Hell's Gate

by Richard E. Crabbe

  Nearing Astor Place, Ginny saw a boy selling apples and bananas out of an old packing crate. Her growling stomach commanded her to stop and reach into her purse for a penny. The fruit was mostly bad, the apples bruised, the bananas black, but it made no difference. She ate a banana, bruises and all, and before she even thought about it, handed over another penny for a second. She ate that one only a bit slower than the first. Within minutes she felt a surge of energy run through her and she realized that perhaps part of her weariness was due to her simply not eating enough. She’d never had to worry about food before, nor the money to pay for it, not at Miss Gertie’s and certainly not at home. But feeling the amount of energy a couple of pennies worth of bananas produced, she knew she hadn’t been doing a very good job at keeping her strength up.

  Ginny lingered at the top step of the new subway entrance, weighing her guilty thoughts of Mike, the lateness of the hour, the ache in her back, and the stab in her calf against the glow of two overripe bananas. Making her decision, she headed down, using the handrail to ease her way. She took the train to Spring Street. Police headquarters was just a couple of blocks north and east, looming shabbily over the surrounding neighborhood. It stood in stark, self-conscious contrast to the tenements with clothes fluttering on fire escapes and the cast-iron façades of the loft buildings on Spring. Ginny walked the short distance, feeling better than she had in many days, aching but resolute. She had no idea if Mike was stationed there. He’d never said exactly. The stories he’d told her about cases he’d worked, things he’d seen and criminals he’d known, seemed to have taken him all over the city. If she was to find him she had to start somewhere and she was certain they would know at police headquarters where any one of their detectives were stationed.

  “What’s your business, ma’am?” a desk sergeant inquired after she’d stood in the echoing lobby for an uncomfortably long minute. The place wasn’t set up like a traditional precinct house. Instead of the high main desk and railing that loomed like a rampart in most police stations, here there was a single desk, of more or less regular dimensions, where a sergeant passed his hours in institutional boredom.

  “I was looking for Michael Braddock,” Ginny said.

  “And who would he be, miss?” he said, managing to ask the question without a hint of curiosity.

  “He’s a detective, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes, a detective,” she said with more certainty.

  “But you’re not sure.”

  “No, I’m sure.” She tried to get more conviction into her voice and thought she managed it, but the sergeant didn’t appear convinced.

  “Okay, now you’re sure,” he said, “and this detective that you’re sure of; you think he’s stationed here at the detective bureau? You know there’s detectives in all the precincts, don’t you?”

  Ginny nodded as though she did, but thought it might be better to say as little as possible on the topic.

  “You think he’s here, but you aren’t sure, are you?”

  “Not exactly,” she admitted. “It seemed like the best place to start.”

  “You wouldn’t be in the family way, would you, miss? That wouldn’t be the reason you’re trying to find Braddock? You know there’s homes for women in your condition, places where you could go and quietly—”

  “No! No! That’s not it at all!” The color was rising above Ginny’s tight collar and her eyes were flashing daggers. “I just need to find him. We’re…” Ginny searched for the perfect definition of what she and Mike were to each other. “We’re very close,” she said, knowing it wouldn’t do. “But we haven’t seen each other for some time. I’ve been away at Albany with my sister and I’m back now and thought I’d surprise him.”

  The desk sergeant looked at his watch. “At eight thirty,” he said, looking up at her only a bit less skeptically. Ginny kept quiet. “So you want to surprise Mike Braddock, who might be a detective and might be stationed here, because you and him are very close. Am I getting this right?”

  Ginny gave the sergeant as innocent and winning a smile as she could muster. “I suppose when you say it like that it sounds a little silly, Officer, but I confess that is my dilemma, which is why I would be so very grateful for your help.”

  The sergeant seemed to soften a bit, though he didn’t go so far as to return her smile. “Ma’am, I know Mike Braddock pretty well, see him most every day. Used to work with him at the Fourth.”

  Ginny’s heart began to race, so she barely heard what the man said next.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Virginia Caldwell.”

  “Well, Virginia Caldwell, in all my years I’ve known Mike Braddock, never once did I hear him mention your name. Pretty odd you being very close like you say.”

  “Are you going to let me at least go up to the detective bureau?” Ginny said, her voice flat with defeat. “Please?”

  “Listen, I can’t let you up unless it’s on police business and clearly this ain’t that. Only thing I can tell you is come back tomorrow, sometime around four. I think his shift starts then.”

  Ginny was grateful for the information, but knew she couldn’t take advantage of it. Leaving her job in the middle of the day wasn’t possible, not if she wanted to return. She sighed. “Can I leave him a note?”

  The sergeant hesitated and for a moment Ginny was sure he’d say no. She waited, determined not to speak until he gave her an answer. He opened a drawer, took out a pad and pencil. “This is no message service,” he said, “but I’ll put it on his desk before I leave tonight. How’s that?”

  Ginny wrote as fast as her mind and hand could work, afraid that at any instant the sergeant might reconsider. Walking out a few minutes later she turned north, covering almost two blocks before she realized that her leg had stopped cramping. She looked down at it with a puzzled frown, stopping to flex her foot. She bent to feel the calf and was surprised when she poked herself with something sharp. The pencil was still gripped tightly in her hand. She put it in her small handbag with a shake of her head.

  25

  “CHUCK! IT’S FOR you,” the bartender called to the back. He’d had a phone installed primarily for Connors’s calls and was used to acting as an informal answering service. “You comin’?”

  Connors snatched the mouthpiece after a slow shamble to the bar. “Yeah?”

  “Mister Connors? Are you there?”

  “Who da fuck else’d be here?”

  “My God! I’ve been trying to reach you since early this morning. This is Lionel Saturn.”

  Connors didn’t see any reason to comment on the first bit of information and certainly not on the second. He knew who it was.

  “Mister Connors. I say I’ve been trying to reach you. This is an emergency, man!”

  “Yeah, well, I don’ keep reg’lar hours, Lionel.”

  “But I’ve been assaulted. They were Paul Kelly’s men. They almost killed me!”

  It was Connors’s turn to digest things. “But you ain’t dead now I take it?”

  “No, no, of course not. I was rescued by two detectives. Listen, Connors; you have to do something. They said Kelly didn’t like me going to Big Tim. Told me to keep him out of it or they’d kill me. You have to get Big Tim to back off or I’m a dead man.”

  “Can’t do it.”

  “What?”

  “Kelly’s been paid off. Big Tim done what youse wanted an’ now by da way youse owe me a grand.”

  “But for God’s sake, there has to be some way to reverse this, something you can do.”

  Connors thought for a moment. “Listen,” he said “Big Tim’s out maybe eleven grand on dis. Youse gotta pay ’im back, an’ quick. What youse owe me, too,” he added.

  “God!” There was a long pause. “I suppose. There’s stock, I suppose, stock in the steamship company. Would he take that?”

  “Stock?”

  “Yes, you know, shares in the company. They’re worth quite a b
it actually,” Saturn said with an air of resigned sadness.

  “Don’ know what Tim’d do wit dose,” Connors said, though he knew quite well. “How much youse got?”

  “Never mind how much, Mister Connors. Suffice it to say it’s enough to pay Big Tim several times over.”

  Connors waited for what he thought was an appropriate time before saying, “I could call Tim, I guess.”

  “Good, good,” Saturn’s voice sparked through the earpiece. “And what about Kelly?”

  “Fucked if I know. What about ’im?”

  “Well, damn it, man, that’s what this is all about. Can’t Big Tim talk to him or something? I mean with Sullivan out of the picture, maybe Kelly would be more amenable.”

  “Paul Kelly’s a lotta t’ings Lionel. Fucked if ’meanable is one o’ dose.”

  “But he has his money, you say. What more can he want?”

  “Listen, I ain’t gonna talk for Kelly. What ’e wants is what ’e wants, get me? My advice is you wanna stay breathin’, youse play along, see?”

  “All right, Connors. What choice do I have?”

  Connors smiled into the mouthpiece. “Youse could go ta da cops.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Connors.” The line went dead and Connors chuckled. He had the bartender flick the cradle for the operator and a few moments later had Big Tim on the line. “Tim? Looks like Kelly done youse a favor,” Connors said into the phone. He gave Sullivan the short version of his conversation with Saturn. He heard a chair creak and pictured Sullivan’s bulk leaning back in victory.

  “Easier than I thought, Chuck. But then Kelly is nothing if not predictable, eh?”

  26

  MIKE AND PRIMO took the thug they’d caught for an intimate conversation in an outhouse behind a decaying tenement on Ludlow Street. There they persuaded him to tell them all he knew about the attack on Saturn. His name was Joe Martin, but he went by the moniker Bones. He was uncooperative at first, but came around once they shoved him halfway into the pit. With him suspended by his feet, they promised to drop him in if his attitude didn’t improve.

  Martin was a low-level bone-breaker for the Gophers, a gang that controlled a large portion of the West Side. He’d been recruited by Jack McManus for this job in return for a favor Jack had recently done him. He said he didn’t know who Saturn was nor why he’d merited a special visit from Eat-’em-up Jack and his pals. When Mike and Primo were convinced they were getting the whole truth and nothing but, they went on to ask about the Bottler. In this area he was of less assistance. He knew of the Bottler and freely admitted to gambling there, a risky thing to do for a Gopher, but his knowledge of any other activities, smuggling, or river piracy was nonexistent.

  The interview came to a sudden and unpleasant end when Primo lost his grip on the leg he was holding and Mike was forced to let go or fall into the cesspool himself.

  “Damn,” Primo said, seeming more surprised than upset.

  “It’s okay. It’s not that deep, I think,” Mike observed as the man thrashed about to right himself.

  “No. It is my handcuffs. He still has them on. What am I gonna do?”

  “Hey, I wasn’t the one who let go first.”

  Primo grumbled under his breath. He paused when the thrashing in the cesspool stopped. “Bones, you okay down there?” he called.

  “Fuck you, you motherless cocksuckers,” echoed out of the hole.

  “May as well leave him the key,” Mike said. “You won’t be needing it.”

  They split up when they reached the El at Houston. They’d phoned in from the precinct, reporting on the evening’s events and clocking out of their shifts. Technically they were supposed to physically report when their shifts were done, but in their case Mike’s captain had allowed a wider degree of flexibility.

  “Can’t figure what McManus would be up to unless it involves Kelly,” Mike said as they lingered at the stairs to the El. “From what I hear, he’s Kelly’s bulldog. Don’t take a shit unless Kelly says so.”

  “So, Kelly, he has the Bottler’s game,” Primo said, “but why have his good customer beat like that? Maybe he is no so good customer, eh?”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense. We’ve seen that carriage at the Bottler’s at least what, three times now? You’d think they’d be kissing Saturn’s ass to keep him coming back.”

  “He owes too much,” Primo guessed.

  Mike appeared skeptical. “Places like that you don’t walk out of if you can’t pay up. But what about this, we know Kid Twist wants to muscle in on the Bottler’s game? Suppose Saturn’s got a line of credit from the Bottler?”

  “Kelly, he’d have to approve such a thing.”

  “Sure, but suppose he did? And suppose Saturn’s run up some debts. Suppose Twist knows and wants him to keep losing.”

  “Why? Why a guy like Saturn would do such a thing, put himself in the middle, it is not so smart.”

  “No, it’s not, but maybe Twist has something on him, something to blackmail him with?”

  “The frying pan is not so hot as the fire, eh,” Primo said.

  “Exactly and maybe that’s where the Wigwam comes in. I could swear I heard McManus say something about the Wigwam. He was delivering a warning.”

  “So you say Saturn he does not like the frying pan so much and he goes to somebody at Tammany Hall maybe, to help turn the heat down?”

  “Right, and it gets back to Kelly. And by now Kelly knows that Twist is putting the screws to the Bottler. Twist’s got Dahl, that punk waving guns in the street, and in his back pocket he’s got a big gambling debt that he knows Saturn got trouble paying. Gives him leverage.”

  “Twist is not so stupid, I think,” Primo said. “He tells Kelly we can do this with the gun or with the dollar. Either way, Twist he gets the Bottler’s game.”

  “Good theory,” Mike said. “But not a hell of a lot of proof for any of it.”

  “In the old country that is proof enough. Here you Irish heads-of-shit need things nice and neat for the courts. Sometimes the old ways are better.”

  “Sometimes,” Mike agreed, “but for this head-of-shit it’s the way it has to be for now.” He trudged up the iron stairs of the El with a parting wave to Primo.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Primo opened the front door to his building on Prince Street. He’d been careful since he’d started receiving threats from the Black Hand. Before entering, he’d circled the block and observed the building from both ends of the street, watching for unusual activity, loitering strangers, anything out of the ordinary. There were times when he’d enter by the rear of the building just to be safe, cutting through the tenement on the next block and vaulting the crude fence between, feeling foolish, but knowing he wasn’t. He wondered what the neighbors made of his nighttime fence-hopping. He was sure he’d been seen from time to time, but wasn’t so concerned with what they might think, rather who they might tell. Primo knew the risks he was taking staying in his apartment, but to him moving out would have been a retreat, a thing he was determined not to do. Still, he wondered if he’d ever feel safe walking in his front door. The lights were on in the lower hallway, single bulbs swinging on their cords from the ceiling. He could see clear to the back door, which for once was closed. It was probably Mrs. Peccia and her proper ways. She was the only tenant he’d ever seen, aside from his wife, who swept the halls or cleaned the toilet on their floor. It would be like her to notice an open door.

  Primo started up the stairs, but not before he craned his neck to peer up. The stairs in his building were not the sort with an open, central well, but were built with one staircase atop the other, so as not to waste the least possible rentable space. He couldn’t see beyond the next floor, but that appeared well lit and quiet except for the usual sounds from the apartments. He went up softly, skipping one stair tread that he knew had a terrible squeak to it and pausing when his head cleared the level of the floor to survey the hall before exposing himself completely. H
e wanted nothing more than to drag his weary body directly to his empty bed, but if he was to die for his stubbornness he was determined it wouldn’t also be through thoughtlessness or inattention.

  He followed the same routine with the third staircase, but this time saw that the hallway light was out on the floor above. That wasn’t at all unusual. The landlord never kept up with changing the bulbs. Again he went up the stairs with a careful tread, peering down the darkened hall, still dimly lit by slivers of light from under doorways and through uncovered transoms. Nothing moved save for a shadow under the toilet door. Primo slid his revolver from under his jacket. It was probably old man O’Neill from down the hall whose irritable bowels were the scourge of the building, but he could not assume that. He moved to his door as lightly as he could over the floorboards, which gave off a comfortable series of muffled creaks and groans. The key clicked as the bolt pulled back and the latch receded. He started to push the door in, but noticed his bit of string was no longer stuck in the jamb. He left it that way whenever he left, an early warning sign of tampering. He pointed the revolver at the door as he jerked back his hand from the knob. Nothing happened. There was no sound from within, no attackers springing from darkened corners. The toilet flushed down the hall and Primo calmed and took a second look, thinking the string may have shifted or that perhaps he hadn’t left it exactly where he’d thought. He bent in toward the door, searching the jamb, feeling his way, crouching to grope along the floor.