Hell's Gate (3 page)

She poured some water into a washbasin, soaped her hands clean, and splashed some water on her face, which she rubbed dry with a washcloth. She listened to Rachel in the next room, moaning like it was the best fuck of her life, which of course it was. Here every time was.

Ginny got dressed and went down the back stairs to the kitchen, where the two cooks worked constantly, supplying meals for the girls and their clients whenever they wanted. The smell of pancakes and maple syrup put her in mind of home. For a moment she imagined she was still a child and it was her mother who was clattering pans and plates, filling the house with wonderful smells. She was the last one up as always and her father and brothers were hunched over their plates already, eating as if the cakes might walk off if they didn't hurry.

“Have a good fuck, Ginny? It was the banker, wasn't it? He likes the screamers.”

Ginny blinked at the three girls around the big, plain table in the kitchen, all in various states of undress. Tousled hair, cigarettes, and smudged makeup were the look of the morning. Ginny knew she didn't look much better.

“If he gave you the money he gives me you'd be screaming, too,” she said. She grabbed a plate from a stack near the sink.

“Hard to get excited about that little thing of his,” a girl named Eunice said. The other two agreed, laughing and slurping coffee.

“I've seen bigger pizzles on Chinamen,” a girl said as she laughed.

“You haven't really, have you?” the third girl said with a look on her face like she'd swallowed something sour. Fucking a Chinaman was worse even than working in a black-and-tan or walking the streets. Only the shanty Irish seemed willing to marry them, and damned few at that.

“Figure of speakin',” the other replied with a dismissive wave of her cigarette.

There was a long moment of silence, punctuated by clattering plates in the sink. Ginny couldn't contain herself and finally burst out laughing, nearly spilling the coffee she was pouring. “It's true,” she said. “I saw it in
The Farmer's Almanac
,” which set off gales of laughter, and for a moment Ginny forgot her mother's kitchen.

“Where's that cop o' yours?” one of the girls asked when they had run down to giggles. “Haven't seen him 'round the last few days.”

“Yeah. He was a real regular, too,” Eunice said with a sideways glance at the others. “I've heard you with him. You sing a different tune when he's in your bed.” She looked at Ginny with a narrowed eye. “Those're the worst, the good ones. Rip your heart out, you let 'em.” The others went silent. Ginny shrugged as she buttered her pancakes.

“He's a sporting man,” she said as the butter ran in little rivers off her pancake mountain. “A regular subscriber to the
Weekly Rake
, that one. He's like a dog that has to pee on every hydrant.” She nodded toward one of the other girls. “He took you to the masked ball last year, right? And you've had him more than once yourself, Eunice,” Ginny pointed out. “We all have.”

This was true, but for months now it had been only Ginny he'd asked for. He'd either wait for her or leave if she was otherwise engaged. They all knew it.

Rachel came down then, rubbing her ass, which was by popular consent the finest in the house. Nobody filled a bustle like her, a talent she'd made pay handsomely.

“Good God, I thought he'd never spend.”

“I thought you sounded a bit off,” Ginny said, happy to have a distraction from their uncomfortable topic.

Eunice got up with a concerned look. “Come have a rest. I'll get you some coffee,” she said. She held a chair as Rachel eased into it then went about getting her coffee and a cinnamon roll. The girls watched her as they chatted. Eunice and Rachel were the only “real” Sapphos of the house. Though most of them had put on sapphic shows for private parties at one time or another, they were the only ones who seemed to enjoy it.

“He didn't hurt you, did he?” Eunice asked when she set the coffee and roll on the table. “I'll have him dusted up for you if you want.” Eunice's brother was the bouncer and all-round insurer of the girls' well-being. He was as adept at splitting lips as he was at escorting the girls on the Ladies' Mile.

“Hell, no! Don't do that. Sonofabitch is my best customer,” Rachel said, looking alarmed. “Don't you even say anything to Kevin, either. That gorilla would break his legs just for exercise.”

Eunice calmed Rachel as Ginny's mind wandered. Her mother's kitchen had never been like this, though her brothers would have liked it a sight better than she did. To her it was now just business, not much different than swapping gossip over the counter at Wolke's General Store back home. The gossip had been very different, it was true. Sex was never mentioned except in whispers, winks, and giggles. Innocence and purity were the words she and her girlfriends had been supposed to live by. Sex was something the beasts did in the barnyard and impure thoughts were rounded up every Sunday and drowned in a flood of “Hail Marys.”

There were no Hail Marys in this house. The brothel was two houses really, adjoining brownstones on West Forty-fourth. They were run by a porcelain-skinned German woman that the girls all called Miss Gertie, though Ginny didn't think that was her real name. The story was that she'd come up in the trade in the 'eighties, working for the famous Mary Braddock in her houses in the West Twenties. They said that Gertie ran the house, but Mary still collected rent, an ultimately more profitable and far safer form of income, and not uncommon for the very few who'd managed to get out of the business with a whole skin. Miss Gertie, prosperous, full-figured, and respectably middle aged, ran the place as if she were its queen. She was solicitous of the girls, keeping them well fed and healthy. A doctor visited weekly and anyone who didn't care for herself or for her room was warned once, then shown the door if it continued. It was perhaps the finest house in the city, the girls elegant downstairs and wanton upstairs.

Ginny stopped her daydreaming when Kevin ambled into the kitchen, a copy of the
Trib
under one arm.

“Mornin,' ladies,” he said on his way to the coffeepot. Some mornings Kevin looked even worse than the girls. Dealing with the sports could be a rough business, not that he had much trouble with the swells that made up most of their clientele. It was keeping the riffraff away from the door that could be a problem. Still, this morning he seemed almost fresh.

“No troubles, eh, Kev?” Eunice said.

“Nah. Easy night,” he replied as he sat, slapping the paper down in front of him. He smiled at Ginny. He'd been sweet on her for months. Ginny smiled back absently. She'd always made him pay, not because he wasn't easy on the eye, but because there was no spark. He was good enough company though, and a man who knew how to work a woman's body for all that was in it.

She stared, suddenly riveted, not by Kevin, but by the
Trib.
She grabbed at it from across the table, spinning it around before her and snapping it open.
TERRIBLE SHOOT-OUT IN THE HARBOR
, the headline ran.
HERO DETECTIVE THWARTS HOOKERS. ONE HARBOR PATROLMAN DEAD, TWO BADLY
I
NJURED.
Under the headline, which ran three columns, was a picture of the steamer
Warrior Prince.
Beside that was a photo of Mike Braddock.

“Hey,” Eunice said, looking over her shoulder, “ain't that your cop?”

3

IT WAS LATE in the afternoon when Ginny heard that Mike Braddock was downstairs asking for her. She'd been asleep. She put on the white corset that she knew he liked, pushing up her breasts while checking herself in the mirror. Her best black stockings were snapped to the white garters and she threw a Chinese silk robe over her shoulders as she left her room, tying it loosely as she went down. It showed her legs almost up to the thigh. She didn't bother with panties.

As she went down the front stairs she imagined all sorts of things to say, but when she saw him and how he looked she abandoned them all.

“I read what happened,” she said, putting her arm through his. “I want to know everything.”

Mike just smiled and nodded. He'd told the story all night long and into the afternoon, to his captain, to reporters, to other detectives, and to the captain of the harbor patrol, who had wanted to hear it over and over again. This was the one place he knew he wouldn't be judged. It was Ginny's true talent, though she didn't seem to realize it. Hers was the ear of a priest without the moralizing, the worldliness of a bartender without the advice. She drew her robe closed as Mike followed her to her room.

“Do you want anything,” she asked, “a drink or something?”

“No, thanks,” Mike said as she closed her door behind them. “I can't stay too long,” he added, not taking off his jacket as he usually did. He felt her arms come around him from behind, felt her breasts on his back and breath in his ear. She hugged him and kissed his neck.

“You stay as long as you like. I'm just glad you're here.”

Mike turned around in her arms and buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent. His hands didn't go to her ass as they always did. They encircled her, lingering at the small of her back. “Do you think I'm a hero?” he asked, pulling back so he could look into her eyes.

“The papers say so.”

“The papers don't know shit,” he said, breaking their embrace. He took off his jacket then and hung it on the back of the door. Ginny noticed for the first time that it was stained a deep red-brown on the sleeves and back. He unbuckled the shoulder holster and hung it too, the heavy Colt banging against the door. Mike shuffled to the bed and bounced on the edge, his legs seeming to give out. He started to take off his shoes, but couldn't seem to untie the laces, so Ginny took them off for him.

“It was a damn bloodbath. One patrolman dead, two more wounded. One's got a broken back. They don't know if he'll walk again.”

“Did you break his back?” Ginny asked.

“No, of course not. A body came over the side. They were throwing it overboard. Landed right on us.”

Ginny nodded. “The one who was killed, the other cop, what happened?” Mike told her about the shoot-out at the fo'c'sle, that he should have gone first down the dark gangway.

“But then you'd be dead,” Ginny said without inflection.

“I should be dead,” Mike answered. “I would be except for him. He wanted to go first. Said he knew those ships better than me.”

“Did he?”

“Sure, I suppose. He was harbor police…”

“But heroes go first?”

“Yeah, damn it! They do,” Mike almost shouted, standing in his socks, his hands in fists at his side. “And I'm no damn hero. Half the time I didn't know what the hell was going on. Fuckin' papers can say what they want, but they don't know.”

Ginny walked over and sat down, patting the mattress for him to sit beside her.

“Who shot the man on the stairs?” she asked.

“Me, I guess. Didn't know what I was shooting at really. Too fast an' too dark.”

“You shot them. And the others?”

“The Oysterman, I'm sure,” Mike said, easing back on the bed, looking up at the ceiling as if the scenes were playing out up there. “Right in the eye. Smilin' Jack too, but him I'm not so sure. Maybe.”

“They shot at you, right?”

“They missed, yeah. Don't know how, but they missed.”

“You didn't miss,” Ginny said, putting his feet in her lap. She massaged his toes and arches, kneading with practiced fingers.

“That's nice,” Mike said. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. “Nice.” She didn't say anything more, just watched his face as his eyes fluttered. He was asleep in minutes. Ginny set his feet on the bed and lay down beside him. She pulled close, ignoring the dirt and blood on his clothes and the stink of sweat from the night before. She lay on her side so she could watch his face while he slept.

*   *   *

Mike woke with a start, waking Ginny, too. “Damn. How long've I been asleep?”

Ginny looked at the clock. “Four hours, more or less. You needed it. I could see right away.”

Mike grunted. “That's the first I've slept in near two days.” He sat up and rubbed his face, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. “All the questions, reports … everything. And the shoot-out playing over an' over in my head like one of those picture shows.” He turned and kissed her cheek. “Thanks. How'd you do that, with the feet I mean? Like somebody switched off a light.”

Ginny smiled, half in remembrance. “My mom used to do that for my father sometimes.”

Mike nodded. He ran a hand up her thigh, parting her robe and pulling her close. “You never stop surprising me, Gin,” he said as his hand cupped her ass. He grinned. “No panties. That's just what I mean.” He lifted her robe. “And the white corset too. Mmm. You're too good to me.” He bent to nuzzle her breasts where they spilled over the tight satin. Ginny sighed and threw a thigh over his, pulling him closer. She guided his hand just where she wanted it. Mike didn't object.

“I thought you couldn't stay long,” Ginny teased in a breathless whisper a few minutes later.

“Mom's for dinner,” Mike growled around her left nipple. “When I tell her why I'm late she'll understand.”

Ginny landed a playful slap on his head. “You wouldn't!”

Mike grinned but said, “Nah, I guess not, but Dad sure would like to know.”

She slapped at his head, harder this time. “You better not.” She laughed, slapping at him with both hands now. “What would he think of his good little boy?”

Mike covered his head with a pillow and in a muffled voice said, “He'll think I'm a chip off the old block. My mom was a whore, too. Hell, they met when he arrested her,” he said, laughing. The slapping stopped. Mike poked his head out. “I surrender,” he said with an unsuspecting grin.