Suspension Page 6

  “The children screaming hungry, an’ the bastards drive us out our own home. The shame of it is they had Irish constables to back ’em up,” Eamon said, shaking his gray head. They had borrowed money from relatives, sold what possessions they could, and took ship for New York. Their oldest, a girl named Shannon, had taken sick on the voyage. By the time they reached New York and went through Castle Garden, she was so weak she could barely stand.

  “She had the look o’ sickness about her, so they quarantined her and there she died. Had to bury me darlin’ in Potter’s Field ’cause there wasn’t a penny to be had for a proper burial,” Patricia said softly, opening an old wound. “Swore some day we’d bury her proper,” she whispered.

  In spite of their tragic start, Eamon had managed to find work and things got better.

  “Always been good wi’ me hands,” Eamon had wheezed from the edge of his bed. He had found work at a cooperage on Canal Street. He made foreman and earned enough for them to live on with an occasional luxury. They had found two airy rooms on Spring Street, with morning sun pouring in the high windows and a bathroom they shared with only one other family. Life was good. They put away the troubles of the past.

  Patricia made tea for Tom and Eamon on a tiny cast-iron stove. She wept silently as she stood with her back to them, her shoulders shaking. Tom heard the hiss of a tear as it sizzled on the hot iron. He pretended to study Terrence’s picture. Looking around the room, he noticed that what little furniture they had was of mahogany, and the fabrics were fine—not like the stuff he usually saw in the tenements. She turned with the teakettle in her left hand and dabbed at her red eyes with the corner of her apron. “Terry used to love his tea,” she said.

  They told him of how, just short of Terry’s seventeenth birthday, the troubles started at Fort Sumter.

  “Terry was always one to do his duty. Brought him up to see the right of things and do what was expected of a man. Didn’t know about seceding from the Union, or the legal mumbo jumbo about the territories, or Kansas and Nebraska or any such.” Eamon paused for a moment, then, drawing a long watery breath, continued, “Never knew a black man in his life, but he knew that slavin’s a curse on the land. He could see what the slavery was doin’ to this country.”

  “We were never prouder of him than when he joined the Sixty-ninth,” Patricia added, her head held high.

  “We went over to Broadway to watch him march off with the regiment. What a day that was: the flags, an’ the crowds, an’ the bands. I cried to see him go, but I could’ve burst with the pride I had in him for goin’.”

  They told him of the war years, and Terry’s letters home, and the tintype he had sent them. He had been in many famous battles, they assured him, coming through it all with barely a couple of scratches. Lots of his mates in the regiment left whole parts of themselves on those battlefields or didn’t come home at all. When he was released from the service in ‘64, he came home, grown and different, but still the son they loved. He met “his Julia” at a social at the Hibernians hall, and they married in the spring of ’69.

  Tom sat patiently through their ramble in the past. He sensed they needed to tell their lives and make some sense of what had happened to them. He could feel their urgency to explain how they had come to this place. It was plain from the furniture, their clothes, and the way the rooms were kept that this was not where they belonged. They were hardworking people, but work alone had not been enough. Here, near the end of their hopes, they wanted it to make sense. Tom understood that well enough. He wished that life always made sense. Most times it was hard to tell. He sipped his tea and listened.

  It was just after he took Julia Tompkins as his bride that Terry got work on the bridge to Brooklyn. He labored at laying up the three-ton blocks of cut stone that were to become the Brooklyn tower. Terry worked on that tower for five years, Pat had told him proudly. The family prospered, with Eamon and Terry bringing in good wages. They bought a small row house on East Third Street together, and in ’71 Julia had given birth to Mary Elizabeth.

  “She was the light o’ his life, that little girl. You should have seen him, Detective.”

  “Tom … call me Tom,” Braddock said, Terrence’s tintype cradled in his lap.

  “Tom. He and Julia would take her for walks just to show her off. She was a sweet one too, with beautiful eyes and a lovin’ manner. We were happy then …” Patricia’s voice trailed off.

  Mikey came in ‘73. “He was a fine strappin’ boy with a good set o’ lungs and a strong hand,” as Eamon had put it. Terry finished work on the Brooklyn tower that year and then started work on the approach on the Brooklyn side. He wanted to work in the New York caisson for the extra pay that was in it, but Patricia and Eamon and especially Julia had talked him out of it. If the caisson disease got him, like it got so many, there was no amount of pay that was worth it, they told him.

  “Heard o’ too many men crippled or dead with that caisson disease. I told Terry he had a family to think about and that was that.”

  Things were good till ’78, when Eamon started coughing. The consumption worked fast. In six months he was let go from his job. The coughing became so bad that he couldn’t hide it anymore. The bosses were afraid he’d infect the lot of them.

  “Thought it was just a cold at first, but after two whole months o’ coughin’ I knew it was more. Doctors, remedies, laudanum, I tried it all. Just kept coughin’. Doctors told me to go upstate to Saranac Lake, wherever the hell that is, for the cure o’ the good air.” Eamon coughed once and spit in his bucket. “I couldn’t afford to move across the street. Here’s where I’ll die, I guess.”

  Patricia looked away out the lone window and after a while she said, “Little Mikey and Mary Elizabeth were a comfort to us then. We could see the future growin’, an’ we had the hope that comes with children.” Things were hard, with only one salary coming in, but they made ends meet and held onto the house, till the fire. It started in a house three doors down. A chimney fire got out of control. Before that February night was over, half the block was gone, and their house with it.

  “At least we managed to save most o’ the furniture ’fore the fire took the house. There we were with our parlor chairs, an’ beds, clothes, an’ pots an’ pans, sittin’ in the black snow. Nothin’ left but a pile o’ smoke.”

  Tom had heard footsteps, running up the hall. Mikey came into the room, slamming back the door on its hinges. He held up two potatoes and crowed, “Look what I found!” He winked at Tom, who winked back with a grin, recognizing the youngest boy from the front stoop. “Can we mash them tonight with butter, Grandma? I love them with butter.”

  “We’ll see, Mikey. Thank you. There’s a good lad. What a fine big boy ye are. Come here for a bit an’ give yer old grandma a hug. Haven’t had a hug since yesterday, an’ Grandmas need hugs, ye know, to keep us young.” Mike walked over to her a bit slow it seemed. With too much hugging a boy could lose his dignity. Patricia held him tight for a very long time. He didn’t seem to mind.

  Turning to Tom, he asked, “Did you find me da? When’s he coming home, sir?”

  Tom had started to speak, but looking over Mike’s head he saw Mrs. Bucklin shaking her head, so he said, “That’s what I’m here to talk to your grandma and grandpa about, Mike.” He searched for something else to say to him without telling him more. He finally said, “I’m here to help, son. My name’s Tom. I’m a detective.”

  “Do you have a gun?” Mike asked, brightening.

  “Well … yes, Mike, I do,” Tom answered, a little surprised.

  “Could I see it?” Tom looked over at Mrs. Bucklin, who nodded. He pulled back his jacket to show Mike the Colt .38 in its holster hung on his shoulder.

  “Wow, I don’t suppose I could hold it, could I?” Mike asked, the longing clear in his voice.

  Tom let his jacket slide back. “Sorry, Mike, maybe when you get older.”

  “I’m big for my age, everyone says so,” Mike said, clearly fighting
a losing battle.

  “Big isn’t what’s up here,” Tom said, tapping his chest. “It’s what’s in here.” A finger tapped his temple. “You get my meaning?”

  “I think so, sir. It’s like when Tommy Gallagher stuck some hard candies in the back o’ his pants down at Lasher’s store, and Danny the cop standin’ right behind him. Tommy’s a year older than me, ye understand.” They all laughed, even Eamon, whose laugh sounded like drowning.

  “That’s right, Mikey. Always use your head, and you’ll go far, lad.”

  “I will, sir,” Mike said over his shoulder as he went out the door, slamming it hard behind him. From down the hall they heard him call “I’m out with Mouse and Smokes, Grandma, I won’t go far.”

  “All right, then, Mike. Be home for supper, lad.”

  “Thank you for not tellin’ him, Detective, I mean Tom. He’s had it hard with his mom and sis gone not a year yet.” Her eyes welled up and Eamon held his head like it might come off in his hands. Tom couldn’t remember when he had heard of so much trouble and sorrow in one family. It was like something out of a penny awful. His mother had been addicted to those things; the house had been cluttered with them. The heroes had scores of calamities to overcome, which they always did in the next installment. But it didn’t look as if there was a next installment for the Bucklins.

  They had been quiet for some time, when Patricia said, “The typhoid took them, you know.” They had moved to the tenement not yet two years ago, and hadn’t been there for more than eight months before the sickness started galloping through the building, the neighborhood too. It carried off Julia and Mary Elizabeth within a day of each other, and they were buried together in a cemetery in Brooklyn. “A big part of my Terry was buried there in Brooklyn.” Patricia took a long shivering breath, then sighed. It seemed to well up right from her feet. “There’s some comfort in knowin’ that they’ll be together there. There’s that … at least.”

  “Ma’am, I want to find the person who killed your son. There must be something you can tell me that might be of some use in finding Terry’s killer: a quarrel, some debts, maybe, or trouble at work. People don’t get killed for nothing. Murder’s a serious business. There must have been some serious reasons to kill your son.”

  Patricia and Eamon gave Tom the few names they knew of the men who their son worked with as well as those of his friends from outside of work—from church mostly. The list wasn’t long but included some of the same names he’d gotten from Joe Hamm.

  “Tom, our Terry was a good man. He worked hard, loved his family, went to church on Sundays, and confession. We’ve had some hard times, but he never gave in to bitterness, never let us down. He was our rock,” Patricia said, turning to Eamon for confirmation. Eamon just nodded. “He’s been drinking a bit more lately, but who could blame him? Sure I wouldn’t keep him from that small comfort after all his troubles.”

  “Told me there was somethin’ not right about the bridge,” Eamon said suddenly.

  Tom and Patricia turned together to stare at Eamon, who took another shallow breath.

  “Didn’t tell me much really, not in words anyway. But I could see he was worried about somethin’. Said there was somethin’ not right about the job; that maybe there was some fellas up to no good. Probably just some strike talk or some such. Didn’t think much more about it, and he didn’t say any more, so I let it lay.”

  “He didn’t mention any names, did he?”

  “Not a one. Lots of men on that job. Could have been anyone, or maybe a bunch o’ fellas. Just don’t know for sure.”

  A bit later, after some more fruitless probing, Tom got up to leave. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “This key look familiar to you?”

  He held out the key he’d found in Terrence’s pocket. It turned out it was their front door key, and Patricia put it in the lock and turned the bolt to be sure. With a sigh, Tom told them where they would have to go to make a formal identification and claim Terrence’s effects. He thanked Patricia for the tea and their help.

  She came with him to the door and stepped out into the hall. “Could I have a word with you, Tom?” She hesitated as if deciding something just then. “You see, we’ve got nobody now except Mike, and with Eamon so close to gone, I don’t know what’ll become of us. It’s Mikey I’m worried about.”

  “What about Julia’s parents?”

  “Gone, and Julia was their only living child. It’s just that I want to be sure that Mikey is taken care of if anything … happens, you know.”

  Tom looked down into the pretty doe eyes in Patricia’s worn face. She was close to the end of her rope. The need was written large across her features. After taking his card from his vest pocket, he gave it to her, saying “You can reach me here if you need me.” Tom didn’t know what to promise, or if he should promise anything at all, so he said simply, “I’ll do what I can. I’m sorry for all your troubles, ma’am … and your loss.”

  Tom stepped out of the front door onto Suffolk Street. The street was still crowded, but there was the smell of a thunderstorm in the air, and a glance at the sky showed him dark clouds piling up to the west, over New Jersey. He hurried down to Delancey Street, where he could catch a horsecar. He didn’t want to get caught in the storm. Half a block behind, a tall man in suspenders lounged against a lamppost watching with casual interest as Tom hopped on the trolley. He made no move to follow.

  Mike watched Braddock go too. He was worried but when he was with the other kids he wouldn’t show it. Mike Bucklin wasn’t the biggest or the oldest in his gang, but he had a knack for petty thievery that kept them all pretty well fed. With his gramps laid up with the consumption, and the family having to make do on just what his da brought home, he felt he had to bring something home too. Sometimes he felt guilty about eating an apple he had lifted, thinking that his gramps could use it more than he. But his mates in the little gang were pretty much all in the same boat, just getting by, and hungry half the time, so he shared as best he could. Smokes and Mouse were Mike’s two best friends, and they, together with Louie, Vince, and Jo-Jo, were the center of society for him. Suffolk Street, between Houston and Delancey, was their world. Lots of times they would venture over to Essex, or Orchard, but they had to watch it when they were outside their own territory. Almost every block had its gangs, starting with kids of seven, or eight. Usually the older kids had their own gangs, and they didn’t bother the younger ones too much, because they had bigger fish to fry. They had to watch out for rival groups of their own age, though, and getting caught thieving on the wrong block could earn a kid a beating or worse. His gang defended its territory the same as every other. There were regular battles to claim another corner or another block. Sometimes even a streetlamp or a store would be fought over. These were things Mike had been learning fast since he came to the Lower East Side. It was a confusing place to be a kid, what with all the rules. He had taken a couple of beatings before he had caught on and joined in with a bunch of other boys like him. Mainly they tried to have fun, but they spent plenty of time in petty crime too. Stealing produce was the first thing they all did as sort of an initiation, but they graduated quickly to more ambitious stuff, like lifting goods from an unattended wagon or even picking pockets. Mostly they were just boys with plenty of time on their hands. They laughed, kicked balls, and swam in the river like any kids, and they tried to survive, which was only human.

  Lately Mike’s da had been real worried about something. He said it was a problem on the job. His father told him so he could know to look out for bad men. His da said he couldn’t be certain but that there might be some come around one day. He hadn’t seen any so far. He kept looking, though, because if his da said there were some that might come around, then you could count on it being so. His da was the finest man in all the Lower East Side. Mike would wait on the corner of Suffolk and Delancey every evening for him to come home. If the other boys weren’t nearby, he’d run to him when he saw his da coming, and sometimes he’d hav
e an orange in his pocket. He waited now, on the corner, hoping to get a glimpse of his father. It was three days now since he’d been home. Grandma had said he was just away to visit a cousin in New Jersey, but Mike was starting to worry. He couldn’t remember having a cousin in New Jersey.

  Braddock sat slumped on the downtown horsecar. Listening to the Bucklin’s string of tragedies had worn him down more than he would have imagined. After years of walking beats in neighborhoods like theirs, the people and their tragedies tended to become a faceless blur. Tom figured it was the way cops kept from feeling the pain too much. Almost every cop he knew put up the same shields to keep out the human cost of their job. For reasons he wasn’t even sure of himself, he’d let those shields down with the Bucklins. Maybe it was Terrence’s tintype, and his having served with the Sixty-ninth. Maybe it was Mikey, or the fact that his grandfather was so sick. It was probably all those things and maybe some he hadn’t put a finger on just yet. Whatever the cause, he felt washed out, drained … tired. He could only imagine how the Bucklins felt.

  The horsecar made a stop and he gave up his seat to a woman in a wide bonnet. She sniffed at him with a haughty upturned nose, asserting her rights to his place. Cops could ride the horsecars free, but weren’t supposed to take seats from paying passengers. He got up and stood at the back, one hand gripping the pole supporting the roof. He toted up the things he knew about Terrence Bucklin as the city slowly rolled by. The only angle that seemed at all promising was his father’s story about something not being right about the bridge. That was the obvious place to start. Between that bit of information and his deduction that Terrence knew his killer, it was plain he needed to make Terrence’s coworkers on the bridge his primary focus. He wondered idly just how many there were. Hundreds probably. He’d have to start narrowing that list down some if he was going to get anywhere. He had a feeling that before this was over, he’d know almost as much about the bridge as Sam, if that was possible. He smiled grimly to himself at the notion.