Hell's Gate (8 page)

“Stuss.”

“Stuss! Fer chrissake, stuss's fer dem suckers from outa town. Where's yer sense?”

“I've won my share,” Lionel said, “more than my share actually. Just had a run of bad luck of late. It happens to the best of gamblers.” He'd been telling himself the same for months and for quite some time he'd actually believed it. But now it seemed as hollow as an empty barrel. Connors clearly heard the echo.

“Youse got it bad,” he said as he shook the last drops. “So how much youse owe?”

“I'd say that's my affair. More importantly, what do you think you can do for me, and exactly what is it going to cost?”

Connors ran water on his hands, splashing some on his face. There was a long silence before he answered. “Da answer to dem questions is da same. Dunno. Gotta have maw ta woik wit befaw I know, like who youse owe fer one, an' how much youse owe fer anotha. C'mon, let's sit an' chew da fat.”

Lionel and Chuck went back into the bar where he introduced Lionel to the others at the table. “Dis is Chinatown Nellie, my doll.” The others were Frank Ward O'Malley of the
Sun
and Roy McCardell of the
World
. Lionel shrank in his suit, suddenly feeling like an ant under a magnifying glass on a hot day. Connors covered for him though, introducing him as, “Jimmy Buttons, from up Boston way,” much to Lionel's relief. Connors asked for a little privacy and the reporters and Nellie moved to the bar without complaint. Connors slapped her on the rump as she left, which seemed to amuse her considerably. “So, where ya been playin' stuss? It's one place, right? If it's all ova town, den I dunno I can help ya. You'd be in da soup wit more'n da one I think youse is.”

Lionel nodded. This was very hard for him, hard to admit he had a problem at all, and perhaps even harder to have to come to a rough-around-the-edges Bowery character like Connors. He forced himself to say the name of the man who ran the game. It came out like a death rattle. “The Bottler.”

“Oh, boy! Youse got yer balls in a twist, you do! Youse know who really runs dat game? Paul Kelly, dats who. Fuckin' king o' the Five Pointers.”

Lionel nodded without looking at Connors. Though he'd never had direct contact with Kelly, it had been made clear by the Bottler to whom he ultimately owed his debts. One of the problems with that was that the Bottler had insisted he deal with him and not Kelly. He'd given the Bottler no reason to doubt his compliance, but Saturn wasn't about to be dictated to by the Bottler. He knew that if he managed to satisfy Paul Kelly, then his troubles would melt away. They had to, for the latest of the Bottler's demands would plunge him into waters that were way over his head.

“That's why I came to you,” he said, looking around the bar to see if anyone had heard. “I need a way to negotiate a settling of accounts. Their demands are getting out of hand.” Lionel lowered his voice and leaned closer to Connors. “They're making demands that involve the steamship line, not just me. If I could just have a bit more time to liquidate some assets, I could easily settle up, but they've got me over a barrel.”

“A barrel of yer own makin' seems ta me,” Connors observed. “Yer a smart business fella. Once youse let a mug like Kelly get his flippers in yer pocket, youse'll never get 'em out.”

“A bit too late for that,” Lionel said, his shoulders slumping.

Connors gave him a hard, but not unsympathetic, look. “So, how much is it?”

“About ten now,” Lionel said, lifting his head and sticking his jaw out in a transparent show of confidence. “Not quite ten, really.”

“Grand? Ten grand!” Connors whistled. “Dem ain't small potatas. Youse shoulda come see me sooner.”

“I should have done a lot of things,” Lionel said. “I've always come out ahead before. Or nearly so. That's the thing. I've really been quite lucky till now. In fact, given a little more time I'm sure my luck will turn. Certain of it!”

“Sure thing pigs'll fly outa me arse someday, too,” Connors said. “Plan on sellin' tickets ta see it. A sure moneymaker.”

“I don't need to be mocked, Mister Connors.”

“Sure, sure,” Connors said, unfazed. “But youse need me all da same, so save yer huffin' an' puffin' fer dem wots impressed by it.”

Lionel sighed and reached into his pocket. “So how much do I need to pay you, Mister Connors?”

“Gimme a hun'red fer now,” Connors said as easily as he'd ask for a light for his cigar. It was an amount most men would not earn in a month. “An' if I can arrange t'ings, I'll take ten percent. If not, den we's square.”

“What will you do?” Lionel asked, swallowing the ten percent like a horse pill with no water. “Will you go to Kelly directly?”

Connors scratched his head. “Nah, Kelly'd gimme an' ear, but it'd likely be my own if ya get my meanin'. But even Kelly's got higher-ups ta keep happy. Dat's where da juice is. Dat's why a bloke like Kelly's where he's at. He kicks upstairs, ya get me? He gets da votes out an' goin' da right way, t'ings like dat. I gotta go where da levers is. Dat's where ta put on da pressure.”

“Tammany.”

“Lots o' chiefs in da Wigwam,” Connors said. “Trick is knowin' which one's got da pull.”

“Indeed,” said Lionel, cursing himself for not having done a better job of cultivating contacts there. He got up from the table and Connors rose with him. “I'll leave that up to you then, Mister Connors.” He gave Connors the money and one of his cards. “I can be reached there during business hours. When might I hear from you?”

“Gimme a couple days,” Connors said. “Hard sayin' 'xactly.”

“Thank you,” Lionel said, putting out his hand. “There'll be something extra in it for you if terms are favorable.”

Connors nodded with a wry smile. “Jus what I'd 'spect from a gen'lman like yerself.”

Lionel left not sure of how he should feel. Only time would tell if his hundred was good money thrown after bad. He looked back over his shoulder as he got up into his carriage, half wanting to go back in and call the deal off. Instead he sighed and flopped into the back.

Chinatown Nellie had joined Connors where he stood at the end of the bar watching Lionel leave.

“Who wuzzat, Chuckie?”

“A man dat don't know when ta quit,” Connors answered.

“Huh,” she said, grinding her rear for him.

“Owes Paul Kelly ten grand.”

“No kiddin'? Glad I ain't him.”

“Me, too, doll. Me, too.”

8

MIKE MET PRIMO Alfieri outside a coffeehouse on Prince Street. Tom had arranged it, just as he'd said he would. At first Mike had walked right by him. Tall, blond, and blue-eyed, with a dimple in the middle of his chin, he appeared at first glance to be English or perhaps German. But something about the way he stood, a wariness that was hard to define, the way his eyes scanned the street made Mike take a second look. When he did, Primo smiled and stuck out his hand. The grip was firm and dry and Mike found himself squeezing hard to match it. They held for a long moment, neither wanting to let go first.

“You don't look Italian, but I guess I'm not the first one to tell you that,” Mike said as they went in and sat down at a small table near the front window.

“You know lotsa Italians then?”

Mike knew he was being baited and it put him on edge despite Primo's smile. “Nope. Not many on the force,” Mike replied with a straight face. “Maybe they ain't smart enough.” Primo stopped smiling. He started to say something, but stopped when a waiter came to take their order. Primo spoke to him in Italian. The waiter turned and left. Mike raised a hand, but Primo said, “I order for you. You no so stupid you didn't know that?” He cocked his head at Mike curiously as he crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.

“My famiglia is from the north, by Lake Como.” Primo said, ignoring Mike's angry frown. “In the north we look like this,” he said, his hand moving over his face as if he was putting on a mask. “The Italians you see here, they are Siciliano mostly. Things no so good there. No work. All the good land owned by the dons. If you work, you work for the dons and they pay nothing. Very bad.”

Primo's hands moved as he spoke, dancing in a sort of sign language, punctuating and embellishing his words. “The Siciliani, they no like the ones from the north like me. They no trust the outsiders, people who speak different.”

“So how were you able to work against the Black Hand?” Mike asked, putting aside his annoyance at Primo's taunting. “I hear they're from the south mostly, particularly Sicily. The Italians are so scared of them they won't admit they exist, not to most cops.”

“This is true. The Mano Nera or the Black Hand is spoken of only in the whisper. You see, when I was a boy, for many years I go in summer to Sicily. My papa had family there, so we went. I learn how they speak, how they think, about vendetta, all that is to be Siciliano. I even learn about love in Sicily.” Primo said with a wistful smile. “So even though I look Inglese, and they no trust me at first, when I speak they know who I am.
Capisce?
”

Mike nodded. “And your family, here I mean? I heard you had to move them.”

Primo tried to hide the worry behind his eyes, but didn't fully succeed. “They are safe. You understand I can say no more.” The waiter returned with two espressos and a small plate of biscotti.

“I understand completely,” Mike said once he'd left. “I didn't mean to pry.”

“Pry,” Primo said with a curious frown. “I don't know this word.”

“To interfere, you know, to be nosey.”

“Ah, nosey, an interesting word,” Primo said, putting his hand to his nose and seeming to pull it. “Like Pinocchio, except he told the lie.” Primo looked closely at Mike as he sipped his espresso, making little slurping sounds. “So, what lies do you chase, eh? What dark things are you sticking your nose in?”

Mike filled Primo in on the details of the last few days, particularly about his encounter with Todt and his accomplice.

“You did not get this man's name?” Primo said. There was no judgment in his voice, but the implication was there.

Mike shrugged. “Things were moving a little fast right then. Been searching the neighborhood two days now. Nothing on him or Todt either. Not sure a name would have helped anyway.”

“No find them alive, I think,” Primo said. Mike sipped his espresso without comment. “Nice work,” he added.

“Whadya mean? I lost both of them. That ain't so nice according to my captain.”

“Nice work to be alive, I mean. Two men. Surprise. You shoot both. Nice work.”

Mike raised his cup. “Nice to be here,” he said. “Aside from a bump on the head, I'm none the worse for it.”

Primo grinned as if confirming something to himself. “So we work together, no? We find this Bottler, a very strange name, Bottler. Lots of strange names in this city.” Primo shook his head. “Anyway we follow the lira, the dollars; see where they go. We put this Bottler in the Tombs maybe, eh? Maybe more?”

“That's about it,” Mike agreed, squinting at Primo to be sure he wasn't being mocked. “You're up for all that? Could get rough.”

Primo laughed. “What is rough to you, Michael? You shoot five men in two, three days, an' say things they
might
get rough. You joke, eh? So when do we start?”

*   *   *

They agreed to start by finding Mickey Todt, rather than try to develop new leads to the Bottler. Todt clearly knew who the Bottler was. With the word out on the street about the shootings of Todt and the other, and the newspapers all reporting it too, new leads would be scarce, unless they were lucky enough to come across someone with a beef against Todt or the Bottler. They agreed that would be their next best shot, but Mickey Todt had to come first. “If he's alive,” Mike grumbled. “He was running pretty good after I shot him, so maybe he's not too bad off. One thing's sure. He hasn't shown up in any hospitals. I have them all on alert. First thing I did that night.”

“The gangsters, they have doctors who take care of things for them. You have a list of doctors in that place, maybe five blocks around. He maybe no go so far with a bullet in him.”

“Yeah. We've been checking the doctors. Nothing so far, but we haven't covered them all. There's others too, men who maybe have medical training from the war in Cuba or even the Civil War. They'll be harder to find.”

“We ask the women,” Primo said. “The women they always know the doctors. They take the little ones.”

Mike glanced at Primo. He hated to admit that the idea hadn't occurred to him so he made no comment.

The day waned as Mike and Primo canvassed the neighborhood, working their way from door-to-door, from basement saloons to six-story walk-ups. After a while they stopped asking about Mickey Todt. The answers were all the same. Almost everybody claimed not to know him either by Todt or Stolzenthaler. The few who admitted knowing who he was claimed not to have seen him for weeks. Some just refused to open their doors.

At one point they passed a flower cart among all the vendors of more necessary items parked along the curbs and on the sidewalks. Flowers were a frivolous luxury in this neighborhood and were more often sold by young girls, whose real line was prostitution. The old man beside the cart looked none too prosperous, but the flowers were fresh enough. Mike stopped for a moment and arranged to have a bunch delivered to Ginny. He took out one of his cards and wrote on the back, “Ginny, I had a wonderful time with you yesterday. I hope you like these. I'll see you soon.” He looked at it with a frown, then crumpled it and took out another. He stood for almost a minute, his pencil in the corner of his mouth, trying to find the right words.

“Tell the girl you love her,” Primo said with an exasperated sigh. “To love is okay, no? You maybe love her, maybe somebody else. It's all okay to love.”