Suspension Page 20

  Matt Emmons and Jus Lincoln were walking together up South Street. It was getting late. They had just left their meeting and thought they’d get an ale before going home. The bridge loomed in front of them, just three blocks north.

  “Ah dunno, Jus. You think we’re on the right track with this plan?”

  “Hell, Matt, I dunno. ‘Sides, we still got some other angles we all need to talk over. Nobody said nothin’ yet about how we’re supposed to git out of the city.”

  “I heard the sergeant say we’d work that out later,” Matt said hopefully. “Not to worry; there won’t be anything undone.” He paused for a bit. “You ever notice how it looks at night, Jus?” Matt was looking up at the looming presence of the bridge.

  “What d’ya mean? Looks like a bridge I guess.” Justice shrugged. He had a feeling he knew what Matt was getting at. He’d come to admire the bridge himself over the years, perhaps more deeply than he’d admired anything before. It troubled him, though, and he’d been careful not to say what he felt to the others.

  “No, it’s kind of like it looks like something else in the dark,” Matt said, holding out his hands as if to frame it. “Like it changes with the light. As if it turns into a ghost ship or somethin’.”

  “Ghost ship! That’s a good one, Matthew.” Justice chuckled. “Where you come up with that?”

  Matt shrugged, a little abashed at letting that notion spill out. “Don’t know. Just thinkin’ is all.”

  The bridge towered over the ships, masts, and rigging of the waterfront. Little waves slapped unseen against hulls and docks in the moonlight. Rigging creaked, and a small chorus of squeaks and groans sang like wooden bullfrogs as hulls rubbed against pilings and bumpers. The moon was sliced by the masts and struck a shimmer off the arc of the bridge’s main cables, glimmering ghostly down the stays. The granite of the towers, solid as the mountains they came from, was gray and black—immovable. But the bridge did seem to move in the dark. It swung across the blue-black waves that the moon had brushed with silver. It scudded across the heavens, sailing the clouds as the stars wheeled overhead. Matt recalled seeing an eagle once, perched at the top of a tree, stately in its potential, ready to row the air with massive wings and leave the earth behind. The bridge seemed like that to him now. For a moment, they both stopped and looked at the thing they had helped create.

  “You know, sometimes I can’t believe I helped build it,” Matt whispered almost reverently. A breeze blew in off the harbor, carrying the smell of salt and fish and tar. A piano tinkled somewhere back in the city. “It’s been a long haul. Lotta water’s run with the tides since we started. Just look what we done.”

  “Gonna make one hell of a splash,” Jus said with a tone that Matt couldn’t really identify. Was there some regret in it?

  Matt Emmons glanced at his friend. The moon behind him made his face seem a black hole in the night. “Suppose it will.”

  “That’s gonna be a day to tell the grandkids about,” Lincoln said with a studied neutrality to his voice. “How we paid the Yankees back so’s they’ll never forget.”

  “Ain’t gonna be just the Yanks not forgetting, Justice,” Matt said with a touch of worry. “Gonna be the whole damn world. It’ll be in the papers in Europe inside of a couple days. Hell, I bet it’d be in Chinese papers inside a week.”

  “We’re gonna be famous, Matthew. The world’s gonna know who we are and what we did.” Lincoln sounded more pleased with the prospect than he really was.

  “That’s what scares me, Jus. No place to hide for the likes of us. They find out who we are, and we’ll be runnin’ our lives away. Ain’t gonna be any rest for us after this.”

  “Oh, I don’ know, Matt. Could still go down South America. Got some countries down there, so lost, you can’t find yourself.” Lincoln didn’t relish the thought. “Got some hellacious senoritas, boy … make you forget the day you was born.” He dug an elbow into Matt’s ribs. They both laughed but it was an uncertain, hollow laugh, from the mouth and not the heart.

  “Wouldn’t mind forgetting some,” Matt said. He thought for a moment, scratching his head. “You know, we need to say something when we do this, Jus.”

  “Say somethin’? What do ya mean?”

  “The world, the North.” Matt spread his arms wide. “You know, tell why.” Their motives were so well known to them, almost a religion, that the notion of explaining why they blew the bridge hadn’t even been considered. They had all just assumed that it would be as clear to the rest of the nation as it was to them, all except Matt.

  “You mean ya don’t think they’d know?” To Lincoln, who had lived with their motives all these years, it was crystal clear.

  “Justice … think about it. The war’s been gone for eighteen years, an’ Gettysburg was near twenty years ago. There’s lots of folks that never knew what we know. You think they teach in schools up here what a tyrant Lincoln was? You think they care that our rights were spat on by the federals? You think they teach how our rights to property and liberty was ground under heel? Hell no! You figure they teach their kids how they stole our slaves an’ turned ‘em against us, stole our property, burned our farms, killed our stock, and fired our crops?” Matt looked at his friend. He could see the understanding in his crooked face. “I don’t think so. No, they’ve been busy rewriting the past. The victors write the history, Jus, an’ we’re on the short end of that stick. We got to say somehow why we did it. They need to understand. Ain’t gonna do any good without the world knowing. Sure it’ll hurt Roebling, but it ain’t enough.”

  Lincoln and Emmons walked on in silence for a moment, Jus chewing over the idea as they walked. Finally he said, “You talk to any of the others about this, Matt? ’Cause I think maybe you should.”

  “I guess. Won’t nothin’ come out of it. All that work and risk, an’ everything, and the world will just think we’re crazy is all. And you know something? If I was them, that’s what I’d think too. I’ll bring it up at the next meeting, see what everybody thinks. You with me, Justice?”

  They had turned from South Street, up Peck Slip, but by word unspoken hadn’t gone toward Paddy’s. Instead they went right at Water and up the short block lined with small warehouses to the clapboard building at the next corner. The Dover Street Bar, as everyone called it, was near a hundred years old, and the building was showing its age. Years of settling had canted the windows this way and that, and the clapboards waved and buckled, their dark red paint flaking with the salt air. The ale and porter were good here, though, and the liquor wasn’t watered too much. It did a pretty brisk business. They were just about to go in the front door when Matt hesitated. From this angle, the bridge soared almost over their heads, and the towers stood tall in the river like dominoes in the darkness.

  “I’m gonna be a little sad when she goes, Jus.”

  “Know what ya mean. Ain’t gonna be another.”

  They stood at the corner, looking up. The noise from inside the bar suddenly washed over them as someone came out the door, releasing a welcoming blast of smoke, laughter, and stale hops. Justice looked over at Matt and with a grim grin said, “Hell, let’s go have a beer.”

  Mary ran a discreet but active business. Through the small hours of the morning, Tom would wake to the sounds of sex. Giggles, moans, grunts, and rhythmic noises filtered up from the rooms below on an hourly basis. Sleep was difficult. Tom had slept and dozed on and off for two days and pretty much had his fill of sleep anyway, but sleeping while hearing the things he did was next to impossible. His imagination was working overtime. Tom found himself trying to picture Mary’s girls and guess which one it was who made that little-girl squeal, or the quiet whimper, or the sultry moan. His thoughts turned to Mary and when he finally fell asleep at 4:00 A.M., it was she who slipped into his dreams, languid and yielding.

  When Tom woke, he couldn’t be quite sure where the dream ended and the reality began. His first sensation was the smell of Mary’s long black hair as it fanned out on th
e pillow beside him. The scent was faint but unmistakable. She always wore a scent that was part musk, part spice, part honeysuckle. Some smells register with the nose, but hers always seemed to run right down his middle, with little ripples north and south. He moved closer and breathed her in. In a way he thought he quite literally had, as if he had internalized some part of her, made it his. The notion intoxicated him, and he nuzzled her hair again as she slept. Mary must have felt him move, for she rolled in her sleep to face him. Tom studied her face in the morning light, his face just inches from hers. His eyes traced the lines of her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, and the curve of her lips. They lingered and caressed her with long slow sweeps, drinking in her form and scent, storing them in that part of his brain reserved for all things wondrous.

  She was not a beauty in the popular sense. Her skin was too dark, her cheekbones too prominent, her forehead a bit too sloping. But to him, she was the name of beauty. Mary had what could be called exotic looks that she inherited from her mother and father. She was mostly Irish but her mother was part Cherokee, and the races mixed in her in intriguing ways. She had her mother’s coloring, she had told him once: the midnight hair, the dark eyes, the skin that always looked tanned. But the Irish showed through in the waves in her hair and the shine of copper when the sun struck it just so. Her nose was a mixture of both as well. It ran almost straight and thin from her forehead, with just a bit of a bridge, and it had a hint of an upturned Irish tilt at the tip. The nostrils flared, in a very Indian way, reminding him of a Thoroughbred mare’s, although he never told her that. He wasn’t sure how she might take it, but to him it would have been a compliment. It was an altogether intriguing nose, and he had yet to see its like. Her face swooped down to a wide, full-lipped mouth, framed by delicate laugh lines. Her chin was from Ireland, with the hint of a dimple and a bit of a point. Altogether, she had a chiseled, elemental look that her bronze coloring only emphasized. Mostly Tom didn’t care for the idealized version of female perfection so popular then. To him there was much more of interest in imperfection. Mary was, for him, perfectly imperfect.

  Tom leaned closer and kissed her nose lightly as a butterfly. A little smile played on her mouth, but she didn’t wake. He got up to go to the bathroom. Mary had full baths installed on every floor when she bought the building. It was a necessary investment in the trade. The girls were all required to wash after each visit, something the cheaper establishments didn’t do. Even rarer, she required all gentlemen to wash beforehand too. The result was healthier girls, lower doctor bills, and a better class of clientele—altogether a sound arrangement. This was the first time Tom had tried to actually use the toilet, having contented himself with the chamber pot, because he felt too dizzy to do more than lean against the side of the bed. When he got up at first he had a strange rushing feeling, like the tide was draining out of his head. It left him feeling as he had when he smoked his first cigar, not too good. He made it across the room all right, but held his hand on the wall as he went down the hall to the bathroom. He wondered if this was what old age felt like: dizzy, tottering, having to hold the wall to keep from keeling over. If it was, he wanted none of it.

  Mary was still sleeping when he got back. He joined her, and they dreamed together. It was perhaps 11 o’clock when Tom woke to hear Coffin’s voice downstairs. A minute later Chelsea gave a quick rap on the door and came in.

  “Sorry to disturb you, miss, but Captain Coffin’s downstairs waiting to see Mr. Tom.”

  Mary shot Tom a questioning look. Tom just nodded.

  “Tell the captain that I’ll be down directly, Chelsea, and offer him some tea or coffee, will you?”

  When Chelsea left, Mary turned to Tom. “You really up to seeing him?”

  “Yeah, I think so. May as well get it over with.” Tom shrugged.

  “Do you want me to send for Sam?” Mary asked. She was afraid of Coffin, and rightly so.

  “No, no, won’t be necessary. It’s okay.” Tom knew he sounded more sure of the situation than he really was. But there was no need to send up distress signals just yet. Tom had been ready for this visit since last night, when he first learned Coffin had come looking for him. He’d be ready for the captain. Mary threw a robe on and went out with a last glance over her shoulder. As soon as the door was closed, Tom got out of bed. He did it a bit too quickly, though, and reeled his way over to the chair where his clothes sat. His holster hung over the back, the Colt nestled inside.

  Earl Lebeau sat in the offices of Sangree & Co., his feet up on a windowsill. He rocked back and looked out the window as he and the captain talked.

  “Waited till the three of them went out,” Earl said. “Stood across the street and watched ‘em go. The boy saw me, I think, ’cause he started cryin’.” Earl grinned. “Told ya he had a scare in him.”

  “You did fine, Earl. You found nothing, then?” Thaddeus asked.

  “Nothin’. They don’t got much, but what they got I searched.” Earl shrugged. “Nothin’ there to be found, Cap’n. I was real neat too. They ain’t likely to notice anything out of place. Put everything back just like I found it. I don’t think we have anything to worry about from them.”

  The captain put his feet up too, crossing them atop his desk. The Bucklin matter seemed to be resolving itself nicely. So long as that damned detective kept his nose out of it, things should settle down.

  “That’s good, Earl. You did just fine.” Thaddeus pulled out his pocket watch. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to work? Lunchtime’s near over.”

  Earl heaved a sigh. “Suppose so. Don’t want them to dock me.” He smiled grimly. “See you tonight, Cap’n.”

  Coffin hadn’t decided how to handle Tom until he started up the stairs. Mary had been civil with him, and maybe that had put him in a better frame of mind. Whatever it was, Coffin set his mind to it as he set his foot on the steps. After all, Tom was a likable sort and a valuable man. It would be a shame to lose him, and there might be repercussions if it were not done right. Tom had plenty of friends in the department. Perhaps it was just as well he hadn’t seen Tom yesterday. He was thinking more clearly now. Braddock was too valuable to lose just yet. Still, as he took the stairs, his hand stole into his coat pocket. The little .32 Smith & Wesson rested there, its ivory grips warmed against his middle. He flipped the safety off.

  “Tommy, good to see you’re doing better! You had us worried, sport.” Coffin had rushed in after a quick knock, sweeping across the room with his hand out, like Tom was a long-lost brother. They shook.

  “Good to see you too, August. Good to see anyone, for that matter,” Tom said, nearly choking on the greeting.

  “I can imagine. Listen, Tom, I had no idea that Finney would go after you like that. He was a wild one, I’ll admit, but to go and try to kill a detective … he must have been out of his goddamn mind. It was self-defense, wasn’t it?” he asked as if he didn’t know the answer.

  “What the fuck do you think, August?” Tom growled. “You see me killin’ fellas for sport?” August really could get under his skin, not that it took much right now. “Goddamn Dutchman tried to knock my head out of the park. Nearly did too. I didn’t shoot him, though. It was Finney did that. Gun went off when I tried to get it away.”

  “Sure, sure,” Coffin said solicitously. “He catch you with the bat?” He pointed to the bandage around Tom’s head.

  “Coupla times.”

  Coffin gave an inward smirk. At least Tom hadn’t had it all his way, and he did look poorly at that.

  “Jesus, Tom, what the hell made ’em go after you?” Coffin asked as if he had no idea in the world.

  “You should know, August.”

  Coffin did his best to look taken aback. “What do you mean? Finney wasn’t happy about payin’ up, but I never thought he’d do something like this.” August held his hands up in innocence. He was the master of the half-truth.

  Tom had to give it just a second of thought, and Coffin the benefit of the doubt, befor
e he said, “I know he was paying Coogan.” Tom tightened his grip on the Colt under the blanket.

  Coffin was amazing. It was no surprise he had come so far in the department. The bastard barely blinked an eye or missed a beat. “You mean to say you didn’t know? You know we discussed this, Tommy.” Coffin used his best serious voice. “I thought I made it clear what the arrangement was. It’s not like you to forget things.”

  “That’s because you never bothered to tell me. And you know, I can’t help but wonder why.” Sarcasm dripped from Tom’s words. The son of a bitch not only lied to him, now he was rearranging the truth right before his eyes.

  “Tom, you’ve had a bad head injury,” Coffin said soothingly. “Mary tells me that the doctor says you had a serious concussion. It does things to you. You’ll be all right soon, and maybe some of these details will start coming back. You really just need rest, you—”

  “Nothing wrong with my memory, August.” Tom had to interrupt him before it started sounding plausible even to him. Coffin had the gift, sure enough. “You sent me down there alone, to collect from a fucking lunatic and his goddamn executioner. What was it, August? Want to have them teach me a little lesson, ’cause I was late with a payment or two?” Coffin didn’t answer, so Tom went on. “Or maybe you figured I needed a dose of humility, just on general principles.”

  Coffin had slipped his hands into his pockets as Tom talked. The ivory grips of the Smith & Wesson felt smooth as an undertaker’s condolence. “Thomas, you’re upset—”

  “You’re damn right, I’m upset. It was too close to being me on a steel table in Bellevue, and that’s upsetting, very goddamn upsetting, August.” Tom was almost shouting now.

  “Tom, listen, there’s no way I ever meant for you to come to harm. We’re a team, remember? You’re one of my boys, and I take care of my boys, right? Hey … when you feel better we’ll have a nice long talk and see what can be done for you. Meanwhile I’ll put the whole Finney affair on the shelf. Close the case, and have my friends in the press keep it off the front pages. You’ll see, this’ll all blow over, and we can get on with things the way they were.” August stopped for a moment before he went off on another tack. “There’s plenty of money to be made. I know you like the sound of that. Get yourself a new place in a little while, farther uptown, closer to Mary. Not a bad thing. Let’s not let this unfortunate incident ruin our chances.”