“You know the legal distinctions of self-defense, though, Chowder. Gotta be pretty clear cut. Can’t go killing on a threat. That’s where we’re supposed to come in—the cops, I mean.” Tom wasn’t comfortable with confirming to anyone, even in a theoretical, beery sort of conversation, that he’d be willing to kill anyone for something less than self-defense.
“There’s truth in that,” Chowder agreed, “but it’s the legal truth. Some things don’t call for exactly legal solutions.” Coming from Chowder, Tom knew exactly what he meant.
Chowder paused long enough to take a huge bite from his sandwich. The hot mustard oozed out the edges as he tore a chunk out of it.
“Damn, that’s a good sandwich,” he said after washing it down with another gulp of ale. “Seems to me that you’re a man livin’ under a cloud. Now, a man livin’ under a cloud … he ought to get himself an umbrella, ’cause whether he likes it or not, it’s sure as hell gonna rain.”
Braddock couldn’t restrain a wily grin. “We talkin’ about Captain Parker here, Chowder?”
Chowder grinned back, his mouth full of sandwich. “I don’t know Tommy, are we?”
It was late when they finally broke up. Tom walked back to his place, just a couple of blocks away, leaving Chowder at the steps of the El. They said their good-byes a little blearily, the ales having done their duty. Tom heard Chowder’s heavy feet pounding up the iron stairs in the night as he strolled back to Colonnade Row. Tom whistled as he went over the events of the last days. He didn’t think he could have planned it better if he’d plotted it all along. For weeks he’d played Coffin’s game, looking for an angle, a way to pay him back for Mary. And now Augie had handed it to him—his greed finally supplying the hook he’d use to haul the big fish in. If this one got away, though … A chill went through Tom at the thought. If this one got away, it could be him that would end up floating in the river. Braddock knew he’d have to take his chances on that but he figured he could swim with the best of them.
Chowder’s steps echoed through the iron stairway to the El. He looked back in the direction Tom had gone, puffing a bit on the top step, the beer making him tired. His pulse pounded in his ears and he made his usual promise to himself to cut back a bit and get more exercise. Tom had disappeared down Lafayette. Chowder grinned to himself. He liked Braddock, always had. He walked slowly out onto the platform, looking left and right. It was nearly empty. A chilling night wind whistled through the cast-iron railings. The couple of people waiting on the platform were hunched, as if they’d been waiting for some time. Chowder walked south, as agreed, trying to see the faces he passed. He recognized no one. He walked slowly on, past the last person on the platform, casting a quick glance at the man as he went. His heels knocked on the wood planking, a lonely sort of sound, a sound that went well with conspiracy and betrayal.
Chowder had just passed the far end of the waiting room, when a voice came out of the dark from around its corner.
“Took your time coming.”
Chowder stopped short, turning to squint into the dark corner where no lamp cast a revealing beam. “Took as long as I had to. No more, no less,” Chowder said without apology. The figure stood silent, a black outline against the city. Chowder matched him, silence for silence.
“So … how’d it go?” the shadow asked at last.
“Good. Ale was cold, sandwiches fantastic.” Chowder knew very well this was not what the man wanted to know.
“Don’t fuck with me, Detective. You know very well what I mean.”
Chowder just chuckled. “Nothin’ like a long wait to make a man testy,” he said, shaking his head. “It went fine. Don’t have to be worryin’ about Braddock. There’s nothin’ up his sleeve.” Chowder waved a hand dismissively.
“Glad to hear it. But as you know, Braddock is just recently back in the fold, so to speak, and what’s planned is rather delicate and very important. He’ll be relied upon more than I would perhaps prefer.”
Chowder grunted an acknowledgment.
“So pleased you understand,” the man said sarcastically. “What do you say we go over your evening in a bit more detail, shall we?”
Chowder heaved a sigh as the man lit a match. It flared briefly, illuminating Coffin in a ghastly sort of glow, a good cigar clamped in his white teeth. “One needs to be so careful these days, don’t you agree?”
Potter’s Field was a barren, hopeless place, with far too much fresh-turned earth. The grass was long and wild. Weeds groped for the fresh clods of clay thrown over plain pine boxes. Many of those boxes were very small, Tom knew. He had been there before and didn’t want to go back. Nobody should end his days there, nobody who had any family or friends with a bit of money. Tom had some money. When he heard that Eamon Bucklin had passed away, he arranged to have him buried in Brooklyn, beside Terrence and his family. No grass had yet grown on that grave. He stood silently, a step behind Mike and his grandmother. Their hands were clutched as if each might slip away if not held tight. They’d seen too many funerals. The priest droned on, going through the ritual in Latin and English. There was mud on the bottom of his robes and an old wine stain near his collar. It seemed he too had seen too many funerals.
Later, as they walked from the grave, Tom talked to Mike a little. He didn’t want to talk about his grandpa, for fear of making it worse, so he asked about school.
“Okay,” Mike told him. It was hard, but he was starting to catch up. He’d even started to make one or two new friends. He had one question, though, and he hesitated asking it but finally let it out. “What’s ‘nincompoop’ mean, Mr. Braddock? The teacher called me that a lot at first … not so much lately.”
Tom frowned down at the boy, knowing in that moment how hard school must have been these last weeks.
“It just means someone who doesn’t go to school, but that’s not you now is it?” he asked gently.
“No, sir.”
Tom put his hand on Mike’s shoulder. “Good. You keep going. I’m going to get tickets to the circus tomorrow. You kept your part of the bargain, now I’m keeping mine.”
“That’s great! I can’t wait to go!” Mike beamed through eyes glistening with graveside tears. He stole a guilty look at his grandma a second later. Tom noticed.
“Yeah, me too. Listen, I need to talk to your grandma for a minute, okay?” Mike watched from a distance as they spoke in hushed tones.
It was many hours later, long after Mike and his grandmother had gone back to their empty rooms on Suffolk Street.
Clocks in the city had just struck three, echoing out over the harbor and the darkened bridge. Nothing stirred, not even the ferries. The bridge was all in blackness. Not even a light was visible anywhere except at either end in the night watchmen’s shacks. They rarely came out, though, and wouldn’t be much of a problem. The watchmen were mainly there to protect against thievery of lumber and materials. They wouldn’t be looking for anyone out on the bridge.
“Son of a bitch!” Earl grumbled for the tenth time in the last hour. “Still think we coulda come up with a better goddamn plan than this shit.” He’d just skinned another knuckle in the dark and was in as foul a mood as Matt had ever seen.
“Just stow it and feed that wire through,” Matt said, as anxious as Earl to get this job finished. “Went over this a million times. Wasn’t none of us could come up with a better plan, so let’s just get ’er done.” Matt pulled the wire through the stretch of conduit while Earl fed it in, making sure it didn’t tangle. It was hard work in the dark, which was why they were doing it. They knew the wiring better than any of the rest, so the job fell to them.
This was the third night in a row they were out on the bridge, the third night of little sleep, skinned knuckles, and nerves on edge. Once it became obvious that there was no way they could convince anyone to run extra wire, they had to come up with something. What they had decided on pleased nobody, especially not Emmons or Lebeau. As hard as it was, it was still better than running wire on the s
ame night they set charges. The lights would be working by then, and the extra exposure out on the span just wasn’t worth it. Each night for the last three, Matt and Earl had slipped past the watchmen and went to work undoing what they had done during the day just hours before. Each junction in the conduit was opened and their wire snaked through, up to one pipe-length away from where the crew would start in the morning. Working fast, they could snake a lot of wire each night. The first night had been touch and go. They’d had their only close call at about 3:30, while in the dynamo room, under the Brooklyn approach. They hadn’t had any trouble getting in. Jacobs had supplied them with the key. But working inside in the dark was next to impossible. They couldn’t risk lighting up the windows at night, so they’d devised a screen around their lantern, so it cast light in just one direction. Working in that light was a difficult, almost ghostly experience. They had been working quietly for almost an hour when Earl heard the crunch of feet on gravel outside. In an instant he doused the lamp, plunging them into total darkness. He and Matt stood frozen, listening as someone tried the lock. The door creaked and the bolt rattled in the frame, sounding deafeningly loud in the silence of the vaulted brick and stone room. Matt could feel Earl looking at him in the dark, wondering if he’d locked the door behind them. A long silence followed. At last the sound of retreating footsteps broke the tension. All else had run smooth as glass. With another couple of nights’ work they’d be almost caught up. They only needed to work on one side of the bridge, and there was no measuring, cutting, wiring, or bolting, just opening junction boxes and pulling wire. The lost sleep was beginning to tell, though. They both sported so many scrapes and bruises that one of the foremen had commented on it just that morning.
“You boys look like you been through the wars,” the man had observed. “Oughta be more careful.”
Chapter Nineteen
Thought may the minds of men divide,
Love makes the heart of nations one,
And so, the soldier grave beside,
We honor thee Virginia’s son.
—JULIA WARD HOWE
Pat and Charlie were perched on either corner of Tom’s desk. They had come back from Trenton the night before. The two of them had spent the better part of the day looking over books and interviewing foremen and engineers at the Roebling Works. It hadn’t taken long to find what they were looking for. The orders all had the same delivery address.
“From what we can see, it’s time to talk with someone at this Sangree & Co. outfit,” Charlie said flatly. “Quantities are too small for bridge building. We questioned foremen, engineers too. According to them, someone’s probably doing repairs. They don’t see any other use for the stuff. Showed them the list we’d gathered from Haigh and the others. The only other possibility they could guess is that someone is trying to copy their designs. Either way we should check on it.”
“Thanks, Charlie. Me and Jaffey’ll go over there this afternoon. The part that interests me in all this is where that stuff is going.”
“Yeah, we thought so too. Course your boys, Watkins, Lebeau, and Emmons, are from Texas originally. I know they’re about a thousand miles apart but they’re both in the South,” Pat said a little too hopefully. “It’s the only damn thing we’ve got, so what the hell.”
Tom looked at his watch and sighed, “Gotta report to Byrnes. Me and Eli’ll go to Sangree & Co. after.”
“We’ll keep digging but I can’t say I’m too optimistic,” Charlie said, brushing some lingering breakfast crumbs from his vest. “Gonna pay a visit to the contractor on the trains. Might turn something up.”
Tom gave a hopeful but resigned shrug. He was getting used to dead ends.
“Wonder when those service records’ll show up. It’s been near three weeks ago I sent for them. Right about now, any new information would be welcome.”
“Well, I’d be pleased to look at anything other than contracts and order books. I’m starting to see numbers in my sleep,” Pat said, rolling his head in a dizzy pantomime.
“Keep it up for now, Pat. Who knows, you might have turned up something with this Sangree & Co. stuff,” Tom said over his shoulder as he marched toward Byrnes’s office.
Tom’s report to the chief was short. He filled him in on the lead to Sangree & Co., and that was all. Byrnes looked preoccupied, barely raising his head from the paperwork piled on his desk. After only a few minutes, he waved his cigar at Tom mumbling something about keeping him informed. Tom took that as his cue to leave, which he wasn’t unhappy to do.
Captain Sangree sat at his office desk jotting down some thoughts on arrangements for escaping South once the mission was accomplished. He reminded himself that he needed to put some more work into their manifesto. He and Sullivan had done an outline a few days before. It would be a grand document, and he was pleased with it so far. It would start with a preamble, just as the Declaration of Independence had, stating the rights of the South that had been denied. It would list their grievances—the rape of their land, the loss of life, the burning and pillage of farms, businesses, and homes. All these things must not be forgotten. They were open wounds in the South. Occupation and Reconstruction had been the crowning insults. The list had been long once they started in earnest to tote it all up, the evidence of Yankee tyranny undeniable. It would be a brilliant document. It couldn’t set it all to rights, but it would tell the world the whole truth, not just the Yankee truth. That would be a victory in itself.
Thaddeus didn’t plan to put anything in about Roebling. Even though the longing for revenge had driven him through the years, he knew that it wouldn’t help their cause. It would be enough that Roebling would suffer. A loud knock on his office door startled him. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Quickly he shoved his papers into the top drawer of his desk and locked them in.
“Just a moment,” he called out gruffly. He rose and strode to the door, annoyed at the interruption. The captain threw the door open, intending to dismiss whoever it might be as quickly as possible. Braddock filled the doorway like a guilty conscience. Thaddeus did his best to control his voice, asking politely. “How can I help you gentlemen?” but he wasn’t sure he’d succeeded. He tried to think what to do. His brain felt like it was squirming about inside his head. His pistol was in the desk, locked away. That wasn’t an option. He measured the chances of getting by the big detective and the cop behind him. They didn’t look good. There was nothing to do but carry on the charade.
“We’re investigating some malfeasance, sir, and we wanted to ask you a few questions.” Tom started off putting on his best official voice. Intimidation was a useful tool.
“Malfeasance, how so?” Thaddeus asked with a well-executed frown. He thought he carried it off rather well, the confused, innocent tone was almost perfect. He was glad they couldn’t see his suddenly sweaty palms, which he wiped quickly on his trousers.
“May we come in, sir?” Braddock asked, looking over the captain’s shoulder.
“Oh, yes of course. Forgive me. Would you gentlemen care for some coffee?”
“Sure,” Tom said. “Black.” Tom scanned the room with a practiced eye as they entered, filing things away for future reference. Jaffey declined the offer of coffee. Tom watched for any tremors as Thaddeus poured. It was his real reason for accepting the coffee. He didn’t see any. Thaddeus was doing his best to appear indifferent, but his insides seemed populated by fleas on a hot stove. He handed Tom the coffee and took a seat behind his desk. Tom and Jaffey found chairs. “I’m Detective Braddock and this is Patrolman Jaffey,” Tom said in a belated introduction.
“And I am Thaddeus Sangree, owner of this firm,” Thad said, casting a hand around the room. “So what’s this about malfeasance? I can assure you that this firm has a reputation for scrupulously fair business dealings.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Tom’s tone said he wasn’t sure at all. He took out a pad, poising his pencil above it, before he raised his eyes to meet Sangree’s. “Have you placed orders recentl
y for Crucible steel wire?” he asked slowly.
The captain hesitated only an instant before answering. “Yes, of course. That was about six months ago, if I recall.” Thad’s mind was in turmoil. “They know!” a voice screamed inside his head. “They know!” How, he couldn’t imagine.
“You also ordered some steel and cast-iron structural components similar to those being used on the new East River Bridge, is that correct?” Tom went on.
“Well, I can’t say whether the steel and cast-iron parts I ordered matched anything on the East River Bridge, but yes, I did order such items.” Thad felt the best thing to do was to admit as much of the truth as he could, the better to conceal it. “Have I broken some law?” he asked, sipping his coffee innocently.
If this Sangree fellow was guilty of anything, he sure didn’t show it, Tom thought.
“Not that we know of, Mr. Sangree. Can you tell me why these orders were placed?” Tom would volunteer nothing more than he had to, and he had no intention of being the one answering questions.
“Not precisely, Detective,” Thad said. “You see, I was simply an intermediary. Some men with whom I have not done business in the past had asked that I assist them in procuring and shipping these materials.”
Tom seemed to weigh this, scribbling on his pad as he did. “And who would that be, sir?”
“A Mr. Lansdorf and a Mr. Limner. They are the principals in a firm by the name of Liberty Construction. As you probably already know, they’re located in Richmond,” the captain said, taking it as a matter of faith that if they knew of the shipments, they’d know where they were bound. “I haven’t actually done business with them directly before, but they bore sound references from people whose word I trust.” Sangree went on to give Tom the references. The story sounded perfectly plausible.
Suspension Page 43
