Hell's Gate (24 page)

“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. He 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.

The door exploded above his head, blowing outward, something hitting the top of his head and knocking him backward to the floor. A second explosion tore through a little lower than the first and the door flew open. A dark form filled it and Primo fired three times, amazed that the revolver was still in his hand.

“Merde!”
the shooter cried, dropping a sawed-off shotgun and staggering into the hall. Primo watched from his knees, uncertain if he should fire again. The toilet door opened behind him and he started to turn, but the crashing of the man's body snapped his head back. He heard steps behind him and turned too late. He was struck on the arm and shoulder and side. Twisting away, he fell on his back again and kicked at a pair of legs, giving him the time to raise the revolver and fire. In the muzzle flash, Primo had a brief impression of an open-mouthed snarl and bad teeth, framed by a thick, black mustache. Primo fired again and the man toppled upon him, the knife blade glinting in the dim light.

27

THE TELEPHONE WAS ringing and wouldn't stop. Its raucous bell sounded as if it were miles away though it was just down the hall in the kitchen. It barely broke through Mike's sleep-fogged brain at first and for some time it seemed the ringing was only a dream. It could have been ringing for ten minutes or ten seconds, he couldn't say which. It stopped finally and he rolled over, rubbing his eyes and fumbling for his pocket watch on the table beside the bed. “Four thirty, for chrissake!” Mike rose and stumbled to the kitchen, figuring he'd try the operator and see if she could tell him who might have called. His hand was reaching for the earpiece when the brass bell started clattering again, making him jump. He grabbed the earpiece and put his mouth to the speaker.

“Detective Braddock,” a tinny voice said in his ear. “I have—” His front door shook on its hinges as someone hammered on the other side. Mike took a couple of steps away from the door as his sleep-muddled brain tried to focus. He dropped the phone and ran back to his bedroom, fumbling for his automatic hanging from the bedpost in his shoulder holster. The banging got louder, shaking the walls and vibrating through his naked feet. “Mike! Mike!” he heard outside as he jacked a bullet into the chamber. “Mike, open up!”

He went back to the kitchen, keeping the pistol ready. “Who's there?”

“Mike, it's me. Open up!”

The voice sounded strange, yet he knew who it was.

“Dad?”

“Yeah. Open up for chrissake.”

Mike unbolted the door and Tom pushed his way in.

“You all right?”

“Yeah, of course. What the hell's going on?”

“You're sure? What's the gun for?”

“For the asshole who was knocking my door down at four thirty in the fucking morning.”

Tom looked about the kitchen as if needing confirmation.

“Get dressed. It's Primo.”

*   *   *

The Oldsmobile raced across town, not even slowing at intersections. There was no traffic save for delivery wagons. The streets glistened with the early morning damp. Tom had the speeder pressed as far as it would go and the little single cylinder engine thumped with an urgency Mike had never thought possible. The wind in his face was like a gallon of coffee, though it was what Tom was telling him that had his nerves jangling.

“They found him about one o'clock!” Tom shouted over the rush of the wind. “A dead guy right on top of him, bullets through the neck and sternum, another dead on the stairs.”

“What do the doctors say?”

“Not sure. A shotgun blast grazed his head.”

“Jesus!”

“Yeah, he was lucky. Should've cut him in half. Stabbed four times, too. The dead guy who fell on him pinned his arm to the floor. A fucking bloodbath.”

“Anybody call his wife? Damn it! I forgot. He said she doesn't have a telephone wherever she is,” Mike said, “and I don't know where she's in hiding except somewhere north of the city.”

“Yeah, well, he had his reasons for being careful.”

“He hardly talked about it,” Mike said. “It was almost like a joke.”

“No joke now,” Tom said as the tires bounced over some rough pavement. The Olds whipped back and forth like a Coney Island ride as Tom fought to steady it, the oversprung suspension bucking and the tiller whipping side-to-side. He let up on the speeder and brought it under control, giving Mike a guilty grin. “She likes to wag her tail now and again.”

“Let's just try to make it to the hospital in one piece, okay?”

*   *   *

There were cops everywhere when they arrived—by the front door smoking cigarettes, in the lobby trading war stories, and in the hall outside Primo's room, talking in whispers. Mike had been prepared for them. What he wasn't prepared for was the priest.

“
In Nomini Patros et Fili et Spiritos Sancti
,” the clergyman droned as he touched Primo's bandaged forehead with a drop of holy water. They stood quietly as the priest finished the last rites.

“He's not…” Mike said to the priest when he was done.

“No, no, son. Just a precaution,” he said in a most unreassuring murmur. Mike mumbled his thanks before shuffling to Primo's bedside.

“I don't know, Dad. He looks bad. Primo, buddy, squeeze my hand if you can hear me, okay? Mike leaned close and almost growled in Primo's ear. “C'mon, you wop bastard, squeeze my hand.”

Primo opened his eyes just enough to see Mike's face and gripped him back as hard as he could. “Irish shit,” he croaked.

*   *   *

Mike and Tom sat by the bed as the dawn filtered in. They talked in low tones. They spoke of Primo's family and how to find them if he didn't live. The cops disappeared a little before six
A.M.
They had to report back to their precincts for their shift change. Tom and Mike said their good-byes one by one until they were the last left and the hall outside was no longer filled with murmured conversation and shuffling feet. Finally they too got up to leave, pressing Primo's hand and speaking to him as if he were deaf. He didn't open his eyes this time, just raised a finger.

“He'll be okay,” Tom said as they brushed past a white-coated orderly, wheeling a cart.

“Hope so. I was just getting used to his shitty sense of humor,” Mike replied. “Gonna be hard without him.”

“Yeah. You'll need another partner,” Tom said. “Maybe—” He stopped before finishing his thought. He was looking at the polished floor in an odd way. Mike followed his gaze. A pair of dirty footprints ran past. He turned to look back, following the tracks to the orderly's feet. The man was almost at Primo's door and cast a dark glance over his shoulder. He hesitated when he saw they were watching, stopping his hand as it reached for the doorknob.

“Hey, buddy,” Mike called, starting back down the hall. “Can I talk to you a minute?” The man turned his back on them, wheeling his cart with a quickened step. “Hey! Hold up! I wanna talk to you!” Mike shouted. A second face peered around the far corner, where it met another hallway. A hand seemed to signal to the orderly and the face disappeared. Mike put a hand on the butt of his Colt. Tom did the same. They both walked faster. “Stay right there! Keep your hands where I can see them!” Mike thundered as he thumbed the safety on the Colt.

But the man turned fast and something sparkled in his hand, like a Fourth of July firecracker yet twenty times the size.

A pistol cracked in Mike's ear. The orderly doubled over. Tom fired again. A tremendous explosion erased the man from sight, enveloping him in a ball of fire. Tom and Mike dropped to the floor as a jagged hail of glass and tile spattered around them.