Suspension (23 page)
Authors: Richard E. Crabbe
The plan they had finally agreed upon was as elegant as it was efficient. It called for just a few hundred pounds of explosives and no more than an hour and a half to set the charges. It was not without risk, but risk was an old bedfellow.
The captain nodded but seemed to be thinking of something as he examined the plans laid out on the table.
“I think,” he started slowly, “that Jacobs has an important point in principle.” The captain had the look they had often seen during the war, when he was sitting with the colonel late at night, planning for the next day's action. He had never lost the habit of putting things in military terms. Sullivan though saw it as a crutch. Like a security blanket, it cloaked him in a mantle of command. The cloak was frayed now, but he wore it with pride and a dogged desperation. “Jacobs, will you please start a list of issues and tactics still needing to be finalized, the advantages and disadvantages of each?” Sangree said with a glance at his watch. “Do it like this.” The captain drew two lines down a sheet of paper, making three columns. “Tactics down one column, and so forth. We'll lay out our options, eliminate those that seem impractical, and concentrate on the ones that offer the best chance of success.” Once again they refined their plans, Jacob taking down the points in his elegant hand. It sometimes seemed that the final issues would take forever to iron out. They all knew the devil was in the details.
T
om slept again, while a mile away the seven men planned. It was an uneasy rest. Venkman stalked through his dreams, rumbling like an avalanche, about to bury him. Finney was there too. He was the coroner now, with a white lab coat smeared with blood, a crooked grin on his ratlike face. Music played in the background. Tom stared up in horror as Finney's face leered down at him, his shattered arm hanging loose, head twisted at an impossible angle. Finney's six-inch scalpel started at his ribs, cutting deep, reaching in.
om slept again, while a mile away the seven men planned. It was an uneasy rest. Venkman stalked through his dreams, rumbling like an avalanche, about to bury him. Finney was there too. He was the coroner now, with a white lab coat smeared with blood, a crooked grin on his ratlike face. Music played in the background. Tom stared up in horror as Finney's face leered down at him, his shattered arm hanging loose, head twisted at an impossible angle. Finney's six-inch scalpel started at his ribs, cutting deep, reaching in.
Tom's own cry woke him. After a moment's panic, he realized it was just his stitches pulling. He felt foolish, but he was sweating just the same. The next time he woke it was much later. The sun stealing in through the blinds slanted across the room at a more acute angle, painting the floor in zebralike blacks and whites. He thought he heard a commotion somewhere in the house, voices raised and tense. A door slammed, echoing through the house and his head. He drifted off in a haze that was not sleep, but near enough. Tom tried not to think about things but they kept swimming to the surface for his inspection, like floaters in the East River, bobbing on the waves, full of gas. What would Coffin say about Tom's handiwork? The possibilities seemed mostly bad. Venkman and Finney floated by. Tom wouldn't talk to them. He was afraid they'd answer back. Bucklin put in an appearance too, but his head was half gone, and he asked Tom what Doc Thomas had done with it. Tom asked Terrence who killed him, but he spat tobacco juice and faded away. Then Sam came. He looked down from a great height, his chin disappearing into his collar. He spoke to Tom, and it was so clear he could swear Sam was in the room, right there with him. But then he spoke again, and he could feel Sam's hand on his arm.
“Tommy? Tommy, it's Sam, c'mon, fella, give us a nod if you can hear me.”
Tom looked up at him and wondered what he was standing on to make him seem so tall. Maybe he had grown. “You're taller, Sam,” Tom mumbled, looking up at him appraisingly.
“Taller? You're a funny one. That's all you can think to say?”
Tom screwed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples. “Give me a minute, I'll do better.”
“I hope so. You've given everyone a scare, Thomas,” Sam said, sitting on the side of the bed.
“Didn't mean to.”
“I suppose not, but what the hell were you thinking goin' up against Finney and Venkman alone?”
Tom's eyes jacked open in a hurry. “Don't worry, the papers are callin' it like they killed each other,” Sam said, laying a hand on Tom's shoulder.
“The papers! Oh, Christ.” Tom rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. His head was pounding.
“It's all over today's papers, sure. And wouldn't you know it, they're quoting Coffin on the need to clean up the gaming parlors. Let's see if I can remember the exact quote. It went something like,”The vilest elements of society are sucking the life blood from the heart of this city. Together we will stamp out this scourge and make the streets safe for our women and children,” or something like that. Very high minded, very noble, very Coffin. You'll get a chuckle out of it. The
Trib
carried the whole thing. Him and Coogan are doing their best to keep a lid on and keep the press from gettin' too inquisitive. Very inspiring.”
Trib
carried the whole thing. Him and Coogan are doing their best to keep a lid on and keep the press from gettin' too inquisitive. Very inspiring.”
“But, Sam, why do you think I hadâ”
Sam held up a hand, giving Tom a stern look that said he wasn't buying a word. “Stop right there, Tommy. This is your old pal. Don't be shovelin' shit on my shoes,” he said gruffly. “Just shut your yap. I'm on your side, remember?”
“Sorry, Sam. Not thinkin' straight.”
“I'll say. It's not Byrnes you're talkin' to. By the way, you look like shit, so I forgive ya.” Sam patted Tom's shoulder.
“Damn! My cats. I got to feed 'em. It's been two days.” Tom started to throw a leg over the side of the bed and raise himself up.
“Hold on there, cowboy. Relax, I fed 'em this morning. Mrs. Aurelio let me in. Seemed real happy to see me, I can tell you. They're fine, the furballs.”
Tom seemed genuinely relieved. Sam almost laughed out loud; here Tom was, all busted up, in a world of hurt, and he's worried about his cats.
“Thanks, Sam,” Tom said gratefully. “Seems I'm doin' that a lot lately.”
“What?”
“Saying thanks.” Tom was quiet for a moment. He looked at his swollen hand; turning it this way and that, like a piece of evidence. “Sam, does Mary know?”
“If yer askin' me if I told her, the answer is no. Not my place to get between you on something like this. She's no fool, Tom. She'll put it together if she hasn't already.” Tom seemed to chew on that, so Sam ventured on.
“Tom, I know you didn't ask ⦠but if you
was
to ask my advice, I'd say to be straight with her. She's too good a woman to risk tellin' tales to.”
was
to ask my advice, I'd say to be straight with her. She's too good a woman to risk tellin' tales to.”
“Yeah. I know ⦠but I'm worried about her. If it gets ugly with Coffin, I don't want anything to blow back on her,” Tom said with a frown. This was a real concern. Coffin wouldn't hesitate to strike at Mary if he thought it would serve his purposes.
“Tom, what Coffin does or don't do is his affair. Not much you can do about it. But bein' straight with Mary ⦠well, that's all you.”
“I suppose. Hell, I know you're right. Mary deserves the truth.”
“Tommy, ah ⦠I got to tell you, Coffin ain't happy.”
Tom laughed with a sarcastic twist to his mouth, his stitches pulling. Tom could imagine just how unhappy Coffin was.
“No shit? What'd he say?”
“Just wanted to know where you was.” Sam shrugged. “Told him I didn't know. Held him for a while, but not long. He turned up here an hour or so ago. Mary wouldn't let him see you.”
Tom nodded, putting the pieces together. “That was the commotion downstairs.”
“Yeah. I was here, but I hid out till he was gone. I gotta tell you, Tom, that Mary's somethin'.” Sam's voice was full of admiration. “Stood up to Coffin like he was no more'n a night-soiler. Told him you weren't well enough and that's that.”
“That's Mary. She's hard when she has to be ⦠soft when she wants to be,” Tom said with his eyes closed, but there was a big grin on his face. “Damndest woman I ever knew. She's got her own mind and a tongue like a rasp when she's crossed, but ⦠she can be as sweet as new butter.”
“Well, she let him have it.” Sam gave a low whistle. “Don't think he liked it much.”
“I've seen her get her back up,” Tom said with a knowing smile.
Sam looked at Tom appraisingly. “He'll be back, you know.”
Tom just nodded, the smile leaving his lips.
“Oh, ah ⦠did you cover for me with Byrnes?” Tom asked hopefully, realizing suddenly that he'd have some awkward explaining to do if Sam hadn't.
“Yeah. Told him you was sick. Had the doctor write up a note that said you're dyin'.”
Tom nodded his thanks. He knew he could always count on Sam. “Great. I'll be back in a week, good as new. Got to deal with Coffin first. Put a lid on that situation.”
Sam grinned. “You're gonna keep a lid on Coffin. You're a funny one.”
“Like to close the goddamn lid on him.” Tom growled. “You know Finney and Venkman were crazy bastards, but I don't think they would've come at me unless ⦠well ⦔
“Unless they had Coffin's blessing.” Sam finished the sentence for him. “Thought crossed my mind.”
“They were already paying Coogan,” Tom said, watching Sam closely for his reaction. Sam knew as well as anyone how the system worked.
The surprise was clear on Sam's face. “No shit? Don't like the sound of that. That don't add up. You think Coffin would really set you up? Didn't think things were
that
bad between you and him.”
that
bad between you and him.”
“I didn't either. He was laying it on a bit heavy that morning, but I didn't think ⦠Hell, I don't know.” Tom thought for a moment, but his brain still felt fuzzy, and his brain felt like it was slopping around inside his skull when he moved. “He put me in that situation ⦠I know that. He knew damn well what the score was, and he must have known the Dutchman would be there. Maybe Coffin wanted me to get taught a little lesson. Let the Dutchman do the dirty work. Maybe it just got out of hand, and they went farther than Coffin wanted. I'd like to believe that, but ⦔
“Any light you shine on it puts Coffin in the shadows, Tommy,” Sam said with an appraising twist of his mouth.
Tom sighed. He was starting to tire and his stomach needed something in it more substantial than tea and toast.
“Gonna be more trouble. Coffin won't let it lie.”
Sam nodded. “I'll back you as far as I can. You might need some backin' if this gets out of hand.”
The door opened, and Mary came in with a tray.
“Praise God. You must have read my mind,” Tom said.
Mary looked at him straight and serious. “Of course, Tom, that's what I do. In fact, I know your every thought. I can peer around inside that banged-up head of yours anytime I please and read what's in there like chalk on slate.” A little smile started at the corners of her mouth. “Of course, there's usually not much to read.”
Tom groaned but couldn't hide the grin sneaking around the corners of his mouth. “You just wait. Makin' fun of an injured man, staring at death's door ⦠you should be ashamed of yourself. When my head stops pounding, I'll get you.”
“And I intend to be got, Tom Braddock.” Mary's smile lit the room.
God, she was beautiful, Tom thought.
Sam got up. “Well, got to get going. I'll stop in tomorrow.” He stuck out his hand and they shook. “Glad to see you're doin' better, Tommy.”
“Sam ⦠thanks and ⦠thanks for taking care of Grant and Lee.”
“No trouble. You saved my bacon once or twice. Least I can do is feed your cats. Grant and Lee.” Sam shook his head. “You are a pip, Tommy. I'll see ya.” He gave them an awkward little wave, kissed Mary a quick good-bye, and said something to her that Tom didn't catch.
“He's a good friend,” Mary said as Sam clumped down the stairs. She was getting to like Sam almost as much as Tom did, especially during the last two days.
“Yeah. Like brothers sometimes. It's a little strange, not another man in the city I can count on more.”
Mary set the tray down on a table near the bed and lifted the cover from a soup bowl. The steam rose, filling the room with a wonderful air of rich broth, chicken, vegetables, and spices. Tom's stomach growled, but his mind wasn't on his stomach.
“Mary, you know I killed those two men,” he said abruptly.
Mary looked at him with soft, sad eyes, eyes that had seen more than their share of sadness. “I know, Tommy.”
Tom rushed on trying to explain where no explanation was necessary. His temples throbbed. He tried to tell he didn't have a choice, that it was their lives or his.
Mary hung her head, her long raven hair covering her face. After a time she raised her face to him, her sad eyes shining. “Tommy, don't.” It was almost as if his words had hurt her. “You don't need to explain, not to me.”
“But you deserve to know I'm notâ”
“Tommy, don't you understand? You don't have to explain to me. I know what you are and what you're not. You're not a man that could take a life without cause.” She paused, looking into his eyes. “It hurts me to think you don't know that.”
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