Suspension Page 5

  “In a hurry, Grafton?” Braddock asked as he swung the man around to face him. A hand came out of a coat pocket. Something flashed at Tom, but he grabbed the arm, twisting away as he did. Braddock wrenched it by him, slamming the hand into the bar. “Happy to see me, I take it. Drop the knife, you little bastard.” Tom grunted. Grafton tried to wrench away, but Braddock held firm. A quick twist and Braddock forced the arm back at a painful angle, while bringing his knee up. The arm broke with a dull snap that sounded oddly like the breaking of rotted wood. It could be heard clearly across the room. Grafton’s shout rang loud in the bar. The knife clattered to the floor, skittering and spinning like a roulette wheel.

  “You’re lucky I don’t kill you for that, you little shit.” Braddock growled, glaring at him. He pointed a big finger at Grafton. “I told you what I’d do if I caught you in here again.” Grafton just groaned and held his arm as if it might fall off. Braddock had warned him no more than a couple of weeks ago. There was no getting around it. “I told you then that you’ve roughed up your last little girl, and I meant it.”

  “It ain’t fair, dammit,” Grafton whined. “Little bitch had it comin’.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s fair, Grafton. What’s fair is I shoot your worthless dick off right here,” Tom said with one hand on the butt of the pistol he kept tucked under his jacket. He brought it half out of the holster, his thumb on the hammer. “Ought to do it too. You got one hell of a nerve trying to stick me.” Grafton’s eyes above his clenched teeth shone with pure terror. “Ought to,” Tom said, appearing to think about it, “but this is your lucky day. I’ve got other business to attend to and no time for the likes of you.” The hand came away from under the jacket. “B’sides, looks like you’ll be wiping your ass left-handed for a while.” Braddock smirked. “Should serve as a reminder.”

  A sigh went out of Grafton, and Tom turned to the bar and picked up his beer.

  “Here, have a beer on me, but make it your last, you get my drift?” Grafton took the mug, an astonished look on his face. Quinn watched from the doorway, as did everyone else in the bar. Silence ruled. Grafton took a sip with a trembling left hand, a bit of foam dripping down his chin. His face was turned from Braddock. Tom didn’t see the hate in his eyes that rose to smother the little man’s fear. Suddenly Grafton smashed the mug on the bar, lunging at Tom again with the jagged glass edge. Tom backed off and sidestepped.

  “You truly are beginning to annoy me, Grafton,” he said in an almost conversational tone. A swift kick to the belly doubled the man over, and a crack across the back of the head laid Grafton on the beer-soaked carpet, groaning weakly. Braddock looked over at Quinn. “If I see him in here again, Mike, it’s you I’ll be havin’ a talk with.”

  Quinn just nodded and dragged Grafton out.

  “Ah, the virtuous knight, the gallant defender of the weak and pure of heart,” a husky woman’s voice said from the other room. “Always a pleasure, Detective.”

  “Wish I could say the same, Kate,” Tom said, turning toward the voice. “Can’t say I care much for your clientele.”

  “His money’s as green as yours, Braddock. Besides, we’ve been keeping an eye on him lately. Haven’t had any trouble.”

  Tom walked into the next room, setting the beaded curtain swaying and clicking.

  “What’s he have to do to be unwelcome here? How long did you figure it would be before he carved up one of your little beauties?”

  The madame didn’t answer. Instead she handed Tom a thick envelope. “My regards to your master, Detective.” The sarcastic emphasis on master left no doubt about how she saw Braddock in the scheme of things. “Please leave. You’ve disturbed my guests enough for one day.”

  Tom turned and walked out without a word. If it was up to him, he wouldn’t be taking protection money from a woman like that. Most of the girls in her place were no older than fifteen, some were as young as ten. For the thousandth time he cursed his deal with Coffin. Tom had been dropping hints to the captain that he wanted out. This was something that had to be handled delicately, though, and needed a preamble before he broke it off. Coffin had to get used to the idea and, most of all, trust that his secrets would remain safe. One way or another, Tom had to end it.

  Tom got back in the hack, and they headed farther uptown, past Canal, Hester, Grand, and Broome streets. Slowly the neighborhood changed from warehouses and businesses that catered to the sea, to warehouses of people. The tenements were thick with people, on sidewalks, on stoops, hanging from windows, looking for a breeze, shopping from pushcarts, arguing on street corners. The babble of foreign tongues, the smells of unfamiliar foods, and the Italian, German, and Yiddish signs in store windows gave the blocks he rode through an almost carnival atmosphere. It was disconcerting, confusing, noisy, dirty, smelly, colorful, boiling pandemonium. Like it or not, it was the future. He decided to get out and walk at the corner of Kenmare and Suffolk. In spite of the noise and the smells and the press of foreign flesh, there was something he liked about these streets. They had a vitality and a life like nowhere else in the city, and in his line of work it was best to soak up the street life on foot. That’s what he told himself. In truth, he rather liked the mix here, always bubbling and simmering, like a camp stew after a hurried forage. Not everyone shared Braddock’s views on the vitality of the Lower East Side.

  Children played in the streets, running, stealing apples, selling newspapers, or idling on corners. Tom noticed two packs of boys lazing on stoops with a menacing ease as he passed. He was sure he’d be seeing some of them in a few years when they graduated to more ambitious crime. Their eyes gave them away. Tom recognized the look. He noticed that as he walked down the street a ripple preceded him. It would hardly have been noticeable to someone not accustomed to looking for it. Eyes averted, backs turned, doorways became suddenly popular. An almost imperceptible stillness settled like snow over the crowded streets. Tom imagined that it was much the same as when a big cat prowled through the jungle. The birds still chirped, the monkeys chattered, the warthogs grunted and wallowed, but they all knew the big cat was there. They kept a watchful eye, and they kept their distance. Tom rather liked that image of himself. In this tenement jungle, a big cat was not a bad thing to be. A glance over his shoulder told him of following eyes, quickly averted, and a gradual resumption of street life. It was as if he moved in a sort of bubble that flowed from his badge. Most people weren’t touched by it. But to those who were, it was as if the bubble were electric. Sparks of recognition crackled.

  Tom neared the front of 242 Suffolk, a five-story walk-up with a low stoop and an open front door, gaping black. Three dirty, barefoot children, about ten to twelve years old, played with a barrel hoop on the sidewalk. They laughed as one of them sent the hoop rolling across the street in front of a vegetable cart, piled high with cabbages, carrots, and potatoes. The horse, pulling the cart, plodded along, head held low, its blinders giving it a tunnel vision of the street just in front. The hoop, with the perfect timing of obvious practice, flashed before the horse’s eyes and the startled animal pulled up suddenly. Potatoes went rolling down the cobbles. What seemed like a dozen little boys appeared from nowhere and like locusts grabbed up the potatoes that had rolled farthest from the cart. The thing was done as neat as could be, and the vegetables were gone before the driver could even get down from his seat. Seeing that he was clearly outnumbered, he contented himself with cursing them roundly. “Ye damned little vermin! Don’t think I don’t know where yer rat holes is. I’ll settle with yer parents on this. Thievin’ little bastards. I’ll settle wi’ ye. Count on it!” He switched the reins and set the sagging horse in motion, propelled by his grumbling. The boys were laughing fit to bust when they turned to see Tom looming. He stared down hard at them, putting on his best stern-cop face. Their laughter dried in their throats faster than spit on a hot stove. Jaws fell open together as if on cue. Tom figured that was about the funniest thing he’d seen in a week of Sundays, and couldn’t
hide the grin that stole across his face. He tried to hold back the laughing but the pit-of-doom looks from the three street Arabs made him bust. The boys joined in when they saw that they weren’t going to be thrown in irons. The other boys looked on from a safe distance. Laughing cops were a rarity in this neighborhood.

  “So, which of you bright young lads can tell me where Mr. Bucklin lives?” Tom said when he caught his breath.

  “Right ’ere in this buildin’ ’ere, sir,” piped up the biggest of the three.

  “And whereabouts in this ’ere buildin’ might he be found, lad?”

  “’Tis the third floor ye’ll find ’im, second door back o’ the stairs.”

  “Thank you, lads,” Tom said as he handed them each a penny. “Go easy on the potatoes, now.”

  They all grinned like co-conspirators and the boys chorused, “Oh, yes, sir,” and “We will, sir.” Tom trudged up the slippery unlit stairway. He was glad for the lack of light; he didn’t really want to see what made the stairs so slimy, though his nose gave him a clue. Too many chamber pots coming down the dark stairs on the way to the outhouses. Tom could hear the boys arguing out on the stoop, their words echoing up the stairwell. He had a sudden image of his younger brother, gone now so many years ago. It was like a flash of light in the darkened stairs and was gone almost as soon as it came.

  “I don’ know why you two should have the pennies, I’m the one what gave ’im Mike’s rooms,” said one.

  “You ain’t gettin’ my warm spit” came the quick reply. “I’m the one rolled the hoop out in front of McGee’s wagon.”

  “Yeah” came a littler voice. “An’ who came up wi’ the idea? Besides, that’s me family’s rooms. He’s here about me da, I’ll bet.” That last even sounded like his brother’s voice. Tom hesitated, a sudden sadness taking hold in the dark stairway. He stopped for only a heartbeat, then continued up the stinking stairs, thinking of their shoeless feet.

  The heat seemed to weigh on him and press him back with every step. But the heat was only part of it. The smell of such concentrated humanity hit him in the gut, taking the wind out of him. Suddenly breathing didn’t seem all that important. Breathing through his mouth was a little better, except he could almost taste the place. It smelled like a five-story outhouse, or worse, because the smells of cooking were mixed in with the rest. And then there was a hard-to-define smell of sickness and disease, and more than one deep, wracking cough echoed down the dark hallways. It was altogether a hellish place. The thought of living there turned Tom’s stomach. But the place was full of people, even at this time of day, when men were usually out to work. He could hear the laughter of women and children, a song of the Old Country, in a voice cracked with age, and a loud, strident argument from somewhere above. Coming to a landing between the second and third floors, he passed a pair of men smoking their pipes, lounging on the stairs. They gave way grudgingly.

  Tom knocked on the second door back of the stairs. He heard the faint sound of deep, fluid hacking from somewhere inside. He knocked again and was answered with a woman’s voice, calling:

  “Keep yer britches on, I’ll be there in two shakes.”

  The door opened and Tom asked, “Mrs. Bucklin?”

  “Ey, and who wants to know?”

  “I’m Detective Braddock, ma’am.”

  “Have ye found my Terry that soon then? I only put in the report this mornin’ down at the station house. They said it might take days, or weeks even. Didn’t seem to give a damn if he was missin’ or not, ye ask me.” Tom watched her as she said this. She was much too old to be Terrence’s wife, he thought. She must be all of fifty-eight or so but looked ten years older. Her hair was combed but oily gray. Her face showed the wear of a hard life with deep creases carved into the soft flesh. She had probably been pretty once; she had the eyes of a doe still, if you took the time to notice. Her clothes were neat, but old and frayed at the hem. Freckles and age spots blotched her parchment-thin skin.

  “You’re Mrs. Bucklin then?”

  “I’m his mother. Is Terry in some sort of trouble? He’s never been one to get on the wrong side of the law. It’s a good boy, my Terry is.”

  “Ma’am, could I come in for a moment? I’m afraid there’s been some trouble.”

  “Oh, bless me, sure, come in. Here you’re tryin’ to help me and I’m leavin’ ye out in the hall.”

  “Who is it, Patricia?” came a voice from the back of the room. Tom could see there was a corner that was separated from the rest by a sheet draped over a line. The voice seemed to come from there.

  “It’s a detective named Braddock, here about Terry, it’s all right,” she said with a look at Tom.

  “Have they found him, then?” the voice behind the sheet asked. “It’s not like Terry to be out for days like this, nor miss a meal either.”

  “Don’t worry yer head, Pa, ye’ll start a fit again, an’ yer weak as a kitten as it is. So …” she said, turning to Tom. “What’s the trouble? Did he run afoul of some of them Protestant hooligans over on Hester? I’ve told him to keep well clear o’ there. Never had any trouble before.”

  “No, ma’am, I’m sorry to tell you, Terrence is dead.”

  A low choking moan from behind the sheet curtain broke through the mist of Tom’s words. Patricia Bucklin put her hands up to the sides of her head as if to block the words from her ears. Her hands were clenched, her knuckles white. She turned and wandered back to a chair, all the while holding her head, and with a soft moan she slid into it.

  “Me boy, me boy, me boy.” She sobbed, rocking back and forth, the chair creaking in time. Slowly Mrs. Bucklin let her hands drop to her lap, where they worked her apron into a ball. She hardly made a sound as her shoulders shook silently.

  A watery groan from behind the sheet took on a bubbling quality, and a wracking, desperate coughing started. Tom knew that cough for the consumption. He had heard it often enough. From the sound of it, Mr. Bucklin didn’t have many coughs left in him. Tom heard him spit up with a final effort. Mrs. Bucklin didn’t seem to notice. She wilted into the old chair as if the life was draining out of her.

  Tom stood silent, and at last Mrs. Bucklin said, “So was there an accident at the bridge? Been too many men come to grief on that damned job. I’ve told Terry to be careful, but after Julia and the baby died I don’t think he cared anymore.”

  “No, ma’am, it wasn’t an accident. We strongly suspect foul play.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Patricia came out of the chair like she’d been scalded. “Waddaya mean, foul play? Terry never had an enemy in the world!” Before Tom had a chance to answer, she raged on, her words rushing all in a flood. “Always seen the good in people,” she said, pacing around the small room. “Folks liked Terry, an’ they was sorry for his troubles, what with Julia and the baby gone to the angels. What kind of bloody monster would do such a thing?” she demanded, waving her arms at Braddock. “Do you have him, this murderin’ bastard?”

  Tom took a deep breath. “Ma’am, we don’t know much, just that your son was found in an alley, back of Paddy’s saloon, on Peck Slip. It appears he was hit from behind. The blow … was strong enough to be fatal. There weren’t any witnesses that we know of, but we’re investigating, and we hope to have a break in the case soon.” Braddock felt the urge to give them some hope, however slim. “I need to know more about Terrence, and I was hoping you could help me. Did he have any enemies or owe any money, that sort of thing?”

  As Tom said this, the sheet curtain was parted by a frail hand, pushing it slowly to one side. Mr. Bucklin rose from his bed. Tom could see the effort etched on his face though he tried to hide it. He looked like the life had been drained out of him. He was gray as a corpse. His clothes hung loose on his wasted frame. He shuffled slowly toward his wife, who silently moved to meet him in the middle of the room. They held on to each other in their grief, drawing what strength they could one from the other. The yellow afternoon light filtering through the dirty window
framed them in a sort of halo. As Tom watched, it almost seemed as if the light was coming from them, shining out from their essential selves, the spiritual beings they really were. It seemed to Tom that he saw them in a younger time, before the age and the work, the troubles and the deaths brought them to this place. They were shining and luminous, tight-skinned … vibrant. The years had not touched them nor worn away their beauty. It was a vision as unexpected as it was fleeting. Tom blinked, and it was gone, leaving the old couple in its wake. But Braddock knew what he had seen. He wasn’t one to doubt, or sneer, or pass it off as a trick of the light.

  They clung together like that for long minutes and Tom looked away. He noticed a tintype of a soldier on the dresser; his serious face, young and earnest, looked stiffly at the camera. It was Terrence. The markings on his uniform were those of the Sixty-ninth Regiment. Tom knew the Sixty-ninth and had admired their spirit on many fields. The great green flag they carried, the symbol of the country they left behind, always flew at the front. Many were the times when he had watched the Second Corps go by, with the Irish Brigade in ranks. He realized he must have seen Terence among those ranks years ago. He had a new respect for the man. Tom looked closer at the picture, noticing the new Springfield musket, its barrel polished, bayonet fixed. Tom thought he saw the look that he had seen in his own mirror long ago. He felt a certain kinship with the man in the tintype, a bond and an obligation. Tom took his obligations seriously.

  Patricia and Eamon Bucklin sat in their tiny kitchen and, over the next hour or so, told Tom Braddock the story of their lives in America. They had come to New York when the “bloody-handed British” raised the taxes on their land and the rent on their house.

  “Eamon’s family,” Patricia had said, “worked that land for near one hundred twenty years, and they threw us off like so much boot scrapin’s.”