Hell's Gate (12 page)

“Tell you later. Meet me in say an hour an' fifteen.”

*   *   *

It was closer to an hour and forty-five minutes later that they finally met again on the stairs.

“So who we seeing?” Primo asked.

“Marm Mandelbaum,” Tom said.

“Who is this person with so silly a name?”

“The biggest fence in the city,” Mike said. “Or at least she used to be. Never met her myself, but my dad knows her from way back. I thought she'd gone to Canada?”

“Trust me on this,” Tom said. “Marm's in town though nobody knows it. She comes back every now and again.”

Primo looked doubtfully at the seat as they approached the Olds. “They no make bigger ones? A second seat maybe?”

“Not Olds. Strictly runabouts right now,” Tom said as he went through the starting procedure. He closed a small valve he told them was an air cock, depressed a button on the heel board, and moved the spark on the emergency brake lever all the way back. He then moved the electric switch lever forward, put his heel on something he called the relief lever, and told Mike to crank it over. “It should just need a couple turns, Mike. Fast as you can.” The Olds started on the second turn, chugging to life like a tiny locomotive and puffing almost as much.

“Maybe running is no so bad idea,” Primo joked as he climbed up onto the Olds's seat, shrugging his shoulders to squeeze between Tom and Mike. Tom threw the clutch lever into slow speed and stepped on the speeder. It was a strange sensation to be suddenly moving without any visible means of locomotion and both Mike and Primo found themselves smiling like fools. The Olds simply pulled away, gaining speed slowly, but steadily, until Tom moved the clutch lever to high speed. They were doing fifteen or twenty miles per hour in less than a minute and hanging on to the little rails at the sides of the seat. The engine chugged with the slow and steady stroke of a long-distance swimmer, not seeming to alter much even as they moved faster. Tom passed carriages and wagons, dodged a horsecar and generally terrorized pedestrians and horses alike, using the horn liberally. He wore a wicked grin all the while, his eyes big and excited behind his goggles. There was a constant sense of commotion, of people jumping out of the way and cursing in their wake.

In a remarkably short time they arrived at an ordinary four-story building on Orchard Street. Its only outward signs of prosperity were a bit of fresh paint on the windowsills and a handsome oak door of the very latest design, glossy with several coats of varnish. The first floor was occupied by a dry goods store and heavy drapes blocked the windows on the second and third floors, The fourth-floor windows were thrown open, however, and the drapes pulled back. Mike could see an intricately plastered ceiling, decorated with flowered moldings in a geometric pattern, clouds and cherubs chasing one another across the frames.

Tom twisted the bell in the center of the door, which was up a few steps from the level of the dry goods store. He was about to ring again when a young man opened it. He regarded them with unwavering eyes. They flicked from Tom to Primo and Mike, measuring and challenging. No words were spoken, except by Tom.

“I'm Captain Braddock,” Tom said. “Your mom is expecting us. I called ahead.”

The man gave a slight nod and stepped aside. Mike looked back at the Olds as the door closed behind them. A loose ring of people surrounded it.

“The Olds'll be okay there?”

A brief smirk crossed the young man's lips. “No one will touch your car,” he said with certainty.

They climbed through the house on a broad staircase with a wide walnut rail and balusters. The lower floors were hidden behind tall pocket doors, but the stair was brightly lit by electric lights in sconces on the walls. As they turned onto the third-floor landing a woman's voice called from above, “Slowing down, Tommy? Used to climb them stairs a lot quicker in the old days.”

Tom laughed and bounded up the last flight of stairs two at a time. Mike hurried behind, but stopped when he saw Tom at the top of the stairs lifting an immense old woman in a bear hug.

“Christ, you're a heavy old broad!” he cried and put her down with a thump that shook the floor.

“But you still picked me up, you old devil,” the lady laughed. “I don't get hugs like that in Canada! I take it back, Tommy. You haven't slowed a bit. Maybe a little grayer though,” she said, running a hand through his hair. “Definitely grayer.”

“And you're definitely fatter,” Tom said, rubbing his back. “How's Canada?

“Dull as the grave. Not like here. Goddamn Mounties don't know how to do business. Offer 'em a dollar an' they get all indignant. Imagine!”

Tom grunted. “I can't.”

“The boys do most of the work now. I'm too old. Mostly I sit on my ass and get fatter every day goes by.”

“Sure, Marm,” Tom said with a twinkle in his eye. He knew she was a long sight from being retired, though she was careful to keep a much lower profile in New York than she did in the old days, when police, politicians, gangsters, and businessmen often mingled in her parlors and dining room. Marm had been famous for her dinners; as it turned out, a bit too famous. The papers had taken an interest in her social doings, and it had finally become politically expedient to bring her up on charges. Howe and Hummel had kept her out of jail long enough for her to flee north, much to everyone's relief.

“Marm, I'd like you to meet my boy, Mike,” Tom said. “He's a detective now. And this is Primo Alfieri, his partner.”

Marm looked them over. Though there was a smile on her face, her eyes were possibly even harder than her son's. She was an old woman with a huge beak of a nose, bulging cheeks, and a high, sloping forehead. She had a shrewd eye and a cast-iron will under her sagging flesh, a toughness that her over-rouged cheeks did nothing to disguise. Still, her voice was jolly when she said, “They're good boys, I can see,” and extended a huge bejeweled hand to Mike, the hardness melting from her eyes. “But not too good, I hope, or you wouldn't have brought them.”

Tom laughed. “Not too good, no. They've been around the block.”

Marm ushered them into her apartment, offering them coffee and tea and seating them in an ornate parlor. Mike could hardly believe the opulence of the place. The carpets were Persian, of the finest silk woven in an intricate design. The furniture was an eclectic collection, crafted of rare woods and veneers, with deep tufted cushions in silks, damasks, and brocades, representing every style from Federal to Empire and Eastlake Victorian. Every piece was exquisite. Paintings hung on the walls in such profusion that it looked more like a gallery than a home. Mike tried not to gape.

“Marm,” Tom said when they had settled, “ever hear of somebody goes by the name of the Bottler?”

“That's an odd one, Tommy,” she said as she poured herself some tea. “What you want with him?”

Tom pressed Mike's foot under the table when he saw Mike was about to jump in.

“Not sure exactly, Marm. He might just be a link in a chain, so to speak. Maybe more, maybe less.”

Marm chuckled. “Ain't we all just links in a chain, Tommy?”

“Of one kind or another,” Tom agreed.

“And you come to me, which means you don't have more'n stink on shit,” Marm said flatly. “Why ask me? Why not go to Big Bill?”

“You have to ask?” Tom said. He'd considered talking to Devery, who he knew well enough, but treated the idea as a last resort. Mike just frowned at the mention of Devery's name. He'd known better than to even broach the subject with his father until all else failed.

“There is always another way,” Primo broke in. “A man can no hide forever.”

Marm paid him no attention, putting a third lump of sugar in her tea with a silver spoon. “This is about that thing in the harbor the other night, right? You found some connection to this Bottler mug but not much more.” Marm looked from one to the other. “And as you say, Detective Alfieri, you might find him eventually. But eventually ain't soon enough, is it?”

“Sooner would be more convenient,” Tom said.

“Always is, ain't it?” Marm chuckled, passing around a cut crystal tray of pastries. “So what's this information worth, I'm wondering … information about a mug that might be a link in a chain? You're not a lad to come to me with nothin' to trade, Tommy. Always knew how to make a deal.”

Tom just shrugged, but Primo said, “You are in no so good position to bargain, with all respect. The indictments, they are still open, no?”

“Technically,” Marm grunted, her thin lips turning down in a snarl. A small blob of powdered sugar from one of the pastries hung at the edge of her mouth like a spot of foam.

“You have many things of beauty here,” Primo said, looking around. “Why should we dangle the carrot when the stick is maybe better, eh?”

“You ain't got a stick big enough for me, Detective,” Marm growled, all pretense of hospitality draining from her face. Her son appeared in the doorway to the next room like a dog sensing the tension in his master's voice.

“That's enough o' that shit,” Tom said, his voice as final as a judge's gavel. “Marm, lets you an' me take a walk. Show me the rest of your place. I'm sure we can come to some kind of agreement. Always found a way before an' no unpleasantness needed.” He stood, giving Primo a look only slightly less flinty than Marm's.

Marm hauled her bulk out of her chair with a grunt of effort. “Jus' like old times, eh, Tommy?”

*   *   *

It was some time before Tom and Marm returned, time enough for Mike to take a slow tour of the parlor to admire the paintings. He wondered whose walls they had hung on before finding their way here. There was a Bierstadt, a Tait, three Remingtons, a couple done by Dutchmen that had the look of real age to them, but the one that caught his eye and held it longer than the others was a colorful, exotic scene done by somebody signed Gauguin, a South Seas scene with palm trees and near-naked women with long black hair and nut-brown skin. Mike had never seen anything like them. He knew a little about art, enough to know that Marm's walls were covered with money. Primo, by contrast, spent more time examining the furniture.

“You see this marble? Italian Carrara, the best! There is only one place in the world with marble like this. And the wood; it is mahogany from Honduras. This chair it is French, maybe sixteenth century.”

“Early seventeenth, actually,” Marm said with a satisfied smile as she returned with Tom. Their conference seemed to have mellowed her, and any sense of tension had disappeared.

“You always had an eye for the best, Marm.”

“I just keep what I like. Trouble is I like everything. It can be an ugly world outside, Tommy. I bring a little beauty into my place. I see it like I'm just taking care of them for a while. They're not mine in a way. The beautiful things, they outlast us all. They always do. I'm just enjoying them for my time until it's somebody else's turn.”

“You've become a philosopher in your old age,” Tom said in a way that was somewhere between a joke and a compliment. “But you still drive a hard bargain. Now you wanna tell the boys here what you told me?”

She took a deep breath and pursed her lips so the top one nearly touched her sagging nose. “First thing is
be careful.
I don't know him myself. Gambling never was my vice, but I heard of him and … things. He got his nickname from the old days when he started brewing his own stuff. Still does, some say. They say he cooks up everything from knockout drops to that swill they sell in the dives, them block-an'-fall places. Make ya go blind ya drink too much of it. Got benzene, cocaine, an' god-knows-what-else in it. Anyway, he's with the Five Pointers. Pays Kelly a healthy cut. He runs a stuss game. Not sure where exactly. Think it's somewhere around Suffolk Street. A real profitable game and as crooked as they come. What he mighta had to do with Smilin' Jack I couldn't say. Anybody's guess. Which brings me to the other thing.”

“What other thing?” Mike asked, looking up from a little pad he was scribbling on.

“Kid Twist.”

12

IT WAS A tiny room, dark and musty, but Ginny was glad to have it.

She'd searched all day, walking till her feet ached in her thin leather boots. With hopeful ignorance, Ginny worked her way through the places she couldn't afford, getting a quick and brutal lesson in Manhattan real estate. She'd lowered her sights as the day wore on, the neighborhoods growing less and less fashionable, the rooms smaller, the light nonexistent, the grime thicker.

Her emotions ran at random as if someone else was controlling them, pulling levers and flipping switches at an antic pace. But mostly she worried, worried that she wouldn't find a room at all, worried about Mike and if she would ever see him again, worried about how she'd support herself, find a job, buy clothes, eat. The thought of Mike left an empty, sinking feeling in her middle. She could only imagine what Miss Gertie might say about the circumstances of her leaving. What would Mike think if he knew she'd cracked a customer's head with a pitcher? She didn't like to imagine that. Her only chance was to somehow find him and tell him her side of the story. Maybe then she'd have a chance, maybe.

The shadows had crept across the avenues and were crawling up the west-facing walls when she had finally found rest. It was a room in a tenement apartment above a millinery shop. Ginny knew when she happened across the
ROOM TO LET
sign in the window that she'd find shelter there. Shops like that had a reputation; smoke shops, too. There were often willing girls working behind the counter, stacking shelves or making no pretense at all. Store owners often turned more profit on that than on their legitimate businesses. It wasn't that Ginny wanted to work that way again. She simply knew that it was at a place like this that she'd find a level of acceptance she wouldn't elsewhere, coupled with a veneer of respectability that suited her situation.