Suspension by Richard E. Crabbe Page B

glance over his shoulder told him of following eyes, quickly averted, and a gradual resumption of street life. It was as if he moved in a sort of bubble that flowed from his badge. Most people weren’t touched by it. But to those who were, it was as if the bubble were electric. Sparks of recognition crackled.
    Tom neared the front of 242 Suffolk, a five-story walk-up with a low stoop and an open front door, gaping black. Three dirty, barefoot children, about ten to twelve years old, played with a barrel hoop on the sidewalk. They laughed as one of them sent the hoop rolling across the street in front of a vegetable cart, piled high with cabbages, carrots, and potatoes. The horse, pulling the cart, plodded along, head held low, its blinders giving it a tunnel vision of the street just in front. The hoop, with the perfect timing of obvious practice, flashed before the horse’s eyes and the startled animal pulled up suddenly. Potatoes went rolling down the cobbles. What seemed like a dozen little boys appeared from nowhere and like locusts grabbed up the potatoes that had rolled farthest from the cart. The thing was done as neat as could be, and the vegetables were gone before the driver could even get down from his seat. Seeing that he was clearly outnumbered, he contented himself with cursing them roundly. “Ye damned little vermin! Don’t think I don’t know where yer rat holes is. I’ll settle with yer parents on this. Thievin’ little bastards. I’ll settle wi’ ye. Count on it!” He switched the reins and set the sagging horse in motion, propelled by his grumbling. The boys were laughing fit to bust when they turned to see Tom looming. He stared down hard at them, putting on his best stern-cop face. Their laughter dried in their throats faster than spit on a hot stove. Jaws fell open together as if on cue. Tom figured that was about the funniest thing he’d seen in a week of Sundays, and couldn’t hide the grin that stole across his face. He tried to hold back the laughing but the pit-of-doom looks from the three street Arabs made him bust. The boys joined in when they saw that they weren’t going to be thrown in irons. The other boys looked on from a safe distance. Laughing cops were a rarity in this neighborhood.
    â€œSo, which of you bright young lads can tell me where Mr. Bucklin lives?” Tom said when he caught his breath.
    â€œRight ’ere in this buildin’ ’ere, sir,” piped up the biggest of the three.
    â€œAnd whereabouts in this ’ere buildin’ might he be found, lad?”

    â€œâ€™Tis the third floor ye’ll find ’im, second door back o’ the stairs.”
    â€œThank you, lads,” Tom said as he handed them each a penny. “Go easy on the potatoes, now.”
    They all grinned like co-conspirators and the boys chorused, “Oh, yes, sir,” and “We will, sir.” Tom trudged up the slippery unlit stairway. He was glad for the lack of light; he didn’t really want to see what made the stairs so slimy, though his nose gave him a clue. Too many chamber pots coming down the dark stairs on the way to the outhouses. Tom could hear the boys arguing out on the stoop, their words echoing up the stairwell. He had a sudden image of his younger brother, gone now so many years ago. It was like a flash of light in the darkened stairs and was gone almost as soon as it came.
    â€œI don’ know why you two should have the pennies, I’m the one what gave ’im Mike’s rooms,” said one.
    â€œYou ain’t gettin’ my warm spit” came the quick reply. “I’m the one rolled the hoop out in front of McGee’s wagon.”
    â€œYeah” came a littler voice. “An’ who came up wi’ the idea? Besides, that’s me family’s rooms. He’s here about me da, I’ll bet.” That last even sounded like his brother’s voice. Tom hesitated,