Hell's Gate (6 page)

Mike pushed up to the bar, a couple of rough, wide planks atop a row of barrels. He managed to get a beer amid the crush of suddenly thirsty men. They were an unwashed lot, most of them, except for the occasional gangster dandy in bright colors and pomaded hair. Their finery couldn't disguise the hooded eye, the scars, the back-alley clip of the tongue. One such up-and-comer pushed up beside Mike and ordered a gin.

“Pretty good show,” Mike said, nodding toward the empty stage.

“Yeah, dey get da boys all hot to trot,” he said as he cast a darting eye over Mike. “Foist time? Ain't seen ya befaw.”

“First time here, yeah,” Mike said over his beer. “Lookin' fer somebody.” He added a slight leavening of the Bowery to his speech, though he never did feel comfortable saying things like
foist
. “Trouble is, I ain't sure who 'e is.”

The dandy got his gin and took a long, slow pull at it, as if he hadn't heard Mike. He gave a small shiver as it went down. His hand had an alcoholic tremor.

“Fuckin good, dis stuff!” He tapped the glass on the bar for another, and turned to Mike, saying “Dis guy youse lookin' faw, 'e got a moniker?”

“Don' know it,” Mike said. He lowered his voice. “Was talkin' ta Smilin' Jack last week. Had a job we was plannin'. Jack, he gets on the phone, see … you know ta check with whoever 'es gotta check wit', an' I hear 'im say somethin' 'bout
bottle,
like a place or a name or somethin'. So I figure now that Jack's gone … rest in peace, dat the thing fer me is ta check aroun', see if I can see what's what.”

“Hmm,” the dandy said. “Shame 'bout Jack. How ya know 'im?”

“From da neighborhood,” Mike said, smiling. “Da one wit' dar bars on Blackwell's Island. We were on vacation together.” They chuckled over that. “Listen, I wanna make sure I got an okay on dis. Don' wanna do a job an' find out later the Kid or somebody's got a piece. Dat kinda trouble I don' need. Never been one ta step on toes, ya get my meanin'.”

The gangster nodded and frowned. “Smart,” he said. “I'm Mickey Todt.” Mike nodded and stuck out his hand. “Arnie Beanstock,” he said, using the first name that came into his head. Arnie ran the soda shop down the block from his apartment. “Mickey Death? Interesting name.”

“Know yer German, huh? Da boys call me dat. Stolzenthaler's my real name. Too big fer dem mugs. After I done da big one a coupla times, dey started callin' me Todt 'cause o' me being German. To dem it's more like
Toad
, but what da fuck.”

“They jus' call me Beansie,” Mike said. “So, you got any ideas on my problem? I gotta get on dis job. It ain't gonna be good a couple weeks from now, ya get me?”

“Yeah, I get it, I get it. Lemme do some askin' around, maybe give da Kid a call, see what he says. See if he knows anything 'bout any job Jack was plannin'.” Another gin slid down Mickey's throat. He gave a small sigh as it spread out. “Don' suppose you'd like ta tell me what da job is, huh?”

Mike smiled, but shook his head. “I'll tell ya dis,” Mike said, feeling he had to give up a little information to seem credible, “dere's a ship comin' in soon's got a big cargo. Me an' Jack had some inside information on it. You'll know more when you find me da guy. You get me dat an' maybe then we talk gelt, huh?”

“Gelt. A subject neah an' deah to my heart. I guess if Smilin' Jack was good wit' it den it's a sweet job. He always had an eye for that kinda thing, exceptin' fer dat last job.

“You come see me tomorrow night, see. Maybe I got somethin' by den, maybe not.”

“Right,” Mike said. “Can't ask fer more'n dat. See ya then.”

*   *   *

As Mike walked away from Jimmy's Broken Bottle he couldn't shake the feeling that his promising start had come too easily. He put the idea out of his head though, figuring that Smilin' Jack was such a well-known character in the neighborhood that he'd have been able to get something out of most any man in the place. Still, he stopped to loiter once or twice, watching for anyone following.

It was getting late and the street traffic had dwindled to a trickle. The whores outnumbered the pedestrians and he was propositioned five times in two blocks. One group of three, the youngest no more than twelve, the oldest maybe sixteen, blocked his way near the corner of Cherry and Governeur. It was an old hustle. If they couldn't get him to pay for sex, they'd paw at him until they had every dime in his pockets. Mike put his wallet in an inside jacket pocket as they closed in. Gaudy makeup, cheap perfume, and mismatched colors surrounded him. An arm went around his neck and a hand went in his pocket. He didn't realize it wasn't one of the girls until he saw the man in front of him with the length of lead pipe. The girls ran, laughing. The arm tightened from behind as he started to struggle. The pipe flew toward his head. The best he could do was to duck forward. He was hit, but it wasn't as bad as he'd expected and there was a grunt of pain from the man behind him. The arm loosened. Mike kicked at the attacker in front, cracking him solidly in the knee. His hand found the butt of the Colt. He didn't bother to pull it out of the holster. He thumbed the hammer and pulled the trigger as he tipped the muzzle behind him. Muffled by his jacket, the shot wasn't very loud. The arm around his neck disappeared. He whipped the pistol out as the one with the pipe came again, swinging. Mike crouched and fired as the pipe passed above his head. The man cried out and staggered back, then collapsed, holding his leg. Mike spun about, still in a crouch as the man screamed, high-pitched and frantic. “You shot me! You shot me, you fuck!”

The other man was running away, bent over, holding his side. It looked like Mickey Todt, but Mike couldn't be certain. “We wasn't gonna hurt ya,” the other screamed. “Oh, Christ, my fuckin' leg. Oh, Christ.”

Mike turned back to him. The leg was at an odd angle and deep red blood was pouring from the wound.

“Empty your pockets!” Mike shouted at him.

“I didn' mean it. Wasn't gonna hurt ya, damn it. Why'd ya shoot me?”

“I'll shoot you again, you don't empty your fuckin' pockets now!” He kicked the pipe away as the man did what he was told. “That was Mickey Todt,” Mike said more than asked.

“Tol' me you was the cop killed Smilin' Jack. Had yer picture from the papers. Oh, shit my leg hurts, you fuckin' bastard.” A knife came out of one pocket, a pair of spiked brass knuckles from another.

“All of it,” Mike said. He glanced up and down the street. The whores watched from a distance, shouting something about filthy cops. A scattering of men, gangsters mostly, some in small groups, some alone, lurked at a distance like scavengers at a kill. There were no lights in windows, no crowds of citizens gathering, no police whistles as there might be in other parts of the city. People here were too afraid of the gangs to even be seen watching.

Mike bent over the man, looking closely at the wound. There was a great deal of blood. “Hit the artery,” he said. “Gimme your belt. Hurry before you bleed to death!” The man fumbled at the buckle and Mike pulled it off. He went to work fast, wrapping the belt around the upper thigh and cinching it through the buckle. “Hold this tight.” The man did what he was told, gritting his teeth behind blue lips. “Quick now. What's yer name and whadya know about the bottle?”

“Youse know about the Bottler?” the man groaned through his teeth.

“The Bottler?” Mike said, glancing again up and down the block. “It's a person, a man?”

“Fuck, I dunno,” the gangster said. “My fuckin' leg's broke. I'm fuckin' crippled, you bastard. Crippled, see!” Even in the dark he looked ghastly pale. Though the tourniquet helped, he was still bleeding out. Mike saw he didn't have much time. “Keep that goddamn belt tight,” Mike said, “or you'll be a dead cripple. I'm goin' to get help.” He surveyed the street again, Colt still in his hand. “Be back in a couple minutes.” He spotted the prostitutes in a doorway across the street. “Keep an eye on this man,” he called. “There's money in it for you if he's alive when I get back.” Mike stood to go, but the man grabbed his leg. “Shit! Don' leave me,” he said, his eyes wide with fear. “Don' go!” Mike turned and trotted off in the direction he'd last seen the patrolman. The gangster's shouts followed. “Don' leave you bastard! Wait! Wait!” When Mike didn't stop, his wails changed. “Fuckin' copper! Shoulda bashed yer head in good! Somebody shoot the fuck! Shoot 'im! Kill the fucker!”

He'd only gone a block and a half when he saw the cop near the next corner. He was walking with purpose, but in no great hurry.

“You the cause o' them shots?” he asked when they met in the middle of the block.

“Yeah. Got jumped. C'mon, I need a hand with one o' them.” Mike turned to jog back, but the cop did nothing to quicken his pace. Still, it didn't take more than a few minutes to make it back. But as they rounded the corner they were brought up short. Governeur Street was empty. Not a window or doorway showed a light. Not a soul could be seen. In the block beyond, they could see a wagon moving, hookers working the street, people passing. On Governeur Street, the watching windows stood silent and empty. Even the streetlamps seemed dimmed. A chill ran down Mike's sweating back. The feeling of being watched was overpowering. As he and the patrolman worked their way down the street, going doorway to doorway, it became clear that even Mike's attacker had vanished. A pool of blood was all that was left.

“Take a look at this,” Mike said as he bent over the scene. There were footprints in the blood. One was his, but there were more, two others at least. They led off a few feet to the center of the street, then vanished. “We'll need help. We gotta search for him.”

“You outa your fuckin' mind? You're lucky you ain't dead already. You wanna go poking' 'round here in the dark, you go right on without me.” The cop cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Anybody wants can come see me, Patrolman Sanders.” The words bounced off the unforgiving buildings, the locked doors, and shuttered windows. “You know anything about the man shot here, there's ten dollars gold in it for ya.”

“That's it?” Mike said.

“No, that ain't it. Gimme ten dollars,” Sanders said, holding out his hand. “I sure as hell ain't gonna pay for it.” Mike handed over the coins and Sanders shouted the same message once more as they walked down the street. “You come back in the daylight, you wanna poke around,” he advised Mike.

“Wait,” Mike said. He stepped over to a wall covered in handbills and tore two of them off. He went back to the bloody footprints and pressed the paper over them, getting a fair impression of the shoe prints.

“Detectives!” Sanders huffed. He shook his head and walked away. “Mark my words, Braddock. When we find him,
if
we find him, he'll be no use to anybody.”

Mike followed Sanders, watching their backs as they retreated, their footsteps echoing in the empty street.

6

THE PISTOLS WERE incredibly loud in the enclosed space of the range in the basement of police headquarters. Mike and Tom had stuffed cotton in their ears to deaden the impact. The reports were a physical assault, making it difficult to hold on target as the guns of the other officers hammered at their ears.

Mike practiced rapid-firing the Colt, drawing, aiming, and squeezing off three rounds as quickly as he could. He didn't always hit the target with the second and third shots.

“It's the one who's calm under fire who'll be the last one standing,” Tom said as they took a break to inspect their targets. “Ninety-nine percent of the time it'll be the other guy spraying bullets all over. Scary, but not real effective. You just need to slow down a half second on each shot, you'll be fine.”

“Yeah, well I could hardly miss last night. They were right on me.”

“You did good, but you were lucky. No luck this morning, huh?”

Mike shook his head. “Had officers cover everybody on the block, every apartment, business, whore, and beggar they could find. Nobody saw anything. Like a big hole opened up and swallowed him. All of them scared. You could smell it.”

“You checked the hospitals?”

“Done, and on alert if anyone comes in.”

Tom shook his head slowly. “And when're you gonna listen to what I tell you an' get some goddamn backup?”

“That's what Captain Woodhouse said, too. Of course, he was a little more upset when he said it. Told me I shoot anybody else he'll take my gun away and put me on desk duty.” Mike gave Tom a guilty smirk. “He was not a happy man.”

“With good reason,” Tom said. “You shot more men in three days than most cops do in an entire career. You have anyone in mind for a partner?”

Mike wasn't in the habit of working with anyone. It hadn't been necessary before and the department didn't require it. “Dunno. There's a couple good guys I could team up with, I guess, but they're all working their own cases right now.”

Tom nodded as they set up fresh targets. “You hear about that new detective, the Italian fella working that Black Hand business a few blocks south o' here?”

Mike shook his head. “I know a little about the Black Hand; Italian gang, Sicilians. Extortion mostly. Pretty much keep to their own. They leave a black handprint by their victims. The Italians are so scared o' them they won't even admit they exist.”

“That's them,” Tom said as they walked back to the firing line. “Scary bunch. They don't like you they kill you and your whole damn family. This detective—Alfieri's his name—he's been doing good work. The Italians'll talk to him and he isn't spooked by that Black Hand crap. He's busted a couple gangsters, wounded another in a shoot-out.”