Authors: Richard E. Crabbe
Suspension (25 page)
When Tom woke, he couldn't be quite sure where the dream ended and the reality began. His first sensation was the smell of Mary's long black hair as it fanned out on the pillow beside him. The scent was faint but unmistakable. She always wore a scent that was part musk, part spice, part honeysuckle. Some smells register with the nose, but hers always seemed to run right down his middle, with little ripples north and south. He moved closer and breathed her in. In a way he thought he quite literally had, as if he had internalized some part of her, made it his. The notion intoxicated him, and he nuzzled her hair again as she slept. Mary must have felt him move, for she rolled in her sleep to face him. Tom studied her face in the morning light, his face just inches from hers. His eyes traced the lines of her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, and the curve of her lips. They lingered and caressed her with long slow sweeps, drinking in her form and scent, storing them in that part of his brain reserved for all things wondrous.
She was not a beauty in the popular sense. Her skin was too dark, her cheekbones too prominent, her forehead a bit too sloping. But to him, she was
the name of beauty. Mary had what could be called exotic looks that she inherited from her mother and father. She was mostly Irish but her mother was part Cherokee, and the races mixed in her in intriguing ways. She had her mother's coloring, she had told him once: the midnight hair, the dark eyes, the skin that always looked tanned. But the Irish showed through in the waves in her hair and the shine of copper when the sun struck it just so. Her nose was a mixture of both as well. It ran almost straight and thin from her forehead, with just a bit of a bridge, and it had a hint of an upturned Irish tilt at the tip. The nostrils flared, in a very Indian way, reminding him of a Thoroughbred mare's, although he never told her that. He wasn't sure how she might take it, but to him it would have been a compliment. It was an altogether intriguing nose, and he had yet to see its like. Her face swooped down to a wide, full-lipped mouth, framed by delicate laugh lines. Her chin was from Ireland, with the hint of a dimple and a bit of a point. Altogether, she had a chiseled, elemental look that her bronze coloring only emphasized. Mostly Tom didn't care for the idealized version of female perfection so popular then. To him there was much more of interest in imperfection. Mary was, for him, perfectly imperfect.
the name of beauty. Mary had what could be called exotic looks that she inherited from her mother and father. She was mostly Irish but her mother was part Cherokee, and the races mixed in her in intriguing ways. She had her mother's coloring, she had told him once: the midnight hair, the dark eyes, the skin that always looked tanned. But the Irish showed through in the waves in her hair and the shine of copper when the sun struck it just so. Her nose was a mixture of both as well. It ran almost straight and thin from her forehead, with just a bit of a bridge, and it had a hint of an upturned Irish tilt at the tip. The nostrils flared, in a very Indian way, reminding him of a Thoroughbred mare's, although he never told her that. He wasn't sure how she might take it, but to him it would have been a compliment. It was an altogether intriguing nose, and he had yet to see its like. Her face swooped down to a wide, full-lipped mouth, framed by delicate laugh lines. Her chin was from Ireland, with the hint of a dimple and a bit of a point. Altogether, she had a chiseled, elemental look that her bronze coloring only emphasized. Mostly Tom didn't care for the idealized version of female perfection so popular then. To him there was much more of interest in imperfection. Mary was, for him, perfectly imperfect.
Tom leaned closer and kissed her nose lightly as a butterfly. A little smile played on her mouth, but she didn't wake. He got up to go to the bathroom. Mary had full baths installed on every floor when she bought the building. It was a necessary investment in the trade. The girls were all required to wash after each visit, something the cheaper establishments didn't do. Even rarer, she required all gentlemen to wash beforehand too. The result was healthier girls, lower doctor bills, and a better class of clienteleâaltogether a sound arrangement. This was the first time Tom had tried to actually use the toilet, having contented himself with the chamber pot, because he felt too dizzy to do more than lean against the side of the bed. When he got up at first he had a strange rushing feeling, like the tide was draining out of his head. It left him feeling as he had when he smoked his first cigar, not too good. He made it across the room all right, but held his hand on the wall as he went down the hall to the bathroom. He wondered if this was what old age felt like: dizzy, tottering, having to hold the wall to keep from keeling over. If it was, he wanted none of it.
Mary was still sleeping when he got back. He joined her, and they dreamed together. It was perhaps 11 o'clock when Tom woke to hear Coffin's voice downstairs. A minute later Chelsea gave a quick rap on the door and came in.
“Sorry to disturb you, miss, but Captain Coffin's downstairs waiting to see Mr. Tom.”
Mary shot Tom a questioning look. Tom just nodded.
“Tell the captain that I'll be down directly, Chelsea, and offer him some tea or coffee, will you?”
When Chelsea left, Mary turned to Tom. “You really up to seeing him?”
“Yeah, I think so. May as well get it over with.” Tom shrugged.
“Do you want me to send for Sam?” Mary asked. She was afraid of Coffin, and rightly so.
“No, no, won't be necessary. It's okay.” Tom knew he sounded more sure of the situation than he really was. But there was no need to send up distress signals just yet. Tom had been ready for this visit since last night, when he first learned Coffin had come looking for him. He'd be ready for the captain. Mary threw a robe on and went out with a last glance over her shoulder. As soon as the door was closed, Tom got out of bed. He did it a bit too quickly, though, and reeled his way over to the chair where his clothes sat. His holster hung over the back, the Colt nestled inside.
E
arl Lebeau sat in the offices of Sangree & Co., his feet up on a windowsill. He rocked back and looked out the window as he and the captain talked.
arl Lebeau sat in the offices of Sangree & Co., his feet up on a windowsill. He rocked back and looked out the window as he and the captain talked.
“Waited till the three of them went out,” Earl said. “Stood across the street and watched âem go. The boy saw me, I think, 'cause he started cryin'.” Earl grinned. “Told ya he had a scare in him.”
“You did fine, Earl. You found nothing, then?” Thaddeus asked.
“Nothin'. They don't got much, but what they got I searched.” Earl shrugged. “Nothin' there to be found, Cap'n. I was real neat too. They ain't likely to notice anything out of place. Put everything back just like I found it. I don't think we have anything to worry about from them.”
The captain put his feet up too, crossing them atop his desk. The Bucklin matter seemed to be resolving itself nicely. So long as that damned detective kept his nose out of it, things should settle down.
“That's good, Earl. You did just fine.” Thaddeus pulled out his pocket watch. “Shouldn't you be getting back to work? Lunchtime's near over.”
Earl heaved a sigh. “Suppose so. Don't want them to dock me.” He smiled grimly. “See you tonight, Cap'n.”
C
offin hadn't decided how to handle Tom until he started up the stairs. Mary had been civil with him, and maybe that had put him in a better frame of mind. Whatever it was, Coffin set his mind to it as he set his foot on the steps. After all, Tom was a likable sort and a valuable man. It would be a shame to lose him, and there might be repercussions if it were not done right. Tom had plenty of friends in the department. Perhaps it was just as well he hadn't seen Tom yesterday. He was thinking more clearly now. Braddock was too valuable
to lose just yet. Still, as he took the stairs, his hand stole into his coat pocket. The little .32 Smith & Wesson rested there, its ivory grips warmed against his middle. He flipped the safety off.
offin hadn't decided how to handle Tom until he started up the stairs. Mary had been civil with him, and maybe that had put him in a better frame of mind. Whatever it was, Coffin set his mind to it as he set his foot on the steps. After all, Tom was a likable sort and a valuable man. It would be a shame to lose him, and there might be repercussions if it were not done right. Tom had plenty of friends in the department. Perhaps it was just as well he hadn't seen Tom yesterday. He was thinking more clearly now. Braddock was too valuable
to lose just yet. Still, as he took the stairs, his hand stole into his coat pocket. The little .32 Smith & Wesson rested there, its ivory grips warmed against his middle. He flipped the safety off.
“Tommy, good to see you're doing better! You had us worried, sport.” Coffin had rushed in after a quick knock, sweeping across the room with his hand out, like Tom was a long-lost brother. They shook.
“Good to see you too, August. Good to see anyone, for that matter,” Tom said, nearly choking on the greeting.
“I can imagine. Listen, Tom, I had no idea that Finney would go after you like that. He was a wild one, I'll admit, but to go and try to kill a detective ⦠he must have been out of his goddamn mind. It was self-defense, wasn't it?” he asked as if he didn't know the answer.
“What the fuck do you think, August?” Tom growled. “You see me killin' fellas for sport?” August really could get under his skin, not that it took much right now. “Goddamn Dutchman tried to knock my head out of the park. Nearly did too. I didn't shoot him, though. It was Finney did that. Gun went off when I tried to get it away.”
“Sure, sure,” Coffin said solicitously. “He catch you with the bat?” He pointed to the bandage around Tom's head.
“Coupla times.”
Coffin gave an inward smirk. At least Tom hadn't had it all his way, and he did look poorly at that.
“Jesus, Tom, what the hell made 'em go after you?” Coffin asked as if he had no idea in the world.
“You should know, August.”
Coffin did his best to look taken aback. “What do you mean? Finney wasn't happy about payin' up, but I never thought he'd do something like this.” August held his hands up in innocence. He was the master of the half-truth.
Tom had to give it just a second of thought, and Coffin the benefit of the doubt, before he said, “I know he was paying Coogan.” Tom tightened his grip on the Colt under the blanket.
Coffin was amazing. It was no surprise he had come so far in the department. The bastard barely blinked an eye or missed a beat. “You mean to say you didn't know? You know we discussed this, Tommy.” Coffin used his best serious voice. “I thought I made it clear what the arrangement was. It's not like you to forget things.”
“That's because you never bothered to tell me. And you know, I can't help but wonder why.” Sarcasm dripped from Tom's words. The son of a bitch not only lied to him, now he was rearranging the truth right before his eyes.
“Tom, you've had a bad head injury,” Coffin said soothingly. “Mary tells
me that the doctor says you had a serious concussion. It does things to you. You'll be all right soon, and maybe some of these details will start coming back. You really just need rest, youâ”
me that the doctor says you had a serious concussion. It does things to you. You'll be all right soon, and maybe some of these details will start coming back. You really just need rest, youâ”
“Nothing wrong with my memory, August.” Tom had to interrupt him before it started sounding plausible even to him. Coffin had the gift, sure enough. “You sent me down there alone, to collect from a fucking lunatic and his goddamn executioner. What was it, August? Want to have them teach me a little lesson, 'cause I was late with a payment or two?” Coffin didn't answer, so Tom went on. “Or maybe you figured I needed a dose of humility, just on general principles.”
Coffin had slipped his hands into his pockets as Tom talked. The ivory grips of the Smith & Wesson felt smooth as an undertaker's condolence. “Thomas, you're upsetâ”
“You're damn right, I'm upset. It was too close to being me on a steel table in Bellevue, and that's upsetting, very goddamn upsetting, August.” Tom was almost shouting now.
“Tom, listen, there's no way I ever meant for you to come to harm. We're a team, remember? You're one of my boys, and I take care of my boys, right? Hey ⦠when you feel better we'll have a nice long talk and see what can be done for you. Meanwhile I'll put the whole Finney affair on the shelf. Close the case, and have my friends in the press keep it off the front pages. You'll see, this'll all blow over, and we can get on with things the way they were.” August stopped for a moment before he went off on another tack. “There's plenty of money to be made. I know you like the sound of that. Get yourself a new place in a little while, farther uptown, closer to Mary. Not a bad thing. Let's not let this unfortunate incident ruin our chances.”
Tom sat there thinking. Goddamn Coffin. He could give you that wide-open, innocent look, swear that up was down, and have you believing it all in the same sentence. Maybe he hadn't meant to get Tom killed, and maybe he didn't even want to see Tom hurt. But he sure as hell left out the part about Finney paying Coogan, and he sure as hell lied about it to his face. Sure ⦠it would be easier to just go along like nothing happened, take the money, and work on getting free of Coffin eventually, but that was the logical thing, the safe thing. He had done that before, had been doing it all along, and the fact was it was killing him, especially after the child prostitute murders a few months ago. It was gnawing at him like a three-foot tapeworm. Maybe it wasn't smart, maybe there was a better way ⦠but finally Tom said, “Fuck you, Augie.”
It really didn't take a detective to see that Coffin had a pistol in his pocket. Tom had it figured for the .32 Smith & Wesson. Handy little gun, small enough for a pocket without too much of a bulge, but packing enough punch
for close work. Not a real stopper, but a good compromise. Now Tom could see the twitch of the hand in Coffin's pocket. Not wanting to get into a shooting match in Mary's bedroom, Tom continued, “Listen, August, I'll pay you what I owe you. I'm not backing out on that. You have my word, but no more of your favors and errands. No more extortion, and no more rackets. I'm through with that, and I'm through with you and your corps. No, don't say anything. I'm not finished. This has been eating at me for months so let me get it out.” All the while Tom watched the hand in the coat pocket. “You know I used to like the money. I used to think that as long as I was getting mine and it was coming from criminals, then it was all right. Who the hell cares if some illegal bars pay us off to keep their back doors open on Sundays? Who gives a goddamn if pimps and gamblers and gangs get squeezed? Nobody ⦠and for a long time I didn't either. But I'm tired of the kind of things I've been getting into with you, the kinds of money we've been taking. It's dirty, August. It's dirtier than most money to be found on the streets, and the things we have to doâ” Tom hesitated a moment, remembering. “The times we have to look away ⦠they take something out of you,” he said sadly. “It's getting so that I see that stuff in the mirror. You
know
what I mean. I can see it on your face. It takes a toll. I feel it like a wet overcoat dragging my shoulders down.”
for close work. Not a real stopper, but a good compromise. Now Tom could see the twitch of the hand in Coffin's pocket. Not wanting to get into a shooting match in Mary's bedroom, Tom continued, “Listen, August, I'll pay you what I owe you. I'm not backing out on that. You have my word, but no more of your favors and errands. No more extortion, and no more rackets. I'm through with that, and I'm through with you and your corps. No, don't say anything. I'm not finished. This has been eating at me for months so let me get it out.” All the while Tom watched the hand in the coat pocket. “You know I used to like the money. I used to think that as long as I was getting mine and it was coming from criminals, then it was all right. Who the hell cares if some illegal bars pay us off to keep their back doors open on Sundays? Who gives a goddamn if pimps and gamblers and gangs get squeezed? Nobody ⦠and for a long time I didn't either. But I'm tired of the kind of things I've been getting into with you, the kinds of money we've been taking. It's dirty, August. It's dirtier than most money to be found on the streets, and the things we have to doâ” Tom hesitated a moment, remembering. “The times we have to look away ⦠they take something out of you,” he said sadly. “It's getting so that I see that stuff in the mirror. You
know
what I mean. I can see it on your face. It takes a toll. I feel it like a wet overcoat dragging my shoulders down.”
August, to his credit, seemed to listen. Tom knew there must be some small part of Coffin that knew the truth of what he was saying.
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