turned over. No one knows me here anymore.”
“Who are you afraid of, Trish? We ought to know that before we get started.”
The question provoked the hint of a smile. “I’d have to start with my own blood. I’ve got two brothers left now-that’s besides Brendan, even though he doesn’t really count anymore. The both of them would kill me just for talking to you.”
I wondered why Brendan didn’t count.
“Any others?” Mike asked.
“I take it you know something about sandhogs? Not a one of them wants you people snooping around their business. They’ll be promising me Lord knows what to just be still and let them find out what happened in the hole, what got Duke killed, themselves. Screw the cops.”
“Is that because you think whoever murdered Duke is also a sandhog?”
“Of course he is.”
“And the young men from Tobago?” I asked. “They were part of the murder plan?”
“I don’t know what they were, Ms. Cooper. I’m not here to talk about them. Maybe they just got in the way.”
“Does this have anything to do with Brendan’s case?”
She hesitated when the bar owner came back to ask if she wanted a drink. “Also a beer, lady?”
“No. I’ll take a shot of whiskey. Straight.” Trish then answered me without turning her head to me, “I can’t prove that yet, but I’ll bet that it does.”
“So, why don’t you tell us your theory? Tell us who did it and why,” Mike said, waiting as the shot glass was placed in front of her and letting her take a drink.
I could tell from his tone that Mike was skeptical of Trish’s usefulness. She seemed to be the bitter voice of the hapless Quillians, and he wouldn’t want to head off on a wild-goose chase just to assuage her while his task- force colleagues were following solid leads.
She looked up at Mike from the small glass she was rubbing between her fingers. “Do you know the name Hassett?”
We exchanged glances. I let Mike answer. “I think there was a Hassett-Bobby Hassett-working at the tunnel site on Thursday.”
He was one of the workers who had refused George Golden’s request to take us down in the shaft. But so had a dozen others.
Her eyes widened. “Doing what? Not getting in the way of my brother’s investigation, was he?”
“No, no, no. What’s he to you?” Mike asked.
“There’s no polite way to say it, Mr. Chapman. He’s scum. The Hassett boys-that’s just what they are.”
“I’ll try to take your word for it, Trish. But it would help if you could explain why.”
“I could give you more reasons than you’ve got time to listen to. I raised quite a row at the wake last night, after you were gone. The three of them dared show up, dared walk in there like decent souls to pay their respects with the rest of the crowd. I told Bobby-he’s the oldest Hassett, must be twenty-four now-I told Bobby we knew they’d done the killing,” Trish said, working herself up, her cheeks flaming red and her lips taut, chafed from the way she’d nervously been chewing on them. “I told them to get out of there before I had them dragged out by their boots.”
Mike let her rage on until she completed her tirade. With as much patience as he was able to maintain, he tried to coax a sensible story from her.
“Trish, you said you know the Hassetts killed Duke. Is there any evidence you can point me to? I understand how you feel, but so far, if all you’ve got to give us is-”
“I’m not a damn detective. I’ll tell you the facts and you find the evidence. The Irish are good at grudges, aren’t we, Mr. Chapman? Stubborn lot. Sometimes it takes a hundred years to right a wrong. But none of us have got that much time. You got to do something before they take the two brothers I’ve got left.”
“Your family, Trish, tell us about them,” Mike said.
She shrugged, as though they were no different from any other family. “Fifth-generation tunnel workers. My great-great-grandfather came from Ireland in 1906 to build the Pennsylvania Railroad tunnels under the Hudson River. I don’t know that he liked the work, but he liked getting paid every week, and he must have been fearless. His kin followed like sheep, and the Quillians have been down in the hole ever since. Brothers, uncles, cousins, in- laws.”
“What about your brothers, Trish?” Mike asked.
“Duke,” she said, then paused to close her eyes. “Duke was the oldest. Named John Wayne Quillian for my dad’s favorite tough guy. Called him Duke long as anybody can remember. He’d be two years older than Brendan. Thirty-seven, may he rest in peace.”
“Did he have a wife? Any kids?”
“Married a girl from the neighborhood. One of them,” she said, tossing her head in the direction of Ignacia and the Latino men sitting at the bar. “She didn’t understand the life. Walked out on him four or five years ago. No kids. Maybe that had something to do with his health, too. Had cancer-bad run of it-back in his twenties. Almost didn’t make it. Breaks my heart he pulls through that to be cut down by these bastards.”
“How old are you?” Mike asked.
“Twenty-eight.”
I looked at her again, wondering whether it was something besides grief that had given her such a hard look so early on.
“And you live…?”
“With my mother. She’s got the Alzheimer’s. Only thing the damn disease has been good for is not knowing she lost Duke. I told her all about it last night when she saw me crying, but she doesn’t understand what it means. Five minutes later she asks me if I’ve seen Duke today.”
“Do you work?”
“I used to help out in the parish office. Secretarial work and such. But the last three years I can’t be leaving her alone. That’s why we needed Duke. He always helped with the money so I didn’t have to leave her with no stranger.”
Mike signaled to the owner to bring Trish a refill.
“How about your other brothers?”
“Richie-he’s thirty-three. His wife’s third-generation. Got three little ones. And Marshall-he’s thirty. Named for Marshall Mabey. Ever hear of him?”
“No,” Mike said.
“My great-great-grandfather was working next to him, tunneling the East River in 1916, building the BMT.” Every time Trish mentioned a different sandhog project my awareness of the city beneath our city expanded. “There was a big blowout, if you know what I mean.”
Mike asked, “When the water breaches the caisson under the riverbed?”
“Yeah, exactly. Old man Quillian heard that terrible screech that signals the blowout, the story goes, and he’s one of the lucky ones. Scrambled back into the air lock. But three of them others were sucked down into twelve feet of riverbed, as the air escaped and propelled them out like a cannon. Two are buried under all that cement until kingdom come. Marshall Mabey-he was shot out by the burst of compressed air, through the mud and up out of the water like a geyser, five stories high.”
“Makes a good tale, Trish.”
“It’s true. There’s a lot of sandhog babies named for Marshall. Went back to the job the very same week. Everybody’s hero. Survival of the fittest, I guess.”
“What about Brendan?” I asked, wondering how the defendant in my trial had emerged from this underground fraternity to wind up in such a totally different social and professional milieu. “Why did you say he didn’t count anymore?”
Trish looked at me for the first time since she had started answering Mike’s questions. “If you’re hoping I’m going to say something bad about him, you’ll be mightily disappointed.”
Mike took the reins back from me. “I dropped the ball, Trish. I’m the guy who locked your brother up and I never knew any of you even existed. What’s that about?”
Trish stiffened now and took a deep breath. She seemed to be trying to decide whether to talk to us about
