Suspension

by Richard E. Crabbe

  “Ah … yes, so there’s eight each and, what, twenty-six cable connections we want to blow? So that’s a little over two hundred sticks. Now, that is not including the charges for the stays.”

  “What do they say it’ll take to blow them, Captain?”

  “Pat, the estimate is for twenty at each one of the pivot connections. That’s another forty total at each tower.”

  “What about the stays that run over the tower? They reach out farthest,” Sullivan asked.

  “Right,” the captain said, checking his notes. “Here it is. Ah … sixteen packed around them where they cross the saddle. Says we’ll need less there because the blast will be more contained.” Thad was grateful beyond measure to his backers in Richmond. Without them they’d be guessing at the charges.

  “We’ll need a light wagon, or a carriage, something like that,” Sullivan said, breaking into his thoughts.

  Thad had considered this already. “I’m thinking we should split up. Be less conspicuous. Use a carriage and a wagon. Drive onto the bridge from either side. Six men in one wagon at two in the morning might draw attention.”

  “Got a point, Cap’n,” Earl muttered.

  It was agreed that the captain and Jacobs would be the drivers. Neither had any experience working on the structure, and their presence would only be a hindrance.

  “So you’ll keep watch on either side for patrols?” Sullivan paused, thinking about this arrangement. “Won’t give us much of a warning if you have to hightail it back to center span. You’ll need to keep a sharp eye. Still and all, I think it’s a better use of a man than setting charges.” The discussion went on like that for some time. Any device to save time was examined closely. Everything from shoes with India-rubber soles, to how they might bundle charges beforehand, to color-coding and premeasurement of wire was discussed. Jacobs made up lists of what they’d need to buy over the next few weeks. It would take time to collect everything. They didn’t want to buy it all from one supplier.

  One idea that seemed to hold promise was something Earl came up with.

  “Y’all recall when we blew that trestle in—what was it, June ’64? Didn’t have nothin’ to tie the charges in place. Used clay from the riverbank. Remember that one?”

  “Sure. Blew that son of a bitch right out from under them! Worked damn good in a pinch.”

  Thaddeus remembered the incident too. He turned to Jacobs, saying, “Find out where we can get some clay in a color just like the paint on the bridge.”

  Jacobs grinned while he scribbled. They went on like that well into the night.

  The next morning Matt sidled up to the foreman on the electrical crew and tried planting the seed. It didn’t go quite as they had planned.

  Mike couldn’t remember when he had been quite so miserable. Even when he was in the basement of the Thirteenth Precinct, he didn’t think he felt so low. School was torture. His teacher, Mrs. Greable, was working him like a farmer whose mules had died. He was so far behind the rest of the class that he spent most of his time feeling stupid and red-faced. Mrs. Greable was not one to hold back when it came to the flat of a ruler either. The pain he could take. He’d had worse. But the teacher didn’t spare him a cutting word either. “Nincompoop” seemed to be her favorite for him. It was a word the rest of the class took a real liking to. The giggles and snickers cut Mike worse than the silly word itself. He wasn’t even sure it was a word. Whatever it was, it was his, and he wore it like the ancient mariner wore his albatross. The girls in class had taken to calling him “Ninny.” The boys just called him “Poop.”

  Mike knew he wasn’t stupid. He knew he was smarter than most of the kids in class in lots of ways. The trouble was that a lot of what he knew had nothing to do with ciphering or reading and writing. One of his biggest fears and humiliations was to read in front of the class. He sounded stupid. He felt stupid. He was stupid as far as the other kids could see. He really regretted making his deal with Mr. Braddock. He couldn’t imagine the circus was worth what he’d endured the last few days. As he sat on a stool in the corner, a dunce cap on his head, he tried to imagine just how big Jumbo the elephant was. He pictured the giant packy-derm wrapping its leathery trunk around Mrs. Greable’s nunnish body. He imagined what her screams would sound like. Would she scream real loud, or just sort of gurgle as Jumbo’s trunk squeezed the air out of her? He tried to picture one of Jumbo’s massive feet on her head and wondered what a head like hers would sound like getting crushed. The thought of Mrs. Greable’s head squashed like a grape made him feel a little better.

  “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.

  Coffin 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.

  Chapter Eighteen

  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

  Tom 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 sla
pped 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.

  The 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.