Read Online Memorial Bridge by James Carroll - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Carroll
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slaughter rooms—"
"Jack." One of the men next to Hanley tried to silence him by squeezing his forearm.
But Hanley grabbed the man roughly in return. "You tell Buckley this has nothing to do with me! Moran sent me down there—"
"Shut up, Jack!" The man pushed Hanley back into his chair.
Cassie Ryan saw what a weary, frightened man he was. The onlookers were mainly expressionless, though at the mention of the name Buckley she'd seen the furtive rustle of their anxiety.
Buckley? Cassie tried to grasp the relevance to her uncle's fate of Raymond Buckley, if that's who they meant. He was the local Kelly-Nash ward boss, the man in charge of South Side disbursement of city jobs and of the dole. Everyone knew who Buckley was.
But to Cassie's knowledge Buckley had had nothing to do with her uncle. Certainly he'd never helped him find a job.
Instinctively she knew not to pursue it. She leaned down to put her face by the fading Hanley's, despite his odors. "Then who
did
see what happened? Who can I talk to?"
Hanley twisted his head away, as if Cassie Ryan were the one who reeked.
"You should go now, Miss." The policeman touched her elbow.
Cassie didn't move.
Hanley's pale eyes told her nothing until, finally, his dazed look gave way to one of recognition. "Dillon," he said abruptly. "Talk to Dillon."
"Who?"
"Sean Dillon. My helper. He was with me. He saw what I saw." A shudder curled through Hanley's body. "Which you don't want to hear about."
Cassie glanced at the policeman and at others nearby who shrugged. They'd never heard of Dillon. She turned back to Hanley. "How can I find him?"
But his face had clouded over already.
Sean Dillon was standing by himself near the bar. He'd come into Doran's after the woman had, but for the same reason, as he'd understood by listening, with everyone in the room, to her interrogation of Jack.
He watched as she drew herself up over Hanley, then turned, tossing her hair back, and looked into the eyes, a pair at a time, of the men she had to squeeze past to leave.
She moved steadily across the room toward the door, toward Dillon.
When she got close to him he did not step out of her way. "I am Sean Dillon."
She stopped before him, startled.
"I was with Jack. I'm sorry about your uncle."
Cassie put her hand to her lips. When Dillon noticed her fingers trembling, he realized she wasn't as tough as she pretended.
"Can you tell me what happened?" She spoke quietly, but the policeman who'd followed along behind her had heard.
Before Dillon could answer, the policeman stepped between them. "Don't go into the terrible details, son. It isn't what the lass needs. Her poor uncle died by an accident in the yards. That's all you need tell her."
Dillon found it easier to face the burly cop than the raw young woman. How
could
he speak to her of the grotesque pulpy mass who had been her uncle? He felt an incoming wave of what the priest had called his hesitation, but it wasn't about protecting the girl. Like others in the room, he had heard the name from Hanley's lips—Buckley, Raymond Buckley. Would he be the one now to splash that name with the blood of this woman's uncle? What about protecting himself?
Dillon knew very well what it meant then when he checked his hesitation. It almost surprised him that he could. He said to the po
liceman, but pointedly aware of speaking more to her, "It was no accident."
"What do you mean?"
"A man doesn't fall into a blood pipe, then haul the cast-iron cover closed above himself."
"Blood pipe?" Cassie said, revulsion in her voice.
"You see what I mean?" the cop said.
But now Dillon was fixed on the woman who had come into this place to hear the truth. "We found your uncle's body in the box basin where two large drainage pipes meet. The pipes draw blood out of the slaughter rooms."
"They told me he fell in a vat from a cutting table."
"He was nowhere near the cutting tables. There was no vat. It was the box basin near the pickle
"Jack." One of the men next to Hanley tried to silence him by squeezing his forearm.
But Hanley grabbed the man roughly in return. "You tell Buckley this has nothing to do with me! Moran sent me down there—"
"Shut up, Jack!" The man pushed Hanley back into his chair.
Cassie Ryan saw what a weary, frightened man he was. The onlookers were mainly expressionless, though at the mention of the name Buckley she'd seen the furtive rustle of their anxiety.
Buckley? Cassie tried to grasp the relevance to her uncle's fate of Raymond Buckley, if that's who they meant. He was the local Kelly-Nash ward boss, the man in charge of South Side disbursement of city jobs and of the dole. Everyone knew who Buckley was.
But to Cassie's knowledge Buckley had had nothing to do with her uncle. Certainly he'd never helped him find a job.
Instinctively she knew not to pursue it. She leaned down to put her face by the fading Hanley's, despite his odors. "Then who
did
see what happened? Who can I talk to?"
Hanley twisted his head away, as if Cassie Ryan were the one who reeked.
"You should go now, Miss." The policeman touched her elbow.
Cassie didn't move.
Hanley's pale eyes told her nothing until, finally, his dazed look gave way to one of recognition. "Dillon," he said abruptly. "Talk to Dillon."
"Who?"
"Sean Dillon. My helper. He was with me. He saw what I saw." A shudder curled through Hanley's body. "Which you don't want to hear about."
Cassie glanced at the policeman and at others nearby who shrugged. They'd never heard of Dillon. She turned back to Hanley. "How can I find him?"
But his face had clouded over already.
Sean Dillon was standing by himself near the bar. He'd come into Doran's after the woman had, but for the same reason, as he'd understood by listening, with everyone in the room, to her interrogation of Jack.
He watched as she drew herself up over Hanley, then turned, tossing her hair back, and looked into the eyes, a pair at a time, of the men she had to squeeze past to leave.
She moved steadily across the room toward the door, toward Dillon.
When she got close to him he did not step out of her way. "I am Sean Dillon."
She stopped before him, startled.
"I was with Jack. I'm sorry about your uncle."
Cassie put her hand to her lips. When Dillon noticed her fingers trembling, he realized she wasn't as tough as she pretended.
"Can you tell me what happened?" She spoke quietly, but the policeman who'd followed along behind her had heard.
Before Dillon could answer, the policeman stepped between them. "Don't go into the terrible details, son. It isn't what the lass needs. Her poor uncle died by an accident in the yards. That's all you need tell her."
Dillon found it easier to face the burly cop than the raw young woman. How
could
he speak to her of the grotesque pulpy mass who had been her uncle? He felt an incoming wave of what the priest had called his hesitation, but it wasn't about protecting the girl. Like others in the room, he had heard the name from Hanley's lips—Buckley, Raymond Buckley. Would he be the one now to splash that name with the blood of this woman's uncle? What about protecting himself?
Dillon knew very well what it meant then when he checked his hesitation. It almost surprised him that he could. He said to the po
liceman, but pointedly aware of speaking more to her, "It was no accident."
"What do you mean?"
"A man doesn't fall into a blood pipe, then haul the cast-iron cover closed above himself."
"Blood pipe?" Cassie said, revulsion in her voice.
"You see what I mean?" the cop said.
But now Dillon was fixed on the woman who had come into this place to hear the truth. "We found your uncle's body in the box basin where two large drainage pipes meet. The pipes draw blood out of the slaughter rooms."
"They told me he fell in a vat from a cutting table."
"He was nowhere near the cutting tables. There was no vat. It was the box basin near the pickle
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