39

“THAT’S ONE OF the men who attacked me,” Saturn said, his voice muffled by the handkerchief held over his mouth and nose. They were in the city morgue at Bellevue. The cold and damp had him and Tom shoving their hands in their pockets and despite the constant mist of cold water sprayed over the bodies to slow decay, the room had the stink of death and disinfectant. “I’m sure of that one. The other I’ve never seen before. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Tom said. “This is a help. I don’t imagine you caught his name?” Tom knew he could probably identify the man by going through the rogues’ gallery, but the file of police photographs was becoming so large that he knew it might take hours.

“I’m afraid not, Captain. This gentleman didn’t bother with formal introductions.”

“Of course,” Tom said. “Anything else you can tell me? Did they refer to each other by nicknames?”

“Let me think,” Saturn said. “You know I’ve been reliving that entire episode over and over these last few days. Mostly I imagine the things I should have done differently.”

“I understand completely. And sometimes things come back, things you hadn’t thought about before,” Tom said.

“Yes. I have to tell you that I think the third man was named Jack. This one here,” he said, pointing to one of the bodies, “called him Jack. I’m fairly sure.”

“How sure?”

“Well, it was hardly a clear recollection as I said. I just recall hearing the name Jack. He seemed to be the one in charge.” Tom already had a description from Mike, who’d been able to write it out this morning, but he asked Saturn as well. “I’m afraid I didn’t get a very good look at him. I saw more of his shoe leather than his face, although I can give you a general description. He was about one hundred and eighty pounds and around five foot eight. and maybe somewhere around thirty-five years of age. I must tell you too,” Saturn added, “he was a singularly ferocious character, and quite powerful for his size.”

Although it fit about a quarter of the male population of the city, the description was useful. Saturn had corroborated Mike’s description and given Tom a name, which was even more critical. Tom had an impressive list of criminal names and aliases stored in his battered brain, a lifetime of acquaintance with the shadier elements of society. A number of Jacks came immediately to mind.

After he’d thanked Saturn and they’d each gone their own way, Tom had gone over that list and come up with at least five Jacks who were not either dead or in jail, one of which was a pickpocket, hardly the sort to go in for stompings-for-hire. At least three could be said to fit the general description Saturn and Mike gave and all of them had connections in one way or another to the Five Pointers or the Bottler. Tom looked at his watch. He’d have to be back at the station house for the start of the next shift and didn’t have much time for anything more.

Still, he took a few minutes after saying his good-bye to Saturn to look at the body of the Bottler, who’d been laid on a steel slab in the next room. The coroner’s assistant was working on him. “Can’t tell much from the face,” he said, nodding toward the mass of gore on the table. “Plenty of witnesses though.”

Tom nodded. The body certainly fit the Bottler’s description and the captain of the Thirteenth had come down earlier to identify the body as best he could while they looked for next of kin. Still, Tom looked closely. “These his clothes?” he asked, pointing to a bag on a nearby counter. He went through them, examining the pockets, looking at labels, then he noticed the shoes. “New soles. Mind if I take one of these?”

“Nope. Just fill out the form if you don’t mind. The coroner hates it when things go unaccounted for.”

*   *   *

He walked to the horse he’d been able to secure for his use, a fine, chestnut mare, at least sixteen hands tall. She was a solid mount, but he longed for his Oldsmobile. He resolved to pay a visit soon to the mechanic’s shop he’d had it brought to in Brooklyn, a place recommended by the factory. He mounted his horse and flicked the reins, guiding her into the light traffic of First Avenue. He hadn’t gone more than a block when a big Marmon touring car barreled past with a blast of its claxon horn. His horse pranced sideways and shook its head with fear, making Tom work to control her. “Asshole!” he shouted, half in anger, half in envy.

*   *   *

“I gave him the name, Mister Sullivan,” Saturn said into the mouthpiece.

“Good. But not too quickly, I hope,” Big Tim said. “Cops are naturally suspicious of information that comes too easily.”

“No, it was sufficiently difficult to recall.”

“That’s fine,” the scratchy voice replied from the earpiece. “This will work to both our advantages. One less fly in the ointment so to speak.”

“And five hundred off what I owe you,” Saturn reminded him. “Not that I’d mind if that particular fly finds himself food for the spider. Tell me though, who is this Jack fellow?”

Big Tim harrumphed into the phone. “No need to concern yourself on that score, Mister Saturn,” Tim’s voice said with tinny finality. Setting Braddock sniffing after McManus would be just the sort of payback Paul Kelly deserved. “Now as to our other business.”