Chapter Twelve
“I was a Rebel, if you please,
A reckless fighter to the last,
Nor do I fall upon my knees,
And ask forgiveness for the past.”
—MAURICE THOMPSON
Mike hadn’t wanted to run with the rest of the gang. Smokes was right, though. If Detective Braddock was so concerned, why wasn’t his father still alive today? He didn’t really believe that, but he wasn’t sure what to believe right now. Mike wanted to trust Mr. Braddock. He seemed nice. But since he watched his father’s casket lowered into that dark hole in Brooklyn, he didn’t trust anyone. Well, that wasn’t all the way true. He did trust Grandma and Gramps. Harlan, the cop who walked the beat through his neighborhood, was the closest thing to a trustable adult outside of home. The problem was that Harlan the cop didn’t trust him. Harlan didn’t trust anyone, as far as he knew. He spent too much time chasing kids, knocking heads, and collecting little envelopes. He guessed he could go to the police building, where all the cops came out of early in the morning. He didn’t know anyone there. They’d laugh at him if he went there. They’d look down over their mustaches, their cheeks all puffed out and important, and they’d laugh. He was a kid, after all. He didn’t trust cops and they didn’t trust kids like him. He could try but if the bad men had ears in the neighborhood, maybe they had ears in the police building too. He couldn’t tell Grandma. What could she do? She couldn’t fight bad men like he’d met by the outhouses. She was old and got out of breath just going up the stairs. If some bad men had killed his da, they’d have no trouble with her. He didn’t want to see her go into the dark hole in Brooklyn too. Besides, she had Gramps to take care of. That left Mr. Braddock. He seemed all right, and was nice enough when he came the first time. He hadn’t told about the potatoes, and he’d even shown him his gun. Still, it was hard to believe that he really gave a cracker about him or his family. But why did he come back? Was it really that stuff about his da and the war and all, or something else? He was a little sorry he’d been bad with Mr. Braddock, but he couldn’t let his gang see him go easy on a cop. He’d have to ask Grandma. She might know. Maybe that’s all he had to do, talk to Grandma. She could tell him if Braddock was trustable. He had to be careful, though. He couldn’t let Grandma know his secret. He didn’t want to see himself go into the dark hole in Brooklyn either.
“Grandma?” he said later that evening, “I saw that cop on the street today. He tried to talk to me. Is it okay to talk to him?”
“You mean Detective Braddock, the man who was here about your da?” his grandma said, looking up from her sewing. “Sure, Mike. The detective is a fine man, far as I can tell. He’s just tryin’ ta help. Did you talk to him?”
“No, ma‘am, not much. I was with me mates, an’ …” Mike hesitated.
“Oh, I understand. Couldn’t be seen gettin’ too cozy with the law, eh?” Patricia said, smiling.
“Yes, ma’am, somethin’ like that.”
“Well, Braddock’s all right to talk to. You go ahead if you want, and don’t let yer mates decide for ya.”
“Uh-huh, I’ll try. Do you think he might find who killed Da?” Mike asked hopefully. He’d like to see what the big detective might do to a black-faced bad man.
“I can’t say, Mikey. But I think he’ll do his best, and that’s all we can ask.”
“I hope he does. I been scared those men might kill me.” Mike said it before he realized it.
“Lord, Mike. What’d make you think that? Nobody’s goin’ ta hurt you, not while I’ve got breath in me body.”
Mike wasn’t reassured.
Tom surveyed the wet plaster. When it dried, it would shrink, leaving a dimple where the bullet hole had been. He’d have to give it another coat, but the plaster had to be dry before he did. It would wait till tomorrow. As he put his tools away and cleaned up, he thought about the Bucklins. It didn’t take a crystal ball to see there’d be another funeral there soon. Eamon was near gone. It was as if the death of his son had aged him by years within the last week. With no income aside from what Patricia could make with her lace making and sewing, he wondered how long they could last. She couldn’t make more than a dollar a day or so. Tom wondered how much Mike understood of their predicament. The boy probably knew better than he imagined. He was depending more on his little gang. Tom had seen what happened to children who lived on the streets: sleeping in doorways, scavenging, rag-picking, selling themselves when they could. Mike was headed down that road. He’d have to see if he could talk to the boy—away from the influence of his friends. Maybe then he could make some progress with the kid.
He stopped himself for a second. What was he thinking about Mikey like this for? He seemed like a nice kid, but he wasn’t his responsibility, after all. He had promised Mrs. Bucklin to help if they needed it, but nothing beyond that. Maybe the best thing would be to see that Mike got into a proper orphanage if it came to that. Tom didn’t know exactly what he’d do now that he thought about it. That was the thing; he had said he’d help without thinking. But as he washed the wet plaster from his trowel, he looked into himself and saw the feeling he had for the boy. Maybe feeling was too strong a word, but there was something there beyond just a promise given to a grieving mother. Billy had been just about Mike’s age when the scarlet fever took him. They’d been out playing in early spring when it had suddenly turned cold and a drenching rain had fallen like nails from the sky. He and Billy had been soaked. They hadn’t bothered to run for cover. When they’d finally gone home, shivering and blue from the cold, their mother had scolded them, saying “You’ll catch your death, you two!” Billy had caught his death and Tom had never stopped blaming himself. He had been the elder. He should have gotten them to shelter. His adult self knew the lie of that notion, but the part that was still the child remembered. Was that it? he asked himself. He tried to get hold of the feeling, tie it down, put it in a Mason jar so he could see it from all angles. But feelings are skittish things, and his swam away like a fish in an icyclear stream. He could see it, but getting his hands on it was something else. He knew this fish, though, and began to understand it for what it was. Tom stood still, the trowel dripping water on his kitchen floor.
He put his tools back in the bucket. Tom had always been an indifferent handyman, and the bucket served as well as any fancy carpenter’s box could. He put the bucket in the back of the hall closet, with the winter boots and the flag that he brought out for the Fourth. Closing the door, his eye was caught by the hammer that stuck out from the tangle in the bucket. A shaft of light pierced the inky confines of the closet, striking its head. The light turned the rusty blue-gray steel the color of summer wheat. Tom stopped, staring, the doorknob gripped tight in his hand. “Son of a bitch. Watkins!”
He knew it would come to him. All evening through the hour at McSorley’s and then at home, while fixing the wall, he’d thought on and off about it. How many times tonight had he seen the hammer? It sat in the bucket for hours right out in plain sight, but he hadn’t seen it. He shook his head. He remembered it clearly now—Watkins saying something like, “Ah didn’t have no reason to bash his head in or nothing.” But Tom had been distracted. He had seen Emily on the bridge, and everything else had gone out of his head. His mind had wandered; otherwise he surely would have realized that he’d never told Watkins how Bucklin was killed.
“Son of a bitch!” he said again softly. He felt like such an idiot for not seeing it sooner. “Let that be a lesson to you, Grant.” The cat watched him with yellow, saucer eyes. “Think with your dick, and your brain gets fucked.” Grant sauntered over and wrapped himself around Tom’s legs. “Maybe you don’t have to worry, come to think of it. Not much brain in your head anyway.” Tom rubbed Grant’s head absently. “Gonna have to pay Mr. Watkins a call tomorrow. Could be an interesting day. Say, Grant, old man, what were the names of those other two who were from Watkins’s unit in the war? Edmons, or Ebins, something like that, right, and Lebeau, I
think. Gotta check my notes in the morning. Quite a coincidence, them being from the same unit.”
Emily never liked the little clerk in the bridge offices. He’d been there so long now she couldn’t recall when he had started. Whenever it was, she hadn’t liked him from the first. She couldn’t put her finger on why, really. On the few occasions they had spoken he had been polite, courtly even. His southern accent and manners, coupled with a fine vocabulary and obvious education, made him an interesting conversationalist. But there was something else about him. Like an open window on a January night, he could pebble her spine with goosebumps. It was a chill that his warm southern manners couldn’t thaw. Maybe it was the eyes, she thought. If the eyes were the window to the soul, then the little clerk was as soulless as a machine. She didn’t like to look in those eyes. She could feel Bartholomew Jacobs’s unblinking black orbs on her now, from across the room, as she talked with Martin and Hildenbrand, the chief draftsman for the bridge. They bored into her over the tops of his wirerimmed glasses. Emily suppressed a shiver.
“And by the way, Charles,” she said to Martin, “if you see that detective again, please give him every cooperation. I spoke with Washington about it, and he agrees that his fears seem far-fetched but he should have all the latitude we can afford him.”
The assistant engineer nodded his acquiescence with a wry smile. “Ah, yes, the good Detective Braddock. I haven’t seen him since last week, but if I do, I’ll be sure to be accommodating.”
Hildenbrand gave a quizzical look. “Who’s Braddock? What’s this about the bridge? Shouldn’t I have been informed?”
Martin filled Hildenbrand in about Braddock and his suspicions, but added that they didn’t put much stock in them.
“In fact, I think it best to keep such talk to a minimum. You know how rumors can get out of control.”
“Wash was concerned about rumors too, and he’s anxious to avoid any hint of scandal,” Emily added, her voice lowered.
“Understandable considering all of both we’ve had over the years,” Martin said.
“Exactly. So if you see the detective again, you are to ask him to inform us first of anything he uncovers.” Emily wagged a finger at Martin for emphasis. “Wash was emphatic on that. He’s rightfully concerned that we not learn of anything in the morning papers.”
“You may rely on me, Emily.”
“I know I can count on you both, gentlemen.” Emily said her good-byes, leaving Hildenbrand standing in the office. She and Charles went down to the power plant to see about preparations for the lighting. Weasel’s eyes followed her as she left. Perhaps it was best she didn’t see them.
A few minutes later Emily stood beside the door to the power plant. It was amazing how the U.S. Illuminating Company had planned to supply electricity for the lights on the bridge. Just a couple of years ago she hadn’t known enough about electricity to fill a thimble, let alone power plants, turbines, and such. But she had learned. She had needed to. Still, the huge wheels, belts, and ozone-charged atmosphere of the power plant were rather intimidating. Looking out over the river, she noticed one of the ferries puffing across, throwing up a froth of East River water from its blunt bow. She had a sudden, flashing image of old John Roebling, intent on his surveying for the bridge site. He had been out on the pilings of the Fulton Ferry slip as a ferry approached. His foot had been crushed between the beams and pilings of the dock as the ferry nudged its way in. The stubborn old German, his boot full of blood and shattered bones, had continued giving orders and calling out measurements till he passed out. It was the same stubbornness in insisting on treating himself with hydrotherapy that cost him his life. Lockjaw was not an easy death. Why she was suddenly thinking about John Roebling’s death here by the power plant she couldn’t say. Even now she could see the ghastly, smiling grimace that gripped his face in a premature death mask. The muscles of his face and, slowly, the rest of his body had gone through horrible convulsions, becoming rigid as stone as the infection worked its deadly magic. The doctors could do nothing. Emily had been there, yet she knew she could only begin to imagine the torment. Wash had taken over for his father at the age of thirty-two.
As suddenly as it came, the vision of her father-in-law’s death passed away. A small chill passed through her, and she shook herself mentally to rid herself of the ghost. It was gone. Afraid the vision would return, she thought of Braddock again. Emily hadn’t seen the detective for at least four days, and couldn’t help but wonder at what he was doing. Emily had been down to the bridge at least once or twice a day and had kept a casual lookout for him. In truth, she had been spending more time at the site lately. She lied to herself that Wash hadn’t noticed, and had to admit to being just a little disappointed at not seeing Tom. She thought that he had been as smitten with her as she was with him, and his absence rather dashed her daydreams. It was just that it was so pleasant to have someone notice her as he had and talk to her as he had. Emily liked that and wanted more of it, regardless of how pointless. She wanted to at least call him her friend. Emily walked to her carriage feeling tired. Arrangements for opening day ceremonies would have to be finalized soon. With just two months left, there were a thousand things left to do. But she was tired now. The arrangements could wait just a bit longer.
Later that night, sitting at the big table at Sangree & Co., Jacobs related what he’d overheard at the office.
“So, your impression was that this detective had suspicions that he shared with Mrs. Roebling and C. C. Martin?” the captain asked.
“Definitely. I distinctly heard them discussing it and use the words ‘sinister, ’ ‘scandal,’ and ‘controversy.’”
“Could mean most anything. It doesn’t mean they got any idea what we’re up to,” Lincoln noted.
“No,” Jacobs admitted, “at least not that I heard. But we’d be wise to assume the worst. We know Braddock met with Roebling and Martin. We know what brought him to the bridge.” He said this looking from Watkins to Lebeau. Watkins’s Adam’s apple bobbed on cue. Lebeau wore his usual deadman’s stare.
“Whatever roused his suspicions, he obviously thought it serious enough to pass on to them.” The captain looked at Lebeau. “Any reason why this cop should think that Bucklin’s death was connected to a deeper conspiracy?”
“Cap’n, we don’t know that’s what he thinks,” Sullivan broke in. “Don’t think we should assume too much. There’s no way for him to know, right, Earl?” Pat said, looking to Lebeau for confirmation.
“If you’re askin’ if I done him clean, the answer’s yes. I sure as hell didn’t leave nothin’ that was gonna connect us. Think if I had, he’d-a been after me from the git-go.”
“Yeah,” Lincoln said. “All this cop’s got is suspicions. We’d have heard from him before now if he really knew anything.”
“He don’t know shit! No way! Hell, even Bucklin didn’t know all that much. My tongue may have wagged a bit with the beer and all, but he never got no particulars,” Watkins lied loudly. In truth, he wasn’t sure exactly how much he’d spilled of their plans. He had lost count after the eighth pint. He remembered bragging about some of the trains they’d wrecked, but what he’d said about the bridge was a blur.
“Watkins, you’ll forgive me if I’m not reassured,” the captain said with a dry rattle at the back of his throat and a twist of his mouth.
Watkins noticed the tone. He figured he didn’t have much time. He’d need to act soon if he wanted to stay alive.
The discussion turned to Braddock, how much he knew and how he knew it. Earl was certain that it wasn’t Mike who had told anything.
“If he knowed, he’da squawked,” Earl said with certainty. “Kid practically pissed his pants he was so scared.”
Either way, whatever Braddock had was not enough to act on. The question became what to do about it.
“Kill the son of a bitch,” said Watkins, looking to the others for support.
Jacobs cleared his throat in that officious way of hi
s and drawled, “You’ll recall I was in favor o’ that two meetings back.
“No problem, Cap’n. This Braddock’s no harder to kill than the next man. Done it before. Ain’t scared to do it again.” Lebeau had a killer’s confidence in his abilities, and saw Braddock as simply a bull’s-eye to hit.
“The point,” Sullivan said, “isn’t just killing the man. We thought that getting rid of Bucklin would solve our problems, but it only created more. I say we need to think this all the way through … do it right, or not at all.”
“I second that,” Matt said. “This is a New York City police detective we’re talkin’ about boys. Don’t think they’ll take kindly to someone killing one of their own. Raise a hornet’s nest for sure.” Some of the others nodded agreement. “We’re not even sure that killing the man would do any good. He reports to a captain, or police chief, or something, right? Who knows who he might have told about his suspicions? Killing this man might blow back in our faces. All he had to do was tell one other cop about his investigation. If Braddock was to turn up dead somewhere, we’d have cops down here thicker than flies on a dead dog’s eye.”
The captain looked up from the table, his face weary. “Gentlemen! We’ve got plenty to discuss beyond what we might do about this damned detective. I’m not against killing the man, but we must know that he is closing in on us before we act. Nothing must be done before that,” the captain said emphatically.
“And we can’t do the killing,” Thaddeus said, smiling grimly.
Jacobs and Lebeau looked disappointed. Weasel took his glasses off, making a show of cleaning the lenses with a pocket handkerchief. Lebeau gave an almost imperceptible shrug.
Suspension Page 25