when you’re working six hundred feet under the surface, blasting through bedrock with dynamite.”
“Six hundred feet below city streets?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Sixty stories down. What we do for a living is dangerous. And then there’s the politics of it. We’ve got a powerful union on one side, and you got your usual crop of corrupt officials on the other. A lot of hands have been greased to keep the men moving. There are scores of unhappy people on both sides-union guys, city councilmen, clubhouse politicians, mobsters trying to get a foothold in the union. Goes round and round like that, and bribery’s been standard operating procedure for a very long time.”
“Anything else?” Mercer said.
Teddy looked to Mike before answering.
“Nothing he hasn’t heard before, Teddy. You think Mercer could rise to the top of the detective division and not know what racism is?”
“Old news. Tell me about it. I thought you hogs were all very clannish-very band-of-brothers.”
Teddy exhaled and seemed to be through with his meal. “We are. Mostly. It’s two very different bands, and lately there’s been some ugly business going on.”
“Don’t Irish-Americans have a stranglehold on the sandhog work?”
“’Twas that way from the start, Detective, more than a hundred years ago. Who else would want it?” Teddy asked. “Uneducated immigrants with no skills and thick heads. They made great money doing the digs. But in short order they brought in some West Indians, for the very same reasons. In the old days they were known as the iron men. We were the miners and muckers-we did the shoveling-but the strong workers coming in from the Caribbean bolted together all the curved iron sections that formed the tunnel linings.”
“And there was never tension between them before this? Hard to believe.”
“From time to time, sure. But once you’re hundreds of feet down in the hole with someone, you trust him with your life every time you start a new shift, even if-you’ll excuse me, Detective-you wouldn’t necessarily want him marrying your sister.”
“What’s the beef now?” Mercer asked.
“So many of the jobs in the dig have been replaced by new, advanced machinery that not all the men can promise work to their sons anymore, like we did for generation after generation. The blacks are complaining that they’re being forced out first, even though as many of them have been there for generations, like we have. I’ll be giving Mike the names of guys he needs to talk to. It’s not everybody, you know.”
Mike went to the refrigerator and helped himself to a large glass of milk. He walked behind me and leaned against the dining room wall.
“You may think you know what you’re dealing with, but believe me, you don’t,” Mike said, trying to imitate someone, although I couldn’t make out who it was. He went on with the accent. “That’s what the DA used to tell me-in Chinatown…Forget it, Jake, it’s Chinatown.”
I rubbed my eyes. “What does this blast have to do with Chinatown?”
“Now you really do sound like a dumb blonde. Didn’t you get my best Jack Nicholson impression? My John Huston? Chinatown-the movie, not the neighborhood. The flick was all about stealing water to get it to Los Angeles, don’t you remember? You could tell the same story about New York-we had to steal the water from somewhere, only nobody remembers that.”
I walked to the den and checked the television before returning to the table. Julie Kirsch was still live from Tenth Avenue and still speculating wildly about the cause of the explosion.
“Can you put on a pot of coffee for Teddy and me before we get back to work?”
“Sure.”
“How old are you, Teddy?” Mike asked.
“Forty-three.”
“Same as Mercer. You married?”
He nodded and picked at the crust of another slice.
“Be on the lookout underground for a man who likes black coffee, English muffins, and a dinner of strong runny cheese and stale crackers. That’s all she knows how to cook. Coop’s available, and maybe a guy who packs a mean sledgehammer could handle her. Your wife from a hog family?”
“Course she is. Father, grandfather, brother,” Teddy said, smiling. “Nobody else understands what it’s like.”
“What exactly are sandhogs?” I asked.
Mike said, “Tunnel Workers Union. Maybe fifteen hundred guys total.”
Teddy gave the more elaborate answer. “Local 147, Compressed Air and Free Air Shaft Tunnel Foundation, Caisson, Subway, Cofferdam, Sewer Construction Workers of New York, New Jersey, and Vicinity.”
“So you save time just saying sandhogs-but why that name?”
“You know the Great Bridge?” Teddy answered my question with a question.
You couldn’t be a New Yorker if you hadn’t ever had a love affair with the Eighth Wonder of the World, the magnificent result of John Roebling’s 1867 plan to build the world’s longest suspension bridge across the East River, connecting what were then the separate cities of New York and Brooklyn.
“The Brooklyn Bridge, of course. I can see it from the window of my office.”
The bridge played a vital part in the life of the city, standing grandly at the foot of the harbor, its gigantic stone towers and elevated promenade remaining one of the most beautiful vantage points from which to enjoy the ever-changing Manhattan skyline.
“You know what a caisson is?” Teddy asked.
“Not really.”
“Roebling’s idea was a mighty risky one, Alex. The whole design plan balanced on the strength of the towers, and to build them meant sinking huge wooden boxes-27,500-ton caissons, each of them more than half the size of a city block-into the riverbed.”
“How did that work?”
“They were open at the bottom, these great chests, and then boulders were laid on top of them to force them down and keep them in the water. What was so radical at the time is that Ro
ebling decided to use compressed air to sink them, then pack them with concrete so they’d be solidly in place forever.”
Teddy stopped to take a swig of his beer. “The men were then lowered into the caissons to excavate the foundations of the towers.”
“I don’t understand how they could do that.”
“Teddy, my lad, this is a girl who finds the toaster oven to be a real challenge,” Mike said. “The only tools she’s good with are an ice-maker and a razor-sharp tongue, so explain it to her nice.”
Teddy smiled and got up from his chair, turning it around and straddling the seat so that he could rest his crossed arms on its high back.
“Look, Alex, for as long as man had been building aboveground and tunneling below, nothing as large as these caissons had ever been seen-monstrous boxes they were-no less sunk into the treacherous waters of the East River. They needed men-really fearless men-to climb into steel cylinders-man locks, they called them-long metal tubes that were fed into the caissons. Once down there, the guys would dig out the river bottom in order to lay these foundations.”
“But what about the water?”
“Well, that’s it precisely, isn’t it? The compressed air I’m talking about was forced into the caissons from the top, also in tubes, meant to displace the water, meant to hold it back from coming in and drowning the men. That air was searing, like it came out of a blast furnace, like white-hot needles were pricking at your lungs and your eardrums, they used to say.”
“Nothing they could see or smell or touch,” Mike said, “but it was the compressed air that kept them alive.”
“Or killed them,” Teddy added. “You hear stories about working in the air from any of your folk from the other side?”
Mike nodded.
“Men would tell you their chests swelled to twice the size, their voices were high-pitched, if they could speak at all, and the headaches were blinding. Worst of all was what they called the caisson’s disease.”
“The bends,” Mike said.
“Crippled the joints, terrible abdominal pains, bad fever and sweats. Every shift in those boxes, only three or four hours was all they could stand, seemed a lifetime.”
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