Suspension by Richard E. Crabbe Page A

groaning weakly. Braddock looked over at Quinn. “If I see him in here again, Mike, it’s you I’ll be havin’ a talk with.”
    Quinn just nodded and dragged Grafton out.
    â€œAh, the virtuous knight, the gallant defender of the weak and pure of heart,” a husky woman’s voice said from the other room. “Always a pleasure, Detective.”
    â€œWish I could say the same, Kate,” Tom said, turning toward the voice. “Can’t say I care much for your clientele.”

    â€œHis money’s as green as yours, Braddock. Besides, we’ve been keeping an eye on him lately. Haven’t had any trouble.”
    Tom walked into the next room, setting the beaded curtain swaying and clicking.
    â€œWhat’s he have to do to be unwelcome here? How long did you figure it would be before he carved up one of your little beauties?”
    The madame didn’t answer. Instead she handed Tom a thick envelope. “My regards to your master, Detective.” The sarcastic emphasis on master left no doubt about how she saw Braddock in the scheme of things. “Please leave. You’ve disturbed my guests enough for one day.”
    Tom turned and walked out without a word. If it was up to him, he wouldn’t be taking protection money from a woman like that. Most of the girls in her place were no older than fifteen, some were as young as ten. For the thousandth time he cursed his deal with Coffin. Tom had been dropping hints to the captain that he wanted out. This was something that had to be handled delicately, though, and needed a preamble before he broke it off. Coffin had to get used to the idea and, most of all, trust that his secrets would remain safe. One way or another, Tom had to end it.
    Tom got back in the hack, and they headed farther uptown, past Canal, Hester, Grand, and Broome streets. Slowly the neighborhood changed from warehouses and businesses that catered to the sea, to warehouses of people. The tenements were thick with people, on sidewalks, on stoops, hanging from windows, looking for a breeze, shopping from pushcarts, arguing on street corners. The babble of foreign tongues, the smells of unfamiliar foods, and the Italian, German, and Yiddish signs in store windows gave the blocks he rode through an almost carnival atmosphere. It was disconcerting, confusing, noisy, dirty, smelly, colorful, boiling pandemonium. Like it or not, it was the future. He decided to get out and walk at the corner of Kenmare and Suffolk. In spite of the noise and the smells and the press of foreign flesh, there was something he liked about these streets. They had a vitality and a life like nowhere else in the city, and in his line of work it was best to soak up the street life on foot. That’s what he told himself. In truth, he rather liked the mix here, always bubbling and simmering, like a camp stew after a hurried forage. Not everyone shared Braddock’s views on the vitality of the Lower East Side.
    Children played in the streets, running, stealing apples, selling newspapers, or idling on corners. Tom noticed two packs of boys lazing on stoops with a menacing ease as he passed. He was sure he’d be seeing some of them in a few years when they graduated to more ambitious crime. Their eyes gave them away. Tom recognized the look. He noticed that as he walked down the street a ripple preceded him. It would hardly have been noticeable to someone not
accustomed to looking for it. Eyes averted, backs turned, doorways became suddenly popular. An almost imperceptible stillness settled like snow over the crowded streets. Tom imagined that it was much the same as when a big cat prowled through the jungle. The birds still chirped, the monkeys chattered, the warthogs grunted and wallowed, but they all knew the big cat was there. They kept a watchful eye, and they kept their distance. Tom rather liked that image of himself. In this tenement jungle, a big cat was not a bad thing to be. A