Suspension Page 12

  “Morning, gentlemen,” Tom said to the room full of milling sergeant detectives. They were an interesting bunch. The bureau was new just this year and had been filled with as diverse an assortment of policemen as the city had to offer. For the most part they were men who had shown a particular aptitude for solving cases. Persistence, and a strong sense of the street, especially for its informants, was a common attribute. More often than not they got their man simply because they would not give up. They were experienced men. They knew their way around the five points, or a barroom brawl, or a riot on the docks. And to a man, they were corrupt.

  There wasn’t a man in the room who hadn’t bought his way onto the force. Interesting that in order to start a career in law enforcement, the first requirement was to break the law. The going bribe for a new recruit was about $300, give or take. Most had paid for promotions as well. The man who didn’t pay for advancement simply wasn’t advanced, promotion list be damned. Every one of them had paid at least $1,000 to get his sergeant’s stripes, about a year’s pay for most patrolmen. To reach captain, the tab was at least ten times that. The only way to get that kind of money was off the streets. Graft, protection money, “gifts,” tribute, tithes, extortion, payoffs, and a host of more unsavory practices were common. That was not to say that there weren’t honest cops. It was just that an honest cop, however well intentioned at the start, had to live on between $800 to $1,200 a year and watch while those around him pocketed many times that, eventually buying a higher rank where the money flowed like melted butter. It was not an atmosphere for growing virtue. In fact, Tom thought of the department as a kind of hothouse, where the plants grew to extraordinary size, their roots deep in the loam of corruption. The smell in the hothouse sometimes sickened him, but he was rooted in it like all the rest.

  They were not bad men. They were good men doing bad things. That’s how they looked at it, and in fact that’s mostly how it was. Of course, there were some bad men, some who had let the hothouse atmosphere seep into their bones. Those were the ones for whom the law ceased to exist, at least in the traditional sense. They didn’t serve the law, they were the law. And when you are the law, it becomes very hard to serve anyone other than yourself. Tom figured Coffin for one of those. He certainly had enough of that sort around him, doing his dirty work.

  It had been almost two years now since he made his deal with Captain August J. Coffin. It had looked good at the time. The captain was all compliments and support, telling Tom what a fine sergeant he’d make and how he’d be proud to help him achieve the rank he deserved. Coffin could break through the corrupted promotion process by lining the right pockets. He’d assured Tom at the time that this was really a simple matter. Tom wouldn’t have to put up a dime. All he’d need to do would be to pay Coffin back over the next couple of years, at a nominal rate of interest. He’d have his promotion and be guaranteed a slot at a lucrative precinct. If from time to time August needed a discreet favor, or a reliable man to handle a delicate situation, why, then he hoped he could rely on Tom. Tom remembered how good it sounded, and in fact it had been good in a lot of ways.

  The trouble was that he was now deep in the netherworld between the law and the criminal, where morality had more to do with circumstances and situations than with the law.

  Tom walked to his desk, exchanging “good mornings” with the men as he passed. Most sat at their desks, nursing coffee and looking like shit. It seemed to be part of the job to look like shit, at least judging by the group in this room. Tom was fairly sure he didn’t look like shit this morning, but had to admit that the job would do it to you more often than not. He got a coffee off the little stove in the back, which had a habit of belching black smoke in the winter when it was fed too much coal. He had just turned, hot coffee in hand, when a loud call came from the other side of the room.

  “Tom! Top o’ the mornin’, boy-o,” came the gruff hail.

  “Morning, Chowder. What’s the news?” Tom asked, knowing he was giving Chowder an opening for one of his patented homilies on the department, the city, or life in general. Chowder considered himself something of a philosopher, though admittedly of the rough-and-ready sort, and Tom almost always enjoyed his observations. He had a way with words, and, when he wished, his lilting brogue adorned them with a charm beyond their meaning.

  “Och, same, Tom, same. The captains’re wanderin’ around unable to find their arses wi’ both hands, while we, the very backbone of the force, protect our finer citizens from the criminal classes, for Delmonico’s greater good,” Chowder intoned seriously.

  “Another ordinary day at 300,” Tom said, grinning.

  “Exactly, Tommy,” Chowder replied seriously. “Heard you’ve found yourself another case down on Peck Slip. Wouldn’t be anyone I’d be happy to see dead, now?” An anticipatory light sparkled in his eye.

  “Don’t think so, Chowder. Looks like a worker off the bridge. Got himself into some scrape or other and found himself with one hell of a headache.”

  “Bullet?”

  “Blunt object. Pipe, or blackjack, maybe. Left the back of his head soft as an old melon.”

  “That’d be a shame, now. Can’t have our decent workin’ folk fallin’ to the forces of evil right before our noses, can we? Got a plan?”

  “Going down to the bridge later, see what I can see. Gotta go over to the East Side for a bit first to check on acquaintances, that sort of thing. You know, dig around a bit, maybe see if I can scare something up.”

  “Tom, I know you’ll strike a blow for the side of righteousness. There’s still a bit of the believer in you that the job hasn’t scoured away, unlike the jaded old sod you see before you. Take my advice, Tommy, you hold onto that. Help you keep your sense o’ direction,” Chowder said, all foolishness gone from his voice.

  Chowder Kelly was indeed an “old sod.” He had joined the force in ’58.

  Even back then Chowder had to pay to get on the force. He claimed to have seen it all in his years as a cop—everything the city had to offer in the way of criminal activity. Nobody doubted Chowder Kelly. He had earned his name in ’63 during the draft riots, by a heroic, single-handed defense of an oyster and chowder house on Pine Street. Chowder was in the habit of eating lunch there nearly every day, gratis, of course. He had developed an intimate relationship with the chowder, knowing its every nuance, spice, and texture. So when the rioting mobs threatened, he felt it his duty to defend the place. Chowder’s financial interest in the less savory aspects of the chowder house’s business may have influenced him. A small stable of four girls, catering to the dock trade, kept the rooms upstairs occupied steadily. Bedsprings creaked so often over the heads of the diners that nobody noticed.

  On the first night, a mob took a notion to tear into the place. Chowder had been standing out front—probably all it took to set them off. A uniform could do that during the riots. The story went that he stood right by the front door as the mob came boiling down the street. They waved pick handles, cleavers, swords, knives, and clubs. A hundred red eyes in the torchlight marched down on him, shouting, confident, and defiant. He had held his ground, leaning against the door frame, looking like he was waiting for the Broadway stage. As the lead man in the crowd got within fifteen feet, Chowder brought up his twelve gauge and, without a word, blew the man’s head off.

  “You shoulda seen ‘em scatter, Tommy.” Chowder had laughed in his beer at the memory when he had told the story to Tom years before. “Nothin’ like a shotgun fer crowd control. Splattered that poor bastard’s head over half the crowd. Never bothered the place again after that. Went after easier pickings, I suppose. Anyway I just went inside and sat it out. Spent three days eatin’ chowder till the troops arrived.”

  “What’d you do with the body?” Tom had felt stupid for asking as soon as it came out.

  “Left it there, of course. Sort of like advertising. Very effective. That advertising’s a real lifesaver.”

  “Sensible,” Tom had observed.
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br />   Tom chatted with Chowder for a few more minutes, sipping coffee and going over the day’s news in the department: who was arrested the day before, what detective was drinking too much and nearly got caught by the chief, Thomas Byrnes … that sort of thing. It sometimes amazed Tom that he could have those sorts of conversations nearly every morning. That’s one of the things he liked about the job: It always changed, inside the department and especially on the street. This morning it was he who had the most news. Murders were always good for lively conversation. They were interrupted by chief of detectives Byrnes, as he marched out of his office and called the men to order with a big “harrumph.” They lined up, chins out, stomachs in, doing their best to appear disciplined.

  After roll call, they went to what Byrnes called morning parade. Down by the holding cells, they’d trot out everyone who had been arrested the day before. The idea was that it would help the detectives remember the faces of thieves, pickpockets, rowdies, and the like. It was one of Byrnes’s innovations. Most thought it pretty useful. Once morning parade was over, they were all treated to a briefing from the chief. Byrnes, his high starched collar taking flight on either side of his chin, gave a rousing call to action to the detectives in the room. His mustache bristled as he reminded the men of their mission in life. The Detective Bureau was new, and the city had made a big commitment to it. It was their duty to show results. Arrests and convictions were the order of the day. They were an elite unit and they had to live up to a higher standard. Reassignment was waiting for those who could not toe the line. This was the worst threat of all. It meant not only humiliation and a big setback to the career, but a vast decrease in income too. Anyone reassigned by Byrnes would end up sucking hind tit on that gravy train for years to come.

  Tom went to his desk feeling as if his cats had died. Byrnes was turning up the heat. The pressure was on to produce results. Not everyone was paying the cops for protection, after all. Those who didn’t needed catching. Mostly it was the violent crimes they concentrated on, those and the minor criminals who couldn’t afford to pay. The irony of the situation had not escaped Tom. It took money to break the law. So long as the money flowed, finding its way into the right pockets, the lawless didn’t have too much to worry about. He spent an hour or so finishing up his initial report on the Bucklin case, made a new file, and placed it at the top of his stack.

  Heading out of 300 Mulberry, he ran into Sam coming up the front steps.

  “Sam, good to see you. What brings you to the sanctum sanctorum?” Tom asked, shaking his hand.

  “The what?” Sam asked, perplexed. “Is that what they’re calling this place now?”

  “Nah, just me showing off my eighth-grade education. It means holiest of holies, or something like that.”

  “Hmph. Sort of fits. You always were a kidder. Only thing holy in this place is the shitter.”

  Tom laughed hard but cast a glance around his shoulder. “Best to keep that talk low around here though,” he said softly. “Ears around every corner.”

  “Good advice. But I’ve got some advice for you. That’s why I came up here. You planning to see Coffin today?” Sam asked hopefully.

  “Why?” Tom already knew the answer.

  “He was asking about you. Said he hadn’t seen you much lately.”

  Tom just nodded, his lips pursed in thought.

  “You’d be smart to keep in touch more. As long as you’re one of his boys, you’ve got to play by the rules.”

  “We shouldn’t be having this conversation here, Sam,” Tom said, looking around. The two of them started south down Mulberry, the hustle and noise of the street making their conversation impossible to hear for anyone more than a few feet away. “I got myself in with the wrong man, Sam. I don’t like it. I don’t like some of the things I hear, and I don’t like some of the things I have to do. He’s got into things, taking money from some people who we shouldn’t be protecting. I know you know what I’m talking about,” Tom said as they passed one of the old-law tenements on the block. It reeked, just like his deal with Coffin.

  “Listen, Tom, you don’t have to like it, just play the game,” Sam said, sounding reasonable. “Pay the bastard off and go your own way. You’ll be rid of him. Listen, he was askin’ for you yesterday afternoon. He sounded like he … Well, I think you should see him, is all.”

  “I understand, Sam. I was planning to pay him a call today anyway,” Tom said as they passed the old St. Patrick’s.

  “Good. No point pissing him off. No time at all and he’ll be off your back.” Sam was trying to be reassuring.

  “Don’t think so, Sam. Coffin’s a fucking tar baby … and I’m stuck.”

  The two men parted company a block farther on. Tom split off toward the east and Sam went to finish his morning rounds. Tom was in no hurry to get there, though, and walked the ten blocks or so to Suffolk deep in thought.

  Tom found himself rationalizing the contradictions of his life more and more. He was a good man, a good cop, and he served the law well. His reputation as a solid sergeant detective and his record before that was well earned. He was proud of it. The fact was that he also did bad things. But the bad things he did were to bad people … people who made their money on the edges of the law—at least that’s what he told himself. The numbers were against them. Too many homeless, hopeless, and penniless souls willing to do anything for their next crust of bread. Twenty thousand orphans running wild in the streets, selling newspapers, if they were lucky, or themselves if they weren’t. Some said as many as 100,000 homeless lived in the city, in shanties, squatting on the evaporating vacant land, dying of disease in the summer, frostbite in winter. And seemingly as numerous were the ones who preyed on them, in a sort of urban Darwinian cycle. Criminals should be made to pay, though. They did pay … more often in dollars than in time behind bars. But for every dollar that found its way into Tom’s pocket, he lost a little piece of himself in the transaction. He wondered if a Daniel Webster would come back and get him off this deal with the devil. He thought not.

  For the next couple of hours, Tom canvassed the short list of Terrence Bucklin’s friends. The story was pretty much the same. It was remarkable, really. His pastor, a sickly looking man named Father O’Brien, summed it up well.

  “Detective, Terrence Bucklin was a man with nothing to confess.” Tom had run into him as O’Brien was leaving the Bucklin apartment, where he had come to comfort the family and make final arrangements.

  “I’m hearing that all over, Father. Nobody I’ve come across has had a bad thing to say about him. I’ve spoken to a number of people who knew him, and it’s all the same lyrics, different tunes. I’m headed upstairs to the Loftus family now. That’s my last stop. How’re the Bucklins holding up and the boy, Mikey?” Tom asked, looking toward their door.

  “As well as can be hoped, Detective. They’ve seen more than their share of sorrows,” he said, his head hanging. “There’s a toughness that God sometimes gives those in need, and the Lord has seen fit to bestow it on them, I think,” the priest said slowly. “Mike is a worry to me, though. Children are so easily lost.”

  “I know what you mean, Father,” Tom said. “It’s hard.”

  “Indeed it is, Detective. I’ll be keeping an eye out for him.”

  “Me too,” Tom said. “Well, it was good to meet you, Father. I’ve got to get upstairs to talk to the Loftuses, see if they can tell me anything new.”

  “You’ll hear the same from them too, Detective,” Father O’Brien said. “A good man by all accounts, and not an enemy in the world.”

  Tom shook his head, his mouth pursed. “That’s where you’re wrong, Father. He had at least one, and I mean to find him.”

  Chapter Seven

  Probably no great work was ever conducted by a

  man who worked under so many disadvantages.

  —EMILY ROEBLING

  The Third Precinct was pretty quiet by the time Tom got there later that morning. Sam was out; Jaffey too. Th
e desk sergeant nodded Tom upstairs to Coffin’s office without breaking stride on his paperwork. Tom took the steps two at a time. He hadn’t been looking forward to his meeting, especially not after his stop yesterday, but now that he was here, he figured to get it over as soon as possible. He knocked on Coffin’s door, letting himself in before the captain even called, “Who is it?”

  “Morning, Captain,” Tom said evenly. He called him captain only in public. Behind closed doors it was August, mainly because he knew how much the captain disliked it, or Augie if he really wanted to piss him off. Coffin got up from his desk, half in surprise, half in anger at the interruption.

  “Tom! How good it is to see you. I didn’t expect you this morning,” he said for the sake of anyone in earshot. “What brings you to our fair precinct?” They shook hands like old friends—a small show for those outside Coffin’s office. Tom gripped his hand hard, grinding the bones. He could see the color come up over August’s collar as he tried to pull back. All the while Coffin smiled and mouthed platitudes.

  “Come on in to my office, Detective. Sergeant Halpern told me you’re working on that body his man found on Peck Slip yesterday.” The door closed behind Tom hard enough to rattle the big glass panel.

  “Let’s cut through the shit, Braddock,” Coffin snapped as he sat at his desk. “You have something for me?” Tom didn’t say a word, just passed two envelopes to him. Only half a dozen more payments, Tom thought.

  “You’re late,” Coffin said. “And what’s this?” Coffin fingered the second envelope, measuring its thickness.

  “Made a stop at Madame LeFarge’s yesterday,” Tom said. “Had some trouble with that little pervert Grafton. You know the one?”