Hell Gate

by Jeff Dawson

‘Senator Schultz will appreciate your support.’

  Outside on the sidewalk, a small boy, no more than about eight, approached, offering to ‘watch Mr Muller’s car’. Muller burst out laughing. He ruffled the kid’s hair, then peeled off a $10 bill from his money clip.

  ‘For your mother. You hear?’

  ‘That’s more than his family earn in a week,’ breathed Krank.

  ‘A family now in our pocket.’

  Krank led him across the square, towards Schwab’s Bier Hall, and they went on in.

  The saloon was typical of the neighbourhood – dark, deep brown wood. The bar itself hosted a row of ceramic pumps for its Bavarian beers, on the wall a blackboard boasting snacks of pork and herring, with pickled cucumbers, cabbage and sauerkraut.

  Save for three men sitting at a table, their frothing steins of lager half drunk, the place was empty. Muller nodded at the barman and he came out to bolt the door shut.

  Two men rose. Their evident leader, meanwhile, remained seated.

  ‘Good day, Manny,’ he said.

  He was a bald, heavyset man with a sweat-stained collar.

  Muller bristled at the familiarity.

  ‘Good day, Councillor Donaghue.’

  Donaghue returned to reading a huge menu card. He nibbled on some peanuts.

  ‘They say the food here’s terrible,’ he said. ‘And yet, I just counted, there’s over 200 items on the menu…’

  He gave a sardonic snort.

  ‘You Krauts – I thought you were a pragmatic people.’

  He waved vague introductions at his colleagues.

  ‘Mr Wozniak from the City Planning Department; Mr Bertolini from Finance.’

  A square-faced man nodded hello, as did a short, darker man with a centre parting and a swish blue suit.

  Muller turned to the barman.

  ‘Franz. Some more drinks for our esteemed guests.’

  ‘Really, it’s okay,’ said Wozniak, fidgeting.

  ‘Please, gentlemen…’ said Muller. ‘Sit.’

  Donaghue looked over to the bar and prodded at his menu.

  ‘Think I’ll try the veal schnitzel,’ he yelled. Then to his colleagues, ‘Guess that’s pretty difficult to fuck up.’

  Muller and Krank sat down. Slowly and theatrically, Muller removed and folded away his calfskin gloves.

  ‘So what can I do for you, Councillor Donaghue?’

  Donaghue smacked off the salt from his hands. He laughed to himself.

  ‘Gotta hand it to you, Manny. You got a nerve. Union boss hasn’t got the stones for a sit-down, so he goes cryin’ to Mama. Like you’re gonna give me something new.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’

  ‘What do I suggest? I suggest that with your German labour force out of work now for nearly three weeks, you’ve come crawlin’ back to the table to accept our terms.’

  ‘And what terms might they be, Mr Donaghue?’

  Donaghue sighed with exasperation.

  ‘Don’t get cute, Manny. Like I told the union last time – they get back to work… only at a dime off the dollar ’cause of all the hold-ups. That ways they can put food in some bellies and I can get the goddamn Manhattan Bridge finished and according to schedule.’

  He sniffed.

  ‘Yeah, I seen them at the milk stand over there, the bread line at Fleischmann’s. They can only hold out for so long.’

  Wozniak interrupted. He attempted to put it more diplomatically. Donaghue curbed him.

  ‘Then we can walk away from this thing all nicey-nicey. I’m a reasonable man, Manny. I don’t hold grudges… Only against shitty food.’

  He laughed. His colleagues only pretended to.

  Franz the barman came over with the schnitzel and set it before Donaghue who liberally peppered it, carved it with the edge of his fork, and took a bite. He raised his eyebrows in approval.

  ‘Not too bad. I guess when you set your expectations that low…’

  Muller watched Donaghue eat for a minute, barely chewing each mouthful before gulping it down, lest it hold up the next one. With his napkin tucked into his collar and the tomato sauce round his mouth, he was the epitome of a slob, a boorish Untermensch.

  ‘Okay, if that’s the way you see it then that’s food for thought,’ said Muller. ‘A man is entitled to his opinions. But let me tell you something, Councillor…’

  He waited as Donaghue popped another large piece of veal in his mouth, watched for the Adam’s apple to move in a swallowing motion, then brought his palm down hard – smack! – on the table. The glasses jumped in the air, beer sloshed everywhere and Donaghue’s two stooges recoiled. Donaghue, meanwhile, was stuck still – gagging for air, flapping his arms, with a piece of veal lodged in his throat.

  ‘Yes, let me tell you something, you fat fuck. German labour built this city. German labour built the Brooklyn Bridge and the Williamsburg – and it sure as hell is going to complete the Manhattan. And on time…’

  Donahue wheezed and clutched at his windpipe, ripping at his tie.

  ‘My lawyer here…’

  He gestured to Krank.

  ‘…has examined the agreement you have with your contractors – that you signed on behalf of the Mayor – the budgets, the deadlines and the penalties for overruns… So the only one doing any “needing” round here is you.’

  Donaghue’s face was turning crimson, his eyes beginning to bulge.

  ‘Please!’ urged Wozniak.

  Muller raised a palm to stop him. Casually he took out a small cigarillo, wet it between his lips, lit it, then exhaled a cloud of blueish smoke in his adversary’s direction.

  ‘And you forgot something else, Councillor. It’s called the Chinese Exclusion Act. No coolies for hire. Not any more. Where else you going to find a thousand skilled men, experienced men? And at such short notice? You gonna trust that sort of work to Micks like yourself?’

  He blew out more smoke and a note of sarcasm.

  ‘Yeah, sure, the chiefs at Tammany Hall are going to give you an easy ride on that one! Not without a substantial kickback. I’d like to see you break that news to Big Tim Sullivan.’

  Donaghue was making a pained whining sound.

  ‘You gonna trust it to the Polaks…?’

  He gestured at Wozniak. Then to Bertolini.

  ‘…to the Wops…?’

  He gave an ironic snort.

  ‘…ha. To the negroes?’

  Donaghue was turning purple.

  ‘So here’s what we’re gonna do, Councillor. And I want you to listen good. First of all you take my guys back, every single one of them – and you backdate their pay for the three weeks they missed.’

  ‘Water!’ screamed Bertolini. ‘He needs some water!’

  ‘Then you’re going to double their rate for the rest of the job. Think of it as a favour.’

  ‘Favour?’ floundered Wozniak.

  Muller pointed at Donaghue.

  ‘Me saving his miserable life.’

  ‘Help!’ pleaded Bertolini.

  ‘We got a deal, Councillor? A deal?’

  ‘Help, he needs help!’

  ‘What he needs is to agree.’

  Muller shoved his face right into Donaghue’s.

  ‘Do we have an agreement, Councillor?’

  Donaghue nodded his head.

  Then, Muller went round behind him, delivered a hard kick between the shoulder blades and a piece of veal shot across the table. Donaghue slumped forward, clutching, panting, dribbling.

  Muller threw him Krank’s silk handkerchief.

  ‘Clean yourself up.’

  Added Krank: ‘Always a pleasure, gentlemen.’

  They stopped by the door. Muller nodded back.

  ‘Sorry, Franz. Looks like our food disagrees with him after all.’

  He peeled off several large dollar bills.

  ‘For their lunch… and for your inconvenience.’

  ‘Yes sir, Mr Muller, ’ppreciate it.’

  The pair emerged
into the afternoon sun, all smiles.

  Back at the car, the Indian was furtively handing the St Mark’s Youth League youths small paper wraps – rectangular folds, no bigger than a cigarette paper. He discussed where to sell them and the price they should charge. They were able, at current manpower, assured one of the youths, to cover the main corners of Greenwich Village. The bohemians were eager customers. They had already figured out where business was brisk.

  As Muller approached, the Indian waved the youths away.

  To bid farewell, Muller stood on the running board, raising himself up.

  ‘Thank you for your kind words and hospitality,’ he told the assembled throng. ‘I know you have suffered hard times. But… a piece of good news. I can inform you that a resolution has just been reached with regard to the ongoing labour dispute on the Manhattan Bridge Project. The City has been most generous with its settlement.’

  There was a cheer. He waved and turned to get in the vehicle.

  ‘Mr Muller, sir… Mr Muller… There’s someone wishes to speak with you.’

  There, being helped through, was an old woman hobbling on a stick – stooped, her grey hair matted. Muller swivelled back. As she got close he noticed the cataracts clouding her eyes.

  ‘This is Frau Seherin,’ the man escorting her explained. ‘She’s ninety-four years old.’

  Muller stepped down again, bowed and kissed her hand theatrically.

  Her voice was so weak, he had to lean in close. She clasped his hand in hers.

  ‘I came to the United States when I was 10 years old – the year 1821,’ she told him. ‘There have been many changes.’

  ‘I’m sure there have,’ said Muller.

  ‘Back then, this had been marshland, drained for a farm… Peter Stuyvesant’s old farm. I used to play in the fields right here…’

  She pointed across the square. Muller smiled.

  ‘I ran along the Bowery when it was a muddy track… Can you believe that? I watched our Kleindeutschland grow—’

  She broke off to cough.

  ‘I had two sons fought in the War. My eldest, God rest his soul, he died at Antietam.’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. You have my deepest respect.’

  ‘My other boy, dead now too. 67. An old man by anyone else’s measure. Up in Boston. Two years ago. The smallpox epidemic…’

  She sighed.

  ‘A parent should never outlive their children.’

  ‘True words, ma’am. True words.’

  ‘And my husband? Gone so long ago I can barely remember his face. Long before photographs. Way back when New York was… Hell, I don’t really know what it was.’

  Muller smiled and patted her forearm.

  ‘You have served our community with duty and sacrifice, Frau Seherin. I thank you. We all thank you.’

  There was a smattering of polite applause.

  ‘But I can tell you something else, Herr Muller,’ she went on. ‘I may be blind, but I can see.’

  She pulled him in close, her trailing voice barely a whisper.

  ‘And I see a man who’s gone astray…’

  Her hands gripped him tightly.

  ‘Der Germanenorden… The Order of Teutons… The ancient ways…’ she rasped. ‘Do not dishonour the gods.’

  Chapter 6

  Finch limped along Central Park South, past the incomplete Plaza Hotel, the New York Athletic Club and the Gainsborough Studios artists’ building. He thought about a drink and promised himself a reward at the earliest opportunity.

  In the street, curiously, steam seeped from the edges of the manholes. He had never seen anything like it. A double-decker motor bus of the Fifth Avenue Coach Company rattled past. On the sidewalks, gentlemen strolled in blazers and boaters, the ladies in long dresses and wide-brimmed hats tied down with chiffon. It was a bright, clear afternoon.

  Columbus Circle was just ahead, at the south-western corner of the park, marking the busy intersection between Eighth Avenue and Broadway. It was, essentially, a traffic roundabout, in the midst of which stood a pristine statue of Christopher Columbus set atop a granite column. It had been raised in 1892 to mark the 400th anniversary of the discovery of the New World.

  Finch wondered whether ‘discovery’ was apposite. According to a theory purported by a Danish historian, Vikings had set foot on the North American mainland half a millennium before that. He wondered what the Native Americans made of it all. Hadn’t they ‘discovered’ America when they crossed the Bering Strait?

  Around the Columbus statue, the traffic whizzed at breakneck speed – horses and carts, wagons, sportier traps, trolley buses and motor cars. Though a couple of people had made it across the road to the monument, it seemed a perilous undertaking. Instead, Finch chose to sit on a bench on the park side of the street, planting himself next to a man reading a newspaper. He had been sure to synchronize his watch with what the clerk at the front desk assured was spot-on Eastern Standard Time.

  He threw a furtive glance at the man’s New York Times, the ‘Gray Lady’ of renown. News of Russia was evident – ongoing Tsarist oppression in the wake of a ‘Bloody Sunday’. There was something about the island of Crete. Alarm bells were ringing over its self-proclaimed union with Greece. He didn’t recognize the names of the belligerents, but evidently New York was not immune to political turmoil either, the greater part of the front page taken up with details of factional political bickering and labour disputes. He would try and learn more.

  But there, in bold type, above all, was a headline.

  ‘WILL SCHULTZ DECLARE ASSAULT ON HILL?’

  The dismissively militaristic tone meant the Times didn’t approve. But for the firebrand Senator from Ohio, that, in its own way, was an endorsement.

  He waited for the seconds to count down to 1.52. Given the precision, he wondered whether meeting at Columbus Circle meant literally, not on the periphery. He decided that he should perhaps try and make it through the traffic. He stood up and moved to the edge of the sidewalk.

  ‘You’re taking your life in your hands there, buddy,’ came a voice from behind him.

  The man had put down his newspaper.

  ‘Mr Collins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He got up and offered his hand.

  ‘Freddie Delgado, NBI.’

  ‘NBI… What happened to the “C”… for “Criminal”?’

  He smiled.

  ‘Too much of a mouthful. We prefer “NBI” or just plain old “Bureau”.’

  Finch shook the hand in greeting.

  A car came flying round, its offside tyres clear off the road, the driver gripping the steering wheel for dear life.

  ‘You know, not too long ago it was a free-for-all. Could go round Columbus any way you wanted. The City restored some order by dictating you had to travel in a counter-clockwise direction. But watch…’

  The Broadway streetcar clanged along the tracks and proceeded to cut across the circle in a straight line, right through the swirl of traffic. Car brakes screeched, horns blasted, horses bucked, the air was full of invective.

  ‘Guess there’s still some figuring out to do.’

  Delgado was in his 30s, had a smart blue suit, the clear, darkish skin of someone of Latin descent, and mischievous dark eyes. Finch smiled. He seemed several degrees more genial than the previous agent.

  ‘Can I ask, why 1.52?’ Finch asked.

  ‘Well, one – my bosses got this notion in their heads that specific timings convey an air of professionalism.’

  Finch laughed.

  ‘But two – ’cause we really do got business to attend to, Mr Collins.’

  Delgado dropped his newspaper in a waste bin and turned on his heel.

  ‘Come on.’

  He was a brisk walker and Finch struggled to keep up. They proceeded north up Broadway as it cut a diagonal across the street grid till they ended up at the arterial junction with Amsterdam Avenue and 72nd Street, lined with small shops and dime stores.

  At
the crossroads, Delgado motioned for Finch to halt. On the far corner was a hardware purveyor, pots and pans hanging outside the window. Its side wall had a chimney breast protruding. He told Finch to go over and shield himself behind it.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Finch’s knee felt like it had a dagger thrust into it. But he complied with Delgado’s order and made his actions appear inconspicuous, casually crossing, acting like he was just minding his own business.

  Crossing was easy, for the junction had something he had never seen before – traffic signals; four of them mounted on the corners, on poles, a bit like lamp posts. Each had a semaphore sign sticking out of it, currently a green ‘go’ for the up-down traffic and a red ‘stop’ for the cross street.

  He watched the signals change through several cycles and was amazed, for all the city’s apparent chaos, that they were strictly observed. As he waited, he noticed several policemen around the junction, with other men loitering, looking in shop windows or standing around smoking. He had learned enough on his adventures to know that these were plain-clothes officers.

  Nods were exchanged between the lawmen. Something was afoot. Finch watched as a policeman opened the maintenance box on one of the traffic signals and, at a given sign, turned all the traffic semaphores to ‘stop’. Travelling south on Amsterdam Avenue, a green Mack motor van came to a halt at the head of the queue.

  In the blink of an eye, uniformed police officers had surrounded the vehicle, their long Colt revolvers drawn. Along the sidewalk, the plain-clothes officers also pulled weapons and assumed shooting stances.

  The driver and front passenger were yanked from their seats, hands raised, and spreadeagled on the tarmac. But that was not the end of it. An officer banged long and hard on the rear door. When no one came out, a colleague shot the lock off.

  What happened next took place so quickly that Finch, from his vantage point, could barely compute it all, but in a sudden whirl several men had burst forth from the rear doors, guns blazing. There was an infernal racket. Bullets sprayed everywhere. The grocer’s store window shattered, as did others.

  While Finch ducked back behind the chimney breast, lead slugs rattled a high-pitched tattoo on the metalware hanging from the shop’s awning and puffs of brick dust exploded around him. He pulled himself in even tighter.