Suspension by Richard E. Crabbe Read Free Book Online

would look at and use, and say, you know, Sam Halpern built that. That would be something.” Sam took a bite of pickled egg, while Tom gave his old friend a closer look over the top of his mug. “That’s a kind of immortality, if you get my meaning, leaving something behind that the world knows you by,” Sam said wistfully. “I tell you, Tom, Washington Roebling is sort of a hero of mine and the closest thing to being immortal this world has to offer. By my reckoning, he’s one of the greatest men of the century, right up there with Grant and Lincoln.” It was clear Sam wasn’t exaggerating. “I swear, I would trade places with him in two shakes if I could say I had built the Brooklyn Bridge. Shame about the old man dyin’ of lock-jaw like he did. Would’ve been proud.”
    â€œChrist, Sam.” Tom was amazed. “I knew you liked the bridge, but I never realized you felt that strong about the thing. It does have a grace about it,” Tom admitted, “like a church … I suppose. So I guess I know how you see it. To tell the truth, though, I can’t say I’ve been all that anxious to get to Brooklyn any faster anyhow.”
    Sam smiled doubtfully. “I’m not quite sure you get my point, Tommy-boy,” he said with a shake of his head.
    Joe Hamm pulled another beer for them both.
    The clatter of the empty coroner’s wagon as it bumped over the cobbled street interrupted their unusually philosophical conversation.
    â€œLooks like Bucklin’s ride’s here,” Sam said as he turned toward the street.
    Jaffey walked in with the driver as Bob, from the corner, now joined by two others started in with the third verse of “Dixie.”

    His face was sharp as a butcher’s cleaver
But that did not seem to grieve her
Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie-land.

    Bob figured “Dixie” for a damn good song, a popular favorite with both sides, so he sang it with gusto.
    Sam and Tom went out back with Jaffey and the wagon driver. Tom and the driver rolled the body onto the canvas stretcher that the driver had carried with him.
    â€œWhere’s your partner?” Tom asked him.
    â€œSick. I’m on my own today. I’ll need a hand with this.” He shrugged a shoulder at the body, his hands in his pockets. Tom and Sam turned to look at Jaffey, who hadn’t really been paying attention. He looked back at them like an empty windowpane.
    â€œWell?” Sam asked, nodding toward the body.

    â€œOh! Oh, sure, let me get an end.” Jaffey hurried to hoist the stretcher, and together he and the driver carried Bucklin out through the bar. When the little troupe marched through Paddy’s common room with the body looking like some sort of grotesque, Fourth of July parade float, conversation trailed off and died. Even Bob and his drinking partners fell silent, one of whom was a German, singing “Look avay, Look avay, Look avay, Dixzee.” Tom stopped for a moment to have a word with Joe Hamm, then followed the rest outside. A small crowd gathered to watch the body being loaded onto the wagon.
    â€œJaffey, I want you to go along to the coroner’s office and make sure he has a look at a couple of things. For one, that stain on Bucklin’s vest, see it? I need to be sure of what it is. Sam and I think it’s tobacco. I also want his best guess on what crushed the back of the skull. I want to know if he had been drinking and what was in his stomach too.” Tom turned to Sam. “You don’t mind me sending your boy, do you?”
    â€œNah.” Sam shrugged. “Go on an’ have fun. Nothin like a good autopsy to brighten the day and improve the appetite. Makes me hungry just thinkin’ about it.” He grinned at Jaffey, who seemed to turn green at the mere mention of an autopsy.
    â€œAnd when you’re done there, get your ass back here and canvass the neighborhood for