Suspension Page 29

  Matt saw Braddock coming first. He and Earl were on the New York approach again, finishing the curbing. Earl was mixing cement in a big steel trough. Matt troweled it into the gaps, setting the stones in place with the help of two other men. It was hard work.

  “Say, Earl, here he comes,” Matt said, looking up. The other two men were out of earshot, fetching another stone.

  “Yeah, I seen ’im. Relax, he ain’t after us.” Earl turned his back to the approaching detective and spit out the wad of tobacco he was chewing. He put a bucket of bricks over the splattered brown stain.

  “Morning, boys,” Tom said like flint on steel.

  “Hey,” Earl said. Matt just nodded.

  Tom stood for a moment, eyeing them both. “Still looking for your friend Watkins. Seen him this morning?” he finally asked.

  Earl stood, straightening his back with a grunt. Mixing cement was rough on the back. “Nope. We was wonderin’ where he got himself off to ourselves. Ain’t showed fer two days now.”

  Matt looked Braddock over. For a man who’d been attacked by four Plug Uglies, he didn’t show any signs of wear. Nobody could believe it when Jacobs had announced at last night’s meeting that Braddock had come away unhurt. Once when he had first come to the city back around ’69, Matt had wandered into the Five Points alone. He was rewarded with a sound beating by three of the most desperate, stinking savages he’d ever seen. Even at Andersonville, there’d been no worse. With empty pockets, he’d staggered out of the neighborhood, poorer and wiser. Matt figured Braddock for one tough bastard to best four thugs.

  “Any idea where he might be found, other than home, I mean? He drink in any particular bars, grog shops, dance halls, that sort of thing?” Tom held little illusion about these two being of much help, but it had to be asked.

  Matt and Earl exchanged a quick glance. “Aside from Paddy’s, don’t know anyplace he went regular. That right, Earl?”

  Earl didn’t even look up from his cement, which he had commenced hoeing again. “Yup” was all he said.

  “What about Watley’s and that girl, Clora Devine?” Braddock figured he’d throw in a little of what he knew, see if it raised a reaction. He didn’t get what he’d hoped for.

  “Well, you know … Watkins sorta went his own way, if you take my meanin’,” Earl said, as deadpan as the best poker player. “Didn’ see her but once with ’im. Cain’t say more’n that.” The two of them stood there doing their best blank-faced innocent stares.

  Braddock looked them over, not saying anything for a second, a half grin on his face. “How long you figure you’ve known Watkins?” he asked offhandedly.

  Earl scratched his chin. Matt ventured, “Since about ’61, I reckon.”

  Earl wagged a finger in agreement. “Yeah, that’s about it. He didn’t join up with the first of us.”

  “And you’ve stuck together for all these years. What is it, twenty-two years, right?” Tom looked from one to the other. “You expect me to believe you don’t know shit about him? What the fuck you take me for?” he almost shouted. Some of the other men turned to look. “I know you want to protect a friend. I respect that, I do. But I’m gonna get some answers from you boys.” Tom held a thick finger up under Earl’s nose. “And if I got to haul you in to do it, I will.” He looked from one to the other with a glare that could split rocks. “Now, we can have a nice friendly goddamn chat up here on the bridge, or I can throw you boys in a cell, maybe round up some rebel-hating blackies to bunk with you a few days. Am I getting through?” Braddock was tired of playing games.

  They were damn cool, he thought, looking into their eyes for a reaction. Neither Matt or Earl feared anything Braddock could do to them physically. But they did fear what he could do to their plans. They looked at each other, deciding they had held out just long enough. They didn’t want to make it look too easy, after all.

  About five minutes later, Braddock was on his way across the bridge to the office once again. Matt and Earl smirked as they watched his back. They had given Braddock enough dead-end leads and sleazy Bowery dance halls to stake out to keep him off their backs.

  “That dog’s gonna be chasin’ his tail for a while,” Earl said, chuckling, though he didn’t look amused.

  “Reckon so. Can’t help but wonder where in hell Watkins got himself off to. By rights he shoulda been at the meeting,” Matt said with a small frown. “Worked out for the best, though, him not showing up this morning.”

  “Got that right. Braddock’d have him in a cell by now. That boy’d wring Watkins like a pair of wet socks.” Earl shook his head. “Well … one thing about Watkins. He might be stupid but he was always lucky.”

  Thaddeus had set out early to find Watkins too. Knowing his habits in drink and women, Thad didn’t bother to go to his rooms. He waited opposite the Fulton Ferry Terminal in Brooklyn. Thaddeus was there with time to spare, so he ducked under the awning of Ethier’s Hotel. He sat for a while in the front parlor, drinking coffee and watching the street. As the traffic from the ferry grew with the day he finished his cup and walked to the corner opposite the terminal to wait by the Annex Cigar Factory. He stood with his coat folded over one arm, drinking in the smell of the leaf. It reminded him of the South.

  The Captain recognized Watkins’s slouching form before he picked out the face.

  “Watkins!” he called a bit too urgently. “I’m glad I found you. Where in God’s name have you been, man?”

  “You tol’ me to get lost, Cap’n,” Watkins said defensively, holding up innocent hands.

  “I didn’t tell you to get so lost nobody could find you,” Thaddeus said angrily. “Now listen, things have changed. You’d better come with me, I’ll explain.” The captain turned Watkins around, and they went back into the terminal. They stood in a corner, backs to the wall as he told Watkins the news.

  “So, Braddock’s on your trail now, that’s certain,” the captain said while watching the crowd. “If he catches up with you, he’ll have your ass in a cell.”

  Watkins look was appropriately concerned. “So what’re you sayin, I gotta skeedadle?” Watkins tried to keep the hopeful note out of his voice. This, he figured, might be his way out, but he couldn’t appear too anxious to take it, not in front of the captain.

  The captain just nodded. He seemed distracted. Watkins guessed it was just Braddock he was worried about.

  “I’ve booked passage on the Old Dominion line for Richmond tomorrow. It leaves at three P.M., pier twenty-six, North River.” Watkins looked at him, blank as a blackboard on a Monday morning. “Ya really mean it, don’t ya, Cap’n?” The surprise was clear in his voice. He was glad now he hadn’t turned traitor, though he’d come close. The captain was letting him off the hook, giving him a way out. He began to feel extra guilty for even considering going to Braddock.

  “It’s for the best, Private,” Thaddeus said, throwing in his rank to remind him of his duty. “You’ll be best off out of this city. Don’t want to tangle with that cop, do you?”

  “Hell, ah’d skin that bastard in two shakes, you let me.” Watkins bared his teeth with a low snarl. He meant it too. He’d nearly turned traitor to save his own skin, not for any love of Braddock. The Montauk docked, and they boarded with the rest of the crowd. Neither looked up at the bridge.

  The Montauk had just pulled in to the Brooklyn Ferry Terminal. Tom had noticed it as it left the terminal on the New York side. It had chugged by him as he crossed the span, its tall funnel belching black. It made good time, certainly faster than he could walk. The Montauk seemed to be nearly full despite the fact that the “rush hour” was long gone. By the time Tom reached the Brooklyn tower, the ferry had emptied. He stopped for a moment looking down at the crowd as they pushed on. With the terminal and docks right beside the bridge tower, on the downstream side, he was able to clearly see the press of carriages, people, and wagons.

  But as Tom stopped for that moment in an idle sort of way to see the ferry board its passengers, he saw a tall
lean form in the crowd. Thinking back on it later, it amazed him that he should have picked the man out among all those people. In fact, he really couldn’t account for it. But like an insect under a microscope, Watkins appeared to Tom with crystal clarity. Braddock turned instantly, running down the span toward the approach, his stitches, which had been repaired the night before, pulling sharply at the sudden movement. But he hadn’t gone more than three or four steps before he realized he’d never make it. It was nearly a quarter of a mile before he’d reach street level, then he’d have to double back to the terminal. He’d miss it for sure. But if he raced back to the New York side, he might have a chance. The Montauk was still two or three minutes from departure. That much lead time might be enough for him to catch it on the other side. So he turned and pounded back up the span, workers staring and pointing after him.

  In his haste to beat the Montauk, Tom had started much too fast. Though he was in good shape, he was no runner. Within two hundred yards he knew he’d have to slow his pace. He was sucking great gulps of air and his lungs felt like the bellows at the blacksmith’s shop in Kingston. The thought of Kingston settled him as he thought of the running he’d done as a boy, the ease of it, the long loping strides, the spring of his legs and the bottomless depth of his lungs. He was a boy no longer but he remembered what it was like. He ran on remembrance.

  The captain steered Watkins toward a bench in the back of the boat. The crowd always shoved forward when the ferry docked. Thaddeus counted on that.

  “Look on the bright side,” he said, giving Watkins’s arm a familiar squeeze. “You’ll be going home, while the rest of us have to live here.” He cast a hand about, waving at the city of the enemy. The ferry cast off and the side wheeler turned the river to foam as its captain gave it full throttle.

  Watkins looked glum. “Yeah, but you’re gonna get the glory when”—he glanced around at the passengers nearest them—“when the job’s done.”

  Thaddeus took a deep breath. “Private, I swear to you, you’ll be remembered for your sacrifice.” He had meant to say something like “work” or “contribution” but “sacrifice” came out all on its own.

  Watkins seemed pleased at that, though. After some minutes of silence, as he picked absently at his fingernails, he murmured, “Would be nice to see Richmond again. Last time I was there, it didn’ look so good. Bet it’s changed plenty since then.”

  Thaddeus nodded distractedly. “It has indeed. You’ll hardly recognize it.”

  “Wonder if there’s still them whorehouses down by the river? Ain’t been whorin’ with proper southern women in a dog’s age,” Watkins said wistfully. He was starting to look forward to this. A slow grin started to split his pocked face. “Reckon I might enjoy this trip some at that.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Thaddeus said, patting Watkins on the leg. He draped the arm with the coat over it on the back of their bench.

  Tom had passed midspan and was halfway to the New York tower when he heard the Montauk’s whistle. A glance over his shoulder showed him the smoking iron monster churning the river in its wake as it left the dock. Tom still had a ways to go to reach street level all the way back by Park Row. He’d have to head south and double back to the ferry terminal, which on the New York side was four blocks south of the bridge. He started to doubt whether he’d make it until he thought of the stairs. A temporary spiral staircase had been erected on the north face of the New York tower. If he could reach that, he’d cut the distance in half. The problem was that he was on the south roadway. Tom swerved to his right and ducked through the trusses that enclosed the train tracks. In three steps he was across the tracks, sliding through the diagonal trusses on the other side. Suddenly he looked down and froze. A gaping, dizzying emptiness yawned under him. He grabbed for one of the cables as if it were a lifeline as one foot slipped from a beam and dangled over the river.

  “Shit!” He was unable to pull his eyes from the gap below him.

  Unlike the promenade, which ran above his head, there was no flooring here, just steel beams and endless drops between. Tom hesitated, glued to the spot. He thought of clambering up the truswork and over the promenade. It might be safer, but it would cost time he didn’t have. Taking a shuddering breath, he set his foot firmly on the beam before him. He never had liked heights. The beam was about ten inches wide but seemed slender as a tightrope to him. The only thing he could think of was to do it fast and do it before he lost his nerve. Looking down made his head spin, so he focused on the other end of the beam and prayed this was not a huge mistake. His feet carried him across, shuffling and scraping little bits of debris off to fall to the river. With a trembling hand he grasped a suspending cable on the other side. It was only twelve feet, to the other side but it felt like twelve hundred. He slipped through the trusses on wobbly legs and headed for the spiral stairs. Tom hit them at a run, his hard shoes hammering on the echoing iron. He went as fast as he could, but after a few flights he had to slow. His head still hadn’t recovered fully from the concussion, and the constant spiral had started his head spinning. He gripped the thin handrail hard to keep from falling over. Twice his feet slipped, sending his heart up into his throat. He slowed some more. The thought of a fall terrified him, but as he neared the bottom he sped up again, surer of himself and anxious to make up time. Tom bounded down the last steps, trying to hit the ground running, but his spinning head betrayed him. It sent him crashing into the granite of the tower. He went to his knees, momentarily stunned, but staggered up again, holding on to the rough stone. Shaking the dizziness out of his head he started off at a shuffling pace, fighting the urge to spiral to his left. Soon he was able to break into an exhausted run. His shirt on the left side was speckled red again. Looking off to his left at the Montauk as it approached the dock downriver, he knew it was going to be close. It was about three hundred yards out but slowing. He’d have to be fast.

  The Montauk had cut its engines. The passengers started to press forward, leaving the two men almost alone in the back of the boat. Thaddeus knew the routine. The ferry would drift in at an alarming rate until the signal to reverse engines. A large bronze bell would sound and the engines would then be thrown into reverse. The bellowing of the steam engines and the thrashing of the side wheels as they churned the river was a thing to behold … and very loud. Thad put his arm, draped in his old overcoat, around the back of Watkins’s shoulders. He bent close, lowering his voice.

  “I’m going to miss you, Watkins.” For an instant he faltered, doubting his will, his right to do this thing. The big bronze bell suddenly clanged three times. Thad jumped as if a spark had been put to him. He settled, saying “Good-bye, Watkins,” almost tenderly, leaning close. The steam engines churned to life, their noise and fury sending a powerful shudder through the boat. They throbbed and bellowed; steam hissed. The gray waters churned a frothy green as the side wheels spun in reverse.

  Tom pounded down South Street, dodging horses, wagons, stevedores, and pedestrians. He was tired and the difficulty of running in traffic exhausted him. Two blocks to go and he heard the whistle of the ferry as it docked. Desperate, Tom poured on a final sprint, running hard for the terminal’s arched portal. A moment after he got there, winded, flushed, and sweating, the gate opened. Tom tried to catch his breath while he craned to see every passing face. Watkins was here, he knew, but it would be easy to lose him. Faces, forms, horses, wagons, and carriages blended, merged, and flowed. Tom loosened the Colt in his shoulder holster. Watkins was near. He could feel it.

  In a minute or less, the crowd started to thin. Tom slowly worked his way through the stragglers as they left the boat. As he neared the Montauk, just a handful were left. Watkins wasn’t one of them.

  “Son of a bitch!” Tom spat. He dashed onto the boat, running down one side, checking every bench, every corner, all the time scanning ahead and behind. He went out the back doors, crossed over the wide vehicle deck, and burst through the doors to the passenger area on the other side. H
e stopped short, panting. Watkins sat on the last bench, his legs stretched out comfortably before him, his hat down low over his face. Tom grinned like a hungry wolf. He held the Colt low but ready as he padded over to the sleeping man. Watkins’s head was slumped on his chest. One hand lay on his middle, the other hung loose at his side. Something about that hand bothered him. Watkins must be a heavy sleeper. Tom pointed the Colt at Watkins’s middle as he kicked a foot. It flopped loosely to one side. He booted the foot again. Watkins didn’t stir.

  “C’mon, Watkins. No good playing possum. You and me gonna have a little talk,” Tom said loudly. “Get up, man! I’m warning you. You do not want to make me mad!” Watkins still didn’t budge. Watching the hands for sudden movement, Tom crouched low. He peered under the brim of Watkins’s hat. The man’s features were as still and smooth as the surface of a pond before a summer rain. It was then Tom saw them, two small strands of red, one from the nose and one from the corner of the mouth creasing the chin with crimson. They ran down into the collar of Watkins’s shirt and spread out, merging into a widening red stain.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Safe for only 25 men at one time.

  Do not walk close together, nor run, jump, or trot.

  Break step!

  —WASHINGTON ROEBLING, Footbridge Warning Sign

  Stealing coal was a pretty good idea. Mike and Mouse and Smokes had managed to each get a bucket, and they marched off together like a junior fire brigade toward the coal yard in the back of the Talbott Manufacturing Company. At first they went to the front gate on Rivington to see if they could sneak in that way. They gave up the notion, though. Too many people went in and out of the place. And they stood a good chance of being seen by one of the other gangs. They might get away with it once, but they counted on having to make at least three trips to earn enough for the circus. Nosing around the borders of the coal yard, they found their way down a narrow alley behind the wooden fence that ran along one side. After a bit of searching, they found their spot, behind a pile of coal at least seven or eight feet high. With just a little effort, they pried up a loose board so one of them could slip through. They could get all they wanted without being seen. Smokes went through first. When he gave the signal, Mouse went through too. Mike handed in the buckets and stood guard. In no more than a minute, a blackened little hand poked through the fence with a brimming black bucket in its grip. Two minutes later, all three were lugging their buckets down the alley. A quick check at the street for any cops or coal yard workers and they were gone.