Hell's Gate (33 page)

“When?” Mike asked. “My passes, are for any time I want this season, so we could go if you'd like?”

“Of course, I'd like that, silly. I think it's for the fifteenth, just a few days from now. But will you be well enough by then?”

“I think I'll manage,” Mike said. He was really starting to chafe at being cooped up in the hospital anyway.

“Would you buy me an ice cream? I'll do anything for an ice cream you know,” she said this with more than a suggestion of her old self and worried immediately that she'd seemed too wanton, so she added with a whisper, “but only for you, Mike.”

Mike said nothing for a handful of heartbeats, then turned to her and said, “You are who you are, Gin. I loved you then and I love you now. There's no burying of the old you, not between us.” He laughed and added, “I can't have you getting too proper now, can I?”

Ginny squeezed his hand and breathed in the salty river breeze. She looked back at the hospital. “You don't suppose there's an empty room in there somewhere?”

Mike smiled wickedly under his bandages. “I do suppose you're right. Shall we find one?”

*   *   *

Primo arrived on the ward the following day. “So, this is what we get for feeling better, eh? They throw us in this shithole,” Primo said as a nurse wheeled him in. He was well enough to walk, but they didn't want him to tax himself. Mike chuckled. “Welcome to your new shithole, partner.”

“Makes me want to get stabbed again,” Primo said, looking around the room with a sour face.

“Makes me want to get the fuck outa here,” Mike shot back, finding he could now pronounce the letters with hard sounds like
t
and
k
more easily, though there was still pain in doing it. “At least you look better,” Mike said, for the first time noticing that Primo, once he'd been deposited by the nurse, was walking without holding on to things.

“Better than a couple days ago, not so good as I wanna be.”

“Yeah,” Mike agreed. “Not that good.” His tongue hurt, even though he was taking his time and pronouncing slowly like the doctor told him.

“You look better, too,” Primo told him. “Your Ginny, eh? She is your medicine.”

*   *   *

Another day crept by, the sun crawling across the floor of the ward with mind-numbing slowness, the moon stealing between the beds at night like a ghostly nurse. The next morning, Mike was doing push-ups beside his bed and running the stairs. Primo too was healing well, but more slowly. The wound in his back had gone deep and still felt like it might tear if he tried to do too much. Still, he was able to walk the corridors and climb the stairs with relative ease.

“You'll go home tomorrow,” Primo said. “I heard a nurse talking. She said it sad, like she did not want to see you go.”

“Sure,” Mike said, knowing Primo's bullshit when he heard it. “You going to see your wife when you get out?”

“I have been thinking a lot about that and I think maybe I will take the chance,” Primo said softly. “The Black Hand, they work in the small groups. The ones I killed, the ones you killed, that is most of them. There are others yes, but they are not together. They will not be so bold now. They go crawl back under the rock,” he said with a snaky motion of the hand.

Mike nodded. “That's good because you need a woman bad.” He grinned. “God, your wife is in trouble! You'll have her belly out to here in no time.”

“That would not be so bad a thing, I think, and if the Virgin Mother is good to us, it will be Micaele if it is a boy and Margherita if it is a girl child.”

“Michael, huh?”

“Sì, Micaele, after the best man I know.”

Mike didn't know what to say. His tongue seemed to have swollen again so that it filled his mouth completely. “That might be the greatest honor I ever had,” Mike said. “I mean it.”

“What?” Primo said, raising his eyebrows.

“I mean, that's really wonderful, you know, having a child named after me, it's…”

“It is my father I'm talk about, you asshole,” Primo said. “You think I name my child after Irish shitheads?”

“Okay, okay, You don't have to be nasty about it. After I saved your wop ass I just thought…”

“What? What you think?” Primo said, but he could not hide the sparkle in his eye.

Mike caught it and stopped to think. “Hey! Your father's name is Paolo. You told me that yourself.”

Primo started to chuckle, then burst out laughing. “Maybe you are not such a shithead after all. Micaele is a good name I think, no?”

*   *   *

The first thing Mike did when he left the hospital the next afternoon was go to the firearms district on Chambers, west of Broadway, where giant, wooden pistols and rifles hung over shop windows and gunsmiths catered to wealthy sporting clients, for whom $500 was a trifling price for a good bird gun. Tom had given Mike one of his old pistols, a .32 Smith & Wesson with a two-inch barrel, a “belly gun,” suitable for distances of an arm's length and not much more. It made a bulge in Mike's pocket as he shopped for a new Colt. He eventually found an automatic in a shop that also had an entirely new kind of pistol, imported from Germany, a Luger. It was a thoroughly modern weapon and very tempting to Mike even though the price was greater than for the Colt. But he put it down after he'd tried its feel, remembering how well the Colt had served him.

“You're that detective,” the store clerk said, looking at the now small bandages on either side of Mike's face. “You killed those two men.” Mike didn't know what to say, so he said nothing at all. “I understand Roosevelt himself sent you a bully telegram.”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “He shares my views on getting shot at.” Mike had the telegram in his back pocket, having almost left it at the hospital in his haste to get gone. Though it had been just more than two weeks, it had seemed like forever.

“I'll give you ten percent off on that Colt,” the clerk said, “if you don't mind me using your name in my next ad. The automatics are catching on. They're the next big thing in pistols and as far as I know, you're the first to use one on anything but a target. Come to think of it, you're the same detective from that shoot-out in the harbor back a month or two, right?”

Mike bought a new leather shoulder holster too and put the Colt in it before he left, its bulk feeling odd under his arm.

“Thanks for shopping with us,” the clerk chirped as he left.

“Oh, yeah. I shoot any more bad guys and I'll expect twenty percent off.”

Though he wasn't expected at headquarters, he went anyway, sitting at his desk and feeling like a phantom once the tide of backslapping and handshaking had ebbed. He started to pick through the mess that blotted out the top, reports, file folders, envelopes. They seemed to have lost their meaning in the last two weeks and he read the words on them as if they were in some foreign language.

Mike was flipping through the pile when his captain's voice boomed from the office. “Braddock, do I have to tell you again to get the hell out of here? Take this and go home,” he said, pushing a new badge across the desk.

Having his old shield stripped from him had been almost as painful to Mike as being shot. In his world it was an even greater disgrace than losing his gun. The fact that he'd managed to do both in one night didn't go against him though. A lot could be forgiven a “hero,” especially one with notches on his belt and bullet holes in his face.

“Now go home! You're on leave until next week for chrissake. Take a trip, read a fucking book or something, just don't let me see you till next week. Got it?” Mike assured him he did and thanked him for the badge, pinning it to his jacket lining before he left.

Mike took a deep breath when he got outside police headquarters. He floated for a minute of two, imagining the coming week with Ginny. He'd remembered the tickets he'd gotten stuffed under his door. The next few days were his to live however he liked and he liked the idea of a day cruise a lot, imagining the sun lighting Ginny's face, ice creams, cold beer, and an evening full of stars. But thinking about the
Slocum
put him in mind of the Bottler. What if Tom's guess was right and the Bottler wasn't dead? What if Eat-'em-up Jack was still out to kill him? Jack had every reason to want to finish the job he'd started. But it was likely that the Bottler was exactly as dead as everyone said he was, and that McManus was hiding under a rock somewhere. Weighed against the certainty of a week with Ginny, these seemed like trivial concerns.

Still, Mike thought it best to have a plan. He started off to see his sister. She'd visited twice while he was in the hospital, but she was in a play now with a major role and two shows a day. It ate up every free minute, but she'd have to spare a few minutes for him. Rebecca had something he needed, and he wouldn't board the ship without it.

45

“CHARLIE, WHAT'RE YOU doing here?” Mike said when he recognized Charles Kelk of the harbor squad, standing near the gangway to the
Slocum
.

Kelk squinted at him hard. “And who would you be?” he asked with suspicion, “And how would you be knowing me?”

“Oh. Sorry,” Mike said, taking off the fake glasses and slightly pulling aside the beard Rebecca had given him from the theater's prop room. “It's Mike. Mike Braddock. And this is Ginny Caldwell,” he said turning to Ginny, with a smile. She'd thought it silly of him to wear a disguise, and gave him a dubious, amused look, although once he'd explained his reasons, it had seemed prudent enough.

“Mike! What the hell?” Kelk said, then lowered his voice even though they were still far from the ship. “Why the disguise? Oh, and pleased to make your acquaintance, I'm sure, ma'am,” he added, giving Ginny his hand.

“Just a precaution, Charlie. The mug who shot me is still out there, and he might have reason to be on this boat.”

Kelk gave a frown in the direction of the gleaming vessel. “Who the fuck is it? I'll give Van Tassel the word to keep an eye out. He's working this cruise with me.”

“How's that?”

“Pastor Haas asked the captain if he could hire a couple of men to keep an eye on things,” Kelk told him. “He's the pastor at St. Mark's Lutheran, over on Sixth. They do this big outing every year. The parish, which is most of the neighborhood, goes on these things.”

“Sounds like easy duty,” Mike said. “Plenty of sauerkraut and knockwurst, maybe a little beer?”

“Maybe more than a little.”

“Yeah, well, I hope that's all we'll have to worry about. You know a mug named McManus, Jack McManus? He's the guy.”

“I know about him, but I don't know his face,” Kelk said. “Maybe Al might know.” Mike gave him McManus's description and he promised to keep an eye out.

“How you doing?” Charlie asked. “Feelin' better?” Mike gave him an abridged version, which amounted to, “Not bad if you don't count the holes in my face.” They laughed and commiserated for a few minutes. It had been almost six weeks since the harbor shoot-out and they had some catching up to do. “That Reverend Haas?” Mike asked, pointing to a bearded and bespectacled gentleman of middle years whose mission it seemed to shake the hand of every passenger as they boarded.

“Yeah, that's him. C'mon, I'll introduce you. You have a ticket, right?”

“Sure, compliments of the steamship company. Worked out nice with me just getting out of the hospital. Ginny said it'd be good for my recovery, and my doctor agreed.”

Mike readjusted his beard and glasses and set his straw boater low over his eyes before Kelk introduced him to Reverend Haas, who welcomed him and thanked him for supporting the church with the purchase of a ticket. He urged Mike to enjoy the day to the fullest, as there was to be a fine band and plenty of food, beer, and games once they got to the beach at Locust Grove.

Mike and Ginny joined the crowd filing into the
General Slocum
, making their way up to the promenade deck, dodging children, who, once on board, were cast loose from their mothers' grip to run with their friends while the adults claimed the best seats. He and Ginny leaned against the rail, watching the ship load, Mike scanning the crowd. Ginny sensed his tension, but felt it best to let him be cautious. He had every right to be. She didn't really appreciate how much more he worried with her at his side. The idea of something happening to her because of him pebbled his skin with fear and turned his knees to water.

There was a dizzying number of families, groups of adults surrounded by swirling, eddying tides of children. Some were clearly extended families—cousins, aunts, grandparents, and the like. But there were relatively few men. It was a hard thing to get a day off from work and few seemed to have managed it, a fact that had Mike feeling suddenly self-conscious. He could feel the eyes of the adults around him on the promenade deck, wondering at the man with the beard and the beautiful girl on his arm.

*   *   *

“C'mon, Mommy, we'll miss the boat!” Josh cried, pulling at Esther's arm and leaning to his task like he was pulling a lifeline. “C'mon!” Ginny heard him and looked down to find them climbing the gangway. She waved, but Esther didn't see her. Josh did though, and he tugged Esther's arm again and pointed. “I'll be right up, sweetie!” Esther shouted, trying to keep up with Josh. They disappeared into the side of the ship a deck below.

*   *   *

“Gin, can you wait here a few minutes?” Mike asked when they'd settled on a piece of a bench at the rail. “I want to take a quick look over the boat. Just a precaution,” he added lightly. He pulled his eyes from her as if she were the sun and he a planet in her orbit. They'd have all day after all.

Mike walked the decks one by one from the bow to the stern, doing a full turn of each before climbing the stairs to the next. He checked the saloon in the interior, he looked into the engine room, he walked the hurricane deck, the kitchen, the dining room, and the promenade deck. He saw children, hundreds of them, mothers looking harried but sunny, grandparents, aunts and uncles, a German band tuning up in the stern, and a wiry stoker with a coal-blackened shirt. But he didn't see the Bottler or Jack McManus.