Suspension Page 17

  “Yes. Definitely tobacco. Hard to be precise about the time, but ah … yes, I think they would coincide.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Spat on him while he was on his back?”

  “That would be my, ah … opinion,” Thomas said, looking pointedly at Tom over his glasses. He obviously didn’t approve of such things.

  They spent another half hour or so discussing the condition of the body, approximate time of death, and contents of digestive tract, when Doc Thomas said rather suddenly, “Curious thing.” Tom cocked an interested eyebrow. “The curious thing is what I found in your man’s, ah … stomach. A key, to be precise.”

  “In his stomach?

  “Interesting, eh?” Doc Thomas paused for effect. “Curious place for a key, wouldn’t you say?” He turned and rummaged through a drawer in his desk, which seemed to be brimming with oddities. “Now, where did I put that damn thing? Quite small, you know. Not hard to swallow at all. Ah … here it is!” He held the little key aloft.

  Braddock stood, his big hand held out. “In his stomach, you said.” The doctor placed the key in his palm. It was small, less than an inch long, with a tubular design, like a key for a pocket watch. Tom doubted that’s what it was for. He had examined Bucklin’s pocket watch. There was nothing hidden there, and the winding mechanism was in the stem. Tom stood gazing at it in his open palm. “How long would it take for something like this to get down into the stomach, Doc?”

  “Depends,” the coroner said with a shrug. “Not long.”

  “Yeah, I guess. But could Bucklin have swallowed this key before he was killed? Would it have had time to reach the stomach?”

  “Possibly,” the doctor admitted. “As to why your man might want to swallow a key, Detective … well, that’s your job I suppose.”

  Tom stood silent, bouncing the little key in his hand, feeling its weight but weighing the possibilities as well.

  After going over everything else he could think of, Tom was about to leave when the coroner said, “Oh, by the way, your killer was right-handed.” He went on to explain how he’d arrived at the conclusion, while Tom kicked himself mentally for not thinking to ask. The key had him preoccupied, he figured. Minutes later he was heading back to headquarters. As he closed the door to the morgue behind him he heard Thomas say, “Now, ah … where were we?”

  Back at Mulberry, Tom spent the next hour and a half filling out his folder on Bucklin. He included his notes on the interviews of Bucklin’s coworkers as well as the general impressions he had of them. He had long ago gotten into the habit of writing down his observations of people he thought could have some bearing on a case. There were no established police procedures for such things, the men all had their own ways of doing things. From time to time those offhand observations proved more useful than expected. Those times were relatively rare, but Tom told himself that it was worth the extra time. Besides, Byrnes liked his men to be thorough. One thing he didn’t want to do was disappoint Thomas Byrnes.

  It wasn’t until around 6:00 P.M. that Tom left 300. He wanted to see Mary. They hadn’t been together since Saturday, and he was beginning to feel the tug of missing her. But he had Coffin and his veiled threats on his mind too. Tom started thinking that maybe he should just get the Finney thing over, and the sooner the better. If he could get that unpleasant “favor” out of the way, it would keep Coffin off his back, give him a little breathing room. Then he’d be free to concentrate on Mary. She was worth concentrating on. Tom hailed a cab.

  “Corner of Baxter and Centre streets,” he told the cabbie.

  Tom settled into the back of the cab. It had been another warm day for March, but it was cooling off with the lowering of the sun. The streets were in the shade of early evening, and there was a chill in the air. Tom reached under his jacket and took out his pistol. He had carried it since the war. It showed. The old Colt was nicked and scratched, worn shiny. The engraving on the cylinder was nearly smooth, even though he had replaced it when the Colt was converted to cartridges. The walnut grips were the original, though, and glowed like an old saddle. The pistol and he had seen a lot of miles together. It had seen him through some tight spots. He couldn’t begin to imagine how many times he had fired it in practice or necessity. He would never be certain either of how many men had felt its bite. Since the war he had used it only twice and felt himself fortunate not to have taken a life either time. The war was another matter.

  As a safety measure Tom carried the Colt with its hammer on an empty cylinder. Although he had no intention of using the thing tonight, it was foolish to go where he was going and not be certain of his weapon. Slowly he spun the cylinder, listening to the measured, metallic certainty of the piece as each chamber indexed. He added a sixth bullet in the empty chamber, lowering the hammer on it gently, then pulling it back to the half-cock safety. No sense taking chances. He hoped he wouldn’t need the gun, but if he did, he knew there would be no substitute. The old piece was getting just slightly loose in the frame. It hadn’t been shooting as well in practice lately, and the frame was probably why. But practice was practice. In his experience, if he shot someone, it would probably be from no more than six feet away. Tom figured the Colt was still good at that distance. The department hadn’t standardized sidearms, and as long as there had been a police force the men carried their own weapons. The word was that soon there would be a regular police-issue pistol for everyone, but until then he was satisfied with the Colt. It slipped back into the shoulder holster under his jacket like an old friend. Its familiar weight was a comfort. Won’t be needing you tonight, partner, he thought.

  The cab pulled up at the corner where a streetlamp had just been lit. Its light was watery and insubstantial in the early evening gloom. The cab rolled away accompanied by the dying echoes of hooves on cobbles. Tom felt very alone on the nearly deserted street. He searched for a moment for the number of Finney’s gaming parlor, but after walking first one way then the next, decided that a plain unnumbered door, two houses down from the corner, had to be it. There didn’t seem to be any lights on, and no sound came from within. It was early for the gambling crowd. Tom tried the door, and it swung open on well-oiled hinges. It reminded him that he should oil his own when he got home, though he knew he’d likely never do it.

  The door opened on nothing but a blackened stairway leading up to the second floor. He took the stairs with caution. An unpleasant experience on a similar darkened stair some years ago had taught him well. Tom kept one hand on the wall as he went up, the other on the butt of the Colt. The stairs, unlike the hinges, creaked like the jaws of hell, and he was sure it could be heard all through the building. As his head cleared the level of the landing, he saw a light slash out from under the single door, bathing the floor before it in a bloodred wash.

  “Somebody’s home,” Tom said to himself. He rapped on the door and listened. Heavy footfalls told him he had gotten someone’s attention. The door swung open fast, and the light from the room was blinding in contrast to the stairway. A huge silhouette filled the door.

  “What the fuck you want, Braddock?” a heavily accented German voice rumbled, sounding more like “Vat da fuck you vant, Braddock?”

  It took a second for Tom to connect the voice and that massive outline in the door. “Ole, what a pleasant surprise. Haven’t seen you in a dog’s age,” Tom’s tone put the lie to the words.

  “Not long enough, du sheis-esser. What you want? Why you come here?”

  “Came to see Finney on business. He in?” Braddock said flatly, ignoring the insult. He wasn’t here to get into it with Venkman.

  “What business?”

  Braddock wasn’t about to discuss his business with the giant Dutchman, but since he was filling the door so effectively, he said, “Well, Ole, that’s for me and Finney to discuss, but since you ask, Captain Coffin has a proposition for him and asked me to act as his emissary.” He looked speculatively at Ole, not sure if he had any idea what an emissary was.

  �
�What de fuck’s that? You got business mitt Finney for Coffin, that bastard?”

  “Just tell your boss I need to see him, Ole,” Tom said with finality.

  Ole Venkman stood silent for a long moment, blocking the door while his limited intellect worked overtime. With some reluctance, he stepped aside, saying, “Wait here.”

  Tom stepped into the room. It was well furnished, better than he would have expected. The ceiling was high, with broad moldings of cast plaster, and the walls were covered in a rich but tasteless damask wallpaper. A fire burned in a small marble fireplace. The chairs were of mahogany, in the high Victorian style, with expensive upholstery, that looked as if they came from a Fifth Avenue mansion’s drawing room. A brass and crystal chandelier, so massive it looked out of place, lit the room. Venkman closed the door and rumbled toward the back of the building. Two young swells sat in one corner of the room, smoking cigars. They hardly looked up at Tom, and seemed more intent on their heated yet hushed discussion. Tom guessed they were waiting for a game. It was early for the regular crowd, he knew. Places like these usually didn’t heat up for at least another hour or so. That was one of the reasons Tom had come when he did.

  Ole was an old acquaintance. Tom watched his back as he stumped away. The Dutchman had been arrested a number of times for various offenses, from gambling, to loan sharking and assault. His mental capacities were in inverse proportion to his size, which was considerable. Tom was a big man by most standards, but Ole seemed almost half again as large. He stood at least six four, and Tom knew he weighed two eighty the last time he was brought in. It looked like he had put on some weight since then. Because of his size, he mostly worked as a bouncer and bodyguard, but Tom had heard rumors of him taking on more deadly work. As he waited, Tom slipped his left hand into the brass knuckles he carried in his pants pocket. Ole became just a little smaller.

  Venkman rumbled back down the hall.

  “Come mit mir,” he said, almost spitting the words at Braddock. Tom followed Ole to the back of the building and up another flight of stairs to the third floor. The Dutchman pointed to a door without saying a word. Tom walked in, while Venkman loitered in the hall. Finney’s office was large and stylish. He sat before a big oak rolltop set against one wall, his back to the door. He didn’t look up as Tom came in.

  “So, what brings one o’ Coffin’s errand boys to me, I’m wonderin’?” Finney asked in a conversational tone.

  “Nice to meet you too, Finney. I’m Tom Braddock, and I’m here to do you a favor.”

  “A favor, is it? It’s not every day one o’ the Police Department’s finest walks in my door, lookin’ to do me favors. I’m all ears, Braddock.” Finney still hadn’t looked up at Tom.

  “I’ll get right to it then, Finney.”

  “Now you’re doin’ me a favor,” Finney interrupted. “Got no time to waste on this crap.”

  “Humph. No point mincing it too fine for you. Coffin’s willing to let you stay open and let you run your business undisturbed.”

  Finney finally turned to face Tom. He looked Tom up and down, an ill-concealed smirk on his thin lips. “Don’t need that prick’s permission to wipe me arse, let alone stay open. Who the fuck he thinks he is I don’t know.”

  Seeing that this was not starting off well, Tom tried a more diplomatic tack. “Listen, Finney, Coffin doesn’t want to shut you down. He wants you to make money. There’s profit enough here for everybody, and Coffin doesn’t want to get in the way of profits.” Finney seemed to consider this, so Tom went on. “There’s no need for any unpleasantness after all, and I’m not here to cause any. This is only business, and we all know how it’s done, don’t we?” Tom said in a reasonable tone.

  “Sure, I know how it’s done, Braddock. I’ve been shaken down by the best. But you know what bothers me is the gall of the man. Coffin knows damn well I’m already payin’ that bunch in the Fourth Precinct. He knows it, by God, but he still keeps sendin’ his lapdogs down here to bite out another piece o’ me hide. You’re the fourth, and I’m gettin’ real tired o’ your ugly faces poppin’ up an’ tellin’ me to do business.” Finney’s voice raised as he said this, getting up a head of steam as he went. Tom did his best to hide his surprise. He didn’t take to being called a lapdog, but that wasn’t what got his attention. It just wasn’t customary to be paying two precincts. Coffin should have worked it out with Coogan, in the Fourth, if he wanted a piece of Finney. There was no reason for him to be here, no reason except for Coffin’s greed. He couldn’t let Finney know that, though.

  “What’s gone on before or who you’re paying is no concern of mine Finney. I sympathize with your problems, but you are, after all, running an illegal enterprise here.” Tom didn’t want to show any cracks in the façade.

  “Oh, sure, I appreciate your sympathy, Braddock. I’m touched, really. But just what the fuck do you call what you’re doin’? Answer me that? So don’t be lecturin’ me about legalities. You and that bastard Coffin are worse than me by a mile. Fuckin’ cops’re just bag men and extortionists, you ask me.” He spat.

  “Nobody’s asking you, Finney. Fact is, we’re telling you.” Tom tried to maintain his calming tone. “There’s room to make money if you play ball. You’re a man of business. You know the risks, the costs of running a gaming parlor like you have here. It’s a nice establishment, and Coffin wants you to keep it nice. You just have to be reasonable and play by the rules.”

  “Yeah, Coffin’s rules. I already paid, like I said. You don’t believe me, ask Coogan. I ain’t payin’ twice. I can’t do it, an’ I won’t do it. It ain’t right, an’ you know it.”

  Tom was getting tired of this. He was getting nowhere, and now that he knew the score he’d lost whatever taste he had for this “little favor” of Coffin’s.

  “Finney, don’t presume to be telling me what I know,” Braddock said, pointing a finger at the wiry Irishman. “I’m telling you, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of Captain Coffin. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. What you’re doing isn’t good business, and I’m warning you, the next visit you get will not be this civilized. Don’t buck Coffin. I’m telling you for your own good, it isn’t healthy.” That actually was good advice.

  “You fuckin’ son of a bitch! You come in here an’ shake me down, you fuckin’ arrogant shit, an’ then you threaten me?” Finney said, bouncing to his feet, his face getting red.

  “Look, I—” Tom started.

  “No, you look. You want an answer fer your master Coffin? Well, I’ll give you one. Get this. Nobody fucks wi’ Finney.” Tom saw Finney’s eyes flicker to his left, and he cursed himself for an arrogant fool. Like a rookie, he had left his back to the door. Those kinds of mistakes could end badly. Tom turned and ducked at the same time he pulled his brass-knuckled fist out of his pocket. Venkman’s immense bulk loomed past his shoulder. How the giant had positioned himself there without his noticing, Tom would never know. Of more concern at the moment was the baseball bat whistling toward his head. Tom knew there was no way it was going to miss, so he did his best to limit the impact by twisting his head and stepping into the blow. If he could survive, he thought, then he’d see what could be done.

  The bat glanced off Tom’s brass knuckles, knocking them back into his forehead an instant before the bat exploded off his skull. He was staggered by the blow but amazed to find himself still on his feet. More amazing still was how little it hurt. The shock was too great to let the pain in just yet. He knew the bat must have done some damage, because things seemed so slow and fuzzy now. Venkman’s follow-through sent the bat crashing into a picture hanging on the wall. The frame and glass bursting like Fourth of July fireworks. Tom was off balance, but he lashed out with his left foot at Ole’s knee. He hit him a pretty good lick, but Venkman’s legs were like trees, and all it did was drive him back a step with a grunt of pain. Venkman swung again, but this time it was he who was off balance. Tom stepped in and caught Ole’s fists on his shoulder. The shoulder lit up
in a bright circle of pain, and the force of it knocked him sideways. He heard a dull crack and saw Ole grit his teeth. Tom hoped he broke something important.

  With a quick left, Tom clipped the big Dutchman’s jaw, the brass knuckles opening a small gash. Venkman tried to step back and get some swinging room, but he bounced off the door jamb and managed a weak off-balance swing that accomplished nothing. It was time to put the Dutchman down before he got himself together. With a quick hard snap-kick, Tom connected with Venkman’s groin. A gasping moan flew from the big O that was Ole’s mouth. Tom expected him to crumple, but he just gritted his teeth, turning first white then red, and he stayed on his feet. Tom waded in with a right to the gut and a left to the side of Ole’s jaw. The brass made a sickening crunch, and a spray of red flew in a flock of polka dots. Ole howled but managed a strong backhanded blow with the butt of the bat to Tom’s temple. Tom’s vision shrank down to a tunnel of twinkling lights, and he fought for consciousness, his brain flailing. Almost blind, he swung hard and wild, not sure of what he was hitting. The Dutchman backed into the hall, spitting red froth and covering up. Tom was breathing hard, but his vision was clearing. He knew he couldn’t give the Dutchman a break. The bastard had already taken enough punishment to bring down two men, but there he was braced on those tree trunks. Tom was about to charge in again when he heard the unmistakable metallic click of a pistol behind his head.

  “That’s it for you, Braddock.”

  Tom ducked and spun, knocking Finney’s pistol aside. As he came around, though, Tom wrapped his arm about Finney’s. He either had to control the gun or get it out of Finney’s grasp; anything else was death. The pistol was hard against Tom’s side, smothered in his jacket, and Finney was wrenching hard to pull it away. They struggled in a staggering stiff-legged dance. Finney struck again and again at Tom’s face and side. Tom just grinned at the wiry Irishman and wrapped his other arm under Finney’s. Pushing up from the balls of his feet, throwing his legs and his back into it, he pulled up on that arm. Finney screamed, his arm tore and cracked, the pistol barked. The report startled Tom so much, he almost let go. He couldn’t tell if he was shot or not. His side felt numb, but as long as he was on his feet, he was determined to hold on. Another wrench on Finney’s arm, though, and the pistol clattered to the floor.