Suspension (47 page)
Authors: Richard E. Crabbe
“Tommy, promise me you won't do anything,” Mary said, pleading.
Tom looked at her, his face dark and purposeful. He was not to be denied. “Tell me,” he said flatly. “I won't have you busted up like this and do nothing. What kind of man would I be?” he asked, knowing the answer. “They busted up your place too, right?” He'd seen those kinds of raids before.
Mary tried to reason with him. “This isn't about you, Tom.” Though she knew with perfect clarity that it was. “It's not about whether you can defend me or not. And my place ⦠?” Mary was quiet for a moment, thinking of herself more than her place. “There's nothing broken that can't be fixed.”
Tom was getting tired of her trying to protect him. She didn't really have to say the name. He knew.
“It was Coffin's boys, wasn't it? He's behind this. Should've seen it right away.” He could see the confirmation in her eyes. “That son of a bitch!”
Mary clutched at his arm with her good hand. “I think so,” she said in a small voice. “I heard them talking.”
“Fuck
! That son of a bitch!” Tom almost shouted. He got up, a huge black silhouette looming against the flannel-gray light outside. His black hands looked like sledgehammers clenched at his sides.
! That son of a bitch!” Tom almost shouted. He got up, a huge black silhouette looming against the flannel-gray light outside. His black hands looked like sledgehammers clenched at his sides.
Mary had feared this more than anything. He'd kill Coffin if she wasn't able to control him.
“Tommy,
no! You can't solve anything that way,” she pleaded. “They'll be waiting for you too.” She tried to appeal to his logical side. “There's other ways to handle this.”
no! You can't solve anything that way,” she pleaded. “They'll be waiting for you too.” She tried to appeal to his logical side. “There's other ways to handle this.”
“Not for me, not this. That bastard won't face me himself, so he hits at you!” Tom said in a low, almost incredulous growl. “He's gonna find out what it means to be hit. I
guarantee
he won't like it.” Tom started for the door, a shadow blacker than the night. He was in a rage that took him out of himself, a blinding state of limited thought and unlimited action. How much of it was a residual guilt from his dream of Emily he couldn't know, but it clung to him like cheap perfume. Nothing Mary could say was going to stop him, so she said the only thing left to say.
guarantee
he won't like it.” Tom started for the door, a shadow blacker than the night. He was in a rage that took him out of himself, a blinding state of limited thought and unlimited action. How much of it was a residual guilt from his dream of Emily he couldn't know, but it clung to him like cheap perfume. Nothing Mary could say was going to stop him, so she said the only thing left to say.
“I love you, Tommy.”
He stopped at that, his hand on the doorknob. In two heartbeats he was back at her side, holding her so close it made her ribs ache. “I love you too, Mary. Always.”
She felt the tension in him as he said that, the rage below the words, the frustration. She held him tighter despite her ribs.
“But I have to go.”
“Tommy, don't.” She tried again. “Even if you kill him ⦠and his men don't kill you ⦠they'll hang you for it. There's no winning.” She could see that none of this was working. Tom wasn't thinking. He was acting on some instinctive level. His eyes just glazed over when she talked of the consequences.
“I'm going.” He kissed her one last time. This time he rose and left quickly, afraid she might stop him again.
Mary wished she could cry. She wished she could slap some sense into him. Tom was running out to throw away his life and their future with it. But when she cried her ribs hurt so badly it took her breath away. So the tears ran down her cheeks in silent little rivers. The stabbing pain in her side was to her the death of hope and of heart.
S
triking at Mary made it not just business anymore. This was
personal
. Coffin had made the mistake of his life if he thought that something like this could put the reins back on him, Tom thought. Coffin would pay and to hell with the consequences. The fact that Coffin was a captain of police meant nothing. The fact that his little corps of men were probably ready for him meant nothing. Tom's rage was like some force of nature, swirling blowing and crashing inside his head, obliterating everything in its path, blotting out all reason,
logic, and caution. Right now it focused on blotting out Coffin. Tom's shoes echoed down the tiled corridor like a metronome. They fell fast and heavy.
triking at Mary made it not just business anymore. This was
personal
. Coffin had made the mistake of his life if he thought that something like this could put the reins back on him, Tom thought. Coffin would pay and to hell with the consequences. The fact that Coffin was a captain of police meant nothing. The fact that his little corps of men were probably ready for him meant nothing. Tom's rage was like some force of nature, swirling blowing and crashing inside his head, obliterating everything in its path, blotting out all reason,
logic, and caution. Right now it focused on blotting out Coffin. Tom's shoes echoed down the tiled corridor like a metronome. They fell fast and heavy.
T
om knew where Coffin lived, over on Thirty-sixth Street, near Lexington. There were no cabs in sight, so he set off on foot. It was the walk that saved him. The streets were deserted. Nothing moved, no horsecars were in sight, no carriages or pedestrians. Tom walked the streets alone, in an alternating dream of blackness and light. The gas lamps cast pools of artificial day and reason somehow seemed stronger in their bright circles, but there were black gulfs between, gulfs where rage and madness ruled. As he strode from one pool of light to the next on those blackened sleeping streets, the light slowly started to seep in and the light was Mary.
om knew where Coffin lived, over on Thirty-sixth Street, near Lexington. There were no cabs in sight, so he set off on foot. It was the walk that saved him. The streets were deserted. Nothing moved, no horsecars were in sight, no carriages or pedestrians. Tom walked the streets alone, in an alternating dream of blackness and light. The gas lamps cast pools of artificial day and reason somehow seemed stronger in their bright circles, but there were black gulfs between, gulfs where rage and madness ruled. As he strode from one pool of light to the next on those blackened sleeping streets, the light slowly started to seep in and the light was Mary.
He thought of the things she'd said, felt the things she hadn't. For perhaps the first time since the war, he started to think of someone else before himself. It was something he hadn't had much practice doing. But now, with his future and hers in the balance, he was compelled to. At first, he cursed in the darkness between the gas amps. Coffin had earned his death. He would deliver it. Terribly, swiftly, Coffin would finally reap what he had sown. That was a promise and a commitment that he'd not go back on. But as he thought of
his
Mary, for that was how he thought of her, his temper cooled. On that long echoing walk, his brain slowly started to take control. He needed a plan. He couldn't just knock on Coffin's door and shoot him in his pajamas, no matter how appealing that might be. He wanted to be with Mary for the rest of his life. The only way that could happen was if he was very smart about what he did in the next few minutes. His mind was working feverishly when he heard footsteps behind him.
his
Mary, for that was how he thought of her, his temper cooled. On that long echoing walk, his brain slowly started to take control. He needed a plan. He couldn't just knock on Coffin's door and shoot him in his pajamas, no matter how appealing that might be. He wanted to be with Mary for the rest of his life. The only way that could happen was if he was very smart about what he did in the next few minutes. His mind was working feverishly when he heard footsteps behind him.
It didn't really surprise him that he had been tailed. In the state he was in when he left the hospital, he wouldn't have noticed an army behind him. It only made sense for one of the corps to keep watch at the hospital. Tom was surprised it had taken him this long to wake up to it. He had just come to Thirty-fourth and Fifth. A. T. Stewart's marble mansion loomed on the opposite corner, a monument to the merchant prince. It was said that the place cost over $3 million. Stewart had razed Sarsaparilla Townsend's brownstone mansion just so he could build a bigger one of marble on the same spot. “Money to burn,” Tom thought absently. A quick glance over his shoulder showed his tail had stopped half a block back to loiter in a doorway. He didn't like being tailed. He didn't care who it was, whether he knew him or not, whether they had gotten drunk together or not. He'd have to put a stop to it. Nobody was going to tail him and get away with it.
Tom crossed Thirty-fourth and walked up Fifth past Stewart's mansion, then trotted quickly across Fifth on Thirty-fifth, and out of sight of his pursuer. He heard the footsteps before he saw his man hurrying to catch up. From the blackness on the side of a brownstone's front stairs, he waited as his quarry hustled past. Tom didn't recognize him. It didn't matter. Tom sprang out behind the man with his best speed and stealth. The cop was alert, though, and the scrape of Tom's shoe brought him around in a backhanded swipe as Tom closed in. A heavy sap whistled over Tom's head as he ducked. An instant later Tom's right drove into the cop's side. It landed just below the ribs, and Tom was rewarded with a sickening
whoof
of pain as his man doubled over. He caught a halfhearted swing of the sap with his left, then chopped down on the exposed neck with his right. It felt good to watch the man go down. For all he knew this might have been the one who hit Mary.
whoof
of pain as his man doubled over. He caught a halfhearted swing of the sap with his left, then chopped down on the exposed neck with his right. It felt good to watch the man go down. For all he knew this might have been the one who hit Mary.
The cop was down, but a hand fumbled for his pistol as he lay on the sidewalk. Thinking of Mary, Tom kicked the cop in the ribs. He thought he heard something break. Tom bent over, reached under the man's jacket, and took his pistol.
“No hard feelings, sport,” Tom said without meaning it. In another five minutes, Braddock stood before Coffin's town house. He looked up at the double doors with their heavy brass knobs and knocker. He was going to enjoy this, he decided. A grim smile creased his lips but he wiped it away. It wouldn't do to smile right now, not with what he planned to do. The big brass knocker boomed through the house, shaking the front doors in their hinges.
And it is our own city which is to be forever famous
for possessing this greatest architectural and engineering
work of the continent and of the age.
for possessing this greatest architectural and engineering
work of the continent and of the age.
âTHOMAS KINSELLA
M
ary slept fitfully. Though her body yearned for it, her mind gave her no peace. Silent tears carved her cheeks. In the course of just a few hours she had lost nearly everything of value to her. Her business was in shambles. Her girls, whom she cared for like family, were in Jefferson Market jail cells. Her clients would probably not return anytime soon, if ever. And far, far worse was Tom. He had gone to throw his life away and their future with it. She had longed for that future. Its pull was irresistible. But he was sacrificing it for his pride and his stupid, manly honor. She thought she had loved him for those things. She wept in the dark, mourning the life they might have had.
ary slept fitfully. Though her body yearned for it, her mind gave her no peace. Silent tears carved her cheeks. In the course of just a few hours she had lost nearly everything of value to her. Her business was in shambles. Her girls, whom she cared for like family, were in Jefferson Market jail cells. Her clients would probably not return anytime soon, if ever. And far, far worse was Tom. He had gone to throw his life away and their future with it. She had longed for that future. Its pull was irresistible. But he was sacrificing it for his pride and his stupid, manly honor. She thought she had loved him for those things. She wept in the dark, mourning the life they might have had.
It wasn't that she didn't want Coffin to pay for what he'd done. He deserved a savage beating at the very least. But as much as Mary might have wanted Coffin to suffer, she knew it was useless to try. If his private army didn't get Tom, the law surely would. Mary didn't imagine there was any clause in police regulations permitting the beating of captains. If Tom was lucky enough to live, he'd be spending the next few years on Blackwell's Island. He might not survive that either. Mary had no doubt about Coffin's reach extending into that place. Tom had put plenty of men there over the years. He'd be living among a crowd who'd like nothing better than to see him dead.
It wasn't worth it, none of it. Coffin could go on living a long and happy life for all Mary cared. He could become police commissioner, or mayor. It
didn't matter. He could feel he'd won, take pride in punishing her and Tom and bringing him to heel. What did it matter, so long as Tom and she were together. They could go anywhere, San Francisco or Chicago, anywhere they could rebuild their lives. That didn't seem possible now. Chelsea held her hand through her mourning night. Mary must have fallen asleep like that, surrendering at last to exhaustion. She woke with a little start. The hand in hers stroked her fingers, a soothing, healing caress. Her right eye opened halfway. The left one, swollen shut, didn't open at all. Through the sand of her sleep, the half awake world took on a bleary cast. Her room was gray. The black of night had fled to the corners and behind the bed. Chelsea stroked her hand, caressing her back to a painless sleep. Chelsea's big strong fingers seemed to cradle her little hand like a broken bird, calming, soothing. In her half sleep Mary imagined the hand was much bigger than Chelsea's. It seemed half again too big. A lazy eye opened to resolve the disparity and put her maid back into proper perspective.
didn't matter. He could feel he'd won, take pride in punishing her and Tom and bringing him to heel. What did it matter, so long as Tom and she were together. They could go anywhere, San Francisco or Chicago, anywhere they could rebuild their lives. That didn't seem possible now. Chelsea held her hand through her mourning night. Mary must have fallen asleep like that, surrendering at last to exhaustion. She woke with a little start. The hand in hers stroked her fingers, a soothing, healing caress. Her right eye opened halfway. The left one, swollen shut, didn't open at all. Through the sand of her sleep, the half awake world took on a bleary cast. Her room was gray. The black of night had fled to the corners and behind the bed. Chelsea stroked her hand, caressing her back to a painless sleep. Chelsea's big strong fingers seemed to cradle her little hand like a broken bird, calming, soothing. In her half sleep Mary imagined the hand was much bigger than Chelsea's. It seemed half again too big. A lazy eye opened to resolve the disparity and put her maid back into proper perspective.
The gray-lit room swam, blurry and colorless. Chelsea loomed large, her outline a massive, darker gray. A small frown sent a stab of pain through her swollen eye.
Mary stirred and focused. “Chelsea?”
“It's me, sweetheart. I'm here,” a voice said. Chelsea had never called her sweetheart before. She was so big in the dark. She'd never noticed how big Chelsea was. Mary began to imagine it wasn't her maid who held her hand. But that wasn't possible.
“Tommy?” she heard herself say. “Tommy?” His hand tightened on hers in a reassuring squeeze.
“Yeah, it's me,” Tom said softly, almost sheepishly. “Didn't expect to see me, did you?”
Mary jolted awake. For an instant she thought she might have dreamed the whole thing. Maybe he'd never gone to kill Coffin. Maybe he'd been here all along, holding her hand in the dark. But that was only for an instant.
“Tommy! You came back!” she croaked through dry lips. Though her voice was gravelly, the wonder and the relief were clear. It was a sweet reward to Tom, who knew then how right his choice had been.
“Where else would I go?” he replied softly.
“Don't play with me, you bastard,” she said with an anger she didn't feel. “What happened? You didn't ⦠?”
Tom shook his head slowly in answer. “Coffin is safe in bed. He won't be doing any dying just yet.” Tom's voice had an edge that didn't sound like kidding.
“What do you mean, âjust yet?'” she asked with a confused frown.
“Funny thing ⦔ Tom said, seemingly half in thought. “I'd be dead or in jail by now if it wasn't for you. I left here with nothing in my thick skull but killing that bastard. A roaring fire in the furnace and a full head of steam ⦠Coffin has you to thank he's still alive. Kind of ironic, actually,” Tom said with a twist to his mouth.
Mary still frowned. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“I'm telling you I love you. As if I ever had a doubt.”
“I'm not getting this ⦠. You're killing Coffin, you're not killing him yet. You love me. What are you ⦠?” She stumbled, putting a hand to her eyes. “I'm confused. I mean ⦠I love you too, you idiot, but I'm not following you at all.”
He gave her a patient smile, knowing he wasn't being as clear as he'd like. “It was you that stopped me,” he said. “I was gonna kill him. When I left, that was the only thing I could think to do. You stopped me, though.”
Mary shook her head again. “You keep saying that. How?”
“Mary ⦠it was for the love of you I held off killing Coffin. You were right. I was throwing away everything. I was just too ⦠fired up to see it. What we have together is too precious,” he whispered. “Worth so much more to me ⦠.”
“Oh, Tommy!” She hugged him till her ribs sent jolting icicles of pain through her side and her tears soaked through his shirt. “God, I'm so happy, I can't believe it. I've been thinking all sorts of terrible things tonight.”
They sat in silence, her hand in his.
At last he said quietly, “I'm not really all that good. I'm gonna make him pay, you know. He can't do what he did and get away with it.” His voice held a quiet intensity. “It's kind of funny actually. I asked him to loan me some money to help you out, fix up the place and things.”
Mary looked at him in shock. “I don't need his money. Why would I ⦔
“It's okay,” he interrupted. “I know. Besides, I'll never have to repay it. I know that much.”
Mary heard the hard edge in his voice but she asked anyway. “You sure about this? This is dangerous. You're talking about ⦠you're talking murder?” Mary didn't even like to use the word. She didn't like to think of Tom doing it either, not even to Coffin.
“Yeah, I guess that's what it's called,” Tom said evenly. “Not sure that's what's in the cards for the captain, though I gotta admit I'd enjoy it.” He smiled grimly. The sight sent a chill through Mary to see it. “Murder or not, Coffin's not gonna like it one little bit.”
L
ater that morning, as he climbed the steps to the Marble Palace, Tom thought about what he had told Mary. Maybe it would have been better if she didn't know. If anything went wrong the cops would be sure to question her. He could have just said he was going to do it and leave it at that. But he felt the need to be honest with her, to tell her everything. His risk was hers and hers his. One boat, two captains.
ater that morning, as he climbed the steps to the Marble Palace, Tom thought about what he had told Mary. Maybe it would have been better if she didn't know. If anything went wrong the cops would be sure to question her. He could have just said he was going to do it and leave it at that. But he felt the need to be honest with her, to tell her everything. His risk was hers and hers his. One boat, two captains.
“Mornin', boys.” Tom dragged himself over to a chair. Pat, Charlie, and Eli said nothing until he collapsed into it.
“You're late. Not like you,” Pat said.
“And you look like shit, if you don't mind me saying so,” Charlie added. “You see a bed at all last night?”
Tom shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. “Oh ⦠had a little excitement, is all. Don't make me tell you ⦠rather not. Just lost a little sleep.”
They took his words at face value. They trusted Tom enough to know that he'd tell them if it was something that was going to affect the case. Anything else wasn't worth worrying about.
They decided on what was to be done first, mainly which bridge and contractor record books they wanted to take a look at. It would be tedious work, like looking for a screw in a bucket of bolts. Pat and Charlie would go over to the bridge office first and get the process going. The first thing they'd do would be to find some record of what areas of the bridge Bucklin and Watkins had worked on. Tom reasoned that maybe he could tie them to some part of the train construction process: tracks, steam engines, terminals ⦠anything could be significant. It seemed a likely place to start, and it would narrow the search down to a smaller group of contractors.
They all knew this could be a huge waste of time. It could lead nowhere and, worse, it could lead them even further from the real conspiracy if it turned out they'd guessed wrong. But they had to make choices. They had to narrow their options and bring the case into focus. Without anything else to go on, all they could do was look for connections. Requesting service records was one route to that end. There was a definite connection there, tying Watkins to Lebeau and Emmons. Whether that would pay off or not, Tom didn't know. It all looked like wasted effort and always did in investigations like this, until they turned up those one or two kernels that broke it open. Those kernels were out there. They just needed to do some scratching in the chicken yard to find them. Besides, they needed to show Byrnes they were doing something.
Thinking of Byrnes, Tom said, “I'll catch up with you boys later. Got to report our ⦠progress.” The way Tom said “progress” there was little doubt of how much he thought there had been. He wasn't looking forward to the briefing.
Good morning, Chief, Tom said as he entered Byrnes's office a few minutes later. Byrnes's cigar smoke already hung still as morning mist. It swirled around Tom as he entered the room.
“Morning, Tom. How are you?” Tom could tell from his tone that it wasn't just a pleasantry.
“Fine, sir. Lost a little sleep, is all,” Tom said, hoping Byrnes didn't already know what had gone on last night. That hope was dashed a second later.
“I got the morning reports from the precincts. How's Mary?”
Tom took a deep breath and gave it to him straight. “She's pretty badly hurt, sir. Arm's broken ⦠maybe some ribs too. Her eye and face on one side are all swollen. She's tough, though, she'll be looking to get out of the hospital soon.”
Byrnes sighed, puffing his cigar as if it held the answer to his troubles. He looked at Tom in that very direct way of his, the waxed mustache bristling. “I want you to know, Tom, that I don't approve of such tactics. Sent a telegram to Parker expressing my ⦠disapproval.” Byrnes seemed about to say something else, so Tom waited. “I've asked that any charges against Mary be dropped. She's had it quite hard enough, I think.”
Tom was shocked. “Thank you, sir. Mary will be very grateful.” It was rare to see Byrnes interfere with the precinct captains. “And ⦠you have my thanks too. I appreciate it.”
Byrnes made a disparaging gesture with his cigar and a walruslike “Harumph.” “Let me know if there's anything else I can do. Don't think Mary will have any more trouble, though.” Coming from Byrnes, that was like a guarantee.
Tom thanked him again and went on to give his report. It wasn't much as reports went but Byrnes seemed happy with the direction they were headed. Tom showed him the clippings from Bucklin's box. Byrnes examined them closely, flipping the sheets over more than once, looking at everything on both sides. At last he murmured, “Something to do with the trains, eh?”
Tom agreed. “That was my best guess. It's the only way this points.”
“Don't like the feeling I get from this,” Byrnes said. “Caisson fire was ruled an accident, as I recall.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “This seems to be implying something else. Got nothing concrete on any of the others. Fucking picture of some smiling workers don't mean a damn thing. The devil's in the
details, Tom ⦠Looks like you'll have to do some digging on this one.” Byrnes handed the papers back to Tom.
details, Tom ⦠Looks like you'll have to do some digging on this one.” Byrnes handed the papers back to Tom.
“Yes, sir. Starting to look like a paper case for now.”
“Start with the trains, Tom. Sure as hell something going on. I want to know what.” He pointed his cigar stub at Tom. “And, Tom, take a half day, go see Mary. You should do that. Send flowers too,” he said with a smile. “Flowers lift the female spirit.” Tom was amazed for the second time. The chief wasn't one to dispense time off, nor advice on flowers.
“Thanks, sir, I'll do that.”
“And, Tom ⦔ Byrnes said, turning to shuffle papers on his desk. “Get some sleep. You look like hell.”
Tom grinned. “Happy to follow that order, Chief.”
Byrnes looked up, fixing a serious eye on Braddock. “One more thing ⦠Get things straight with Coffin. Got to be resolvedâno more dawdling on it, okay?”
“Already done,” Tom said in as positive a tone as he could muster.
“Good.” Byrnes slapped a fist into his palm. “Good, glad to hear it. Now ⦠out of here and get that case solved. Got my own work to do.”
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