Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [82]
Flynn shook Haggerty’s hand. Cameras popped. The reporters asked Haggerty his age (which was sixty-four), what else he remembered about Tresca (which was very little), and so on. Haggerty answered in gruff monosyllables, addressing each reporter as “sir.” In short order, Flynn brought matters to a close and moved to take the stableman away.
“Mr. Haggerty,” called out Littlemore, “you a union man?”
“Conference over,” shouted Flynn, recognizing the detective. “No more questions.”
“But Mr. Haggerty must be a union man, Big Bill,” said Littlemore innocently. “Everybody knows an HSIU label was on the horse’s shoes. It was in the papers on Saturday, wasn’t it, fellas?”
The members of the press agreed that it was.
Flynn cleared his throat. “An NYPD detective checking up on the Bureau, huh? That’s fresh. How’s the Fischer investigation going, Policeman? Heard any voices out of the air lately?”
Several of the reporters laughed.
“Okay, Haggerty,” said Flynn, “the policeman here wants to know if your shop is union. Is it?”
“Yes, sir—HSIU,” answered Haggerty.
“And you put that label on your shoes, right?” asked Flynn.
“Yes, sir—every one.”
Flynn smiled broadly. “Got any more smart questions, NYPD?”
“Just one,” called Littlemore, stepping forward through the crowd, carrying a numbered canvas evidence bag tied with twine. “I’d like to show Mr. Haggerty the actual shoe—the one we pulled out of the bomb crater. He can tell us if the union label matches the one his shop uses.”
The reporters fell quiet. Flynn hesitated. He obviously wanted to take Haggerty away, but his reluctance to appear doubtful of his own witness’s story kept him in place.
Littlemore untied the bag and handed the horseshoe to Haggerty. “You can see a union label on that shoe, can’t you, Mr. Haggerty?” asked the detective.
“Yes, sir. HSIU. Same one we use in my shop.”
“There you go!” said Flynn triumphantly, taking the horseshoe from the stableman. “I’ll keep this. Federal evidence. Now let’s get going. I’m hungry.”
“Which means, Mr. Haggerty,” said Littlemore in a loud voice all could hear, “the shoe that Chief Flynn is holding, the one from the actual bombing, isn’t from the horse and wagon you serviced in your shop three weeks ago—am I right?”
“Yes, sir. You’re right,” said Haggerty.
The reporters burst into confusion. Flynn shouted above them, “What’s he talking about? The label’s a match.”
“The HSIU label on a horseshoe is a surface mark,” said Littlemore.
“Wears away in no time at all. After a few hours, it’s barely visible. But the HSIU label on the actual shoe is mint clean. The horse that brought the bomb to Wall Street was new-shod the morning of the attack—the day before at most. Not three weeks ago. Am I right, Mr. Haggerty?”
“Yes, sir.”
The following evening, Younger joined Littlemore at a dingy waterfront bar built on a derelict pier near the harbor, where unintimidated rats picked at refuse among the pilings and the detective had to give a password to gain entry. The smoke was so thick, and the lighting so poor, Younger could hardly see the bar counter. “They got a trapdoor in the back,” said Littlemore as they took a small table in a dark corner. “Opens right onto the water. When they get raided, they dump all their liquor into a boat and off she goes. Cops never find a thing. If the tide’s in, they just dump the liquor into the water. Divers bring it up later.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you break the law before,” said Younger.
“I’m not breaking any laws,” answered Littlemore. “I’m getting a sassafras.”
“Then why are we here?”
“So you can get a drink,” said Littlemore. “Looks like you could use one.”
Younger considered the proposition and found it accurate. All day long he had kept checking the hotel desk for a letter or wire from Colette. Every time the clerk informed him that there were no messages, Younger was furious at himself for caring about the girl at all.
Littlemore ordered his soft drink; Younger ordered a whiskey. The waiter brought him a fifth