Suspension (49 page)

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Authors: Richard E. Crabbe

BOOK: Suspension
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“Do I see a smile on your face, Master Bucklin?” Mrs. Greable's voice cut through Mike's daydream like vinegar in tea. “Do you have something to smile about?”
Mike was too horrified to speak. He thought for an instant that she had somehow read his mind.
“I should think not. Why don't you share your private little joke with the rest of the class, you nincompoop? This way we'll all have a good laugh.”
Mike stuck to his silence like a life preserver.
“No? Nothing to share?” she asked sarcastically. “Well, you'll be staying after class then for a little extra work, Master Bucklin. Now get back to your seat and not another peep out of you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Greable,” he said as glumly as only a ten-year-old can. Extra work usually meant writing something on the blackboard fifty times. It was a chore he was getting used to.
Mike sat at his desk. It had an ink pot in one corner with a brass lid that he liked to play with. He didn't do that now. Some of the other kids looked at him and whispered to each other. He heard a whispered “poop” from one of the boys. Maybe if he busted a head or two they'd leave him alone. That's how Smokes would handle a situation like this. Smokes did more talking with his knuckles than any other kid he knew. Sometimes he solved things that way, sometimes he didn't. Smokes had told him to knock a few teeth in, and that would be the end of anyone calling him Poop. As much as he wanted to whip the tar out of one or two of the other boys, Mike figured that would only make things worse and it sure wasn't the way to get to the circus.
Mike was glad that Smokes, Mouse, and some of the other kids had been easy on him for going back to school. So long as he ran with them in the afternoons, he was still okay. He was feeling different, though, and it wasn't just the miserableness. He couldn't put a finger on it just as yet. He just felt different somehow from the kids on the street. The last few days had been tough, and he hated the way the teacher and the kids made him feel, but some of the stuff they were doing was fun. Even though he was behind the others, he drank things up like a dog on a hot day. He thought about Gramps and Grandma as one of the other kids wrote spelling words on the blackboard. The chalk squeaked like the brakes on the El. Gramps wasn't doing too well now. He wasn't getting out of bed anymore. It was sometime last week since he'd seen Gramps walk. He would be going to see Da real soon, he guessed. Mike wished he could see his da too.
C
offin and Coogan sat at a back table in a dimly lit bar just two blocks from the Third Precinct. August was triumphant. He drained his beer, calling for another round a second later. When the barmaid had delivered them and left them alone, Coffin lifted his dripping mug in a mocking toast, saying, “I told you it would work! Braddock was pounding on my door yesterday morning like a whipped dog.” Coffin's smile lit up the room. “The man was almost in tears on my doorstep, all weepy over his whore. I knew it would hit him where it hurts. He sat in my goddamn study and practically begged me to take him back in and to help Mary out with Parker. I told you that was his goddamn weak spot, didn't I?” Coffin exulted, barely able to contain his triumph.
“No denying it, August. You have his Achilles' heel. So … what did he say?” Coogan asked, leaning forward in schoolboy anticipation.
“Well, like I said, he looked like shit when I answered the door. He comes into my parlor and just flat out tells me he needs my help. He must have had to swallow pretty hard to get all his pride down, but he managed it.”
“Really? Did he suspect it was us behind the raid on Mary's?”
“I don't think so. He was playing it like it was all out of the Sixteenth. Told me the whole story, said he needed to get Mary fixed up, her place back in business, and help getting Parker off her back. Sounded sincere enough. Gave no apologies for his earlier bullshit but, being in a magnanimous mood, I let it slide by.”
“That's it?” Coogan asked, knowing there had to be more. He'd known for weeks that Coffin had to be up to something to want Braddock back so badly. He was a patient man, though. He could wait.
“He says the place was busted up, which I hope it was,” August went on. “He wanted to get some money to help Mary set herself up again. I gave him a few hundred to cement the deal,” he said nonchalantly. A few hundred was more than the average cop could make in four months.
“Sounds almost too easy. You think he was straight with you? I mean, I doubt that Mary was short on funds.”
Coffin seemed to consider this. “He was upset and worried, like he really did need my help, which of course he did. If he hadn't come, it would have just gone worse for Mary.”
Coogan made no comment at first, then said suspiciously, “Reason I asked if he was straight was my man Zimmer, the one that was watching the hospital?”
Coffin looked up, one eyebrow raised in a question.
“He followed Braddock on his way to your place. Got jumped. He thinks it was Braddock, though he couldn't be certain. Short story is Zimmer's in New York Hospital now. Kind of funny actually. He's just a floor above Mary,” Coogan said with a wry grin.
“He going to be okay?” August asked with no real concern.
“Pissing blood. Some bruises and scrapes. He'll live, but he's not ready to do the steeplechase either.”
“Probably his own fault. Braddock had no way of knowing who it was. He doesn't know Zimmer, does he?” August asked, twirling his pencil as he thought this over.
“Not as far as I know.” Coogan shrugged.
August grunted in response. “Braddock's nobody to take chances with. He wasn't in the mood for any shenanigans last night either. He was plenty mad under all that repentant stuff. But he wanted to help Mary and he knew damn well I was the one could do it for him.”
Coogan sipped his beer and stared idly at the photographs lining the walls of the bar. “So what's the plan for our prodigal son? Does everything go back to normal—all is forgiven—or are you planning something else?” Coogan asked finally, impatient to hear what Coffin had in mind. There had to be a plan.
“Well, actually, I rather like the prodigal son analogy,” Coffin smiled contentedly. Did Coogan guess his real motives? Coogan was no dummy, and they'd been working closely for years, so August figured he'd have suspicions. He decided to play it out a bit longer, keep Coogan guessing.
“Braddock's had some hard times, but now that he's seen which side of the street the sun's shining on, he deserves a break. No, that's not accurate,” he corrected himself. “He needs to be treated like a real prodigal son. You know, show him there's no hard feelings, turn on the money tap so he'll have to carry it home in buckets. I want to make him see he's done the right thing. Let him know how good things can be,” Coffin said grandly.
“So … no grudge, August?” Coogan asked, knowing that Coffin could hold a grudge longer than most when it suited him.
“It might surprise you to hear … but I wouldn't call it that. I know Tommy, you see. He's got principles, and that's what he acts on.” He gave a small shrug. “It's his little curse, his … cross to bear. He's pretty predictable, really, so nothing he did surprised me. Just his nature.” Coffin turned even more philosophical, staring into his glass. “Do you hold a grudge against a dog that barks or a fish that swims? It's in their nature to do those things. I might want the dog to stop barking but I can't begrudge him doing it. See what I mean?”
“Well, I don't know about dogs and fish, August, but what I think you've got is a big old bear. If I were you, I'd be careful for a while … be sure he's house-broke. Might have a notion to take your head off,” Coogan warned, the caution plain. “Who could blame him? It's a bear's nature.”
Coffin gave a strained laugh, trying to show a confidence he didn't feel.
Coogan watched, growing tired of dancing around. “So … what's the play, August?”
Coffin eyed his partner over the top of his mug. He figured Coogan had just about enough suspense, so he put the beer down with a satisfied sigh. “Well, the play, as you put it, is really kind of simple. I think you'll like it, though.” For the next ten minutes, August went over the bare bones. It really was simple, elegant too. It would make them rich beyond anything they had. known before and vault them into positions of real power. The possibilities seemed endless as Coffin painted his picture of their future. The palette was all glowing pastels. Once he was finished he could see Coogan was as entranced as he was.
“Holy shit!” was all Coogan said, before he took an oversized gulp from his dripping mug.
“So you see, from here on out, Braddock gets treated like a fatted calf,” Coffin concluded. “The slaughter can wait,” he added, grinning.
The bridge is a marvel of beauty viewed from the
level of the river. In looking at its vast stretch, not
only over the river between the towers, but over the
inhabited, busy city shore, it appears to have a character
of its own far above the drudgeries and exactions
of the lower business levels.
—
SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN
T
om was amazed at how fast the last few weeks had gone. Mary had gotten out of the hospital in three days, and by the end of the next week her place was back together and her girls satisfying almost as many customers as before. Mary, of course, had to cancel her regular appointments for a while, which put a sizable dent in her income, but she wasn't complaining. In fact, she seemed happier than she'd ever been. Still, she had reminders of the beating. Her eye was still dark around the edges, though the swelling had disappeared. Her ribs ached and her arm sent off pulsing balls of pain whenever she had it out of the sling for more than a few minutes. But those were just physical things. They would pass. Tom thought that in some way he couldn't really define, Mary had never looked better. It almost made him have second thoughts about Coffin.
As Tom went with Jaffey for another workout with Master Kwan, he wondered about that. The last few weeks had been good with Coffin too. In fact, things hadn't ever been better. His payoffs were back on schedule. August had even cut him in on a couple of new deals, giving him a percentage on some policy games Coffin was protecting. The dirty work that usually went with being a member of the corps had been almost nonexistent. Coffin had been going easy on him, he knew. The hard edge to the man was back in hiding during their “all's forgiven” honeymoon. Things were so good now, the money flowing, the work easy, the pressure lighter than air, it was almost hard to think about retribution—almost. Tom had to keep reminding himself not to be taken in. He knew the man. He was being wooed, fattened for something. He
was sure of it. Things were too good, the money too easy. Something was coming and though Coffin gave him no reason to be uneasy, that was the very reason he was.
It was the workouts that kept him focused. Master Kwan even commented on how his dedication had improved. Jaffey too was doing well and seemed to genuinely enjoy the work.
“Never felt better in my life, Tom. I'm sore half the time but it's a good kind of sore. Feel like I can handle myself better too,” he'd commented after yesterday's workout.
Tom had other reasons for going to Chinatown. While working, stretching, and sparring had kept his mind clear and his body sharp, it also gave him a physical outlet for the anger that still boiled deep in his gut. Every time Coffin smiled or slapped him on the back or gave him a fat envelope full of greenbacks, Tom reminded himself of what the man really was and what he'd so easily arranged for the woman he loved. The workouts were a focus for his anger and an outlet. He had to restrain himself sometimes when he sparred. He'd hurt a couple of the other students by putting Coffin's head on their bodies. Master Kwan had admonished him more than once for it.
But there was another reason for Tom's dedication. He'd had talks with Wei Kwan, lasting long after their workouts were over. Master Kwan knew who had to be seen if certain things needed to get done. He was respected, even revered in that part of the city. The master could be very helpful in Chinatown. Tom had told him all there was to tell about his problems with Coffin. The master was a good listener, only occasionally asking a question. But the questions were always probing, seeking the whys and hows of a problem. Tom always felt like an onion after a talk with Wei Kwan. They would sit for hours, the master peeling back layers. Yes and no were rarely used and not respected.
“There is no love for your Captain Coffin among the Tung people, Tommy,” Wei Kwan had assured Braddock.
Tom wasn't sure of a lot of things but he was certain when he said, pointing to his chest, “There is no love for him here either, Master. Perhaps there is a solution here to both our problems.”
Wei Kwan simply nodded, revealing nothing. Tom didn't push. He knew better than that. He was taken seriously. Words were said into the right ears.
T
he last of the invitations had been sent, nearly all the arrangements made. The invitations were beautifully engraved by Tiffany's. The list included the president, the governor, the mayors of Brooklyn and New York, congressmen,
trustees, and nearly a thousand more. Emily took a hand in everything. At one point Wash had considered going to the opening ceremonies, but he was afraid he wouldn't be able to last through all the speeches that were planned. It would be bad form for the chief engineer to have to leave during the ceremonies. Emily instead brought the celebration to him. It was to be the grandest reception ever held in Brooklyn. The house would be festooned with bunting, filled with flowers, music, fine foods, and the most powerful and influential people in the land. Emily, with the help of some of her closest friends, saw to it all.
She thought back to the day, a couple of weeks ago, when she had made the first official crossing of the bridge in a vehicle. Once the roadway was complete, she had ridden in their brand-new Victoria to test the bridge. Again the honor had gone to her to be first—first for her and first for her husband. It had not been President Arthur, or Governor Cleveland, or any other of the high and mighty, it had been Emily. Countless millions of others would pass over the river in the years to come, but only one was first. For as long as the bridge would stand, the name of Roebling would always be first. She had carried a rooster as a symbol of victory. It sat calmly in her lap as she crossed, its black eyes giving no clue to what it might have felt. It had been a landmark day for her and though there was still much to do at that point, the main work of the bridge was behind them. Tom's friend Sam had been right, Emily thought to herself. This was a kind of immortality. She had always had a sense of the importance of what she and Wash were doing, but she hadn't thought of it quite that way before. Now that the end was near and the final reality of what they had accomplished was seeping in, she began to see it that way too.
In a way it was better than being president of the United States. Presidents were elected and unelected. Rarely did they last more than four years. The bridge would still be there spanning the river when fifty presidents had passed into history. Only one name would ever be tied to it, one name but three people: one dead, one disabled, one triumphant, Roeblings all.
I
t had been their first major setback—that is, if they didn't count the whole Bucklin affair a setback. Nothing Matt had said to his foreman, no argument he'd used, had shown even the slightest chance of bending the U.S. Illuminating Company or anyone on the engineering staff to their plan.
“Just get back to work, Emmons,” his foreman had told him roughly after his third try at convincing him of the need for extra wire. “Keep your fool ideas to yourself. Got a contract here. Ain't no altering it. Just do what you're told an' keep your pie-hole shut.”
“What the hell we gonna do?” he'd whispered to Earl when he'd gone back to work. “Can't even get the man to hear me out.”
Earl shrugged. “Best get crackin'.” He nodded in the foreman's direction “He's watchin'.”
Other attempts at catching the ear of anyone in authority had proven no more fruitful. The captain had shouted, slamming his fist onto his desk, ranting for a good ten minutes when he learned of the stone wall they'd run into. The next meeting had been taken up with nothing else. Ideas flew like snow in February, most of them with little more substance than a snowflake. Different methods, different arguments, different people to approach had been agreed upon, but to no avail. Everyone they talked to rejected the idea. Matt and Earl knew they'd have to give it up or risk drawing too much attention. It wouldn't do to have their motives questioned, especially when there appeared no chance of success. The roadblock had set off a virtual panic in the group. No one wanted to take the risk of running hundreds of yards of wire at night once the bridge was open for traffic. What they finally agreed upon pleased none of them and was risky as hell. But none of them could come up with anything better. No one was about to volunteer to detonate the charges from out on the bridge either. Suicide was not in anyone's plan.
While the wiring crisis had thrown them an unexpected curve, other elements were proceeding exactly as hoped. The Rendrock Powder Company, of 240 Broadway, had delivered the crates this morning. They sat in the small warehouse that the captain rented for Dunn & Scrivner's use. Everything they needed was there: Rackarock blasting powder, basically dynamite with some small variations in ingredients, packed into foot-long red tubes about an inch in diameter; detonator caps; wire; the plunger-style dynamo that supplied the electrical charge; and various other necessary items. The captain was pleased that they had been able to find an explosives manufacturer close by. It simplified matters and reduced expenses. A stack of smaller boxes held slabs of artist's clay: big, moldable, sticky bricks of it perfect for forming around odd-shaped surfaces. Over the next week, the team would work at packaging individual charges, measuring and cutting wire and color-coding it to correspond to various points on the span. Last, they would allot a certain amount of clay to each.
They had already done three dry runs on the bridge. With a stopwatch they'd gone from one cable connection to the next, allowing twenty seconds at each to plant the charges. Of course, during the workday they couldn't do much more than walk from one spot to the next with a watch in their hands, but it gave them focus and a sense of timing. One part they couldn't practice without drawing too much attention was the actual running of the wires to the
individual charges. They had to be strung out of sight. The wires running to the charges on the upstream cable had to run under the roadway as well. Stringing them over the roadway would make them far too obvious. Earl had volunteered to be the one to cross beneath the roadway, the most dangerous task in the whole affair. Over the last couple of weeks he had taken every opportunity he could to hang from precarious positions while on the job.
“Gets my hands strong fer hangin' off that beam,” he said, “and it gets my head used to the idea … stomach too. That's the hard part,” he admitted. “It's a long ways down. Real soberin'.” “Even when the head's willin' sometimes things start to flyin' around in my gut, so's I can barely set one foot before t'other. Gittin' used to it, though. I'll be all right come demolition time.”
Matt sensed there was another reason why Earl had stepped forward for that duty. Earl knew that Matt didn't have the stomach for it. Whether it was Earl's way of sparing his old friend a real hardship, or whether it was just because he knew he could perform the task quicker, Matt wasn't sure. He was grateful Earl had volunteered either way.
Sullivan and Lincoln hadn't been idle either. Careful measurements had been taken to estimate the amount of wire they'd need. They'd climbed the main cables, pacing off the distances while doing their jobs. They'd practiced clambering up the big cables as fast as they could go. They even made a race of it, amusing the others as they ran up the cables to the top and back down again. To the riggers it was a big game. To Pat and Jus it was valuable practice and deadly serious. They even practiced carrying packs loaded with a weight equal to the charges and wire they'd carry. They tried not to give much thought to what they were about to do.
T
om, Eli, Pat, and Charlie sat glumly in the back of the squad room. The chart they had started weeks before was not much more complete than when they'd begun. With the exception of Watkins's box, with a big line now drawn through it, not much had changed. The box with the word “key” in it had lines extending to Bucklin, Watkins, and a box marked “trains.” Pat and Charlie had come up empty when they searched Lebeau's and Emmons's rooms. There was nothing concrete to tie the two to whatever was going on. There was no solid lines to those boxes.
Tom looked at the clipping with the article about the trains once more, skimming it again for anything he might have missed. He almost had it memorized. He knew all about the steam engines, the cable cars and tracks, their schedule, everything. It was badly frayed around the edges. A large coffee stain colored one corner. There had been hardly a day gone by over the last
few weeks that he hadn't thought of it. He kept it in his pocket, a constant reminder. More like a burr under his saddle, he thought.
“Been weeks now, boys, and I'm getting damn tired of reporting nothing to the chief,” Tom grumbled. “He hasn't put much pressure on me but you know Byrnes. A wave of his cigar can say more than the Gettysburg Address. His patience has limits. We need to turn up something or we're gonna find out where that limit is.”
Pat Dolan pulled at the corners of his mustache. “I don't know. We've been staring at ledgers and contracts, invoices, bills of lading, accounts payable records, canceled checks, and a slew of other shit till the numbers are swimming on the page. Can't put our fingers on a damn thing,” he said with a dispirited shrug.
“What about the contractors these men might have come in contact with?” Tom asked, grasping for anything new to tell Byrnes.

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