Hell's Gate

by Richard E. Crabbe

  Tom thanked the doctor, who said he’d be in to check on Mike during the afternoon rounds. Then Tom stopped in to see Primo, who was conscious, but in a lot of pain, his whispered words sometimes not making complete sense. A nurse said his appetite was good though and that was always a hopeful sign. Tom decided not to tell Primo about Mike. He seemed too weak to take that sort of news just then. Primo gave Tom’s hand a hard squeeze when he bent to tell him he’d be back later.

  * * *

  Ginny had finished spooning broth into the narrow opening of Mike’s mouth, when Mike signaled that he wanted a pencil and paper. Mary found them in his nightstand drawer and gave them to Mike, who took the pencil and wrote quickly, “You’re amazing.” Ginny watched as he wrote and said, “I’m not the one who’s amazing.” Mike hoped they could see him smile through the bandages.

  Ginny took his hand. “Your mother has been so kind to me, Mike. I can never repay such kindness. She took me in. I’m staying in the guest room upstairs.” She didn’t tell Mike how magnificent the room was to her, or how she’d sunken into the huge, white bathtub down the hall, letting the steam take her away with a sigh. She didn’t say how unworthy she felt at such treatment, or how she’d tried to protest when Mary insisted they go shopping for new clothes the next morning. Those things were almost unreal and she experienced them in a near dreamlike state, certain that they’d slip away when she awoke.

  “You’re beautiful,” Mike wrote next, giving the note to Ginny. She put the note to her breast, and with a sigh lowered her head to his chest. Mike’s hand went to stroke her hair.

  Mary coughed. “I’ll just go talk to the nurse for a moment.”

  38

  THE BOTTLER WAS pretty happy for a man who’d had his brains blown all over his stuss table. Jack McManus couldn’t remember when he’d seen the man more relaxed. The Bottler could be a regular fidgety bastard most times, worrying over this or that, and giving the boss headaches over his fucking stuss game.

  But the stuss game was over now. Kelly would let Kid Twist have the dregs of it. The Bottler didn’t care, not anymore.

  “Fuck, I would’ve given anything to see it; watch myself get shot to hell,” He said. “Can’t anybody say they saw themselves get their fucking face shot off,” he said.

  McManus just grinned. “An’ live to tell it, least not da ones I done.”

  They were in the cellar of a Pitt Street dive, one of the hellholes the Bottler had bought with the profits from his brew. It smelled of fresh concrete and wood, but it was finished as finely as any parlor on Gramercy Park, with a rich Persian carpet, mahogany paneling, and deeply tufted leather chairs. There were at least three ways in or out of the place that Jack knew of and probably at least one more he didn’t. Small doorways cut through the brick foundations of the adjoining row houses, leading to others Jack had to presume. He’d entered through the tenement next door, admitted by a boy of sixteen, a hard-looking lad with the dead eyes of a killer. The Bottler had himself a fortress here; a little kingdom that Kelly didn’t even know existed. Jack’s grin widened. There was a lot Kelly didn’t know.

  “Christ, he must have been one surprised sonofabitch. Damn, wish I could’a seen his face.” He laughed as Jack did a pantomime, mouth open in a big O, eyes wide as headlamps.

  “Where’d ya find ’im?” Jack asked. “’E was a pretty good fuckin’ match; did his hair da same an’ everyt’ing.”

  “’Course he did! I been trainin’ him for weeks. Had to know how to deal stuss first off, but I got ’im set up right; clothes, haircut, mustache, the works. Even had him talking like me.”

  “An’ he didn’ s’pect nothin’? Jus’ went along wit it?”

  “Sure, why not? I was paying him good to keep his pie-hole shut. Best damn money I ever spent.”

  “Where’d youse find ’im?” Jack asked again.

  “Had some of my guys on the lookout for a mug who could play me,” the Bottler answered. “I think they found him blacking boots somewhere on the Bowery.” The Bottler had known as soon as he’d decided to go against Kelly, keeping his hold on Saturn and the steamship line secret, that a double would be a useful thing to have. His odds of living had gone way up when he’d found the right man. They’d gone through the roof when he’d heard that Saturn had fucked things up by going to Big Tim. He had McManus to thank for that bit of information. He didn’t need to tell Jack that having his double killed by Cyclone Louie, a known confederate of Kid Twist, was about as certain a thing to start a gang war as anything he could ever have devised. It had cost him five hundred, but was worth every cent. He’d been disappointed when Jack told him that Kelly had decided not to retaliate, at least not yet. Kelly was smart, too smart to be drawn into a war when there was nothing to be gained. The stuss game was worthless now, and the Bottler’s hopes of watching from the shadows while Kid’s and Kelly’s gangs shot each other to pieces were going to have to wait. But there were other ways to get that done.

  The idea of devising a strategy like the Bottler had made Jack’s head swim, but he knew he’d made the right decision to go with the Bottler on the sly. He was a thinker like Kelly, but he could be a sharer, too. Jack had another thousand-dollar wad in his pocket to remind him of just how generous the Bottler could be. Kelly had never been that generous, not in all the years they’d known each other. He’d always kept the prime rib and left the soup bone for everybody else.

  “Paul musta been pissing nails when he heard I was dead,” the Bottler said. “And you let it happen.”

  “Had to tell ’im,” McManus growled. “If I didn’, ’e woulda known somethin’ was up. Dis way, it was just a fuckup, nothin’ more to it. He was not fuckin’ happy though, I can tell ya dat.”

  “Paul can be a bastard, but still, you’ve been together so long, I was surprised you came to me. Not that you haven’t had your reasons,” he added a little hastily when he saw McManus tense. “Believe me, I know.”

  Jack had become restless under Paul’s thumb, and less willing to put up with errand-boy shit like watching the boat. “Yeah, Kelly, he wants ta run da whole damn show, an’ he don’t share wit da mugs like me what does da woik.”

  “I know it,” the Bottler agreed.

  “Always liked da way youse ran da game, too. An lemme be honest, youse ain’t got a problem wit spreadin’ da dough aroun’. Paul jus trows us da crumbs.” Jack raised a glass in his direction.

  But mostly Jack liked the Bottler’s angles, the money from the coca smuggling, and the bottling of the concoctions he sold to the block-and-fall joints were pure genius. There was a bigger future to be had too once the Slocum thing got moving at full throttle. Just like Kelly, the Bottler had plans for gambling, prizefights, and whoring, too. And he was much more willing to share.

  “Kelly didn’t wonder why you went after Braddock?” the Bottler asked.

  “Nah, t’ought it was just a grudge, which it fuckin’ was anyway.”

  “The nerve of him!” the Bottler said, “And that fucking dago partner of his, sitting in on my game, like I’d never figure out who they were. That cop who booked Kid Dahl came the next day and gave me the whole story, Saturn, too. They know I pay good for information. That’s how I’ve stayed in business so long. You gotta spread the money around.”

  “A t’ing Kelly could loin about.”

  “Exactly! A shame Braddock ain’t dead,” the Bottler said. “Not your fault though. Put one right through his fucking kisser. Musta looked dead enough.”

  “In a fuckin’ puddle o’ blood last time I saw ’im,” Jack said regretfully.

  The Bottler thought for a moment and said, “Well, he’ll be out of commission for a while and no bother to us anyway. You sent him those tickets, right?”

  “Sure, made it look like that Saturn shithead sent ’em.”

  “Good. We’ll have another opportunity then. And the girl?”

  McManus barked a low laugh. “Johnny Suds! Jesus, was he fucked-up! Couldn’t wait to give me
every goddamn thing he knew about that bitch. Hell, I almost thought he was gonna pay me to take care o’ Braddock. Anyways, I got a mug on it; keepin’ an eye on ’er.”

  “Good,” the Bottler said with a grin. “She might be useful somewhere down the road. If nothin’ else we can put her to work on the ship once we’ve got things in hand.”

  “Wouldn’t mind a piece o’ dat twist,” Jack said. “Saw ’er da otha night wit’ Carl. Nice little bustle on ’er.”

  The Bottler laughed. “You’ll get your chance, Jack. I guarantee it.”

  39

  “THAT’S ONE OF the men who attacked me,” Saturn said, his voice muffled by the handkerchief held over his mouth and nose. They were in the city morgue at Bellevue. The cold and damp had him and Tom shoving their hands in their pockets and despite the constant mist of cold water sprayed over the bodies to slow decay, the room had the stink of death and disinfectant. “I’m sure of that one. The other I’ve never seen before. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Tom said. “This is a help. I don’t imagine you caught his name?” Tom knew he could probably identify the man by going through the rogues’ gallery, but the file of police photographs was becoming so large that he knew it might take hours.

  “I’m afraid not, Captain. This gentleman didn’t bother with formal introductions.”

  “Of course,” Tom said. “Anything else you can tell me? Did they refer to each other by nicknames?”

  “Let me think,” Saturn said. “You know I’ve been reliving that entire episode over and over these last few days. Mostly I imagine the things I should have done differently.”

  “I understand completely. And sometimes things come back, things you hadn’t thought about before,” Tom said.

  “Yes. I have to tell you that I think the third man was named Jack. This one here,” he said, pointing to one of the bodies, “called him Jack. I’m fairly sure.”

  “How sure?”

  “Well, it was hardly a clear recollection as I said. I just recall hearing the name Jack. He seemed to be the one in charge.” Tom already had a description from Mike, who’d been able to write it out this morning, but he asked Saturn as well. “I’m afraid I didn’t get a very good look at him. I saw more of his shoe leather than his face, although I can give you a general description. He was about one hundred and eighty pounds and around five foot eight. and maybe somewhere around thirty-five years of age. I must tell you too,” Saturn added, “he was a singularly ferocious character, and quite powerful for his size.”

  Although it fit about a quarter of the male population of the city, the description was useful. Saturn had corroborated Mike’s description and given Tom a name, which was even more critical. Tom had an impressive list of criminal names and aliases stored in his battered brain, a lifetime of acquaintance with the shadier elements of society. A number of Jacks came immediately to mind.

  After he’d thanked Saturn and they’d each gone their own way, Tom had gone over that list and come up with at least five Jacks who were not either dead or in jail, one of which was a pickpocket, hardly the sort to go in for stompings-for-hire. At least three could be said to fit the general description Saturn and Mike gave and all of them had connections in one way or another to the Five Pointers or the Bottler. Tom looked at his watch. He’d have to be back at the station house for the start of the next shift and didn’t have much time for anything more.

  Still, he took a few minutes after saying his good-bye to Saturn to look at the body of the Bottler, who’d been laid on a steel slab in the next room. The coroner’s assistant was working on him. “Can’t tell much from the face,” he said, nodding toward the mass of gore on the table. “Plenty of witnesses though.”

  Tom nodded. The body certainly fit the Bottler’s description and the captain of the Thirteenth had come down earlier to identify the body as best he could while they looked for next of kin. Still, Tom looked closely. “These his clothes?” he asked, pointing to a bag on a nearby counter. He went through them, examining the pockets, looking at labels, then he noticed the shoes. “New soles. Mind if I take one of these?”

  “Nope. Just fill out the form if you don’t mind. The coroner hates it when things go unaccounted for.”

  * * *

  He walked to the horse he’d been able to secure for his use, a fine, chestnut mare, at least sixteen hands tall. She was a solid mount, but he longed for his Oldsmobile. He resolved to pay a visit soon to the mechanic’s shop he’d had it brought to in Brooklyn, a place recommended by the factory. He mounted his horse and flicked the reins, guiding her into the light traffic of First Avenue. He hadn’t gone more than a block when a big Marmon touring car barreled past with a blast of its claxon horn. His horse pranced sideways and shook its head with fear, making Tom work to control her. “Asshole!” he shouted, half in anger, half in envy.

  * * *

  “I gave him the name, Mister Sullivan,” Saturn said into the mouthpiece.

  “Good. But not too quickly, I hope,” Big Tim said. “Cops are naturally suspicious of information that comes too easily.”

  “No, it was sufficiently difficult to recall.”

  “That’s fine,” the scratchy voice replied from the earpiece. “This will work to both our advantages. One less fly in the ointment so to speak.”

  “And five hundred off what I owe you,” Saturn reminded him. “Not that I’d mind if that particular fly finds himself food for the spider. Tell me though, who is this Jack fellow?”

  Big Tim harrumphed into the phone. “No need to concern yourself on that score, Mister Saturn,” Tim’s voice said with tinny finality. Setting Braddock sniffing after McManus would be just the sort of payback Paul Kelly deserved. “Now as to our other business.”

  40

  GINNY HADN’T SLEPT more than a few hours, tossing through the night. She couldn’t get Mike’s bandaged face out of her mind. It was only with great effort that she’d managed to keep her head and not let Mike see how upset she’d been that first night. She couldn’t see his wounds, but she could imagine what lay beneath the bandages, the torn flesh, the stitches. It hurt her to think of it, but she couldn’t stop. She found herself wondering how badly scarred he’d be, if he’d appear hideous when the bandages came off. She’d had frightening visions of him as a freak that children pointed at as he passed.

  But her feelings for Mike were even more intense. She longed to be with him all through the morning, during her shopping trip with Mary. Picking through the dress racks at Stewarts Department Store, a saleswoman at their sides, she could hardly focus on the cut or color, the cinched waists, or lace detailing. They were her true feelings, she told herself. But driven by her doubts, the images of Mike’s face waited for her moments of weakness. It was not horror those thoughts conjured. It was the weakness in herself. Could she love a man deformed? She was determined to try.

  Mary had seemed to sense Ginny’s mood, not rushing her decisions or asking too many questions as they picked out new outfits. She did her best to distract Ginny with their mission, immersing her in a world of endless choices, each more attractive than the last. “I’ll pay you for all of this, I promise,” Ginny said at one point, realizing suddenly how much they were likely to spend.

  Mary smiled. “Of course you will. I have no doubt. But it’s not your money I want,” she said with a squeeze of Ginny’s arm. “In fact, you’ve earned this much and more already.”

  “But I haven’t done anything.”

  Mary held up a hand. “You’ve been there for Mike,” she said, her dark eyes glittering. “It’s not you who owe me, it’s I who owe you.”

  * * *

  Late that morning, after they’d finished their shopping and Ginny had three new outfits, with all that went with them, she asked Mary if she’d mind taking her back to the Triangle factory.

  “You don’t have to work there anymore, you understand, Ginny. Not unless you want to,” Mary said, though it was obvious which she’d have chosen for her. The
re was a part of Ginny that wanted the independence and worth that a job carried with it, even one that left her so tired she could barely shuffle to her bed at night. But for now her employer owed her for more than two days’ wages and she was determined to have it. She’d worked hard for those few dollars and she’d be damned if she’d let them go.

  Her machine was occupied when she got up to her floor of the factory, Mary following her off the elevator with a sour look at the open barrel of oil beside the elevator door. Her shuffling Polish boss sneered at her as she approached. “And now it’s your job you want back, heh? You don’ show up for woik, you don’ have a job to come to,” he said, turning his back on her.

  Ginny wanted nothing more than to slap him, but she held one hand in the other and gritted her teeth. “I have wages coming, sir”—raising her voice above the clatter of the machines—“you owe me for almost three days.”

  The Polack waved a dismissive hand at her and shuffled down his row. A porter, who Ginny knew doubled as an enforcer on her floor, put down a stack of cloth and watched with a leering grin. Esther looked on, not missing a stitch.

  Ginny’s face went red, the color rising up from her bodice like a tide. “You will kindly address me like a gentleman!” Ginny almost shouted in as commanding a voice as she could muster. “I will have my money, mister.”

  The man turned, an amused look on his face. He shuffled back toward her, not stopping until she could smell him. His breath reeked of onion, cabbage, and stale coffee as he said, “Youse got some noive, you little twist, coming in here like—”

  Mary stepped between them suddenly, gripping the man’s arm. “May I have a word?” she said with a brittle edge to her voice. She steered the man a few feet away and spoke to him in a low tone. The sneer left his lips as he listened and he seemed to shrink as Mary spoke, his shoulders drooping and a hint of an obsequious smile crept across his mouth. He started nodding and a moment later, he returned to Ginny, holding out a handful of coins, a pair of silver dollars and assorted change. Ginny took it and Mary started toward the elevator. He hissed a stream of curses then, too low for Mary to hear above the machines. Ginny grabbed his hand, his fingers slipping away except his pinky. She held onto that and twisted as hard as she could, feeling it pop. He cried out just as the lunch break bell rang, the girls all rising, chairs scraping, the women gathering quickly around, forcing him back, holding his broken finger.