Suspension

by Richard E. Crabbe

  Emily’s carriage pulled to a stop in front of the Astor Library, at 415 Lafayette Place. She stopped her daydreaming and looked out the carriage window as Hughes their butler and driver set the brake and stepped down from the driver’s seat. This had been a fashionable part of town at one time. Walt Whitman had once lived across the street in the row of town houses called La Grange Terrace after the country seat of the Marquis de Lafayette. But that was many years ago, and the street, although still respectable, was no longer home to the wealthy and famous. They had moved farther uptown. It seemed everyone wanted to live near Central Park now.

  Hughes opened Emily’s door, and she stepped down to the blue slate sidewalk in front of the new north wing of the library. For a moment she stopped to look up at the elegant Italianate brownstone façade. There was still the slightest scent of cut lumber and concrete to the place. The north wing had been completed just a few months before.

  Something attracted Emily’s attention to the street behind her. Thinking back on it later, she could never recall exactly what made her turn and look at the long row of columned town houses across Lafayette Place. She had admired those buildings before. They were so different from most of the new buildings going up now and had a classic, Greek revival style that she thought timeless. Legend had it that inmates from Sing Sing had done the stonework, but that was fifty years ago. Most had been divided into apartments now.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man with an imposing mustache caught her attention for no reason she could explain. She supposed it was the way he walked, but it was hard to put her finger on it. He moved toward the front door of the Grange with an easy stride. She watched him. There was no swagger, just an ease that spoke of a man at home with who he was. He tipped his hat to a woman leaving the building. Emily liked the way he did that, especially the brief glimpse of his smile and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. Emily wondered idly about the man as he took a first step toward the front doors of the building. Then he hesitated and stopped, turning toward her. She had been surprised to find herself staring at the tall stranger across the street. Staring at strange men was definitely not something she did. Still, he was quite handsome, she noticed as she flicked her skirt and turned up the stairs to library. Wickedly she couldn’t resist one last glance before she went in the front door. To her amazement, the man was still watching her, the ghost of a smile playing on his face. She couldn’t help but smile too. Thank God Hughes hadn’t noticed. It was embarrassing enough to be caught staring like some streetwalker. But in truth she rather enjoyed it. He had looked at her in a way she hadn’t been looked at in some time. She had the feeling that somehow they had known each other before. Odd, how a glance from a strange man across Lafayette Place could do that.

  Her step was light as she entered the big central hallway of the library. Emily took the stairs to the second floor. She had been around hundreds of men almost constantly since she had been assisting Wash. Every day she had been at the construction site, the only woman in a manly world. Emily knew just how unique that was. For Emily to be treated as an equal where men ruled was extraordinary indeed. She remembered how at first every man’s eye had been on her and how nervous she had been. The workers sometimes had stopped what they were doing to stare as she got out of her carriage. On occasion she felt that those stares had been not quite appropriate. She had gotten used to it, though, and to a lot more. Stares from strange men were not all that uncommon for her. Still …

  Tom opened the door to his apartment. It creaked on its hinges in a familiar, homey sort of way. He knew he should put some oil on the thing, but the squeaking hinge was a kind of “welcome home” to him, and he never did seem to find the time to oil it. He went on in to the kitchen and put the small bag he carried down on the counter near the sink. The squeaking hinge did serve some purpose after all. Tom’s two cats, Grant and Lee, trotted into the kitchen with an urgency they usually reserved for catching mice or fighting. Lee rubbed against his leg, arching her back and straightening her tail. She purred as if he were a long-lost lover. Grant took a more direct approach, jumping up on the counter, mewing pitifully, as if he hadn’t been fed in weeks. Tom stroked Grant’s neck and rubbed him behind his ears. The big cat twisted his neck and closed his eyes, soaking up the attention. Tom’s thoughts started to drift to the woman he had seen across the street.

  Soon Grant reminded him of his real mission in life, which was to feed him. Making a direct frontal assault, he began attacking the brown paper bag Tom had put on the counter. Grant always had been the more direct of the two, and he chewed at the paper with determination. Tom took the bag away from him and put the chicken scraps it contained in a bowl. Grant was black and white, with a white face and a black chin and neck that reminded Tom of a beard. Lee was Confederate gray with stripes of butternut brown and black. Her hair sprang out in a mane on either side of her neck, and she owned a beautiful fluffy striped tail that she liked to drape over her face when she slept.

  Tom didn’t think of himself as a cat lover. In his way, though, he supposed that he loved Grant and Lee. He supposed he had to considering all the litters of kittens he’d found homes for over the years. They certainly seemed to love him, or maybe they just loved the chicken scraps he brought them in the little brown bag. That was only part of it, he knew. They showed their affection for him in their own ways. Grant would never deign to curl up in Tom’s bed at night the way Lee did. Tom imagined that he considered it beneath his dignity, but he seemed to love nothing more than draping himself across Tom’s lap while he sat reading. Tom was catching up on the classics at the moment, feeling guilty about not reading enough of late. His library was modest but growing slowly. Dickens was his favorite, though he liked Mark Twain’s stories a lot. He also had a growing collection of autobiographies and memoirs of key military figures from the war. Having served, it interested him to read the generals’ views of the same events. It always astonished him how different those memories could be. Tonight, though, he was finishing up A Tale of Two Cities.

  The big red chair by the front window was Grant’s favorite. Tom hadn’t so much as cracked his book when Grant was settling himself in. Lee, on the other hand, warmed his bed every night. She would push herself into the curve behind his knees, kneading him like a plumped pillow, and when she finally arranged him just to her liking, she would purr them both to sleep. Some of Tom’s lady friends didn’t like it. Oddly, Tom had to admit that those who didn’t were usually not invited back.

  Tom got up for a minute to fix himself a roast beef sandwich and get a bottle of Clausen’s out of the icebox. He emptied the water tray from under the block of ice, which was getting small, he noticed. Then he settled back into the big red chair by the window, and Grant sauntered over, a little slower this time, probably annoyed at being upset so quickly. Tom patted his thigh.

  “Come on up, fella.” Grant jumped up, almost upsetting Tom’s stout. “Get yourself settled, you old bastard. Spill one drop o’ my stout and I’ll skin your hide.”

  Grant slowly worked his claws on Tom’s thigh in a shameless play for a neck rub, but the sandwich took two hands. Grant looked up with reproach. Once Tom had reduced the sandwich to one-hand size, he gave in and stroked Grant’s neck. The cat closed his eyes, arched his head, and vibrated in contentment. Tom opened his book again and started over. He sipped his stout, which was none too cold. Mostly the pubs and saloons served it warm, but since Tom could afford an icebox and the daily deliveries of ice that went with it, he had been acquiring a taste for his Clausen’s chilled.

  He gazed out the front window. Dusk was falling, and he’d have to light a lamp soon, but for now he just enjoyed the gathering gloom. A line of carriages had filled the curb for half the block in front of the library.

  “Big doings across the way, there, Grant. What do you make of it, old soldier? Some sort of trustee meeting, I suppose.” Grant didn’t answer. “Bunch of old farts plannin’ a temperance meeting or some damned thing. Well, t
hey’ll never get my Clausen’s, laddie. I’m defendin’ the ramparts of drunkenness to my dyin’ breath. ‘Tis a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done …” Tom intoned, grinning at Grant. “Are ye with me? Sound off there, ye worthless flea bag. Are you goin’ to let them top hats take our beer away?” Grant snoozed. “A little support here would be nice. It’s a man’s right to drink himself into oblivion if he so desires, and as long as he’s not pissin’ on their shoes, it’s none o’ their business.” Tom chuckled as Grant half opened one eye. “A fine effort, old man. I knew I could count on you.”

  Night flowed softly through the tall window, painting the red chair black. After a while, when the words were blurring on the page, Tom got up, dumping Grant off his lap. He searched for a match and lit the oil lamp that hung from the ceiling. The room swam in yellows and reds. Tom sat thinking of potatoes and dirty, shoeless feet. Somehow, the image of Mike Bucklin, his beaming face smudged with dirt, stuck in his head … that and Mrs. Bucklin’s plea. She had asked nothing for herself or her dying husband. She had asked for hope for her grandson. Hope was a rare commodity in her life. She was drowning in a black-water sea of troubles, but she held up the boy with the last of her strength. Tom had made a promise to her, a promise he half hoped he wouldn’t have to keep. But he had given his word, so he thought idly of potatoes and a little boy’s mischievous smile.

  Tom roused himself from his reverie after a few minutes. Usually he didn’t like to eat before he exercised, but he had been hungry. The beer and sandwich sat heavy, and he felt slow and unmotivated, but it was his ritual and he tried to keep to it. For about five minutes he stretched, back, shoulders, legs, and arms, until he felt warm and loose. Then came another five of calisthenics with a couple of quirts. By the time he was done, he had worked up a little sweat. The cats watched with lazy eyes. He envied them their ability to lie around all day, then burst into action at a moment’s notice. For the next half hour, he worked his entire body, doing two exercises for each muscle group. For a time, Tom had gone to the Neue Turnhalle, on Fourth Street, to work out with some of the German cops in the precinct. He had liked the weights and had learned all he could about the muscles of the body and how to train them. A strict old German drill instructor used to put him through workouts that left him quivering. But he enjoyed the work and the feel of his muscles as they swelled. He had grown strong. He’d always had natural strength and as a boy had been able to do a man’s work. Lifting weights with the Germans had added a new dimension, though. Within nine months of his first workout, he found he was one of the strongest men in the gym, stronger even than some who had been at it for years. When he moved out of the precinct, he bought his own set of dumbbells, keeping up his fitness regimen as best he could on his own. Between the workouts and the occasional training with Master Kwan, he was in pretty good shape. Tom had managed to talk the old man into letting him study with him many years before. He had gained much face in Chinatown for that. Most other cops would barely even speak to the Chinese; Tom was the only one to try to learn from them. It was a practical matter really. He was interested in anything that might give him an edge. He was a cop and being in good physical condition was part of the job. He enjoyed it, so he was in better shape than most.

  Tom was slowly doing presses overhead, concentrating on the feel of the movement, when for some reason he started thinking about Mary. She had told him once how she liked to watch him work out. In fact, she liked it very much, and their exertions afterwards were memorable. Mary was an amazing woman, and he figured he liked her more than any he had known. It wasn’t easy to know her mind sometimes. And there were puzzles to her that Tom had yet to figure, but when it came to feeling easy with a woman, Mary was it for him. Unlike many he had known, she didn’t seem to have much in the way of inhibitions. If Mary liked you, you knew it. There weren’t any ways Mary didn’t like showing it either, at least not with him. He thought himself pretty lucky. Most of the men in the department agreed.

  Tom pushed hard for one more repetition, feeling his deltoids and triceps burn. He put the weights down slowly. Mrs. Aurelio downstairs didn’t like them banging on the ceiling. He looked at himself in the mirror. Not too good, he thought. Too many beers had put a handful of fat on his stomach. He could remember when he had ripples of muscle around his middle. At least his shoulders and arms were still taut, and he hadn’t lost any strength. His chest was high and tight, with two sweeping slabs of pectorals that he flexed for the mirror.

  “What do you say, Grant, old boy? Don’t say it.” He gave the cat a warning look. “I’ve looked better, I know.” Grant lifted a sleepy eyelid in his direction. “You could disagree with me. It wouldn’t kill you. Well, I guess Mary could do worse,” he said, patting his middle, thinking he should cut back on the beer. Grant closed his eyes, cradling his chin in his paws. “All right. Suppose I could lose a few pounds,” he told his mirror. “From now on, two’s my limit. Hell of a sacrifice.” He got no encouragement from Grant.

  He was going to have to see Coffin tomorrow. He was really regretting having gotten mixed up with the captain, but he had been able to help with promotions. For a fee, he’d see that you got to the top of the list. Trouble was that his services came with a price beyond just the cost of the promotion. Tom started another exercise, his biceps bulging, feeling as big as baseballs. Fact was that he was hooked and there wasn’t any way out of it. The reps were getting harder now, as he neared the limits of his strength. Sweat ran down his forehead, into his eyes. Feeling shaky but pleased with himself, Torn put the weights down and rested. The deal with Coffin was not perfect and had gotten more imperfect as time went on. Stops like the one he’d made earlier that day were far too common now. Even though he got a cut, there were some places they shouldn’t offer protection to—some things that were so dirty they shouldn’t be touched. Trouble was that the good captain didn’t care to make such distinctions. Anyone willing to pay enough for protection got it. Maybe when he was captain of his own precinct, he’d change the rules, but more and more he wanted out of this particular game. Honestly, Tom couldn’t complain about the money. That’s what he had wanted, after all, fast promotions, more money, fatter assignments, and he’d gotten them. The price was high, though, and maybe it was time to stop paying.

  Chapter Five

  For night is turned into day and day into night in one of these bridge caissons, These submarine giants delve and dig and drill and ditch and blast. The work of the bridge-builder is like the onward flow of eternity; it does not cease for the sun at noonday or the silent stars at night.

  —THE HERALD, MARCH 27, 1883

  The area around Peck Slip and Water Street was almost deserted. The bustle of dock traffic, the noise and congestion of wagons, the shouting of stevedores, and the hawking of fish vendors was gone with the day. Few people walked the streets with late-night business. One man, tall and angular, with a loping stride, seemed to be in a hurry. His eyes moved constantly, scanning the street before and behind him. He hesitated for a moment at the front door to number 247 Water, looking back the way he had come, squinting through the shadows for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing put him on alert. He opened the door and slid through. He climbed to the second floor, where a pallid glow lit the glass door to the offices of Sangree & Co. He tapped lightly twice, then once hard and twice again soft. Footsteps approached, then the door opened cautiously.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, not appearing to mean it, as he slipped through. A metallic click brought him up short. To his right, flattened against the wall, a small clerkish man held a pistol aimed at his head.

  “Evening, Earl,” the man said in a voice like a knife on stone.

  “Christ, Jacobs, put that thing away. Who the fuck you think it was gonna be?”

  The pistol seemed to lower reluctantly, almost as if Jacobs wouldn’t have minded an excuse to shoot him. Fact was, Bart Jacobs usually didn’t need much excuse. Captain Thaddeus Sangree said nothing, just motione
d for Earl to join the rest. They walked back to the meeting room and closed the door.

  Captain Sangree wasn’t real happy; Earl knew he wouldn’t be. He’d done what he’d had to, gotten the job accomplished in his own way, and that was all there was to it. He didn’t much give a damn what the captain said about it. What was done was done. He kept his mouth shut anyway, knowing it was best while the captain blew off some steam.

  “You’re a soldier, by God, and I expect you to act like one,” the captain said after Earl had settled in, taking a chair beside the others already seated around the big table in the back room of Sangree & Co. He just started with no preamble. It was what they were all thinking anyway. Earl, though, wasn’t quite sure if the captain was referring to his being late or his handling of the Bucklin matter.

  “You may have jeopardized the mission. How can you be sure nobody saw you? You chased him through the streets, for Christ sake! After all these years, Earl …” he said slowly, emphasizing each word. The captain didn’t have to finish the sentence. In fact, it was probably best he didn’t. He might have said too much. Earl was far too valuable.

  Instead Thaddeus said simply, “Do you take my meaning?” What concerned him most was the apparent breach of good procedure and planning. This was their first full meeting since Bucklin’s murder, their first opportunity to asses the situation and control what damage may have occurred. The fact that Earl hadn’t bothered to report until the captain saw him on the street earlier that day hadn’t helped.