Hell's Gate

by Richard E. Crabbe

  “Youse make a mistake, ya get docked,” he went on. “Youse ruin a piece, youse pay fer it.”

  Ginny nodded. It was no worse than she would have expected. She thought of the crying girl who’d run into her on the street and wondered as she settled in to her work if the girl she’d run into had come from here, from this factory floor and this very machine. She couldn’t imagine what might have driven her off. To Ginny this was a great and exciting opportunity, the start of her new life, the beginning of her new self. The noise and dust and bent backs of the factory were just part of the path that would take her away from her old life and, with a little luck, into Mike’s.

  He’d set her on this course. She’d been primed like an anarchist’s bomb and Suds had set her off. She shuddered in disgust at the thought, but had to admit a certain debt to the man. Though Ginny had wished it would be Mike who would take her away, she was now at least free, at the beginning of a new life. All that remained would be to work hard and find Mike. As Ginny guided shirtwaists through her machine, those things seemed virtually accomplished.

  22

  “LISTEN, WHADYA SAY after we stop at the Thirteenth, we try to find Ginny?” Mike said to Primo as they walked out of police headquarters. Mike had been reluctant to press Primo into helping find Ginny, even though he’d seemed willing enough. It was a personal thing to him and nothing Primo should get involved in.

  “You don’ have to ask, Mike. The Bottler, he will be there later,” Primo said. “Where we start?”

  “Back at the house,” Mike said. “Maybe some of the other girls know something. She might have gone home, or sent a message back to one of the girls. Who knows.”

  “Where is home?”

  “From the way she talked I think she might be from New Jersey or Long Island, maybe up in Westchester. Ginny never talked about that, at least not to me. She’d always change the subject if I asked. Guess there were some hard times she’d just as soon forget.”

  * * *

  It didn’t take long to get to the Thirteenth Precinct station house and even less time to get the bad news about Kid Dahl.

  “Fined ’im five dollars,” the desk sergeant told them when they asked what cell the Kid was in. “Let ’im go last night.”

  “Shit! I wanted him held, goddamn it. Who the fuck let him go?”

  The sergeant gave Mike a look that spoke volumes about his opinion of detectives in general and demanding ones in particular. He closed the log book with a snap and shrugged. “Wasn’t on duty last night,” he said.

  “Listen, I gave that patrolman explicit instructions. I told him I wanted him fucking booked, not fined for chrissake.”

  “Explicit,” the sergeant said. “How you spell that? I wanna write that one down. Got a fine sound to it.”

  “You fucking—”

  “Mike! What’re you doing here?” Tom’s voice called behind them as he descended the stairs from the second floor.

  “Hey, Tom,” Mike said, turning. They’d agreed when Mike had entered the force that he shouldn’t refer to Tom as Dad in front of other cops. “What the hell are you doing here? I didn’t see your car out front.”

  “’Cause it’s in the back,” Tom said, shaking hands with him and Primo. “So how’s it going?” he asked in a way that told them he already knew the answer.

  “Not so good at the moment,” Mike said with an evil look at the desk sergeant, who had started scribbling dutifully in some report or other.

  Mike explained the problem, but Tom hardly seemed to listen. “Come on outside,” he said. Once they were on the sidewalk he told them, “Listen, I was just upstairs with the captain. We go way back. We had some, ah, you know, business to talk about. You know how the damn phones are; fine for official stuff, but there’s always another pair of ears or two might be listening in.”

  Mike nodded. He’d used operators himself to help get information, a tactic the force was only beginning to develop, let alone perfect.

  “We’ve got some mutual business; stuff that cuts across a couple of precincts,” Tom went on. “Anyway, he told me they let Kid Dahl go.”

  “But—”

  “Listen, Mike, he’s in up to his fucking neck with the Eastmans, okay?” Tom said in a low voice. “He lets certain things go by so long as they don’t get outa line, start poppin’ civilians, that sort of thing. You know how it works.”

  “Yeah, sure but I—”

  “But nothing. You should’ve taken Dahl somewhere and gotten what you needed from him right then, broke his fucking fingers or something. Bringing him here was a mistake.”

  “It was late,” Primo said in a way that indicated he knew it was no excuse. “We were tired.”

  Tom gave Primo an admonitory smirk, which slowly turned into a grin. “Fourteen-hour day? I guess I know how that can be. He was making a fuss outside the Bottler’s, huh?”

  “The captain told you? He knew?”

  “Yeah, he knew. That was one of the reasons I drove over to see him. Once we knew what precinct the Bottler was in, I figured he’d know about it.”

  “I could’ve asked,” Mike said.

  “You could have, but he wouldn’t have told you shit,” Tom said. “I wasn’t even sure he’d tell me. That’s why I didn’t mention it to you before.”

  Mike took a deep breath. “So what did you find out?”

  “Where you two headed now?”

  * * *

  A couple of minutes later, Tom was at the tiller of the Olds, goggles down and duster flying as Mike and Primo held on to the seat as best they could. He was driving noticeably faster than just a couple of days before, surer with the controls, his shifts smoother and his use of the speeder and spark advance now much more confident.

  “It’s pretty much the way we’d heard it,” Tom said over the noise of the engine and the whine of the gears and drive chain. “The Bottler pays Kelly. He’s not exactly a Five Pointer, but he’s aligned with them and Kelly gets a percentage. Dahl was waving his fucking gun because Twist’s been trying to put the squeeze on the Bottler. Word is he told the Bottler he’s paying Dahl now. Twist owed Dahl some favor or other, so he gave him the Bottler’s game as a reward.”

  “But it isn’t his to give,” Mike said. “Not if the Bottler’s paying Kelly.”

  “Right, but that don’t mean shit to him. Twist wants something, he takes it.”

  “Kelly’s not gonna like that,” Mike said. “Shit like that’s started wars.”

  “Hell, I’ve seen gang wars start over who’s moll danced with who. This could get out of hand in a big way unless one of the Tammany fixers gets involved.”

  “What about the Hookers?” Mike said. Gang shenanigans and turf battles were not his primary focus. “The captain know about anything to do with … whoa! Watch it!”

  Tom swerved around a carriage that had pulled out from the curb into their path. He seemed unperturbed, giving a couple of blasts on the horn and barreling by without slowing. Mike figured he had to be doing at least fifteen miles an hour, a breakneck pace for city traffic.

  “He didn’t know anything about them. The Hookers usually operate outside his precinct, so his men rarely cross paths with them,” Tom said.

  “You believe him?”

  “Don’t have any reason not to. Hold on!” He flew through the intersection of Houston and Broadway, forcing a man to jump out of the way and a delivery wagon to stop short, horses snorting in fright. “Damn, I love this car!”

  “Gotta be a connection,” Mike said, as they turned north on University Place. “Whether they know about it or not.”

  “You believe Smilin’ Jack? He wasn’t exactly known for his honesty.”

  “Smilin’ Jack was about as close to death as a man can come. No need for him to lie.” He looked at Primo, who was hanging on at the edge of the seat. “Guess maybe we’ll watch and see what we can see for another week or so. Don’t think my captain will let it go much beyond that anyway, not unless we turn something up.”<
br />
  Tom nodded. “Sounds about right. But no arresting the Bottler without a damn good reason, not just because he’s running a stuss game, got it?”

  “That coming from the captain of the Thirteenth?” Mike said.

  “That’s coming from everybody, me included. There’s a lot involved here and … how should I put this … some outside interests that have to be considered, deals that have to be honored.”

  “Yeah, I guess Paul Kelly’s not the only one the Bottler’s paying. Devery, too?”

  Tom didn’t answer directly. “Listen, I’m not saying that if you can prove he’s somehow running a river piracy operation you shouldn’t nail him. He ain’t paying protection for that. But you have to be able to prove it, understand?”

  They didn’t respond right away, so he went on. “You act too soon you’ll just fuck it up, maybe fuck yourselves up too, end up walking a beat in the Bronx. Maybe worse. Your best bet is you find something, you clear it with me or your captain. Got it?”

  Mike nodded. Primo grinned. “Got it.”

  Tom just rolled his eyes behind his goggles. He shook his head and hunkered down as they neared the intersection of Fourteenth.

  The southwest corner of Union Square Park, where University Place and Fourteenth met, was as busy a corner as the city had, with horsecars, stages, pedestrians, hacks, carriages, and wagons making the crossing tricky at best and downright dangerous the rest of the time. Tom passed a horsecar, bumping over the rails, but not slowing much as a delivery wagon and a pair of carriages scissored in front of him on Fourteenth. Seeing an opening, he steered for the gap that he anticipated would open between them and powered through with no more than a foot to spare on either side.

  They all heard the whistle, but at first didn’t pay any attention, figuring it was just a cop they hadn’t noticed. But oddly the whistle seemed to follow them and if anything grow closer. Tom didn’t bother to look about until they were nearly past Tiffany’s at the corner of Fifteenth. But Mike saw him; a bicycle cop, pedaling furiously to overtake them, tooting his whistle like a little steam engine. He’d never have believed a bike could go that fast if he hadn’t seen it himself.

  “Pull over!” the cop yelled once he spit his whistle out to flop on its lanyard. “Pull over!”

  Tom applied the hand brake, pulling hard, retarded the spark and let up on the speeder. He put the tiller over and bumped to a halt at the curb, stopping so quickly that the bike cop had to swerve to avoid him. The cop hit the curb too hard, dumping the bike and sending him hopping and flailing in a most undignified manner.

  “Who the fuck’re you,” he shouted at them, “going through an intersection like that? You coulda killed somebody! Ya got a dandy new rig here, but goddamn it, you’re gonna get a dandy new fine to go with it!”

  Tom, his uniform hidden under his duster, and Mike and Primo, in plainclothes, appeared to be ordinary citizens, a fact they didn’t really appreciate until just then. Tom opened his duster as the cop put one foot on the spokes of the front wheel.

  “I’m on official business, officer,” Tom said. “Sorry if I was speeding. I’m Captain Braddock. These are Detectives Alfieri and Braddock.” Tom elbowed Mike to show his badge, which was under his jacket. Primo flashed his, too.

  The cop looked up, seeing the captain’s badge and uniform under the duster. “Oh, for the love o’…” he said, half in apology and half in disgust.

  “Officer, that’s okay,” Tom said. “Damn fine job of running us down, too. Fucked if I knew a man could pedal that fast.”

  The man grinned as a trickle of sweat ran from under his helmet.

  “Who’s your captain? You’re out of the Fifteenth, right? So it’s McConnell then? I’m sending him a commendation this afternoon, Officer…”

  “Barber. Richard Barber,” the man said, touching the brim of his helmet in something between a salute and a thank you.

  “Good man,” Tom said. “It’ll go in your record, Barber. Ever try bicycle racing? You’d be a natural.”

  “Once or twice,” Barber replied. “I do all right.”

  “Bet you do at that.” Tom put the Olds in gear and one gloved hand on the spark. “Gotta get moving, Barber,” he said, returning the officer’s salute as they motored away.

  * * *

  By the time they reached Miss Gertie’s, Mike had told Tom all he knew about Ginny and her disappearance. Tom mostly listened and Mike held nothing back, including the details of his visit with Johnny Suds. That story seemed to bring a nod of satisfaction from Tom, though it could have been the result of a bump in the road, Mike couldn’t be sure which.

  “So the Bottler was smuggling in cocaine,” Tom said, seeming to ignore the information about Ginny. “No idea where he cooks his little brew, huh?”

  “Not yet,” Mike allowed. “But I have an idea how we might find out. That joint down on Park Row, you know the one?”

  “Know it? They used to let the poor bastards lay in the street, but now they bring ’em a block from the precinct after they pass out.” Tom shook his head with a rueful grin. “Better for the public image.”

  Tom brought the Olds to a stop in front of the townhouse about ten minutes later. “Okay, listen, I’m going to make some phone calls when I get back to my office. Your Ginny might have gone to one of the other houses, most of which I’m sure you know,” he said with an attempt at a disapproving frown. “It’ll save you the time checking them out. There’s some places they only know about at the precinct level, real local stuff. I’ll have them checked too. Lotta girls just work out of their own rooms now. Get a phone line put in and run ads in The Rake or something. Anyway, I’ll put the word out she’s wanted for some damn thing or other, not that any of the other captains give a shit. By tomorrow night there’ll be a visit paid to every damn, ah … house in the lower half of the city. If she’s working, we’ll know it.”

  “Thanks. I’ll let you know if I find out anything here,” Mike said with a nod toward Miss Gertie’s door. “One way or another, I’ll call you later.”

  “Good,” Tom said. “You should call your mother more often anyway. By the way, how’s the hand?”

  “Not bad,” Mike said. He flexed his fingers, trying not to grimace. “Still aches a bit, but it’ll be okay.”

  “Bascomb had a pretty hard head, huh?”

  “Bascomb?” Mike said, stealing a look at Primo.

  “Yeah, Bascomb. You remember Officer Bascomb, don’t you boys? Kicked the shit out of him a couple of days ago?”

  “Oh, that Officer Bascomb,” Primo said, a little sheepishly.

  “Yeah, that one,” Tom said. “He was a useless fuck. Had him in my command a few years back. Couldn’t stand him.”

  “How’d you know?” Mike said.

  “Shit, I was a detective before I was an old fuck riding a desk. Besides everybody knows. Well, maybe not everybody, but nobody gives a shit. Hell, his captain’s happy to be rid of him for a while.”

  Tom gave Mike a shove. “Anyway, get your sorry asses moving. I got places to go.”

  Mike and Primo watched as Tom pulled away from the curb, grinning under his goggles. A puffy cloud of exhaust lapped at their knees.

  “How the hell did he know that?” Primo said.

  “Been asking myself the same thing for the last twenty years,” Mike replied. “He’ll never tell you either, damn it!”

  * * *

  They left Miss Gertie’s place about an hour later not knowing much more than they had before, aside from the fact that Ginny was originally from someplace on Long Island’s North Shore. Mike figured he’d try the telephone directory back at the precinct later, but didn’t have much hope. The city was sprouting new phones by the hundreds, but they were still a rarity outside the boroughs.

  “So, we check that block-and-fall joint on Park Row?” Primo said.

  “Guess so,” Mike answered, still thinking of how he might locate Ginny’s family.

  “I know this place,” Primo
said as they headed for the El at Forty-second Street. “How they stay open so close to City Hall I don’ know.”

  Mike looked at him with a disbelieving frown. “Don’t know, huh? Not much of a detective, are you?”

  They rumbled south on the next train, bouncing on the oversprung cane seats and fifteen minutes later were getting off at Chambers Street. A short walk across the park at City Hall had them at the front door. They pushed by a huge boulder of flesh at the front door, with a too-small bowler atop a head the size of a watermelon and a jacket large enough to hide an entire arsenal. The bar was sparsely attended this time of day, hard-drinking newspapermen, a smattering of down-on-their-luck Wall Streeters, clerks, and laborers making up the clientele, with the occasional hard case slouched on the bar or in a corner. Mike and Primo went up to the bar and Mike rapped on the mahogany to get the bartender’s attention.

  “Oh, Christ. Get the fuck outa here!” the man said as soon as he set eyes on Mike.

  “Good to see you too, Bobby,” Mike answered. Before he said anything more, he felt rather than heard the rumble of the bouncer behind him. He saw Primo reach into his jacket and turned to find the man two paces away.

  Stepping forward almost casually, Mike shot out a hand, his fingers together like a knife. They buried themselves for just a moment in the base of the bouncer’s neck, just above the collarbone, and came away before the giant could grasp them in his puffy paws. He emitted a gasping gurgle, doubling over and hands going to his throat as he wheezed. Mike grabbed the back of his head with both hands, pulling him down as he brought his right knee hard into his face. The giant went down like a deflated balloon, shaking the floorboards as he settled in a heap. “Now, Bob, let’s us have a little chat, eh?” Mike said, crooking a finger at the bartender and pointing to the back as patrons drifted toward the doors.

  The bartender put a hand under the bar and Primo whipped his pistol out. “Your hand, it better have a dishrag in it,” he said and waved with the barrel for him to step away from the bar. With a grumbled curse and an unidentified thud behind the bar, Bob stepped back and followed Mike to a rear storage room, Primo bringing up the rear, watching their backs. Mike sat him down at a battered table.