Suspension Page 13

  “’Fraid so. Beat up one of Kate’s girls. Put her in the hospital.”

  “The same.” Tom put his hands flat on Coffin’s desk, leaning over it, so he loomed over the captain. “Had to impress on him the need to stay out of LeFarge’s, which brings me to my second point.”

  “Which is?” Coffin said with an innocent stare.

  “Which is that we shouldn’t be taking her money, August.” Braddock growled. “You know the kinds of things that go on down there.” Tom felt somehow naive before Coffin’s even stare. Coffin knew very well the kind of things that went on down there. Rumor had it that he’d been taking part in some of them himself.

  “Let me set you straight on a couple of points,” Coffin said with a raised hand, interrupting Tom in a low but powerful tone. “First thing is that I’m in charge here. I say who we protect and who we don’t. Understand?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Second, what you like and what you don’t is your affair, not mine. I value your opinions, Tom.” He went on, trying to temper the hard edge of his voice. “But you must respect the fact that there are others involved in certain matters, and I am in a better position than you to judge what I do and don’t do.” August waited a moment. “We clear on that?”

  “As crystal, Captain,” Tom said flatly. What he thought was another matter.

  “Good. Let’s not dwell on these things, Tommy. Leave the decisions to me. It’s my responsibility, which brings me to your responsibilities.” He paused, tilting his head in an inquisitive stare. “Where have you been of late?”

  “Been busy. Besides, we have a business arrangement, and you know very well I honor my obligations.”

  Coffin seemed to ponder that for a moment while he put his feet up on his desk and squeezed the envelopes once again. Tom took the chair across from him. August said nothing, just took up a pencil and commenced flipping it in the air. It was perhaps his most annoying habit. Tom sat silent, watching the little display.

  Finally Coffin said, “Good man, Tommy. I knew my concerns were groundless. I won’t even count it.” He waved a hand at the envelopes. Tom wondered how it would sound when Coffin’s neck snapped in his hands. He pictured his fingers digging into the flesh, the color draining, eyes bulging, the tongue lolling stupidly. He smiled inside.

  “You’re a bit of a rebellious spirit, I suppose, but that can be a strength as well as a failing. It’s one of the reasons I decided to help you advance in the department,” Coffin said as if all was forgiven. Tom figured that was the least of August’s reasons. “How are things up at the bureau?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Pretty much as you’d expect. Byrnes is feeling the pressure from the brass. We got another one of his homilies this morning,” Tom said with a raised eyebrow.

  “Hmph. Tough job he’s got forming a new department. A great opportunity though. Stick close to him and you’ll go far, Tommy. The Detective Bureau will be a success, of that you may be assured. Byrnes won’t have it any other way.”

  “Was a little rough at first,” Tom observed. “Some of the boys in the precincts don’t understand how we’re supposed to operate. Think we’re stepping out of bounds, sticking our noses in their cases. Makes for some awkward encounters.”

  Coffin twirled his pencil. “But you’re doing well, I take it? You’ve prospered since your promotion, haven’t you?” He stopped twirling his pencil in expectation. “Didn’t I tell you it would be worth the investment?”

  “That you did, August,” Tom admitted with a shrug. “And I have done well, no denying it.”

  “Indeed. And I’m gratified to see you moving up, I truly am. It’s very satisfying to me to know of all the very deserving gentlemen whose careers I’ve helped advance,” Coffin said with a look that was smug and disingenuous at the same time. “They’re a credit to the department, most of them. But, you know, Tommy, some have disappointed me … from time to time. And disappointments, even if they seem small … well, they add up, you know. I put a great deal of faith and confidence in my boys, and I don’t expect to be disappointed. Makes me doubt. I hate doubts … really I do. Complicates things. Don’t you agree?”

  “No question, August,” Tom said in an even tone. He knew where Coffin was going with this.

  “Now I’m sure I can rely on you, Tommy. Isn’t that correct? I can rely on you despite an occasional small disappointment?” Coffin pointed his pencil at Tom’s chest.

  “You can, August. We are bound, you and I. Sort of like a marriage, you could say,” Tom said, praying marriage would never be like this.

  “Just the point, Tommy, that’s exactly it. And a marriage brings people together … joins them in the common enterprise of life, does it not? A marriage requires trust and confidence. That’s the very glue of a marriage, don’t you agree?”

  “Love would come first in my book, August, but I see your point.”

  “You know, in a way I’m married to all my men and them to me. We have that trust and confidence for the most part. And I’m thinking now that perhaps a small disappointment here and there is nothing to end a marriage over. No need for that. A marriage is sacred, after all, and not to be broken lightly. Of course you wouldn’t know about that, Tommy, you not being in that state of bliss, you old dog.” Coffin forced a chuckle.

  “Oh, I believe I know something on the subject, August,” Tom said evenly.

  “Indeed. Indeed, I’m sure you do. No, no need to break up a marriage over a trivial matter, like I was saying. But you know, Tommy, if one partner betrays the other’s trust and confidence, then I feel that union should be broken. Don’t you agree—broken swiftly and permanently, for the good of both parties?” Coffin flipped his pencil idly, tossing it by the end, setting it spinning a couple of times before he caught it.

  “I suppose that would be best. No point prolonging a union that cannot possibly work,” Tom said, playing along. He crossed his legs with a casualness he didn’t feel and stared at the captain.

  “I’m glad you see my point, Tommy. But I want you to know that I have complete confidence in you. No breakups going on here, oh no. We’re a team, you and I. We’re like a pitcher and a catcher; giving the signs, throwing curves or fastballs, watching for the steal and ready for the bunt.” August smiled widely, pleased at his analogy. He caught his pencil in midspin, pointing it at Tom. “If I thought otherwise, Thomas, you’d be out of the game.”

  August no sooner threatened Tom than he asked a favor of him, knowing that he couldn’t refuse. It was a trivial matter really, according to Coffin. “A small annoyance.”

  “I have a problem with the operator of a gaming parlor, and I was hoping you could do me a small favor.” Tom said nothing, just sat in anticipation of the dirty work. “You see, this man Finney thinks he can carry on his activities without making the proper arrangements. He doesn’t seem to understand how business is done in this town.” Coffin wore a concerned frown.

  A bored grin oozed across Tom’s face. “I see. You’d like me to give him a lesson in economics.”

  “Precisely,” Coffin agreed, smiling at Tom’s euphemism. “Nothing extreme, mind you. Just a reasonable appeal to his better business instincts.”

  “So, he should not be inconvenienced by ill health or a sudden misfortune, I take it?”

  “No, no. Not necessary at this point. I believe he’ll see that we have his best interests at heart. Finney just needs a reminder of how those interests might best be served.” Coffin twirled his pencil pensively. “Don’t want Finney to go sprouting any false hopes about prospects, so the sooner the better, Thomas.”

  “All right, Augie,” Tom said. He relished the frown the nickname brought to Coffin’s face. “So where’s this Finney character?” The captain told Tom how much he was expected to get from Finney. It was higher than usual—something Finney had brought on himself by not playing ball sooner, August had smugly assured him.

  “Here’s the address. When can I expect you to get back to me, Tommy?”

&
nbsp; “Give me two days,” Tom said over his shoulder as he opened Coffin’s door to go. He didn’t want to stay a moment longer than he had to. Coffin’s feet were still up on his desk, but there were thunderheads hovering around his brow as he watched Tom walk away.

  Tom was boiling as he walked out of the precinct. This was a new low for Coffin. It was the first time he had actually been threatened. While Tom didn’t think much of August, he had to take his threat seriously. Not that he feared Coffin himself. Coffin didn’t have the stomach for his own dirty work. If Coffin came after him, it would be with the corps. That’s what he called it. It had taken time to build it up, man by man, with men just like him. In many ways it was a private army, men he had bought, corrupted, and manipulated over the years. No one knew how many there were. Tom knew of some but always figured there were others he hadn’t heard of. Coffin had made quite a career of advancing “deserving” individuals. Once the hook was set, and the new sergeant, or wardsman, or captain, or detective started paying off the loan, he found that Coffin’s interest wasn’t the only price to pay.

  Tom had every intention of getting the Finney problem out of the way as soon as possible. No point putting it off. It would only mean trouble for him, and for Finney too, not that he cared much on that account. The fact was that he was a lot closer to the bridge than he was to Finney’s at the moment, which was a few blocks north near the corner of Baxter and Centre streets. So, Tom set his sights on the bridge, and crossed Park Row to the bridge approach. There was still a great deal of work going on on the Manhattan side. The approaches were elevated roadways that connected the bridge with the streets. They extended inland for blocks. Whole neighborhoods had been leveled to accommodate them. Tom paid closer attention to the details of the bridge as he walked alongside the approach beside the new train terminal. The roadway was supported by a series of stone arches, growing from about two to five stories high down closer to the river. The one at Franklin Square had the El running through it on its way uptown. The granite and sandstone contrasted with the small shabby-looking brick-and-frame buildings that surrounded the bridge, their fronts covered with signage on nearly every floor. As Tom went further he slowly rose above the surrounding rooftops. Tom had walked about two hundred yards up the approach before anyone bothered to ask what his business was there.

  “Say, fella, what’re you up to there? We don’t allow no sightseers. You can just turn around and go back the way you come.”

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Braddock,” Tom said, sliding aside his jacket to show the badge pinned to his vest. “I’m making inquiries about a man who worked on the bridge, maybe you know him, name of Bucklin, Terrence Bucklin?”

  “Ya need ta go to the bridge office,” the man said, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of Brooklyn.

  “All right,” Tom said, seeing he’d get no help from this one. “And where would that be?”

  “Fulton and Front streets,” the laborer said, not looking at Braddock. “The Brooklyn Union Building.”

  Tom started off across the bridge on foot.

  “Ain’t allowed to cross the bridge,” the man called after him. “Hey, you hear? It ain’t allowed.”

  Tom kept walking. It took him twenty minutes to walk over to the building that housed the bridge offices. Tom reminded himself to take the ferry back. He didn’t much care for walking the wooden planking where the roadway wasn’t finished. The river looked a bit too far down.

  It took another twenty to get a fix on what construction crew Bucklin had worked on and where they were supposed to be this morning.

  “We got hundreds of men on this job, Detective,” a clerk had told him once he’d identified himself and explained his need to check on Bucklin. “I’ll have to go over the payroll to make sure he’s with us, first off.”

  “I’d appreciate it. I’ll wait,” Tom said.

  It was some time later when the clerk asked, “Bucklin, eh? Got a Buckland, a Bucklin, and two Buckmans. You sure how it’s spelled?” Tom spelled it for him. “Okay. Give me a minute, maybe I can tell you where he’s assigned today.”

  Tom sat in the small lobby, reading a copy of the Union while he waited. The clerk buried his head in the day’s work assignment sheets, rustling papers as he flipped through.

  “Got it!” he said at last, holding up a slip of paper. “He’s supposed to be working masonry on the New York side, doing brickwork on the vaults. His foreman’s a fellow by the name of Hightower.”

  Tom got up, tucked the Union under his arm, and walked to the big desk that served as the office reception area. The clerk spread the sheet out for him.

  “Does it say where exactly: north side, south side, which cross-street, anything? I saw a lot of men over there a little while ago,” Tom said as he peered at the paperwork.

  “Doesn’t say,” The clerk frowned. “Lots of times it don’t,” the man said apologetically.

  Tom thanked him and headed for the Fulton Ferry Terminal. He’d had enough walking. He didn’t notice that one of the other clerks who had been standing nearby watched him with special interest as he left.

  A half hour later, after a delay on the ferry due to river traffic, Tom was staring up at the anchorage on the New York side. He looked left and spotted some men up on a scaffold under the Franklin Street overpass. He walked over and shouted to get their attention. “Any of you men know Terrence Bucklin?”

  “Wha’?” someone shouted back.

  “Terrence Bucklin,” Tom called again.

  “He ain’t here” came the reply from somewhere up in the scaffolding.

  “Any idea where I can find Hightower?” Tom tried next. The clerk had mentioned that Bucklin had been assigned to that foreman’s crew.

  “Thought you said Bucklin?” a voice came back. “Make up yer fuckin’ mind.” Tom started to explain but thought better of it and waited.

  A minute later a head popped over the edge of the scaffold. “So, what is it?” the head asked.

  “I need to find his crew, Bucklin’s and Hightower’s that is.”

  The head cleared its throat and spit down in Tom’s general direction. “Supposed to be brickin’ up the vaults. Up a ways,” it said. An arm appeared and waved in the direction of City Hall.

  Tom waved back, grunting an acknowledgment.

  When Tom got “up a ways” he came upon another crew doing brickwork. He walked up to the man who appeared to be in charge.

  “Hightower?”

  “Who wants ’im?” the man shot back, standing with his hands on his hips.

  “Detective Braddock. I’m investigating a murder. You know Terrence Bucklin?” Tom showed his shield.

  “Don’t know him. Heard his name, though,” the man said, taking his hands off his hips. “Works with Hightower’s crew, all right. They was supposed to be with us today but we got bricks enough for just one crew, so they moved on up to the roadway.” The foreman pointed back to where Tom had started about an hour before. “Think they’re doing some damn thing up there.”

  “What’s he look like, this Hightower?”

  “Round sort of fella. Suspenders, an’ a bowler,” the foreman said over his shoulder as he looked up at his men laying bricks.

  Tom took the three-block walk back to where he had started, feeling as if he had wasted a lot more time than he really had. He checked into the train terminal first as long as he was there. The ringing of hammers echoed from the cavernous roof of the half-finished building. Once again he was given a wave of an arm and the general direction where Hightower could be found. Tom figured he had found his man at last when he spotted a bowler perched on a big head and an even bigger body.

  “You Hightower?”

  “What can I do for you, mister?” the fat man said. Tom identified himself and asked if he knew Bucklin.

  “I would say I do. Worked with him for three years past. James Hightower,” he said, extending a thick hand. “What’s this about Bucklin? Been wonderin’ where he took himself of
f to.” Hightower tilted back his bowler to scratch his head. “Hain’t seen ’im for a coupla days.”

  “Bucklin’s dead. Found yesterday in the alley behind Paddy’s.”

  “Jaysus! The hell you say.” Hightower almost shouted. “I tell you, this city’ll just eat you up and spit you out. No fit place for humanity. I’m a Brooklyn man myself,” he said, seeming anxious to make the distinction. “What happened to ’im?”

  Tom told him without giving too many details. “Tell me, how many men on this job?”

  “Well, I got twenty-odd on this crew, but there’s dozens more workin’ steel and cable. Then there’s those what’s workin’ on the train tracks and stations. All told, maybe three hundred, give or take. That’s both sides, mind you.”

  “Anyone else besides Bucklin been out of work the last day or so?” Tom asked, looking around.

  “Nope, not on my crew. Can’t speak for the rest, o’course.”

  Tom spent maybe fifteen minutes talking with Hightower, asking a lot but not getting much of use. The foreman hadn’t been aware of anything going on with Bucklin; no troubles to his way of knowing, no fights or disagreements, just a good hard worker. He was aware of Bucklin’s misfortunes and had gone to the wake of his wife and little girl last year but couldn’t claim to be really close with him, he said.

  “Must be a big job making sure everything goes right on a project like this,” Tom observed casually. “Got to be a million ways to screw things the wrong way.”

  “Maybe, mister, but I run a tight ship. Can’t speak fer others but my crew’s tiptop.”

  “Fine-looking bunch of men,” Tom observed, looking around at the group. “You ever come across any shenanigans on the job? You know—work not done right, maybe shoddy materials, that sort of thing?”

  Hightower gave him a stony look. “Not on my crew, mister. They had the cable fraud back years ago, but that was none of my affair.”

  “You ever hear Bucklin say anything about something not being right about the bridge?”