Hell's Gate (4 page)

Ginny wasn't smiling. She looked at the clock as she pulled her robe closed. She seemed about to say something, but stopped herself with a visible effort. She slipped her feet into slippers that lay at the side of the bed. “You should get going then,” she said after a deep breath. “You really shouldn't be late for your mother's dinner.” She'd almost said, “Your whore's dinner,” came so close to saying it she could taste the bitter words on her tongue.

Mike frowned but then agreed, “She is gonna be mad, I guess. She married a cop though, so she should be used to it.”

Mike put his shoes on in silence as Ginny watched, her arms crossed over her closed robe.

“You all right, Gin?” he said as he got up. “Listen, I'm sorry I have to go, but you know how it is. I'll make it up to you.”

Ginny just nodded. There was much she couldn't say. This was the life she'd chosen after all, the shackles that confined her. She had no right to blame Mike for naming her chains.

“Sure you will, Mike. I know,” she found herself saying, “I had a mother once, too.” She stopped, surprised at what had slipped through her teeth.

“Oh, Gin,” Mike said in a guilty whisper. “I'm sorry. I didn't think. I can be so damn stupid sometimes.” He stepped toward her. Ginny took a half step back before letting him hold her, her arms at her sides. “I'm sorry, Ginny. I know how you must miss her,” he said with sudden feeling. Puzzled that she didn't hold him too, he tried holding her tighter, wishing he could make her pain go away. He knew about loss. He'd lost his whole family by the age of twelve, though not as she had. Hers was a voluntary loss, a casting aside, an abandonment by those she loved. That kind of loss might be even harder to stand, he figured. He'd been fortunate to be adopted by Tom and Mary those many years ago. Ginny, however, had no one. He felt her heart beating against his but this time it was more than just a muscle in a cage of bone. There were emotions now, coursing through them both in electric pathways long unused. Mike suddenly realized that he possessed the power to alter another's heart. There was deep responsibility in that; the weight of another heart. It was a weight he'd long been unwilling to bear.

Ginny let herself be held. She could tell that he cared, that his concern was genuine. Even if it was misdirected, it
was
true emotion. She consoled herself with that and rested her hand on his shoulder. Maybe it was better this way, she thought. Why let the truth come between them when a fiction was so much more palatable. He cared. In his own way he cared and that was enough for now. It had to be.

“We'll go to Tony Pastor's,” Mike said. “That'll brighten you up. I told you I'd make it up to you. Tomorrow. We can catch an early show. Okay?”

Ginny nodded and forced a smile.

“It's a date then,” Mike said. He hoped this would help, but looking at Ginny he doubted it. “We'll have fun.”

“Sure,” Ginny said with wary enthusiasm. “Sounds wonderful.” She had never gone out with a customer before, though she hadn't thought of Mike precisely as a customer for some time. Mike gave her a kiss and pressed a twenty-dollar gold piece into her hand, at least double her usual rate.

“Tomorrow then,” he said. Ginny stood silently as Mike closed the door behind him. The gold in her hand was heavy. It weighed her down. Her shoulders bent and at last the heavy coin dropped to the floor, where it bounced and spun as if it might never stop.

4

“I HOPE YOU'VE got a good excuse,” Tom said as he opened the front door for Mike. Brooklyn Heights were quiet in the evening. Tom had heard Mike's shoes tapping out a double-time pace from half a block away. Tom closed the oak door behind them. He was half a head taller than Mike, broader across the shoulders, too. Though he was now sixty, he still sported a full head of hair, mostly gray except on top. His mustache was gray too, though his eyebrows were still a shade darker. Mike wasn't fooled by the gray. There was no stoop to Tom's shoulders, no paunch straining his belt. He still lifted weights twice a week at a German
Turnhalle
on the East Side and spent nearly an hour a day practicing the kung fu he'd learned from Master Kwan many years before. He'd taught Mike all he'd learned and they often sparred in the back courtyard or in the basement on rainy days. Though Mike was quicker and more agile, Tom was far more powerful. Despite his age, he could still take everything Mike could throw.

“Had to see that patrolman,” Mike said, taking off his jacket. “The doctors say he might not walk. They got him in a cast like an Egyptian mummy or something. Poor bastard never really knew what hit him.”

“Pretty good story. I'd stick with it if I was you, but only after I wiped the lipstick off my neck,” Tom said with a frown that had a tinge of mirth in it.

Mike gave a quick swipe. “I get it?” he asked, his color rising a little.

“More to the left,” Tom said. “Yeah, that's it.”

Mike shrugged and gave his father a guilty grin.

“Glad to see that the other night's activities haven't gotten you down,” Tom said. “A good thing taking a couple o' days off. That kind of action can get a man's head all in knots.”

Mike didn't really want to get into that with Tom, didn't want to admit that he was anything less than stoic and as strong as he imagined Tom would be. “I guess so,” he admitted. “I want to follow up on that lead though and the longer I have to wait, the colder it's likely to get.”

Tom was about to reply when Mary called from the back of the house. “You two going to come in or do I have to set up a table in the foyer?”

“Keep your stockings on, Ma! We're coming,” Tom called back. Mike had noticed that Tom had started calling Mary Ma from time to time lately. It was cute, he thought. Still he had a hard time matching it to his vision of his parents.

They walked down the wide center hall with its white marble floor and mahogany staircase. They passed the parlor on the left, the library with its pocket doors on the right. The place was almost a mansion and much more than a captain's pay alone could support. The carpets were thick, the wallpaper expensive, the furniture, draperies, lamps, and paintings spoke of money and the taste to spend it well. For the last year Mary had developed an infatuation for the new electric lamps made by Tiffany. There were three in the parlor, one in the library, and more in the bedrooms. They filled the house with splashes of color like little electric gardens.

Mary appeared through the swinging kitchen doors just as Tom and Mike entered the dining room. She shook her head at Mike as she put down a tureen of soup.

“Mike, I swear I can never decide whether to kick you or hug you. Where have you been?” Mike gave her the official story, which Mary seemed to accept.

“And how
are
you?” she asked, looking at him closely, noticing the dirt and dried blood on his jacket, but holding a scolding tongue. “You look tired,” was all she said.

Mike shrugged. “Haven't slept all that well.”

“You keep thinking of all the things you should have done differently,” Tom broke in. “All the mistakes you think you made. Doesn't matter if you did or not. You always think it could've gone better.”

“Yeah. And maybe it could have and maybe not.” Mary gave him a hug. “But the reports say it was a success and that's what people will remember. You try and remember that too. Okay?”

Mike smiled at her, appreciative as always of her concern and common sense. It suddenly came to him that Ginny had told him almost the same thing.

Mary was still a beautiful woman. Like Tom she had aged well. Although the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth were deeper now, they took nothing away. In fact, they added a certain gravity to her face. She still had those high cheekbones, full lips, and long, black hair, though that was now streaked with gray. She wore it up in a chignon with a silk ribbon for good measure. She'd always been beautiful, but now Mike thought he'd have to add “dignified” to her description.

“So, what's this lead you were talking about?” Tom asked.

Mike told him about Smilin' Jack's last word.

“Hmm. Bottle Alley's the first thing comes to mind, of course,” Tom said. “But I guess it did to you, too.”

Mike nodded. “But that's way out of the Hookers' territory.”

“Yeah, I know. That's the Five Pointers' stomping ground. You've considered all the dance halls and bars with
bottle
in their name? There's a few I can think of on the East Side. That's where to start.”

“Yeah, I thought so, too. Concentrate on the East Side. Try and poke around a bit, ask a few questions an' see what I can flush out.”

“Take somebody to watch your back,” Tom said. It was good advice and something Mike hadn't given a lot of thought to. He was considering that when Mary returned with a big platter of ham in a mist of brown sugar and cloves. Although they had a cook, Mary liked to set and serve. She sat and Tom took up a big knife with a stag handle and started to carve.

“How's Becca?” Mike asked. He hadn't seen his sister in weeks. Their schedules had them both working nights.

“She's having the time of her life,” Mary said. “She's up for a leading role for the fall season. She says this time she thinks she'll get it.”

Rebecca had been acting and dancing for two years professionally and her efforts were starting to bring her some recognition. She'd played in the Bowery theaters early on as most everyone did, working as a chorus girl for about twenty dollars a week. But she'd moved up quickly to places like Pastor's, where the crowd was a bit more refined and less inclined to throw things at performers they didn't like.

“That David Belasco fellow is planning a new production,” Mary went on. “If Becca gets the role, she'll actually be on Broadway.”

“I've been meaning to catch her show,” Mike said, “but it's been tough to break away.” She'd been doing
A Midsummer Night's Dream
at the Academy of Arts, next door to Tammany Hall lately, playing two minor roles and about a dozen lines per show. Mike wasn't much of a fan of the Bard. He didn't like to admit that he didn't understand most of it. The language never appealed to him, although he did like the murders. Shakespeare's plays seemed to have plenty of them.

“Well, at least phone her,” Mary said. “She tells me you two haven't talked in ages.” Mike was about to make excuses, but a glance from Tom shut him up.

“Guilty,” Mike said, holding up his hands in surrender. “I'll call.” He looked from Tom to Mary. Neither seemed convinced. “Really,” he said. “Promise.”

“Good,” Tom said with finality. “Let's eat.” Mary passed the platter of ham, followed by sweet potatoes and corn. Mike and Tom dug in. “Got something to show you later,” Tom said around a mouthful of ham.

“Yeah? What is it? A new pistol?” Mike guessed. Tom had bought many over the years.

“Nope,” Tom said with a conspiratorial look at Mary, who let just a flicker of a smile play across her mouth before shrugging her shoulders. She wasn't about to spill the secret, which made Mike all the more intrigued.

“Okay, youse got me goin',” Mike said, letting a bit of the Bowery slip across his tongue. It was hard not to. Half the city spoke in “dese, dems', and dose,” and it was the half that he had to deal with every day.

“Speaking of pistols,” Tom said, “How'd that new Colt work out?”

“Saved my skin. It's damn fast! Gotta do more rapid-fire practice though. Recoil has it jumping all over. Can't hold on target if you're in a hurry.”

Tom nodded. “That's what I heard about those automatic pistols. Takes some getting used to. We can go tomorrow if you want, shoot up some targets.”

“Sure,” Mike said, doing a quick mental calculation of the time he'd have to allow to meet Ginny and get to Pastor's. Tom must have sensed Mike's hesitation. “Got something goin'?”

“Just going to Pastor's,” Mike said, knowing as soon as he said it that he shouldn't have. He hadn't intended to tell them about Ginny. He liked to keep that side of his life quiet. It was a lot easier that way. He knew that neither Tom nor Mary approved. They had no right to actively disapprove, considering how Mary had made her fortune all those years. Tom had been no saint either, so mostly they held their tongues when it came to Mike's peccadilloes.

“Who are you taking?” Mary asked, knowing that Mike would never go to Pastor's with any of his male friends.

“Just a girl. You wouldn't know her.”

Tom and Mary exchanged looks. “It's Ginny Caldwell, isn't it?” Mary said. Mike's mouth fell open, but he closed it quickly enough. He didn't ask how they knew. It would only extend a discussion he didn't want to have. They'd been over this ground before, had trodden it down until their arguments were packed beneath their feet, solid as bedrock.

“Yeah,” was all he said. If anybody was going to say more it wasn't going to be him. Mary smiled, but sighed. “I know a little about her,” she said. “From Long Island, right?” He nodded.

“Listen,” Tom said. “Nobody knows the, ah … temptations of this city better than me. Being a bachelor in New York is like being a kid in a candy shop.” This drew a frown from Mary, but she couldn't disagree. Hers had been one of the biggest candy shops in the city. “But to find the woman of your dreams that way, like I did,” he admitted with a warm smile to Mary. “Well, that's a rare thing. Very rare.”

Mike knew Tom was right, but he'd never admit it. Still, when he spoke it was to say, “People find each other in all sorts of way, Dad. Who's to say a factory girl is better, or a shop girl, or a chorus girl. They're just girls. My way's a lot less complicated. I know what I'm getting and what I'm not. This way I can know a girl better than I probably ever would before we got married. And what if then I didn't like it, or she didn't? Suppose we didn't get along … in that way? You know I may be paying for companionship,” he almost used the word
whoring
but had always avoided the word in Mary's company, “but when I do stick with one girl, that'll be it.” He wondered if he could actually fulfill that pledge if it ever came to it.