Hell's Gate

by Richard E. Crabbe

  Mary smiled, but her eyes still held a tinge of worry. “Good. I’m glad to hear you say that,” she said with a nod to Tom. “We just want the best for you.”

  “Always have,” Tom added. He smiled at Mary. This was the first time Mike had expressed interest in a woman in years. Tom felt like he should propose a toast, break out some cigars or something. Instead he grinned into his soup bowl, watching Mike from the corner of his eye.

  * * *

  An hour passed. Dinner was done, dessert served. The three of them sat back while the cook cleared the remains of the meal. Tom poured some port for Mary and himself, but Mike begged off. “It’ll put me to sleep,” he said.

  “Which reminds me,” Tom said, putting down his glass. “I’ve got that surprise. Ought to keep you from nodding off.”

  Mike glanced at Mary for any clues, but she said nothing. A cryptic smile was all he got.

  “Lead on, Captain!” Mike said, hauling himself to his feet. “I’m all on fire to see this, whatever it is. Ma sitting there like the sphinx. Lotta help she is.”

  Mary put up her hands. “I didn’t say a word.”

  “Exactly,” he groused.

  Mike followed Tom out the front door. They took a left toward Montague Street. After going half a block Mike said, “Guess it’s not a new pistol.”

  Tom smiled. “Nope. Not a new pistol.”

  They continued past Montague, angling down the Heights toward the harbor. Another two blocks went by before Tom stopped in front of the large, double doors of a stable.

  “Oh. You got that new trap you were talking about, didn’t you?”

  Tom shrugged. “You’ll see.”

  “New horse, too?” Mike said, sensing there was more. Tom said nothing. He went to the office door off to one side of the building and walked in. A stableman sat behind a well-worn desk, his feet propped on top and his chair leaning back at a precarious angle. He roused when he heard the door, but didn’t change position. “Evenin’, Mista Braddock,” the man said. “Come to show her off?” He seemed about to say more, but a warning look from Tom shut him up. “Oh, I get it. A surprise, huh?”

  “Right, Nick. She back where I left her?” Tom asked.

  “Sure thing, Mista Braddock. I don’ let nobody so much as breathe on that baby.”

  Tom and Mike walked into the semidarkness of the stable. The pungent smells of leather, horseflesh, and manure enveloping them like a fog. There were only two lights in the place, big, bare bulbs hanging on long wires from the ceiling. They walked past carriages parked on the left and horse stalls on the right. There were rigs of all descriptions, tall, open shays, black barouches, gleaming with varnish, a buckboard or two, and finally a little red Oldsmobile. Tom stopped before it. He looked at Mike with a wolfish grin. “Like it?”

  “Whoa! I can’t believe you got one. When’d you get it?” Mike said as he looked the car over.

  “They delivered it yesterday. Man came out from the factory, all the way from Lansing, Michigan, to show me how to drive it, do the maintenance, that sort of thing. Nice fella.”

  The Olds gleamed. It was bright red with yellow pinstriping. Oldsmobile was painted in gold script on the side. The tires were white and the wheels were wire, like a bicycle’s, only wider. The seat was high and good for two, three in a real pinch. In front there was a curved dashboard, much like a sleigh’s except a bit lower. For steering there was a curved brass tiller, gleaming in the electric light. “Motor’s under the seat,” Tom said. “Single cylinder, seven horsepower.”

  “Seven horsepower! For this little car. Must go like the devil.”

  “Factory says to break it in a bit,” Tom replied while climbing up onto the leather bench seat. “I haven’t driven it much yet, but they’re supposed to do a good thirty miles per hour once you get ’er up to speed.”

  Ever since the year before when two men in an ’03 Marmon had driven across the country, Tom had dreamt about owning an automobile. He couldn’t justify spending more than $2,000 for one of the big Packards or Marmons, a sum only a wealthy man or a true spendthrift would consider. But when an Oldsmobile made the trip from San Francisco to New York just a few weeks after the Marmon, Tom figured that was the car for him. Much smaller than the Packards, Marmons, or Stanleys, the Oldsmobile was also only $650 dollars, expensive enough, but not extravagant. It was perfect for him and Mary, as stylish in its way as any coach-and-four and far more modern.

  “How d’you start the thing?” Mike asked as he looked over the various levers. “Crank start, right?”

  “Yeah,” Tom said. “Over on the side. You give it a couple of good turns and it starts right up. Of course, the driver has to set the clutch and spark and activate the speeder. It’s a little complicated.” Tom showed Mike how the crank was inserted and the starting sequence. “Only takes about twenty seconds once you get the hang of it, leastwise that’s what the factory fella said. Takes me more like a minute or so.”

  “Let’s give ’er a go! Whadya say?”

  Tom shook his head with a wry twist of his mouth. “Can’t start her up in here. Scares the horses. I gotta have them push it out.”

  “That’s okay. We can push it. What’s it weigh? Not much I’d guess.”

  “’Bout seven hundred pounds,” Tom said. “But I think we should be getting back anyway. Ma’ll start to worry.”

  “Nah,” Mike said, checking his watch. “We’ve only been gone a half hour.” He was dying to get behind the tiller.

  “Really?” Tom kicked one of the tires. “Truth is, I’m a little leery of taking her out at night. Don’t feel sure enough at the tiller. Hell, I only drove the thing once yesterday. Give me a week to practice, really get the hang of it. Then we’ll go for a good long ride, out to Prospect Park or something, race the El up Second Avenue, have some fun.”

  Mike hesitated. He’d wanted to go roaring off into the night. He looked at his father in the dim light of the overhead bulbs, suddenly noticing how the shadows made his eyes seem hollow, the creases in his face like a road map. His hair in that light looked thin and wispy and entirely gray. There had been a time when Tom wouldn’t have given it a second thought either, would have been like a boy with a new puppy. It was as if he’d aged years in the space of an evening.

  Tom picked up on Mike’s look, but then gave him a wicked grin and the old Tom was back, the man who’d stood his ground at Gettysburg and the Wilderness, and still had a hard reputation on the force.

  “I hear the ladies like a man in a sporty automobile,” he said.

  Mike smiled. “That so?”

  “That’s what I hear.” Tom put his arm around Mike’s shoulder. Mike could feel the strength in it as they turned to go. “Maybe I’ll give you some lessons, let you take that Ginny Caldwell out for a drive.”

  Mike had a sudden image of Ginny, the salty breeze of Coney Island pulling bright strands of hair from under her bonnet, the glow of the summer sun on her skin.

  “Don’t sound bad,” Mike said, trying not to sound like a kid on Christmas Eve.

  5

  THE CABLES OF the Brooklyn Bridge sliced by Mike’s window as the train rumbled toward Manhattan. He sat on one of the oversprung wicker seats, staring out at the city. The East River was a black void below, reminding him of what he’d faced two nights before. He’d managed to forget for a while, but now it was back, replaying behind his eyes. The cables framed the images, so they seemed to pass just beyond the glass, suspended, flickering in space. Mike’s jaw tightened and the wound on his wrist throbbed. As the images winked by he tried to alter them, tried to bend the bullets’ paths, or back up time and relive a decisive moment. Sometimes it worked, mostly not.

  “Bottle,” Mike said in a whisper. He looked at his watch. It was only nine. As the train crept to a stop in the Manhattan terminal of the bridge, Mike got up and waited anxiously at the door.

  He caught the Second Avenue El, running as the doors closed. He only went two stops. Once he was back on the s
treet, he checked his pistol. Turning into a darkened storefront, he jacked a round into the chamber. He eased the hammer down and set the safety, sliding it back into the holster under his arm. He patted his vest pocket for his extra clip, then set off on Canal Street, toward Corlears Hook.

  * * *

  Mike worked his way through the jumbled sidewalks of Jefferson, Henry, Madison, and Clinton streets, where the gutters were choked with manure and the stink of outhouses, abattoirs, beer halls, and rotting produce. This was the Eastman’s territory, Monk Eastman’s old gang, ruled now by Kid Twist, who had taken over after Monk went to Sing Sing just a few months before. The gang, nearly a thousand strong, ruled everything from the Bowery east to the river and north to Fourteenth. The Hookers had paid tribute to them, as did a number of other specialized gangs in the area. There was grim satisfaction in the fact that the Hookers wouldn’t be paying anymore.

  Mike knew it was a chancey thing to go poking about these streets, especially at night. He pulled his bowler low, keeping a wary eye for any who might recognize him. The night was warm and the streets were full. Pianos tinkled through open saloon doors. Prostitutes in twos and threes jostled men off the sidewalks, sometimes pulling them into tenement doorways. Groups of boys prowled for pockets to pick or drunks to overpower. Sailors, oystermen, dockworkers, factory men, and gangsters mixed.

  A uniform caught Mike’s eye at the corner of East Broadway and Clinton. It took a hearty patrolman to walk these streets alone. The uniform was a target, particularly to gangsters looking to make a name for themselves. More likely the cop was on the Eastmans’ payroll and enjoyed some small measure of immunity, so long as he didn’t interfere too much in gang affairs. Mike approached him cautiously. He identified himself as the officer looked him up and down.

  “You’re Braddock’s son, eh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I heard about him,” the man said without inflection. “Ain’t heard o’ you.”

  Mike looked at the man directly, not sure what to make of that. He shrugged and replied, “Ain’t heard o’ you either. So what?”

  “What you doin’ here?” the patrolman asked, not rising to the bait.

  “Looking for a saloon, dance hall, or something like that. A place with bottle in the name.”

  “Huh?”

  Mike paused and tried a different tack. “Know any places called bottle-something, like Brown Bottle, or Broken Bottle, you know, like that?”

  “Sure,” the patrolman said. “What you want with places like that? The ones ’round here is all dives; rotgut whiskey, watered beer, and used-up women.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  The cop didn’t crack a smile. “Listen,” he said, stepping closer. “Watch yerself ’round here. The whores’ll pick yer pockets or put knockout drops in yer beer. The gangsters’ll stick a knife in yer ribs for a couple dollars. Don’ make me come mop you up when its over.” He waited for some sign of hesitation from Mike, but saw none. He shook his head. “There’s a Blue Bottle over on Montgomery, near Cherry, a place everybody calls the Bottleneck, right down here on Clinton, near Water. Them two are okay if you’re careful. Then there’s Jimmy’s Broken Bottle. That one’s full o’ Eastmans this time o’ night. Kind of a saloon with whores upstairs. That place I wouldn’t go within a block. Knock yer head in for sport they will. Take my advice an’ stay clear.”

  “What,” Mike said. “No tablecloths?”

  “Oh, yer a funny one now. Regular laughin’ corpse.”

  “Thanks,” Mike said and meant it. “But I’ve got sand enough.” He turned to go but the patrolman said, “Maybe, but don’ think even yer father’s got that kinda sand.”

  “Tom’s got guts enough for both of us,” Mike said as he walked away.

  Jimmy’s Broken Bottle was in the cellar of an old, wooden row house on Cherry, near Jackson. The windows sagged in the upper three floors. The walls bulged and bowed to such a degree that the clapboards were popping off. The building seemed it would tumble into the street except for the tenements on either side propping it up. A bile green coat of peeling paint gave the place a leprous look.

  Three thugs leaned against the iron railing beside the front steps. Bowlers pulled low, they watched Mike from across the street. Their rough conversation stopped as he approached.

  “Hey, fellas,” Mike said, adding just a bit of an alcoholic slur to his voice and a wobble to his gait. “How’s da beer?”

  “Wet,” one of them said. The others laughed. Mike laughed, too.

  “Just how I like it,” Mike said as he started down the darkened front stairs.

  “Watch yer step,” one of the men said.

  Mike noticed the glass first. The dirt floor seemed to be covered in it, crunching under his shoes as he walked. The near silence was what he noticed second. Despite the fact that the saloon was close to full, it was as quiet as a Protestant wake. The only sound was an odd sort of music coming from the back beside a tiny stage, not much bigger than a couple of tables put together, which was probably what it was. On the stage were two women, stark naked. They danced and intertwined, their movements liquid, flowing in a stream of sexual suggestion. Hips gyrated and hands ran over each other’s bodies. Mike stood still, watching. The gaslight flickered over the crowd of men. They seemed to hunch forward, straining. Mike realized, once his eyes became accustomed to the gloom and smoke that the women weren’t naked, but wore flesh-colored tights. Neither was handsome or even pretty, yet they cast a powerful spell over the room. The music was part of it. A clarinet and a single drum played something that was part snake charmer’s melody and part funeral dirge. The drummer gradually quickened the pace as Mike watched. The dancers were close. Thighs and hips ground together as hands went to breasts and buttocks. They writhed in a choreographed frenzy that lasted only half a minute or so before the music stopped and the light that had been on them was suddenly extinguished. The place erupted. The men jumped to their feet and bottles were smashed on the floor or against the brick walls, even against the ceiling. The men bellowed and clapped and stomped their feet until the lights went up and the two women, glistening with sweat took a quick bow, and darted into a back room. A door shut behind them and a huge man with a brass-studded cudgel rolled before it like a boulder before a cave.

  Mike pushed up to the bar, a couple of rough, wide planks atop a row of barrels. He managed to get a beer amid the crush of suddenly thirsty men. They were an unwashed lot, most of them, except for the occasional gangster dandy in bright colors and pomaded hair. Their finery couldn’t disguise the hooded eye, the scars, the back-alley clip of the tongue. One such up-and-comer pushed up beside Mike and ordered a gin.

  “Pretty good show,” Mike said, nodding toward the empty stage.

  “Yeah, dey get da boys all hot to trot,” he said as he cast a darting eye over Mike. “Foist time? Ain’t seen ya befaw.”

  “First time here, yeah,” Mike said over his beer. “Lookin’ fer somebody.” He added a slight leavening of the Bowery to his speech, though he never did feel comfortable saying things like foist. “Trouble is, I ain’t sure who ’e is.”

  The dandy got his gin and took a long, slow pull at it, as if he hadn’t heard Mike. He gave a small shiver as it went down. His hand had an alcoholic tremor.

  “Fuckin good, dis stuff!” He tapped the glass on the bar for another, and turned to Mike, saying “Dis guy youse lookin’ faw, ’e got a moniker?”

  “Don’ know it,” Mike said. He lowered his voice. “Was talkin’ ta Smilin’ Jack last week. Had a job we was plannin’. Jack, he gets on the phone, see … you know ta check with whoever ’es gotta check wit’, an’ I hear ’im say somethin’ ’bout bottle, like a place or a name or somethin’. So I figure now that Jack’s gone … rest in peace, dat the thing fer me is ta check aroun’, see if I can see what’s what.”

  “Hmm,” the dandy said. “Shame ’bout Jack. How ya know ’im?”

  “From da neighborhood,” Mike said, smilin
g. “Da one wit’ dar bars on Blackwell’s Island. We were on vacation together.” They chuckled over that. “Listen, I wanna make sure I got an okay on dis. Don’ wanna do a job an’ find out later the Kid or somebody’s got a piece. Dat kinda trouble I don’ need. Never been one ta step on toes, ya get my meanin’.”

  The gangster nodded and frowned. “Smart,” he said. “I’m Mickey Todt.” Mike nodded and stuck out his hand. “Arnie Beanstock,” he said, using the first name that came into his head. Arnie ran the soda shop down the block from his apartment. “Mickey Death? Interesting name.”

  “Know yer German, huh? Da boys call me dat. Stolzenthaler’s my real name. Too big fer dem mugs. After I done da big one a coupla times, dey started callin’ me Todt ’cause o’ me being German. To dem it’s more like Toad, but what da fuck.”

  “They jus’ call me Beansie,” Mike said. “So, you got any ideas on my problem? I gotta get on dis job. It ain’t gonna be good a couple weeks from now, ya get me?”

  “Yeah, I get it, I get it. Lemme do some askin’ around, maybe give da Kid a call, see what he says. See if he knows anything ’bout any job Jack was plannin’.” Another gin slid down Mickey’s throat. He gave a small sigh as it spread out. “Don’ suppose you’d like ta tell me what da job is, huh?”

  Mike smiled, but shook his head. “I’ll tell ya dis,” Mike said, feeling he had to give up a little information to seem credible, “dere’s a ship comin’ in soon’s got a big cargo. Me an’ Jack had some inside information on it. You’ll know more when you find me da guy. You get me dat an’ maybe then we talk gelt, huh?”