Hell's Gate (21 page)

“The cocaine, you mean,” Mike said, knowing he'd hit the mark. The man flinched visibly.

“Yeah, that, sure. Those guys were sent by the Bottler. We was shipping for Kid Twist see, well, my captain was anyway; takin' a little extra cargo, a little somethin' more to make the trip worthwhile so to speak. An' some of us got a little cut, too. It was a sweet deal. But the fuckin' Bottler got wind of it an' told the cap he wanted the stuff, an how he better deliver to him instead o' that fucker Twist.”

“So that shit the other night was about the white stuff, huh?”

“Hell, yeah. Now we deliver to the fuckin' Bottler, an' me, I don' sleep on the ship no more. Won't be long before Twist sends his fuckin' goons to even the score.”

*   *   *

They let the man go a short time later. There seemed no reason to bother with him. Mike and Primo watched the wagon roll off into the traffic.

“You think Kelly is in on this?” Primo asked.

“Good question,” Mike said. “If he isn't, he'd be real interested to know, don't you think?”

“He might tell,” Primo said, nodding at the disappearing wagon. Mike said nothing. The man was small potatoes, and had helped as much as he could, seemingly holding nothing back. Mike got an address for him and other information in the event he was needed in court, but figured that was enough for now.

“You thinking we might sell that to Kelly? It is maybe something he would pay nice money to know.”

“Maybe,” Mike agreed without considering the idea seriously, although the lure of a fat payoff had its pull on both of them.

Mike thought on that as they turned away and started back toward the Bottler's place, many blocks inland. Mike and Primo had considered raiding the warehouse because Barrows told them he'd just dropped a sizeable shipment of cocaine among other things. But they decided against it, figuring it might be better to wait and see who came and went and establish a connection to the Bottler that way. Without a clear link, the Bottler would skate easily on the evidence they had so far. According to Barrows, the Bottler never set foot in the place. He had flunkies for that stuff; mixing his booze and moving it to the dives that sold it. Sometimes they sold it mixed, sometimes they just sold the ingredients, some dives preferring their own recipe. Even at ten cents a drink, the profit was huge.

*   *   *

The carriage was there again, sitting at the curb in front of the Bottler's gambling house since about six thirty. It was now ten fifteen by Mike's watch, which tended to be a bit slow. He and Primo had spent the evening attempting to look inconspicuous, moving now and again from one concealed vantage point to another, and taking notes on everyone who went in or out. They'd tried to rent a room overlooking the street, where they could watch with better concealment and a lot more comfort, but there were none to be had anywhere on the block. Mike had taken a turn at stuss, wanting to get a close look at the man himself. He played cautiously, but still lost money at an alarming rate, while the Bottler dealt the cards with the ease and flash of long practice. He was a charming yet unyielding character, with the face of a favorite uncle and the eyes of a snake. Win or lose, he was unreadable, yet somehow encouraging and almost jovial, his red cheeks and satin-vested belly shining to match his balding head. He was not a soft man though. His forearms, which were bare and wore a mat of thick, black hair, were thick and scarred in places. Mike could well imagine that he'd spent many an earlier year in heavy labor, though on close inspection, his hands lacked the calluses of recent work. His eyes were sharp under clouded, bushy brows and they belied his almost folksy manner. Mike did his best to lose quietly and deflect unwanted attention. He left with a lighter pocket and as firm an image of the Bottler as he could form, tucked away for future reference.

Mike and Primo met a few minutes later, against the dark side of a high stoop, the shadow just enough to wipe them from the casual eye. They shared a growler of beer that Mike had fetched from a bar down the block. It was none too cold and noticeably watered, but it went down well enough at the end of a long day. Mike liked his pints and rarely let more than a couple of days pass without their happy effect.

“Shame the girls were little helping,” Primo said, referring to their morning's stop at Miss Gertie's.

Mike grinned. Primo's English tended to slide toward the end of the day, but he said nothing about it, just nodded over his beer. They'd interviewed almost every one of them, Gertie and Kevin, too. Although some of them had known Ginny for nearly two years, their knowledge of her life outside the house was remarkably limited. Ginny had kept that part of her life behind a veil, not lifting it even for the other girls. Mike wondered if it wasn't like that for many of them; the outside world put away, its hurtful reminders tucked in memory's drawer. It was his experience that everyone had those little drawers, repositories of guilt or regret or pain. Mike had one of his own, but he kept it unlocked. It was healthier that way, he thought, to acknowledge the mistakes, accept the losses, come to terms with failures. But if Ginny had faced her own failings and losses, she hadn't shared it with the others.

Ginny was there in Mike's drawer of regrets. He hadn't thought of her in that way before. Her diary had changed that, an acknowledgment made clearer by the effects of the beer, which brought to mind one of Tom's truisms. “I ever tell you what my dad says about beer?” he asked Primo.

“No, what is that?” Primo said, taking the growler from Mike's hand.

“There's truth in one pint, bullshit in two, and confession in three.”

Primo laughed. “That is a good one, eh? Your father, he is a wise man, but what that have to do with the girls at that Gertie place?”

Mike shook his head. “Nothing, just a random observation. I—” Mike's attention was plucked away by someone leaving the Bottler's. “Speaking of observation, looks like our Mr. Saturn's had enough for the night,” he said as a figure hopped into the carriage.

Mike looked down to scribble in his pad as the carriage got rolling at a smart pace, the horses seemingly happy to be on the move. He didn't see where the three men came from. He heard the shouts though and felt Primo stiffen at his side.

“What the fuck!” Primo said, pointing at the carriage.

Mike looked up to see the carriage stopped a half block away. A man had a hold on the harness on the right horse, which snorted and stamped, trying to shake him loose. Mike couldn't see what was going on at the other side of the carriage, but he did see a pair of legs, joined a moment later by another. There was more shouting and a body landed among the legs, curled in a defensive ball. Mike had his pad tucked away and his slungshot in his right hand without realizing he'd reached for it. He and Primo didn't exchange a word. They took off at a run, angling to keep the carriage between them and the attackers. Primo had a short, hickory daystick in one hand. A pair of brass knuckles decorated the other.

It took no more than thirty seconds to cover the distance, but in that short time the body on the street had absorbed at least a dozen kicks and blows. Mike's last impression before he lost sight of him was that the body on the ground was going limp.

“… goin' ta da fuckin' Wigwam, you asshole!” Mike heard, as he and Primo rounded the back of the carriage. One of the men had his back to them and was a little closer to Primo. Mike went for the other, just as he saw them coming.

Jack McManus didn't have time to do much more than duck. Something hard clipped the top of his head, but didn't do any harm aside from maybe making him take the situation a bit more seriously, stompings being such common work they hardly got his blood going anymore. It was the fist in his ear that really got his attention, making the street jump sideways and setting his head ringing like church bells. But he'd had worse and was still on his feet, so he swung back with his brass-knuckled hands, both of them, charging forward, growling like a rabid dog. Bones was down and enjoying a hickory head-bashing, so he knew it was up to him to establish proper order. But the bastard who'd hit him, a detective most likely, was damnably hard to hit. The best Jack managed in the first minute was a couple of grazing blows and a half-blocked shot that bounced harmlessly off the tip of the bastard's chin. Jack wondered where the hell Billy Shingles had disappeared to, hoping that the fucking half-wit had figured out that now was the time to let go of the horses and start some serious business. Jack wished he had his cannon too. He'd have popped this shifty bastard a dozen times already if he hadn't left it back at Paresis Hall with his squeeze, Ellie. He regretted that now. But the boss had been so determined that Saturn not get dead that he'd insisted Bones and Billy leave their pistols too, popping victims being so much less work than a traditional stomping. Jack tried to duck again, but lost his balance and tripped over Saturn's legs. The slungshot glanced off his shoulder and into his jaw and he found himself kneeling against a carriage wheel, not sure how he got there. Jack put his hand down to get back up, but the carriage rolled forward, the wheel crunching over his fingers with a sound like popping corn. Jack howled and in that instant knew he had to run.

Mike felt he'd been lucky to that point. He'd withstood the man's attack though it had taken all his skill to do it. Whoever it was who'd just gotten his hand run over was an animal, ferocious and elemental in his attack, a storm of fists and feet and unexpected angles. Mike wasn't about to let him get up. He didn't give a shit how many fingers the wheel had broken. His slungshot was raised. A clean blow would put an end to any further resistance. But the man's fist, the one that still had all its fingers in one piece, was brought up smartly against Mike's balls, enough to crumple his knees and weaken the strongest arm. The slungshot dropped harmlessly.

Mike watched as the man dove under the carriage, rolling as he did, scrambling out on the other side. He sprinted across the street and into an alley. From there Mike knew he could pop out at a half dozen points in a two block area or lay a trap for anyone foolish enough to follow.

“Mike, you okay?” Primo was saying. “You are no stabbed?”

Mike shook his head. He could hardly speak, but finally said, “Balls.”

Primo couldn't restrain a smirk. “You sing like the choirboy now.”

“Oh, you fucking bastard!” Mike groaned as he started to get up. “I'm gonna kick your wop ass when I get up.”

“Take you time,” Primo chuckled. “My wop ass is not going anywhere.” He hauled his prisoner to his feet. The man's head was running red, his hair clotted with blood. Mike got both feet under him, but remained with his hands on his knees as he waited for the pain and nausea to subside.

Neither he nor Primo paid much attention to the man on the ground until he groaned and rolled over. His driver, who'd been cowering on his high perch had finally descended, a small flask in hand. “Here, take some of this, sir,” he said, kneeling and putting the flask to his master's lips. “Who were those men, Mister Saturn? My God, I thought they were about to kill you until these gentlemen arrived.”

Lionel Saturn, who'd been sucking at the flask as if he'd spent the last week in a desert, seemed to notice Mike and Primo for the first time. The flask lowered and he looked from one to the other with a mixture of gratitude and wariness.

“Detective Alfieri,” Primo said. “And that's Detective Braddock. We were … we witnessed the men attack you.”

Mike went to Saturn. “How are you, sir? Is anything broken?”

Saturn looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language, but said at last, “I am bruised about my entire body, Detective, but I am amazed to say I appear to be in one piece.” He recognized Mike from the Bottler's, though he'd paid him little mind at the time. The realization that Mike was a cop put him immediately on alert.

“Can you get up?” Mike said, putting out his hand. Saturn took it and between Mike and his driver they hauled him to his feet. He swayed like a palm in a hurricane, took another pull at the flask, and shuffled toward his carriage, sitting heavily in the open doorway. “They might have killed me,” he mumbled as if trying to convince himself of what had happened. “I was blacking out. I don't know where…” He shook his head, which was bleeding a small trickle into his high, starched collar. He looked up at Mike and Primo. “I am grateful to you, gentlemen, both of you.”

“Did you know those men, sir?” Mike asked.

“No. I've never seen them before. I assume they were trying to rob me.”

Mike noticed the tone of Saturn's voice, the doubt in his eye. He stole a glance at Primo, who twitched an eyebrow.

“I ask because it seemed to me as if one man—”

“The one that got away,” Primo interjected with a smirk.

“Yes, the one that got away,” Mike said, “appeared is if he were … I don't know … as if he was delivering a message or a warning.”

Saturn looked at Mike with a guarded expression, but said nothing at first, preferring to let the distraction of his driver dabbing at his bloodied head cover his lack of an immediate explanation. “I'm afraid my brain is rather frazzled. The one man was saying some things, but none of it made any sense to me. I think he must have been mad. Or”—Saturn looked up with an almost hopeful look in his blackening eyes—“a case of mistaken identity. I don't know. This is all such madness.”

Mike and Primo cast a glance at Primo's prisoner, who had been unable to stay on his feet and now sat handcuffed at the curb.

“I'm sure you'll press charges?” Mike said.

“Yes, by all means,” Saturn said a bit too quickly.

Mike nodded and told him where to go in the morning to file his charge. Saturn made a great show of writing it down in a little notebook taken from a vest pocket.