Suspension Read online

  At first they tried selling on the street. They sat on a stoop, the three of them taking turns yelling, “Coal for sale!” That didn’t work as well as they had hoped. Most people didn’t carry buckets around with them, and they couldn’t sell theirs. This was something they hadn’t counted on. After only two sales of a few lumps, Smokes was getting restless. “We gotta do somethin’ different. Gonna take a year like this.”

  They kicked around their problem for a while. Mike suggested they sell it door to door. The lack of something to carry the coal was what was holding them back, he reasoned, so why not bring the coal to the customer, just like the iceman brought his ice?

  “I don’t know. Sounds like a lot of work, draggin’ buckets upstairs, and all,” said Smokes.

  “Well, I’ll try anything,” Mouse said. “Two more minutes of this shit an’ I’m done with the whole thing.”

  The idea worked like a charm. It didn’t take more than fifteen minutes in just one building and their buckets were empty.

  “Wow, that was great!” Smokes exclaimed. “We even got a little more than we figured.”

  Mouse was suddenly enthusiastic too. “Ya wanna go back fer some more, fellas?”

  Smokes was more in favor of savoring their riches first. “I say we go to Browers an’ get some candy. Who’s wit’ me?”

  Mike liked the sound of that. “We could get some of them long hard, twisty candies. I love those.” So they walked to Browers, arguing which was better, licorice, hard candy, toffees, or chocolate. It ended up two to one for hard candy. Later, sitting on the curb in front of the store, they licked the last of their treats from coal-blackened fingers.

  “Yeuch! That last little bit tasted like coal,” Mike said, his mouth twisted up in disgust.

  “Yeah, mine too, but most of it was … real good,” Mouse said in between licking his fingers. “So, what do we do now? Go back for more?”

  The second trip went much as the first. By the end of the second load, they were black to the elbows. Sweaty black streaks and smudges painted their faces, anthracite Indians in black war paint. But they had money in their pockets and a new found ambition, so they went back again.

  Perhaps success made them careless. Maybe they were unlucky. Whichever it was, the third coal run didn’t go quite as smoothly. They had loaded their buckets as they had before. Nobody saw them slipping in or out of the fence. A day at the circus, with all the excitement of dancing bears, giant packy-derms, clowns, and lion tamers was just in sight. But as they rounded the corner of the alley onto Rivington Street, a big blue arm reached out and grabbed Mike. Mike jumped, dropping his bucket, the coal spilling at his feet. Mouse and Smokes, just behind him, were brought up short. Mouse stopped so quick, Smokes bounced off him.

  “So, it’s stealing coal you are, eh?” It sounded like Harlan the cop.

  Mouse and Smokes started to back up as the big blue arm grabbed Mike by the scruff of the neck and yanked him from view. Mike’s bucket lay on its side, the coal fanning out, black as their luck. Smokes’s bucket knocked against the fence, sounding loud as a cannon in the narrow alley.

  “Who’s down there? Come outta there, whoever you be. Don’t make me come in after ye.”

  They turned and ran as fast as their buckets would allow. Coal sprayed this way and that like big black hail.

  “Run if you like, boys. Your friend ’ere is gonna tell me all I need to know,” the cop called confidently.

  They kept running, tossing the buckets aside for greater speed. Mouse thought he heard Mike cry out. It had a hurt sound to it—at least from down the alley and around a corner.

  The raised voice of the cop followed them:

  “I’ll be comin’ for you, boys. Ya can’t hide from Harlan.”

  The boys from the coroner’s office were just about to put Watkins on a stretcher. It had been nearly two hours since Braddock found him, and the captain of the Montauk was in a sour mood for having been held up for so long. The dumpy little man with a rumpled captain’s hat and faded gold braid on his sleeve paced the deck mumbling about schedules and dithering cops. Tom and Sam paid him little mind. A couple hours of fruitless investigation had left them in no better mood. The body had been picked clean. If Tom hadn’t already known who Watkins was, he’d have had a tough time finding out.

  “Someone’s going to great lengths to cover his tracks,” Tom said with a wry scowl. “Every time I turn around there’s another dead end.”

  He looked toward the other end of the boat and saw Coffin heading their way.

  “Well, well, Detective Braddock. I should have guessed. Seems that your friend here, Sam, is the police equivalent of a week of rain.”

  Sam gave Coffin a perplexed frown. “Oh … and how’s that, Captain?” Sam asked, the slight sarcasm seeming to slide right by Coffin. “I’m not following you.”

  Coffin didn’t look at Sam when he answered. His eyes bored into Braddock instead. “Because bodies seem to sprout like mushrooms wherever he goes,” Coffin said as if it were a joke.

  They knew there was no fun in it, though.

  “Hmph.” Sam snorted.

  “There’s some that say an officer much like our Detective Braddock was seen yesterday when those Plug Uglies were killed,” Coffin said offhandedly, but both Sam and Tom knew there was nothing offhanded about it.

  Tom noticed August’s quick glance at the bloody spots on his shirt that his jacket didn’t hide. Tom couldn’t help the sudden drop of his jaw. Still, he said nothing.

  Sam wasn’t so circumspect. “Killed, you say? And where’d this happen?” Coffin looked at Sam disapprovingly. “I see you haven’t read this morning’s papers, gentlemen. You know I can’t stress enough the importance of our police being well informed on the goings-on in this city. You should be reading the papers, Sergeant. It’s a duty not to be taken lightly.”

  Sam rolled his eyes. He hated it when Coffin got preachy. “Right, sir. I’ll do that.” He smirked. “Just happened to miss it this morning. So, where did they find these bodies then?”

  “Gotham Court. An appropriate place for finding bodies, I’m sure.” Coffin sniffed.

  Tom couldn’t contain himself any longer. “How’d they die, Augie?”

  Coffin treated Tom to one of his patented stares. He hated being called Augie, especially in front of his men. He cleared his throat. “Throats were cut.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Sam exclaimed. He whistled and rolled his eyes at Tom when Coffin wasn’t looking. “Now, who the hell could do a thing like that? You don’t just sneak up on four men and cut their throats.”

  “Quite. Perhaps whoever did it asked their permission.” Coffin gave a wry chuckle. “Or perhaps they cut their own throats. The odd thing is that police were reportedly seen leaving the scene before the bodies were found. Quite a crowd you know. Nearly a riot, from what I heard. Some described a cop quite like you, Tommy.” Coffin emphasized the name. “I’m sure they’re wrong.” His dismissive tone wasn’t meant to fool either of them. “That’s not your style, is it, old man? More of a bone breaker, right?”

  Tom didn’t answer. Instead he said, “It didn’t come up at morning parade. When’d you find out?”

  “Papers got it first, apparently. Went out on the telegraph to the precincts late this morning. That’s Coogan’s problem, always a bit slow on follow-through. Not quite so much attention to detail as he should have.”

  The implication wasn’t lost on Tom.

  The coroner’s team picked up Watkins’s body and it was carried out without a word.

  “Grisly business,” Coffin said.

  Tom and Sam just looked at Coffin, saying nothing.

  “Like to have a word if I can, Captain,” Tom said as they started off the boat.

  “Certainly, Tom, let’s walk,” Coffin replied affably enough.

  “I’ll come by tomorrow to pay you what I owe.” Tom took a deep breath of fresh salt air. “Get my obligations settled, make a clean break.” He exhaled.
Coffin didn’t say a word. “Said I’d pay you. No point stringing it out.” He looked to Coffin for any reaction.

  “That’s fine” was all Coffin said.

  “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, though,” Tom continued.

  “Oh?” Coffin asked innocently. He knew damn well why Tom wanted to have this little conversation. Tom was feeling the pinch, just as he’d planned. The question was whether the pinch hurt enough just yet. Coffin figured Braddock’s pain threshold was a bit higher. It was too soon for him to give in, to his way of thinking. Tom was too proud, too stiff-necked to knuckle under so soon.

  “No, it’s not. It’s Coogan,” Tom said, pausing to gauge any reaction. There was none, so he went on. “You know he’s pulled some of my guys and I’d like it to stop … well, at least I’d like notice like before. I think I’m due the courtesy.”

  “Are you?” Coffin stopped in his tracks to stare at Tom—a long, skeptical look full of feigned surprise. “Tom, we are charged with upholding the laws and preserving the peace of this great city. It’s a heavy responsibility which we, you and I and every officer of the law, are sworn to carry out.”

  Tom had to bite his lip. Being lectured to by the likes of Coffin was almost more than he could bear.

  “You know as well as I, Tommy, that arrests must be made. Those who break the laws are subject to arrest at any time. You also know that in the current climate, it is politically imperative, shall we say, to show that we in the department are tough on crime.” Coffin slapped a theatrical fist into his palm. “Now, if some of your little fish happen to get caught up in that, well that’s a shame, but they are, after all, criminals, Tom. Times like these we all feel the pinch.” Coffin’s facility with lies never ceased to amaze Tom. When he thought that Augie could be nothing but straight with the facts, the man would blandly tell him that the moon was made of blue cheese.

  “August,” Tom said, “why do you have to feed me this horseshit? I know how things run. I know we’re going to have to take a pinch now and again. This is looking like a lot more than that.”

  Coffin glared at Braddock, his fists clenched at his sides. “This horseshit, as you put it, is the reality of your situation, Detective. In your circumstances, it’s something you’re going to have to live with.”

  Tom thought about the implications of what Coffin was saying. Things were not going to get any better. In fact, they’d get worse. The bastard was going to try to put him out of business, and he could do it too. That was the stick. Tom waited for the carrot.

  “Of course, if you were on the inside, things like this could be avoided. You would be due a certain additional consideration, similar to what you enjoyed in the past. It might even be that additional rewards could be forthcoming.”

  “So, that’s the carrot, eh, Augie?” Tom said.

  Coffin sighed. “You have such a need for unambiguous speech, Tommy. But in fact that is the carrot, as you so aptly put it. We can do a great deal together,” he said, thinking longingly of his plans. “As long as you continue to be stubborn, you’ll have to do without the … advantages of our association.”

  Tom walked on in silence. He was tempted to go back. Somehow he hadn’t believed that Coffin would squeeze him this way. He kicked himself for not realizing the lengths that Coffin would go to, to hold his little empire together. Coffin could hurt him. Even if he knew only half of the places Tom took protection money from, the other half would learn soon enough. The thought of all the money he stood to lose was staggering. He took in more than twice his salary in protection money every month. Coffin could virtually eliminate that if he closed down those bars, brothels, fences, and rackets long enough. Even though some of that money funneled up to Coffin through Tom’s kickbacks at the precinct level, Coffin could afford it. What effect it might have on Tom’s future with Mary he could only guess. Being a poor cop had not been his plan. He wondered if marrying one was Mary’s. Tom wished he either had less scruples or more greed. It would hurt a lot less either way.

  “Can’t do it, August,” he said almost reluctantly. Coffin didn’t say a word, and Tom couldn’t bring himself to say more. Those four words were hard enough, considering what it was costing him. “You knew what I’d say, didn’t you? You really thought I’d say something different?”

  “I’d hoped you might see the sense of it, Tom.” Coffin exhaled slowly, almost in resignation. “I’m offering quite a lot, you know. It could go very easy if you let it.” Coffin’s tone was almost melancholy. Tom was reminded not of how easy it might be but of how hard it would be. There was a threat behind Coffin’s sad refrain.

  Tom briefly considered a threat of his own, one not so veiled with regret. He thought to throw Coffin up against a wall and tell him exactly what he’d do to him if he had any more trouble. He wanted to kick him in the balls, leave him gasping on his knees in the street. But he did none of that. It would only make things worse. Coffin had the power of rank and connections and his corps behind him. Tom couldn’t hope to prevail against that kind of power. It was going to take more than threats. There had to be some way to get Coffin off his back, but he had to have time to figure it.

  “I’ll bring you the rest of your money tomorrow, August.” Tom had cleaned out his account at the Dry Dock and borrowed some from Mary to make up the difference. It didn’t feel good to be broke. Tom turned, walking away quickly, pounding the pavement for blocks before he blew off enough steam to think of anything else. With an effort he turned his mind to Watkins, deciding to check out that address on Cherry Street again. This time he went without backup. It was a risk but being in plain clothes had its advantages.

  Justice Lincoln and Patrick Sullivan straddled the main cable on the south side of the bridge as they ate lunch.

  “You notice the ferry stopped?” Lincoln pointed down at the Montauk.

  “Yeah. Bet that’s got folks hopping. Everybody’s in such a damn hurry in this town. Never have gotten used to it.” Pat looked down at the ferry, which seemed to be about to leave the dock.

  “Bet they can’t wait till this bridge is done.”

  “Damn, but there’s gonna be a lot of disappointed folks in this city.” They laughed, feeling like gods sharing a joke at the expense of the unsuspecting ants below. Silently they ate their sandwiches, drank their beer, and dangled their feet on either side of the cable.

  “You recall when Harry Supple died?” Pat brought up something they hadn’t spoken of in some time. All the riggers knew Harry Supple, the most famous rigger of them all. His reputation had only grown with the years, and to some in the cables his memory had taken on an almost mythic status.

  “Sure. What made you think of that?”

  “Don’t know.” Pat shrugged. “Just thinking about all the men gone … you know, building this thing.”

  “Plenty. Must be twenty at least.” Lincoln’s brow furrowed in thought. “Don’t know how many are cripples from the caisson disease too. There’s Roebling for one.”

  Pat snorted. “Yeah, well, I don’t give a rat’s ass for Roebling, but there’s some good men under the ground ‘cause of this bridge. Supple was the best of ’em.”

  “Had balls of brass. Nobody was as sure of himself in the cables as Harry. Remember when he went out hand over hand to cut that fella loose?” Justice swallowed a gulp of beer.

  “Sure … what the hell was his name?”

  “Carroll, I think. Big fella.”

  “Yeah, that’s him. Got himself hung up cutting the lashings on the second wire. Rig on his boatswain’s chair jammed.”

  “Couldn’t go back, nor forward … dangling a hundred feet out from the tower,” Justice added. “Yup … Harry just swung out like a damn monkey, cut Carroll free … cool as you please.” They smiled at the memory.

  The World, in its headline the next day, called it a “Stupendous Tight-Rope Performance.” Supple seemed to have as many lives as a cat. He had survived the collapse of a boom derrick during the construction
of the Brooklyn tower. Men around him had been crushed or thrown from the tower.

  “Gotta admit, Harry had sand,” Jus muttered. “Course, didn’t get to know him till a little later, but I remember watching him that first day. Remember the cheerin’? Hell, I cheered too and I ain’t ashamed to admit it.”

  Pat smiled. It had been a great day. “Shame the way he went, though. Least it was quick.”

  Harry Supple died spectacularly, as befits a legend. It was June 14, 1878, and Farrington, Supple, a man named Blake, and two others were easing off one of the strands. Each strand was composed of 278 wires and was strung above the level of the main cable and then lowered, or “eased,” into place. Farrington ordered the engine to lower the strand, when suddenly the cable attached to the engine snapped. The strand and its cast-iron shoe crashed into Supple, tearing open his chest and throwing him off the anchorage to the street below, breaking his back, arms, and legs. Incredibly, Supple clung to life for nearly another day, though he never regained consciousness. Blake was killed instantly and the other two men were badly injured. Farrington had only a scratch on his hand.