Hell's Gate (31 page)

“Hey, Ginny! I was worried about you,” he said with what appeared to be genuine concern. “Youse ran off so fast, like you seen a ghost or somethin'.”

“I'm sorry, Carl,” Ginny said. He was actually a sweet man, Ginny thought, feeling guilty for wronging him. “Someone very dear to me was in the hospital. I had to see him.” She realized as soon as she'd said it that she hadn't told him that Mike was her boyfriend or lover. She wondered at herself, feeling guilty for the deceptive understatement. Still, she told herself she was shielding Carl with her little lie.

Carl just nodded. “Youse have to take care o' da ones important in yer life. Ya don't an' it'll eat ya up.”

“Exactly,” Ginny said, surprised at Carl's understanding.

“I hope da guy wasn't too dear to you,” Carl said. “I mean I suppose you know I got feelings for ya.”

Ginny looked at Carl with a mixture of dread and affection, not knowing exactly what to say. “I know,” she said finally, looking quickly out the door for the Braddock carriage, then adding, “I'm flattered, Carl.”

He smiled, but it was a wistful grin. “That's good. It's a start anyways,” he said, taking hold of her hand. She let him hold it for a couple of seconds, torn for allowing even this small sign of affection.

“Ya know, Ginny,” Carl said after a long silence, “I'd do anything fer you. Yer a peach, an' I'd be proud to have ya on me arm at any racket in town.”

“That's nice of you, Carl,” she replied, though going to one of the rackets was something that never appealed to her.

Ginny took her hand back. “You know it's really not right to be talking about things like that.”

“Yeah, but a girl like you don' come along every day. A mug like me can't let that go, not if he's got any brains in his bucket.” Carl had noticed her glance out the doors and had positioned himself in front of them, blocking her view.

Ginny laughed, but she couldn't hide the edge to it, becoming more uncomfortable by the second. “Carl, I have to go to the hospital this evening, so I guess I'll just say good-bye here,” she said, thinking of the safety of the Braddock carriage.

“It's da cop, right? I seen it in da papers. I can put two and two togetha.”

“Yes, Carl,” Ginny said. “I really have to go.”

“What's he to you, Ginny? Just how dear is dis guy?” The way he said
dear
made her skin crawl, for it was mocking and derisive.

“Carl, I don't know what to say,” she started. “Yes, it is Mike Braddock, the one you saw in the paper. I'm very concerned about him.”

“So, he's yer long-lost brotha?” he said mockingly.

“I'm sorry about that, Carl. I didn't want to—”

“To what? To tell me you been humpin' dis mug an' I ain't nothin' but a waste o' time,” he said, his voice rising.

“No, Carl.” Ginny didn't look at him directly. She didn't see the door opening behind Carl. “But Carl, the way you've been acting tonight—”

Carl grabbed her arm, pulling her closer, his face just above hers. “Youse like me,” he said. “All my girls do. Dis mug, you go see 'im if you like it, but youse come back to me, see 'cause if you don't I'll come an' find ya.” Carl's tone was light and earnest, as if he hadn't just threatened her. “'Cause I like you, Ginny, I really do.”

“Carl, I—” Ginny was about to say she loved Mike, but she never got the chance.

“Is this man bothering you, Miss Ginny?” she heard a voice say behind Carl. It was the Braddocks' driver, Riordan, an ex-cop with hard eyes, but a gentle hand when he helped the ladies. He pulled his jacket away from his side for just an instant, exposing the pistol he carried in a shoulder holster. Ginny didn't see it, but Carl saw it well enough.

“No, Peter,” Ginny answered. “He was just saying good-bye.”

41

TOM HAD MIXED feelings about what he was about to do. He knew it might be smarter to take a more prudent course, but just then he didn't give a shit for prudence. He got off the police wagon in front of the New Brighton, and six officers with shotguns got down after him, fanning out and covering the entrances and exits. Two followed him when he entered the dance hall. He hoped to find McManus there, but suspected he wouldn't. Jack was stupid, but not so foolish as to keep to his usual haunts now.

Though there was little actual proof that he'd had anything to do with Mike's shooting, Tom wasn't waiting for proof. Saturn's vague recollection and the coincidence of the two assaults were enough for him. If he had any luck, he'd sort it out with McManus cuffed to a chair in the precinct basement. Otherwise, he'd at least send a message that would be heard loud and clear across the Lower East Side. Within a day all of gangland would know that Captain Braddock was on the warpath. McManus would have a price on his head, officially or not, and be as likely to fall victim to one of his own as to Braddock himself. Tom felt it was a no-lose situation, though venturing into a place like the New Brighton the way he did had more than its share of risks.

He stood at the door for a moment, the two officers at his back, shotguns held conspicuously. The toughs and bouncers gave way and Tom walked through the raucous crowd of gangsters and their molls. The band continued playing, the piano tinkling gaily, the dancers prancing about with abandon, the smoke from a hundred cigarettes swirling like cream in coffee. Tom went to the back, where Paul always sat, a couple of fireplugs with bowlers glowering on either side.

“A dramatic entrance, Tommy,” Kelly said. “Surely old friends can dispense with such histrionics.”

Tom pulled out a chair and sat across from Paul. They didn't meet more than once or twice a year and then only on sensitive business, usually as much political as it was financial. They never met openly like this either, a definite departure from protocol.

“Good to see you, Paul,” Tom said. He motioned to the bodyguards, who disappeared with a confirming nod from Kelly. “I want McManus.”

“Just like that?” Kelly would have been shocked if he'd said anything else. Still he was amazed at how Braddock had put the pieces together and come up with Jack, wondering how he could have done so that quickly without some inside help.

“Just like that, Paul. I'm asking you to give him up,” Tom said, not patient enough to tiptoe around the subject.

“With shotguns? Here? You insult me in my own place, Tommy. This could have been handled another way.”

“Bullshit,” Tom said in a low growl. “You know my son's been shot. McManus had something to do with it. You don't know how fucking insulting I can be. I haven't even started.”

“My sympathies, Tommy,” Paul said, meaning it. Having no personal or business reason to see Mike hurt, he could afford sympathy.

“Thanks. Looks like he'll be okay,” Tom said. “I have no reason to believe you had anything to do with it, so I'm asking nice. McManus has to come in. He doesn't, then the next time I ask, it won't be so nice.”

“All stick and no carrot, Tommy? Not really your style.”

“Yeah, well I lost all my style when Mike got shot.”

“I understand. But you may get farther with a reward. The men he associates with are all too often motivated by money, Tommy, or the lack of it. I honestly don't know where the fuck McManus is. He hasn't shown in two days. A wad of green might pry up the rock he's under.”

“A grand,” Tom answered. “And another if I find out he was the shooter.”

Kelly looked at his fingernails. “I'll spread the word, Tommy. No guarantees though.”

“Didn't expect any. Sorry to disturb the festivities,” he said and strode back out through the parting sea. The heavies with the shotguns followed him out, one backing through the door, the other checking the street before they walked to the wagon. They climbed aboard and rolled away slowly, shotguns sticking out at the sides like cannons on a battleship. Jeers followed at a safe distance and a bottle broke on the cobbles behind, but they left without firing a shot.

*   *   *

Kelly sat sipping scotch and thinking for some time after Tom left. He was not about to give up McManus, not alive at least. Jack had to render a service first and it would be useful to let him think that that would be his redemption for the mess he'd made. He would have to alert Jack to Tom's suspicions though and warn him to keep well out of sight. Having him dragged in now would not do at all. He decided to keep McManus happy and well financed until he took care of his plan for the
Slocum
. He could not stand to have Big Tim steal the ship out from under his nose. The
Slocum
would have to be made worthless to him. Once Jack accomplished that, Braddock could have him, or what would be left of him.

42

MIKE COULDN'T STAY in bed. After just two days his back ached and he was restless and bored. His face hurt like hell, but he could still walk. The nurses tried to put him back in bed, but he wasn't having any of it. The doctor clucked at him from the foot of the bed, “Don't be stupid. If you feel dizzy, sit down. We've got better things to do than pick you off the floor.” Mike nodded and that was that.

He was dizzy, of course, and his head still rang, although not as bad as in the beginning. As he walked to his window, Mike started to wonder if it would ever stop or if it would just keep going, a continuous, high-pitched tone that could never be escaped. He stood, holding onto the windowsill until the dizziness and nausea subsided. They told him he'd had a bad shock to the brain and was likely to experience these things, but he was far too concerned with getting on his feet to let that worry him. Ginny would be back this evening. He wanted to surprise her. Looking out on the city in the sooty afternoon light, chimneys belching, streetcars clanging, factories humming, telephones ringing; he knew that somewhere in all that noise and stink and frantic activity a heart beat for him.

Mike turned too quickly and had to steady himself, grabbing onto the bed until the room stopped moving. With a deep breath he tried walking a straight line to the door, which he managed with only minor deviations. Hitching up his baggy hospital pajamas, he opened it and stepped into the hallway. He could smell fresh plaster and paint and the faint, sweet-sour smell of cut wood overpowering the usual hospital smells. Down the hall, workmen were expunging the last traces of the bomber's work, though for a moment, Mike thought he saw a shoe with a piece of leg they'd somehow overlooked. He held onto the doorjamb until the vision disappeared.

Primo didn't recognize Mike at first. He was propped up in bed, a nearly empty food tray in front of him. His eyes were closed when Mike came in. They fluttered open and Mike was relieved to see that they were clear, though pain and weariness circled them. “You got wrong room, buddy,” he said in a surprisingly strong voice. “But you wanna get blown up, come on in.”

Mike chuckled without moving his face. It hurt too much to smile. “Doctor told me you were here,” Mike said through a burst of pain. His swollen tongue and aching face making it come out like, “Ocho 'ol me oo wa ere.”

Primo looked at him with a concerned frown, but said, “You look like stupid Irish bastard I work with except you are more handsome than that asshole.”

“Ach,” Mike cried. “Urts oo laf.”

“But it is good to laugh, no? I have no laughing for days. The doctors, they are not so funny guys,” Primo said. “I see you have not been laughing, too. What the hell happened?” He took Mike's outstretched hand and held it as he looked into his eyes.

Mike tried to fill him in on what had happened, but had to stop after a few garbled sentences, the pain too great to continue. He spat a bright gout of blood into Primo's bedpan and sat on the edge of the bed, taking out the pad and pencil he'd remembered to bring.

“Great. Now the nurse will think I piss the blood. They will start looking up my ass or something.”

“Good,” Mike wrote. “Maybe they'll find your head.”

They laughed then, each wincing with pain.

“You have not done so good without me” Primo said when he'd caught his breath. Mike scribbled, “Should see the other guys,” but neither of them laughed at that.

Mike told Primo about his visits from Ginny, written simply, with a thousand words in between.

“That is good,” Primo said, smiling. “I am happy for you, my friend.”

Mike saw the sadness in Primo's face and knew that he missed his wife and kids more than he would ever say, even to him. “You gonna send for family?” he wrote.

Primo shook his head. “I will wait,” was all he said.

Mike figured it was for two reasons. Primo couldn't be certain he had eliminated the threat from the Black Hand, so in his mind it was still unsafe to bring his family home. Mike was also sure that as much as Primo would like to see his wife, he didn't want her to see him in this condition. He put a hand on Primo's shoulder and said nothing.

After a long silence, Mike wrote, “How's the wounds?”

“Better, a little,” Primo answered. “The one on my head hurts like a devil. Shotgun took my hair off. They sew the skin back together. It is tight like a drum.”

“When you get out?” Mike asked before spitting more blood into Primo's pan.

“Who knows, week or two, I guess.”

Mike could see Primo was tiring and he could feel his own head becoming light. He pushed himself carefully off Primo's bed and said, “Ee oo 'ater, okay?”

Primo raised a hand in good-bye. His eyes were closed when Mike looked back from the door.

Mike eased himself back into bed a few minutes later. A bowl of tepid broth waited for him but he managed only a few spoonfuls before his eyes closed. He didn't wake until he heard Mary's voice above him. Tom was with her, Ginny too, talking in hushed tones. Mike opened his eyes and said, “H'low,” which was far more painful than it should have been. His mouth and tongue were so sore from his few words with Primo that now he found he could hardly speak. After a hug from Ginny, Tom did most of the talking and Mike stuck to the pad and pencil.