my uncle?"
Again Hanley cast his eyes about, but no one would meet them. He stared at the hat he clutched between his beefy hands. "He died."
"I know he died. I've been to Riordan's. I've seen his body. But what happened to him? They told me he drowned in a vat at Swift's. But what was he doing at Swift's? What happened to make his head like that? Where did he—?" Cassie stopped abruptly as the rampant emotion began once more to overtake her. She had become hysterical at Riordan's. The undertaker had felt free to put his arms around her. Now she hugged herself hard, choking off the violent shudder she felt coming. If she held herself in the vise of her own arms she could do this. "You have to tell me," she said. Only she knew how close she was to weeping.
Hanley's lips were set in a line. He thought if he didn't move she would go away. But she stood where she was above him, a grim statue. He said quietly, to soften her, "I knew him." He felt a fresh hit of the shock with which he'd heard who that pulpy mass had been.
"Then tell me, please."
Hanley brought his face up. "I mean years ago, I knew him years ago. I didn't know him now." Hanley clenched and unclenched his hands. "I don't know what happened."
"But you found him."
"I'm just a pipefitter, Miss. Your uncle was in the pipe. They made me go in for him."
"Pipe?"
Hanley realized he'd told her something she did not know. Stay out of this, he told himself. Stay out! Even drunk as he was, he knew enough to turn his back on the poor girl.
"Pipe?" Cassie repeated. She took Hanley by the shoulder, to force him to look at her, but he wouldn't budge. She heard the screech of emotion in her own voice; she hated it. "They told me
vat.
He fell into a giant vat. He took a short cut across a slippery cutting table, lost his footing and slid into a giant pickle vat. That's what they told me at Swift's. They said it was his own fault."
"Well then, what's your question, Miss?"
Cassie was surprised by the sober, calm voice behind her. When she looked she saw the policeman she'd followed in. His tunic was open at the throat. His hat was off now. His head was shiny bald. He held a shot glass in one hand, a beer mug in the other. A black cigar poked out from the glass, between his fingers.
"My question?" Cassie stared at him. She became aware of the press of stinking men. Why couldn't they give her room? They were all glaring at her as if it were an offense that she should want to know what happened to her uncle. The man at Swift's had concocted that story, she just knew it. When she'd challenged him, he'd as much as admitted it. He had told her he wasn't sure what had happened. My question, she repeated to herself. My only question.
Her real question had little to do with the famous dangers of the slaughter pits. What had made her dear uncle's sweet, loving heart so weak? And, before him, why had her father disappeared? That was what she wanted to ask someone, but these stewed prunes were too much like
her uncle and her father, as her stoical mother and aunt were too much unlike them.
She looked at the policeman with a sudden incredulity, as if snapping out of a trance. "My uncle died at Swift's. But he didn't work for Swift's. He hasn't had a job in years."
The policeman shrugged. "An odd-lot day laborer, Miss. Lots of fellows never tell them at home if they pick up a shift here or there." He lowered his voice to emphasize its Irish warmth. "Though usually they keep day workers away from the cutting tables. I'm sorry for your troubles, Miss."
The policeman's sympathy took Cassie by surprise. She deflected her emotion by turning back to Hanley. "I asked to talk to someone who saw it happen. I told them I wouldn't leave until they said who I could talk to. Then they told me you."
Hanley shot bolt upright. "I never saw it happen! I never saw anything happen!" He looked wildly about. "I just found him, is all. This has nothing to do with me. The blood was backing up into the
Again Hanley cast his eyes about, but no one would meet them. He stared at the hat he clutched between his beefy hands. "He died."
"I know he died. I've been to Riordan's. I've seen his body. But what happened to him? They told me he drowned in a vat at Swift's. But what was he doing at Swift's? What happened to make his head like that? Where did he—?" Cassie stopped abruptly as the rampant emotion began once more to overtake her. She had become hysterical at Riordan's. The undertaker had felt free to put his arms around her. Now she hugged herself hard, choking off the violent shudder she felt coming. If she held herself in the vise of her own arms she could do this. "You have to tell me," she said. Only she knew how close she was to weeping.
Hanley's lips were set in a line. He thought if he didn't move she would go away. But she stood where she was above him, a grim statue. He said quietly, to soften her, "I knew him." He felt a fresh hit of the shock with which he'd heard who that pulpy mass had been.
"Then tell me, please."
Hanley brought his face up. "I mean years ago, I knew him years ago. I didn't know him now." Hanley clenched and unclenched his hands. "I don't know what happened."
"But you found him."
"I'm just a pipefitter, Miss. Your uncle was in the pipe. They made me go in for him."
"Pipe?"
Hanley realized he'd told her something she did not know. Stay out of this, he told himself. Stay out! Even drunk as he was, he knew enough to turn his back on the poor girl.
"Pipe?" Cassie repeated. She took Hanley by the shoulder, to force him to look at her, but he wouldn't budge. She heard the screech of emotion in her own voice; she hated it. "They told me
vat.
He fell into a giant vat. He took a short cut across a slippery cutting table, lost his footing and slid into a giant pickle vat. That's what they told me at Swift's. They said it was his own fault."
"Well then, what's your question, Miss?"
Cassie was surprised by the sober, calm voice behind her. When she looked she saw the policeman she'd followed in. His tunic was open at the throat. His hat was off now. His head was shiny bald. He held a shot glass in one hand, a beer mug in the other. A black cigar poked out from the glass, between his fingers.
"My question?" Cassie stared at him. She became aware of the press of stinking men. Why couldn't they give her room? They were all glaring at her as if it were an offense that she should want to know what happened to her uncle. The man at Swift's had concocted that story, she just knew it. When she'd challenged him, he'd as much as admitted it. He had told her he wasn't sure what had happened. My question, she repeated to herself. My only question.
Her real question had little to do with the famous dangers of the slaughter pits. What had made her dear uncle's sweet, loving heart so weak? And, before him, why had her father disappeared? That was what she wanted to ask someone, but these stewed prunes were too much like
her uncle and her father, as her stoical mother and aunt were too much unlike them.
She looked at the policeman with a sudden incredulity, as if snapping out of a trance. "My uncle died at Swift's. But he didn't work for Swift's. He hasn't had a job in years."
The policeman shrugged. "An odd-lot day laborer, Miss. Lots of fellows never tell them at home if they pick up a shift here or there." He lowered his voice to emphasize its Irish warmth. "Though usually they keep day workers away from the cutting tables. I'm sorry for your troubles, Miss."
The policeman's sympathy took Cassie by surprise. She deflected her emotion by turning back to Hanley. "I asked to talk to someone who saw it happen. I told them I wouldn't leave until they said who I could talk to. Then they told me you."
Hanley shot bolt upright. "I never saw it happen! I never saw anything happen!" He looked wildly about. "I just found him, is all. This has nothing to do with me. The blood was backing up into the
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