Hell's Gate (20 page)

“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.

“I'm not gonna dance around this, Bob. Where do ya get your concoctions, the ones with the cocaine, benzene, camphor, that shit?”

“Fuck. I dunno. A mug delivers me a couple cases a week.”

Mike clucked at him with a disappointed frown. “For chrissake, Bobby, nobody's gonna know unless I tell 'em. We understand each other? We can do a lot o' damage here if we want or it can go real easy.”

“I got protection, Braddock. You can't fuck wit' me like dat.”

“I ain't talkin' about your place, Bobby. I'm talkin' about you.” Mike brought his short daystick down hard on Bobby's fingers on the table.

“Motherfucker!” Bobby shouted, almost crashing his chair backwards. “Goddamn it, Braddock. Wha da fuck you do dat for? Sonofabitch!” He shook the hand out as if it was on fire.

“Don' be a fucking whiner, Bobby. I din' hit you hard enough to break anything. Just getting' your attention. “

“Fuck you!”

“Right, well we'll see who gets fucked here, won't we?”

“The big one, he is groaning, Mike. I think he is waking up,” Primo said from the doorway. “Maybe I go tune him up.”

“Suit yourself, partner, but he's probably not gonna cause us any more trouble.” His voice lowered. “So, Bobby, where were we? Oh, yeah, we were right about the place where I tell you I'm gonna spread the word on you. Word is you're a snitch for Devery. You get a kickback on every fuckin' lead you give 'im. Bunco men, stock swindlers, confidence men, pickpockets, the whole bunch.”

“But I ain't done—”

“Oh, I know, I know, Bobby, but you know how the word on the street can be. Somethin' gets said an' before ya know it, yer havin' a chat with a couple o' Kelly's mugs an' a swim in the river. So, we understand each other?”

A sheen of sweat lit up Bobby's receding hairline. He managed to stifle a groan, but just barely.

“I'll take that as a yes,” Mike said. “Now, where you get that stuff from again?”

Bobby sighed as the bouncer gurgled accompaniment from the barroom floor.

23

THE OLD BRICK warehouse they watched was near the corner of Mangin and Corlears. The streets were heavy with drays and Clydesdales. Packing crates and great rolls of rope stood at the curb before the chandlery next door. A constant fury of laborers and teamsters hummed about the streets, cursing, shouting, and sweating as they loaded and unloaded a stream of wagons.

The warehouse was a smallish, one-story affair, with a single, windowless door, three inches thick, leading to the office and a large double door, into the storage area. The big doors, painted a fading red, were thrown open and a wagon had been backed halfway in since they first arrived at around two.

“You know what's on the back side?” Primo asked. “I don't know this place well.”

“I think it's a coal yard,” Mike said. “Not sure though. Best to check. Might want to get in later and those doors look pretty damn solid.”

“I will take a walk,” Primo said. “Maybe see if I can get a look at the roof. Might be a how you call-it … a skylight.” Primo walked off, lost in the street traffic in seconds, while Mike tried to stay out of the way.

Bobby had given them this address once he understood the way things were. Mike really had no intention of spreading the word he was a snitch. It would've been more trouble than it was worth, but the bartender didn't know that, and couldn't afford to bet otherwise. He got a shipment of the ingredients on a regular basis, at least every ten days, and often sooner, he'd said. Of course, there was nothing illegal about the benzene and such, so long as taxes were paid on them, but there was definitely something illegal about the cocaine, as any number of inmates of the Tombs could attest. Mike hadn't noticed any recognizable criminal faces going in or out of the warehouse, but he hoped patience would pay out in the form of the Bottler himself, or at least someone they could tie to him. So, he picked his teeth and cleaned under his nails with a little gold fob knife and waited.

Primo was back maybe a half hour later. “A coal yard is behind, but one building over,” he said. “We could get in, I think. There is an alley behind these buildings and the coal yard. Just a fence to get over.”

“Okay,” Mike said. “Might be we'll have to check it out later.” He glanced again at the warehouse. “Hey, I know that face.”

“Huh?”

“That guy getting on the wagon,” he said, nodding toward the wagon in the warehouse door. “Where the hell do I know him from?” Mike scratched his head as the man clicked at his single horse and edged out into the street traffic. “C'mon, let's walk.”

They started after the wagon, which moved at a slow pace, due to the street traffic.

“Shit, I know him from somewhere,” Mike said again.

“Somebody you arrest maybe years ago?” Primo guessed.

“Nah, I don't think so.” They'd come to a corner and the wagon slowed a little in front of them. They slowed with it, but were still close behind. The driver looked left and right and then looked right again.

“I think he spotted us,” Mike said, looking down. The driver clicked at his horse and snapped the reins in a hurry, hunching a little as he did.

“C'mon.” Mike ran and hopped up on the tailgate of the empty wagon. Primo was just behind.

The driver heard them and turned to look. “Hey, what the—”

“You're the guy from the boat,” Mike blurted out, suddenly recognizing him. “The guy I found on the deck. How ya doin'?” He said it in a friendly way, but it wasn't at all convincing.

“Okay,” the driver said, although Mike could see he had bruises and cuts around his eye and over his forehead.

“Listen,” Mike said in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the wagon, “we need to talk. Pull over.”

The driver let out a sigh and nosed into the curb. “How'd ya find me?”

“Not that hard,” Mike lied. “What'd you drop off there?”

“You should know,” he replied, “you bein' so smart.” The man seemed to regret his answer though and said, “Listen, I'm grateful for what you done last week. Them mugs'd probably have cooked my bacon, but you gotta know I ain't all mixed up in this like it seems.”