Suspension Page 27

  A repulsive little man, Tom thought, though he couldn’t say precisely why.

  “Yes, here it is, 39 Cherry Street. A somewhat unsavory address. An appropriate domicile for an unsavory character, if I might be so bold,” Weasel said, smiling at Tom over the tops of his glasses.

  “Yeah. Listen … if you see Watkins, you are not to tell him I’ve been here. Got it? Don’t try to detain him yourself, he may be armed. Just send for me. Here’s my card.” Tom handed it over.

  “You may rely on me, Detective.” Jacobs squinted at the card for a second and placed it in his vest pocket. “I certainly have no intention of trying to stop a murderer, heavens no! I know my limitations. I’m afraid that a pencil is my weapon of choice, Detective. Not a man of violence, you see.”

  Braddock nodded, giving Jacobs a patronizing smile. Though the clerk didn’t look to be a “man of violence,” as he put it, there was still something about those eyes. Braddock dismissed the thought and extended his hand to shake with the man. His hand gripped Tom’s like a bundle of steel wire. Tom was surprised at its strength.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Braddock.” An obsequious smile lifted Jacobs’s lip. His teeth were none too good, Tom noticed.

  The address Jacobs had given him was unsavory to say the least. In fact, it was one of the most notorious tenements in the city. Most called the place Gotham Court. Erected in 1850 as a model tenement, it soon became one of the worst examples of its kind. Two rows of back-to-back houses, five stories high, 234 feet deep and 34 feet wide, formed number 37-39 Cherry Street. Narrow alleys running the length of the buildings served as entryways. Somewhere near 500 people lived in those buildings, with no running water, no lighting, little ventilation, no toilets, no sewers, and only occasional garbage disposal. The infant mortality rate was one of the highest in the city. Cops made a point of not going there alone. Doing so could be very unhealthy.

  Though he hated the loss of time, Tom made a detour once he was off the bridge. He hadn’t even stopped to talk to Matt and Earl, wanting to make up for his earlier dawdle. He headed for the Second Precinct. Even though he knew that Cherry Street was out of their territory, he didn’t want to go to the Fourth for backup. That was Coogan’s precinct, and there was no one there he trusted enough for that. It didn’t take long to find Sam. The desk sergeant told Tom he was making his rounds and gave Tom a good guess where he’d be. Tom could smell the chowder from half a block away, and sure enough, when he went in the door to Chowder’s place, Sam was at a small table facing the door. He saw Tom come in, in midslurp.

  “Hey, Sam, how’s it goin’?” Tom said, flopping into a creaking chair.

  “Mmph. Hot chowder. Join me?”

  Tom checked his pocket watch. “Sure, I guess. Won’t have another chance to eat for a while.”

  “What’s up? You’re lookin’ better,” Sam said, eyeing him over his soup spoon.

  “Yeah, feeling okay. Listen, I’ve got to go up to Gotham Court. Need some backup.”

  Sam looked up, interested. “Who’re you after?”

  “Man I think killed Bucklin.”

  Sam’s spoon stopped midway between bowl and lip.

  “Really? Wouldn’t mind taggin’ along.” He sighed. “Got some horseshit to take care of, though. Captain’s on top o’ me. Reports and all. You know how it is.”

  Tom shrugged. “What about Jaffey?”

  Sam laughed. “Not enough you takin’ a shot at him? Now you’ve got to give him some action too?”

  “Something like that,” Tom said sheepishly. “You heard about our little misunderstanding. He takes getting shot at better than most. Besides, it was you told me he was all right, as I recall.”

  “Reckon he might do,” Sam said, appearing to think about it. “Sure, take him along. Be good experience for the kid. We’ll go find him after lunch. He’s on rounds.”

  After a steaming bowl of chowder, some bread and conversation, they set off to find Jaffey. Freight wagons were lined up at warehouses and wharves, huge draft horses stomped shaggy hooves on rounded cobbles, teamsters swore, and the constant clatter and clamor of commerce bubbled around them as they walked toward Jaffey’s beat.

  “So you got it settled with Coffin?” Sam asked offhandedly.

  Tom didn’t answer him directly. Instead he said, “Coogan brought in two of my boys yesterday. Saw ’em in the rogues’ gallery this morning.” He looked at Sam. “Caught Byrnes’s attention. Wants me to have a talk with Coogan … iron things out.”

  “And you think Coffin’s behind it,” Sam said. It was not a question. “Could be they’re getting carried away with this crackdown horseshit. Could be they’re puttin’ the squeeze to you. Knowing Coffin, I’d go with the squeeze.”

  “Told you it wasn’t over,” Tom said grimly. He thought of his handshake with Coffin.

  “I don’t recall disagreeing,” Sam said.

  They found Jaffey, who seemed eager to go with Tom if it meant something more interesting than directing traffic. Sam said he’d cover, so they set off uptown, catching the El at the Franklin Square station. It was only a couple of stops to where they were going, and in ten minutes they were within a couple blocks of Cherry Street.

  “Hold up a minute.” Tom raised a hand to make sure Jaffey was paying attention. “Around here, you’ve got to worry about your back. That’s where I want you … watching my back,” Tom said, signing with his thumb. “Not too close. Give me some room, say half a block or so. When we go in, close up. Got it? And keep an eye to your own back too.”

  Jaffey just nodded and Tom could see him swallow. He seemed nervous. Tom figured that wasn’t a bad thing.

  “Right. Stay alert. This neighborhood is hard even in the daytime. Watkins could be our man, and he might not be alone, so don’t give him an inch. Anybody tries to interfere, use the club and don’t back up.”

  Tom was about to start off again when he remembered one more thing. “Oh … and if a crowd forms, we get the hell out of Dodge. Riots can start quick, so don’t dawdle if it starts lookin’ ugly.”

  Jaffey was looking more serious, just what Tom wanted.

  Gotham Court was a dismal place. An airless, fetid alley, paved with uneven flagstones and slick with sewage, ran between the two buildings. Faded laundry hung from lines strung between, out of reach of anyone on the ground. The clothes hung limp in the dead air, dripping gray water. Filthy blank windows, like empty sockets in a death head, looked out on streets so thick with horse droppings it nearly covered the cobbles. The gutters ran black.

  “Stay here for a minute,” Tom said to Jaffey. “I want to check around back.”

  Jaffey leaned in a doorway as Tom crossed the street and disappeared down the alley. It was like diving into a sewer, and at first he held his breath for fear of sucking in the heavy air. When Tom finally took a breath, he didn’t want to hold it. He spat out each shallow lungful, afraid of what the air might carry. His head swam, feeling just slightly dizzy just from the stink of the place.

  The alley was long but seemed even longer. The light there was tentative, as if the stench of the place alone could dim the sun. Tom doubted if the flagstones ever dried. He passed people in the alley. Their vacant, glazed eyes did not meet his. They slumped and shuffled as if laboring under invisible bonds. Tom suppressed a shudder. As he neared the rear of the building, the garbage grew thicker, the human detritus more jumbled, the air heavier. In an instant, the alley was blocked. Three men seemed to materialize out of the shadows, the trash, and the filth of the place. They stood silent, broken-toothed grins splitting predatory faces. It was as if the atmosphere of the Gotham Court had taken flesh. The three leered at him. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed a black silhouette against the gray light at the end of the alley. He was cut off.

  They advanced slowly, sure in their advantage. Tom didn’t like the odds. He wondered where the hell Jaffey was.

  Tom tried diplomacy while he figured what to do. “Don’t want trouble, boys. It ain’t an
y of yours I’m after.” The three were obviously Plug Uglies, a particularly vicious Five Points gang identified by their headgear, usually a crumpled top hat, although one of these wore a bowler. Tom played for time, taking slow steps back. Appearing weak had its uses.

  “Don’t give me trouble and I won’t give you any. Here on official police business,” Tom said, showing his badge. “Got no quarrel with you boys.” Tom thought about the Colt, but they were sticking so close, he doubted he’d have time to get it out before they were on him. All three had cudgels and he had to assume knives too, at the least. He figured he’d rather risk a fight than a gun battle. Tom had skills these three would never know, and their numbers in this narrow space could work to his advantage. He flexed his bruised hand, wishing he had his brass knuckles.

  “Cain’t let ye go,” said the one with the bowler. “Cops’re dead men what comes down ’ere. Makes you a dead man.” The bowler-man stepped out just a little in front of the other two.

  Tom saw he had to act. Putting his hands up, he stepped toward them. Keep your eyes on the hands, he thought. He took on a more pleading tone.

  “Now, please, fellas, no need for this.”

  They grinned, more sure of themselves than ever.

  Close enough, he thought as he waved his hands meekly. Now! Tom’s right foot lashed out, catching the bowler-man high in the gut. It was a beautiful kick. Master Kwan would have been proud. Bowler-man was propelled back like a balloon with the air rushing out. His feet came off the ground, and he crashed into one of the others, bouncing him into the rough brick wall of the alley. The third swung his club almost straight down, as if he were chopping wood. Fortunately, Tom saw it coming. Braddock half stepped to one side, ducking forward, taking a glancing blow with his upraised left. The stitches in his side tore in a bright slash of pain. His right still came up with all the force of his legs and arm, catching the man under the chin. The heel of his hand drove up, snapping the open jaw shut, wrenching the head back. In morbid slow motion, Braddock saw a piece of tongue as it flew in a pink parabola past him. There was a tooth too, white and jagged. The force of the blow almost upended the man, and he landed with a flaccid crunch on the flagstones.

  The third Plug Ugly had recovered himself, and his swing was almost too quick to block. The club came at Tom in an arc, from his left. Braddock caught it as best he could, but it hit his stitches in a burst of pain that took his breath away. He held on, though, trapping the club with his left arm. Using his attacker’s momentum against him, he pivoted to his left, whirling the man about. With his right, he propelled the man past him. A foot caught on Tom’s outstretched leg, and the man flew headfirst into the bricks of Gotham Court with a sickening impact. Dizzy now and off balance, Tom slipped on the sewage-slick flagstones. He hit hard, cursing and gulping for the stinking, dizzying air. Feet pounded down the alley toward him—the backup man. Tom rolled to his knees as fast as he could, but the feet were almost on top of him. He wouldn’t make it. Fuck! his brain screamed. From behind he heard a thud and a grunt of pain. A tremendous impact knocked him flat, pinning him to the ground. Arms and legs flailed and kicked on top of him. Tom could hear the crack of a club on bone. He felt the impacts through the body. He was pinned, facedown. He couldn’t see who it was but he heard the pain in the man’s voice. He hoped it wasn’t Jaffey. Another cracking impact and the man was silent. Tom waited.

  “Braddock! You all right?”

  Tom felt the body being pulled off his back.

  “You took your sweet time getting here.” He grunted into the flagstones and heard a relieved exhale above him.

  “Thank God you’re all right.”

  “Suppose I am. Don’t think this suit’ll be the same, though,” Tom said as he got to his knees. “Christ, I smell like shit!”

  “I’m sorry, Detective,” Jaffey said, almost wringing his hands. “I came as soon as I saw that fella at the head of the alley move in.”

  Tom stood. The grin on his face stopped Jaffey in midexplanation. “Jesus, you’re bleeding!” Jaffey said, pointing at Tom’s side. His shirt was stained a blotchy red.

  “First off, call me Tom. Second, you did just fine.” He looked down at his side. “This does smart a bit though, I’ll admit.” He winced as he peered inside his shirt to get a look at the wound. “I’ll be okay,” he said without much conviction. He looked down at the motionless body that had been on top of him. He booted the man in the gut getting a low moan in response. “He’ll live.”

  Tom looked over at the bowler-man, who had rolled to his knees and was making a wheezing attempt to stand. Stepping over to him, Tom said, “Somebody put you up to this, or this all your idea?”

  The man turned a pained face up toward Braddock, gasping. “Bugger off, copper.”

  “Ah! Bugger off, is it?” Tom stepped back and kicked bowler-man’s buttocks so hard it lifted him off his knees, sending him rolling into a pile of garbage, where he lay still. “He’ll be shitting standing up for a while.” Tom grunted.

  “These two are none too good either,” Jaffey said. One lay sprawled on his back, a bloody froth bubbling from his mouth at each breath. The other lay slumped against the wall, one arm over his head. He looked young, not much more than sixteen, Braddock guessed, and very pale beneath the dirt.

  Noise and movement at the head of the alley caught their attention.

  “Oh, shit!” Tom spat, exasperation, fear, and resignation mixing in his voice. “Time’s up. We gotta go! Stick close, don’t stop, and don’t slow down. Just follow my lead.” Half a dozen men and women filled the head of the alley. From the look and sound of them, they were not happy to see the police.

  “Goddamn coppers come ’ere ta bust heads o’ decent folk,” someone said.

  “Fookin’ bastards carn’t leave us be.”

  “Oughta give ‘em some o’ their own medicine, I says,” a woman’s voice barked, rough and gravelly.

  “Stick close,” Tom said over his shoulder to Jaffey. He tried to focus. He was still dizzy, and blood was running slowly now in a warm stream into his pants and down his leg. Braddock gritted his teeth.

  “Get the fookin’ cops!” someone yelled.

  “Yeah, let’s get ’em!” came the chorus.

  As they neared the crowd, which was growing every second, Tom quickened his pace. So fast, Jaffey almost didn’t believe he’d seen it at first, Tom’s hand licked out at the first in the crowd. The man went down as if he were a bag of rags. Tom’s pace didn’t slow, nor did his hands or feet. With a terrible silence, he cut a path through the crowd, which suddenly seemed to melt before them. Jaffey looked at the men on the ground as he went by, almost as amazed as they were.

  “C’mon, Jaffey! No time to dawdle,” Braddock shouted over the noise of the crowd. “We’ll come back for Watkins another day.” Tom broke into a trot once they hit the street. He headed toward the Fourth, on Oak Street. Jaffey ran, looking over his shoulder for pursuit. All he saw was astonished, angry faces. Some followed, bellowing their frustration. None got too close.

  When Braddock and the patrolman came boiling out of the alley, Jacobs was waiting a few doors down the street. He lounged against the doorway to a particularly fetid grog shop. At the first hint of a fracas, drunks had started shambling out, bleary and stinking, blinking in the light for the source of the noise. Despite his amazement at seeing Braddock not only alive but laying people out like tenpins, Jacobs barely raised an eyebrow. He simply stared hard at Braddock’s disappearing back and swallowed his anger. This was business, he reminded himself. There would be other opportunities to skin this troublesome detective. Of more immediate concern was the fate of the four Plug Uglies. There wasn’t much he could do about Braddock, but they might be another matter. Quickly he crossed the street, hustling through the confused crowd, most of whom had gathered after the cops had gotten away. There was much cursing of cops, shouting, shoving, and not a few calls for a march on the nearest station house, which few seemed inclined to
heed. Small knots of people concentrated around three men who were still down, and there were calls for water and shouts to stand back so the fallen could breathe. Jacobs slipped through the confusion easily, his fist wrapped tightly on the hilt of the elegant stiletto in his pocket. He turned the corner into the alley, walking fast, knowing there would not be much time to do what he hoped he had to. His heels clicked on the greasy flagstones, blending with the echoes of the angry mob on the street. In the dim light of the alley he could see a slowly moving mass near the other end, black shapes groaning and writhing. The mass resolved itself into four prostrate forms as he drew near.

  He needed to be efficient about this, he knew. None of these carrion could be allowed to be caught and questioned. The cops could be back at any minute, and in the condition they were in they might say things without using what little brains they had. The stiletto slithered out of Bart’s pocket, a long, cold fang of softly glinting steel. He’d worked its planes patiently, sharpening and stropping in the sunless hours, caressing them to an edge that would shame a razor. He loved the weapon. It was such a wonderfully unambiguous tool, so efficient, so … beautiful.

  As he stepped closer, one man slowly rose to his hands and knees. Jacobs reached down, grabbing the unwashed hair, pulling the head back. The stiletto slid across the soft skin of the throat so quickly Jacobs almost couldn’t feel the tug of resistance as the flesh parted. He pushed the head from him before the arterial spurts could ruin his suit. He looked down dispassionately at the second, a pale boy who lay crumpled against the wall, his head at an odd angle and his breathing shallow. The knife flashed in a backhanded arc, ending what Braddock had begun. The third lay on his back, blood bubbling in his open mouth at each breath. Jacobs cut his throat as quickly as the last. He had to admit to a grudging admiration for Braddock as his blade parted the flesh. He had done quite well. They’d need to be more careful the next time. Jacobs turned to the last of them and was gladdened to see that the man had hauled himself up, propping himself against the wall. His eyes were wide in horror as all three bodies around him pumped blood in crimson fountains onto the slimy flagstones. Jacobs didn’t hesitate. He stepped close, ignoring the hands held up in fear and supplication. He swung as if swatting a fly, cutting through one palm, fascinated to note how the fingers flopped when the tendons were severed. The howl was cut short a moment later. Jacobs wiped his blade on the man’s vest while craning to watch the crowd out on the street. He stood then, turning to disappear out the other end of the alley. It had taken no more than thirty seconds. He smiled to a ratty-looking woman as he turned into the street, his hand going to tip his hat and cover his face. He was rather pleased with himself.