Suspension Page 28

  Chapter Thirteen

  Let us cross over the river, and rest under

  the shade of the trees.

  —STONEWALL JACKSON

  The orange ball of the sun had just been extinguished below the sooty horizon. The west still glowed red, framing the skyline of Manhattan, and setting the treetops of the Palisades on fire. The last of the sunset was reflected in the mirror surface of the reservoir. Like an immense pool of blood, the crimson bled slowly into the west as the night approached, surrendering the city to the deepening gloom. Hard leather soles crunched on the gravel of the walkway, seeming to echo across the water. The crowds were thinner now. It was a good place to meet. They couldn’t be seen meeting too often at Coffin’s office, after all, nor at their town houses either. Suspicions could be raised.

  “He came to see me yesterday—late, about six o’clock,” Coogan said with a sly grin. He stuck his hands in his pockets against the evening chill.

  “And?”

  “Sent word I couldn’t see him. Too busy … make an appointment.” They both smiled at that.

  “Good. Keep him guessing. Who’s next on the list?” Coffin asked, enjoying their little conspiracy.

  Coogan squinted at the sheet of paper on his desk. “Those places down on Pearl, near Beekman.”

  “Yeah,” Coffin said with apparent relish. “I’ll make arrangements in the morning. He’ll really start feeling the pinch.” Coffin actually rubbed his hands together, delighted at the prospect.

  Coogan was not quite as sanguine. “We’ll see if he squeals, but it might be Byrnes he goes yelling to. You ready for that?”

  “That’s all right,” Coffin said, kicking gravel into the water just to watch the splash. “I’ll see there’s no interference.”

  Byrnes wouldn’t be all that easy to keep out of the picture, especially not where Braddock was concerned. Still, Coffin was hopeful.

  “Really?” Coogan was impressed. Byrnes was not an easy man to manipulate.

  “Byrnes and I have an understanding. We go way back,” Coffin said evenly.

  “Oh … one odd thing I forgot to mention,” Coogan said. “After Tom left, my desk sergeant sticks his head in the office. He says to me, did I get a whiff of Braddock? So I says I didn’t see him, ’cause of being too busy, and he says Braddock looked like he’d been rolling in a sewer. Smelled to high heaven.”

  “Interesting,” Coffin observed. “What has our prodigal son been getting himself into, I wonder?”

  “Jum-bo the el-e-phant! Hey, Mouse, did you see this?” Mike asked, pointing to the fantastic, colorful poster pasted to a wall.

  “Yeah, they’re all over,” said Mouse, feeling superior for knowing before Mike. “A man come down the block yesterday, pastin’ em up. Where you been?”

  “Smokes,” Mike said, turning to the eldest of the gang. “You can read real good. What does the rest of it say?” Mike knew better than to ask Mouse. Mouse couldn’t read any better than he could even though Mouse was nearly a year older.

  “Says he’s a packy-derm, whatever that is. But this Jumbo is the biggest packy-thing in the whole world, at least accordin’ to this. Says he’s appearin’ ex-clu-sive-ly at the P.T. Bar-num circus.”

  “Where’s that, Smokes?” Mike asked. The picture of the huge elephant had captured his imagination.

  “Uh, let’s see. A place called Mad-is-on Square Gar-den.” Smokes read, sounding skeptical.

  “A garden? What they want to let this packy-derm run around in a garden for?” asked Mike, shaking his head.

  “It’s an elephant! I don’t know what a packy-derm is, but that’s a picture of an elephant, like from darkest Africa.” Mouse always had to get his two cents in.

  “Well, it could be an elephant and a packy-derm too … maybe. Could be that’s what they call it in African, you know, like the Jewish people on Hester and Delancey. They got different words for everything and letters too.” Smokes and Mouse seemed impressed with Mike’s reasoning. “Could be that’s what they call an elephant where this Jumbo comes from.”

  “Still, don’t see why it’s gonna be in a garden,” Mouse said. “Don’t make sense. I ain’t payin’ money to see no elephant in a garden.”

  “You don’t have no money anyways, Mouse,” Smokes pointed out, which was quite true. None of them had any money.

  “Well, I wouldn’t pay it if I did,” Mouse said indignantly, at least as indignantly as he could muster. “What do they want to see this elephant?”

  “Uh … looks like fifty dollars,” said Smokes, giving a low incredulous whistle.

  “Fifty dollars! You could buy the whole elephant for fifty dollars. You sure?”

  Smokes looked again, shifting the cigarette he always hung on his left ear into his mouth. He didn’t light it though, he never did. “Maybe that’s fifty cents. I always get confused. The cents sign is the one looks like a C with a line through it, right?” he asked, knowing his mistake. “Well, then, it’s fifty cents.”

  Mouse whistled. “That’s a lot of money to see a packy-thing in somebody’s garden.”

  “Yeah, but they got other stuff too,” Smokes said, trying to read the rest of the poster. “Death de-fy-ing tra-tra-peeze ar-tists from you-rope, clowns, dancing bears, all sorts of stuff.”

  Mike’s face glowed a little brighter with each act Smokes read off.

  “Dancing bears?” Mouse and Mike chorused.

  “That’s what it says. See, right here.” Smokes pointed at the place where there was a picture of three bears. “Dan-cing bears,” he read again with more certainty this time.

  “Wow!” was all Mike could say. “Smokes … what’s you-rope?” he finally asked with a frown. He’d heard it somewhere before but couldn’t place it.

  “That’s a city, I guess. I think it’s far away … real important too. Any time a sign wants to say somethin’s important, they say it’s from you-rope,” Smokes said knowingly.

  The three of them stood examining the poster with its huge rendering of Jumbo, the world’s largest elephant.

  “Do you think it’s really that big, Mouse?” Mike wondered out loud. “I mean, look at them horses in the picture. Look like mice next to that Jumbo.”

  Mouse and Smokes squinted appraising eyes at the poster.

  “Naw. Nothin’s that big,” said Mouse. He waved a dismissive hand. “No way!”

  Mike studied the picture still. “I wonder how much it eats. A packy-derm that big must eat whole big wagon-loads of stuff. What do packy-derms eat anyway?”

  Smokes shrugged. “Shit, I don’ know. Most anything it wants, I’d guess,” he said, laughing.

  “Shit!” Mouse giggled, doubling over at the thought. “I bet he shits a ton. Now, that I would pay to see. Bet he shits houses!” They all laughed hysterically, doubled over and red-faced. Smokes’s cigarette fell out of his mouth.

  “Shits houses.” Smokes chuckled, after they’d laughed themselves out. “It probably eats straw and mud and shits bricks.” That broke them up again.

  “Say, how we gonna get the money?” Mike asked. “I sure would like to see the circus. I never seen one.” The notion of giant packy-derms, dancing bears, and who-knows-what kind of other amazing attractions had got him going like nothing ever had before.

  “Me neither,” Mouse and Smokes admitted. They glanced around as if money could be picked up off the street if they only looked. They didn’t see any.

  “Gotta be a way ta get that money,” Smokes said with a stronger-than-usual resolve.

  “We could lift some fruit an’ sell it ourselves,” Mouse said, as if this were a new idea.

  “What if we got caught? Ain’t gonna see no packy-derms in the jail, Mouse,” Mike warned.

  “I’ll take my chances. I been in the jail over on Essex Street. It ain’t so scary.” Mouse was trying to sound tough, like the older boys in the neighborhood, but Mike knew he wasn’t.

  “We … could get jobs,” Mike said tentatively. “We could sweep out s
tores and such. Old man Brower let me do that a couple of times for hard candy. Maybe he’d pay me.”

  Smokes looked at him as if he was seeing packy-derms and dancing bears di-rect from you-rope. “You crazy? I ain’t doin’ that. Besides, who’d hire me and Mouse? Nobody’s hirin’ the likes of us. May’s well steal fruit.”

  Mike and Mouse slumped. Unless they were willing to work in a place like the furniture factory on Broome, for ten or twelve hours a day, there weren’t many prospects.

  Mike’s head came up, a bright grin on his face. “We could steal coal. There’s that big coal yard up on Rivington. Everybody needs coal,” he said. They had never tried that before because the coal yard was in another gang’s territory.

  “I think I’d like stealin’ fruit better. Don’t get dirty stealing fruit. Coal’s heavy.” Mouse didn’t like anything that sounded like work.

  “Yeah, but we can steal coal by the bucket,” Mike said, using his best persuasive tone. “Fruit we can only get maybe one or two at a time.”

  Lights went on in Mouse’s and Smokes’s eyes.

  “Your grandma got a bucket?” Smokes asked Mike.

  “I got one,” Mouse piped up.

  “My grandma’s got one,” Mike said, confident he could get his grandma to part with it for a while. “I can get it.”

  “I wonder how much we can get for a bucket of coal? Whadya think … maybe ten, twenty cents?” Smokes speculated. “Could be. We gotta see. Won’t take long ta get to the circus that way.” Visions of giant packy-derms thundered in their heads.

  Captain Sangree woke early. He hadn’t had the dream during the night. He counted that as a blessing. His dread of it often kept his eyes open long after his head pressed his pillow. It was always real, no matter how many times it came. It was only lately that he’d been able to control the dream at all. He could still not alter his brother’s death, nothing could change that, but sometimes at the end, when he was firing at Roebling, he thought he had hit him. He couldn’t be sure. It gave Thaddeus a hope he never thought he’d have, but it still couldn’t change history. Franklin’s voice still came to him, the voice of a boy hurt beyond all healing. At times it would stay with him for hours after he’d woken. Often he’d have to rise when the dream jolted him off his pillow, his brother’s blood covering his arms to the elbow. Half awake, he’d scrub his hands on the sheets, but it would linger, cool and sticky between his fingers. The only way to reclaim his sleep was to wash it away, wash the blood only he could see. Thaddeus was grateful it wasn’t the dream that kept him up.

  It was Watkins he was worried about. He hadn’t reported in yesterday evening. After seeing Watkins outside the Bucklin tenement yesterday afternoon, he wasn’t sure what to think. Although his first reaction was to think that he was planning to kill Braddock himself, he was starting to think differently now. After so many years of trusting Watkins the possibility of betrayal hadn’t crossed his mind. But it had done so now. Thaddeus was worried. After Jacobs’s news that the ambush had failed, it was imperative that he find Watkins before Braddock did. He had underestimated Braddock—that was obvious. How he had escaped unharmed was a mystery. Four of those Plug Uglies should have been more than enough, even with a backup man, as Bart said he had. He’d had to dress down Jacobs for going to observe, when he’d been told not to, but he was grateful for the information. Perhaps he should have let Earl or Bart hunt him. It was too late for that now, though. Braddock had seen their faces, had talked with them. For them to stalk him now would be nearly impossible. Better to throw him off the trail somehow, give him a different scent or perhaps no scent at all. The captain thought of Watkins again as he lay staring at the ceiling. One by one he counted his options: the frontal assault, the flank attack, the feint and maneuver, the strategic retreat. He calculated outcomes, based on what he knew of his men and his adversary. He examined the terrain, seeking the high ground. He weighed each man, his strengths, weaknesses, and value to the mission. All of this kept him staring at the ceiling for hours in the blackness of his monkish room. In the end, he decided.

  It was a heavy decision, one he didn’t like to make. But the decision was his. He had lost men before to gain an objective. His memory couldn’t hold the names of all those he had sacrificed one way or another. If he had done it during the war without hesitation, how could he hesitate now? The men whose lives were traded for uncertain goals in those years called out for it. Could this sacrifice be any greater than theirs? Thaddeus thought not. It was a decision best made alone, though. The men would understand and accept it once it was done. The captain took that as a matter of faith. They were soldiers, after all. They would understand.

  As he thought this through he recalled an ode by Whitman, written for the death of the tyrant, Lincoln. Though he hated the tyrant, he admired the poet. As they sometimes would, parts of poems came to him, seemingly of their own accord, bringing light to his darkness. But the lines that shone brightest in his brain brought no light or comfort:

  Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,

  And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,

  And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,

  I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not,

  Down to the shores of the water

  Tom hadn’t been surprised when Coogan wouldn’t see him. The captain of the Fourth was playing hardball, as he’d expected. Coffin was probably behind the assault on his payoffs. Coogan wouldn’t be so bold without Coffin’s backing. It would be Coffin he’d have to see if he was to make any progress. He worried about Byrnes’s reaction, though, if any more of his boys found their way into the rogues’ gallery. On the other hand, maybe that might not be a bad thing. Byrnes could be very persuasive, and having the chief of detectives as a mediator could have its advantages.

  As he dressed in the hopeful light of morning, Tom imagined he’d have no more trouble with Coffin and Coogan if Byrnes got involved. In fact, he thought it might be best to go to the chief and report that Coogan had been uncooperative. Even if no more of Tom’s boys found themselves in a lineup, he’d be on record as playing by the rules. That would put the onus on Coffin and Coogan. At least that’s what he’d imagined, but later that morning, after roll call and briefing, Tom found himself trading stares with another one of his own in the lineup. This time there was a significant difference. This time Byrnes didn’t say a word. He didn’t even look at Tom. The chief just went through the names and offenses as routinely as if it were a grocery list. Either he didn’t know that one of the rogues was Tom’s, or Byrnes had been taken out of the game. Tom didn’t like to think it was the latter. Tom was one of Byrnes’s men. He was due a certain amount of backup. If Byrnes was cutting him loose, things could get much worse than he’d imagined.

  After the usual morning paperwork, Tom set out for the Tombs. With luck he might be able to get the two Coogan had brought in yesterday a reprieve. It all depended on which judge they were to go before. Bribing judges was something Tom didn’t care to do. It wasn’t because of the ethics or morality of the thing. Judges could be as pliant as anyone else if the right lubrication was applied. But it was the danger. Judges being political animals, you could never be certain that one wouldn’t turn on you. If one of them got his balls in a wringer, he might find it expedient to give up a detective. For that reason Tom was not a regular contributor to judicial reelection funds, though he had on occasion done what was necessary. He was in luck this morning. After checking with the clerk, who was the real power in the place, he found that one of the more cooperative judges was sitting today. Tom got himself a quick audience with the man, and not more than ten minutes later, his problems were over. He hated spending the money, but the wheels of justice did have to be greased from time to time—the cost of doing business. The trouble was the cost kept rising. He’d have to deal with Coffin and Coogan too, but the bridge came first. Not wanting to go back to
Gotham Court for a couple days, Tom figured his next best bet was to check on Watkins’s known hangouts and his last address before the Cherry Street move. He didn’t have any better ideas at the moment, so he headed for the bridge.

  On the way he weighed what was going on with Coffin and Coogan. Coffin’s fear of letting him go his own way was the problem. It was Coffin’s ego, Tom figured. The man did not take well to challenges to his authority or judgment. Coffin needed to be in control. With Tom broken away from the corps, his control was weakened, his authority in doubt. Coffin had to be worried about the rest. Tom’s leaving could be the snowflake that starts an avalanche. Next thing August might be just another precinct captain—no fancy house, no fancy rig for Sunday gallops up First Avenue. Without the corps, his power and income would be crippled. If the rest of the men saw that Tom could just walk away, what would hold them? He doubted that Coffin commanded any real loyalty. He needed fear to keep the men in line. August liked to be feared. He worked hard at keeping his men off balance, apprehensive. He used his authority as a weapon, a club in the velvet cover of the hale fellow well met. His convivial, clubby sort of charm was a thin veil for a man who fed on fear and respect in generous helpings. The problem was that Braddock feared no man, and Coffin knew it.