Hell's Gate (26 page)

As the day wore on Ginny's mood turned. With each opening of the elevator doors her hope dwindled. She tried not to think that Mike had gotten her message and ignored it. She imagined the sort of stories he might have heard about her at the house, from Gertie, or some of the other girls. Had he believed them?

The sun sank slowly in the western windows and still Mike did not come. One by one the machines stopped and the women went home, until there were only a few, making up for the day's mistakes. Ginny couldn't continue past eight. Her heart wasn't in it. Even her foreman could see that. “Go home, girlie. Come back ready to do a day's woik. No more days like today, eh,” he grumbled, holding a perfectly good shirtwaist. Ginny just nodded and left her machine without a word. He watched her go with a shake of his head.

The elevator sank to the lobby with Ginny wondering how it could be that Mike hadn't come. It was possible he'd never received the message, that somehow it had gotten lost or placed on the wrong desk or even that Mike had not been back to his office. It was all possible and she clung to the possibilities, fearing she'd drown if she didn't. As Ginny stepped into the street, she resolved to leave another message for him.

“Pardon, miss,” a man's voice said softly by her ear. The voice startled and thrilled her beyond anything she could have imagined. She turned wide-eyed, her breath catching in her throat, but realized before she'd even seen the man that it had not been Mike.

“Sorry ta bother ya, miss,” the man said when she'd turned, “but these streets ain't safe after dark, specially not for a lady as pretty as yerself.”

Ginny saw a solid, honest-looking face under a raked straw boater, a full mustache above a gentle mouth. The eyes were wide and hazel brown, the brows high, lending the face a hint of refinement. He wore a well-cut suit and a silk bow tie. White spats topped his polished shoes.

“I could walk wit you a ways, keep da lowlifes from gettin' too fresh,” he offered. He was almost charming when he smiled, not that she was interested.

“Suit yourself, I suppose,” she said and continued on her way.

“I'm Carl Woertz,” he said, catching up to walk at her side.

“Ginny.” She didn't want to give her last name, but extended a tentative hand.

Carl took it with surprising gentility. “Pleased,” he said.

They walked to Broadway, then south toward Houston. Ginny usually rode the El, but decided against it. The cramps that had crippled her the first few days at the job had eased, the evening was fine and cool, and the man at her shoulder was not unpleasant to look at, so she walked.

Carl gabbed almost nonstop. Ginny didn't feel much like talking and was content to have the company of a man even if it wasn't Mike. She had always enjoyed men's company and thought nothing of allowing Carl to rattle on at her side. She began to realize after a few blocks that she'd needed the companionship and was surprised to find herself smiling at Carl's observations.

They strolled on, past Houston with its dangerous traffic, past organ-grinders, a German street band, kids selling stolen fruit, newsboys with late editions, vendors of apple cider, ice cream, and confections, all trying for the last few customers of the night. Ginny was surprised to find herself responding to her newfound friend, and when he insisted they stop for ice cream in a waffle cone, she began to really look at Carl, to take inventory in a way.

Perhaps it was the disappointment of the day, the many small stabs at her heart with each opening of the elevator doors, but when Carl Woertz handed Ginny her vanilla cone, she took it with just a tiny bit more on her lips than a mere “Thank you.” Carl noticed and caught her eye to be certain, a rakish grin canting his mouth at the angle of his boater. “My pleasure,” he said, touching the brim. She thought at that moment she'd seen him somewhere before. She was almost certain he hadn't been a customer. But there was something illusively familiar about him that she just could not place. She thought it might be the boater, which reminded her of the man she'd nearly fallen out of the window looking at the day before. But she hadn't seen that man's face, so it couldn't be that. She strained to remember, eating her ice cream too fast and freezing the roof of her mouth. She forgot her doubts in her huffing attempts at thawing herself out.

“I have a cure for that, but I ain't so bold to do it,” Carl said.

“What, what?”

Carl leaned toward her and kissed her on the mouth. Ginny pulled back, but he said in almost a whisper, “Trust me,” and she let herself be kissed, feeling his warm breath melt the glacier she'd formed. It was not a kiss to stir the passions or quicken the blood, just a breath exchanged, as if she'd been drowning. Still, it had been a kiss and could not be called anything else.

“You mustn't do that again, Carl,” Ginny said, not certain that she meant it, but feeling that a good girl should say it, a factory girl, a girl whom a man like Mike might some day come for should say it.

“Of course not. Only when yer tonsils are froze.”

Ginny smiled back and licked at a dribble of ice cream escaping her cone. “It did work though,” she admitted. “I'm all thawed out. Thanks.”

Ginny let Carl walk her all the way to her door, a thing she'd not have done if she'd taken the time to consider it. After they'd said their good-byes, Ginny went up the dark stairs to her room, but hesitated before opening the door. She tiptoed back down and opened the door a crack, peeking out at the dark street. The road and sidewalks were almost deserted, save for the glow of a cigarette in a doorway on the other side. Ginny closed the door and locked it.

30

MIKE ACHED IN every place that had feeling, but he'd refused to be admitted. Tom had been, and the doctors insisted he should stay. He had sustained a concussive shock to the brain as the doctors put it, accounting for the dizziness and vomiting that had overcome him shortly after their accident. They'd been going through the assassin's pockets when Tom had gone to his knees, retching into the street. He'd been embarrassed. He hadn't been subject to a weak stomach since his early years on the force and was certain that not even the sight of a man cut in half could upset him. But when he'd been too dizzy to stand, Mike knew it was due to more than the blood and guts, no matter what the volume.

Bandaged and aching, Mike walked the halls of Bellevue from Primo's room to Tom's, chatting with cops and slouching on hard, battered chairs through the morning, dozing now and again, his eyes fluttering closed of their own accord.

It was late afternoon by the time Mike made it back to his apartment. He opened the door and almost stepped on the envelope laying on the floor just inside. It had
KNICKERBOCKER STEAMSHIP COMPANY
in fine Gothic print in one corner, with a little picture of a steamship below and his name in fine script across the crisp off-white paper. Mike opened it to find a note and a pair of passes from the Knickerbocker Steamship Company. They appeared to be season passes, with no particular cruise date. Mike put them on the small table by his front door and read the note.

I am in your debt, Detective, and though this small gesture is hardly compensation for the great service you have done me, I pray that it may give some recompense for a job very well done. Use them in the best of health.

Your servant,

Respectfully,

Lionel Saturn

“Pretty damned civilized,” Mike muttered, imagining how Ginny might look with the wind in her hair, the sun glinting off it in streaks of gold. He sighed and lost himself in the daydream for a moment longer. He stumbled to his bed, a wave of fatigue knocking him onto the rumpled sheets. He was unconscious in seconds, fully clothed.

He awoke hours later, feeling guilty for sleeping the afternoon away. The sun had disappeared, leaving only the streetlamps behind, throwing their watery light through his windows. Mike rolled his feet to the floor and sat up groaning. He didn't think he could have ached any more than he already had, but he was wrong. He was bandaged in half a dozen places, scrapes and cuts from the explosion and the accident. He seemed to be bruised everywhere and his hand ached beneath the cast. He gave his rumpled clothes a look in the mirror and finally said, “Fuck it,” to his reflection. It wasn't worth the aches and pains just to clean up, so he left for the hospital.

*   *   *

Tom was roomed just down the hall from Primo, who had been moved after the bombing. He was sitting up in bed while Mary spooned hospital soup into him.

“The soup's godawful,” Tom said when he saw Mike, “but the service is great.” He extended a bandaged hand.

Mike took it and then gave Mary a long hug. He knew this was far from the first time she had come to the hospital to spoon-feed her husband. Over the years he'd been a regular visitor, the doctors slowly turning him into a kind of patchwork quilt, stitches running this way and that about his body. Tom didn't seem to mind much, but Mary did, though she was doing her best to pretend otherwise.

Though Tom's handshake was still strong, he appeared older than he had that morning. A number of small bandages covered his larger cuts and scrapes and Mike could see the pain in his eyes. But the usual light was there too and Mike knew he'd be back at work before he really should.

They sat for a while and talked, Tom propped at the head of the bed, Mike and Mary on either side. They didn't speak about what had happened that morning. Instead they talked about Rebecca and the new play she was in, what her role was, about her director and his old-fashioned ways, the leading lady and her affair with the set designer, the costumes and how the producer had them made so cheaply they were falling apart at dress rehearsal, anything but how close he and Tom had come to killing themselves. Mike got up to leave and could see from the brief look in Tom's eye that he wished he could go, too.

“Oh, Mike,” Mary said when he was halfway to the door. She got off the bed and came to speak with him in low tones. “I've been calling everyone I know and sending notes to the ones that still don't have a telephone.” By “everyone” she meant all the madams she still knew. Mike was pretty sure it was an impressive list. She gave an apologetic sigh. “Nothing so far. Ginny hasn't turned up anywhere. But don't worry, there's a few more I haven't heard back from and everybody promised to call if she turns up, so…”

“Thanks, Mom,” Mike said. “But don't bother doing anything more. With everything that's been going on, I just can't.” He hesitated. “I mean, why hasn't she tracked me down after all? She wants to put it all behind her, I think. Everything. Can't say I blame her.”

Mary just nodded, though she could not hide her disappointment.

Primo wasn't conscious when Mike stopped by, but he talked anyway, hoping his partner would rouse and open an eye. His breathing was steady though, and when Mike felt his pulse it was strong and regular. A nurse told him that there'd been a procedure a few hours before to stop some bleeding in one of Primo's wounds. He'd been given more laudanum and he'd be out for another hour or more. Mike left with a nod to the patrolman stationed at the door and without giving it much thought walked to the Second Avenue El and rode downtown.

It was force of habit that had him observing the Bottler's game that night. He and Primo had spent so many hours on that street that it seemed natural to return. He was wide-awake and knew that going home wasn't going to accomplish anything, so even though it was past ten o'clock when he got there, he settled in to watch for a few hours.

In an earlier life, maybe a month or two ago, he'd have gone whoring on a night like this. He'd have enjoyed them and gone home feeling tired but empty. That had been the difference with Ginny, the emptiness had been of a different sort, the kind that had kept him coming back. He'd recognized it too late. Ginny had known before him. The way she'd looked on the day they'd gone to the show; it was clear she'd meant to bind him with the kindest cords. It had been his reluctance to change that had kept him from taking her away from Miss Gertie's. Cowardice was another word for it, though Mike winced at the thought. In honesty that's what it had been, the fear of abandoning his old ways and carefree pleasures for something deeper, more demanding.

Mike looked at his watch, extending a hand from the shadow that hid him to catch the light of a streetlamp. It was near twelve and he'd made no more than a passing note of who'd been in and out of the Bottler's. He sighed and glanced up and down the street before stepping into the light. Turning toward Delancey, he walked away from the game. He'd only gone a little more than three blocks, his thoughts far from the streets around him when he became aware of another presence on the street; a dark form approaching from across the road, angling to cut him off. Mike slowed and reached into his jacket, thumbing the safety on the Colt. There were footsteps behind and a glance showed a second man closing in on him fast. There were no words exchanged, no demands for money, no threats. A dark hand reached into a waistband and that was enough.

Mike's Colt wasn't the first to fire. One of the other men did that, Mike wasn't sure which. The bullet seemed so distinct, so impossibly slow, he almost doubted what it was. It skimmed off the bricks behind him and into the night. Without hesitation, he fired two rounds at the first man, and turned to fire at the second, as more bullets pelted around him, his target crouching. He fired twice, then turned back to the first gunman, and saw the man rolling on the street. The second man was down too, arms spread wide, motionless. A footstep sounded to his left a moment before an explosive impact brought the sidewalk up to meet his face, his head ringing in one continuous, deafening tone. A shoe appeared before his face, then melted into blackness.