Hell Gate

by Jeff Dawson

  Even Blackwell’s Island could not resist the city’s unstoppable onward march, enveloping everything in its path. Looming right over the island were the skeletal girders of yet another bridge under construction, which would extend from Manhattan’s 59th Street to Queensborough on the other bank. The moonlight flickered through the latticework.

  Prisons had a sound and MacLeish was all too familiar with them as his shoes crunched across the gravel to the entrance. At night, after lights out, came the tribal cries – threats of violence… threats of sexual violence – and the chorus was now warming up. But Blackwell’s could outdo even that. The smallpox hospital added distant wails and sobs. But eclipsing all came the asylum, with its screams of hysteria and unbridled banshee shrieks. If the inmates weren’t genuinely mad on admission, thought MacLeish, then they very soon would be – in whatever establishment they had ended up in on this sorry holm.

  By using his NYPD badge there were no questions asked when he entered. He just made sure to distract and avoid signing the visitors’ book. He had called on Jimmy Chang enough times over recent years to know exactly where to find him and headed to cell block B.

  MacLeish was soon clanging along an upper walkway, accompanied by a guard. The prison was of the penitentiary design with cells like stacked cages – battery-farmed criminals. It was a human zoo… and smelled liked one. The detective stopped, dismissed his escort, waited till he had gone, then shone his flashlight into the gloom. There was a grunt from behind the bars and a hand shielding eyes.

  ‘Hey, man. What the fuck…?’

  ‘Hello, Jimmy.’

  There was a rustle and a creak as the man sat up on his bunk.

  ‘MacLeish?’

  ‘Long time no.’

  Jimmy Chang’s voice came whispered but with force. Even in the coarse American vernacular, his Chinese accent and phrasing were still strong.

  ‘Fuck you. You come here like this? The others… they peg me for snitch.’

  ‘Then I’ll keep it brief.’

  Chang looked worse than the last time he’d seen him. He was gaunt, his skin sallow – even by flashlight – and with dark rings around his eyes. And he’d had his head shaved. Lice.

  Chang stood and came towards the bars.

  ‘Here,’ said MacLeish, and held out the cog he had retrieved from the bomb mechanism in Finch’s room.

  The prisoner extended his right hand to take it. He had the third and little fingers missing, gone right down to the knuckle, the flesh a parchment of burn scar tissue.

  ‘What is it?’

  MacLeish exhaled and shook his head.

  ‘Jimmy, please… Don’t play me for a fool.’

  ‘I lock up here, last two year. You no put this on me.’

  ‘I didn’t say I would.’

  He pointed at the cog.

  ‘It’s from a parcel bomb,’ added MacLeish. ‘Just like one you knocked up for those bourgeois anarchists you used to hang out with.’

  Jimmy Chang turned the cog over a couple of times, feeling its edge.

  ‘I tell you. It nothing to do with me.’

  ‘I know it wasn’t you who made it, Jimmy. I’m not daft. You’ve been too busy enjoying yourself in here. But with this design? It’s a racing cert you know who did.’

  In the thin beam of light, MacLeish saw the beads of sweat forming on Chang’s forehead. Not because of nerves, but from something else.

  ‘You either got a protégé out there, Jimmy… or an admirer. Someone who’s seen you working up close. You know what they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.’

  ‘That it, huh? You pump me for information…?’

  ‘C’mon, Jimmy, as popular as you were, that’s still a pretty exclusive fan club.’

  Chang was getting angry now.

  ‘Fuck you, MacLeish. I no owe you. Way I see it, you owe me. Not just you, whole shitty country. America orphan me, Mr MacLeish. Boxer Rebellion. I come here start new life. Coolie on railroads. But America, she treat me like dog. Then I learn something – dynamite, how to blast through rock. So now I got skill. That skill worth somethin’. See, I learn how be good capitalist. Live American Dream.’

  He ground out a mocking cackle through stubs of blackened teeth.

  ‘Yeah,’ said MacLeish. ‘Well, I got somethin’s worth somethin’ too.’

  He pulled out of his pocket the small fold of wax-paper with the heroin in it. He extended his hand. Though when Chang snatched at it, he pulled it back, like a parent taunting a child.

  ‘Usually, you guys in here, it’s a case of singin’ like a canary… after bartering for a more lenient sentence, a better cell, maybe protection from someone who just pummelled his ass in the washrooms. But you, Jimmy? What I like about you? Your needs are always a little more bespoke. So, we got a deal? You gonna tell me?’

  This time, when Chang reached out, MacLeish placed the small fold into his palm.

  ‘Sure. I tell you.’

  The mocking cackle came again.

  ‘’Cause if you don’t, Jimmy… You hear that…?’

  In the distance through the small window up high, came the screams and wails from the asylum.

  ‘…I will arrange for an immediate transfer next door. I promise.’

  Chapter 9

  The giant searchlights sweeping the air caused Finch to stop. For a moment he was back on the South African veld, attempting to relieve the siege of Kimberley.

  ‘C’mon,’ said Delgado, taking him by the arm.

  They proceeded along East 26th Street.

  ‘I know I’m not supposed to ask,’ said Delgado. ‘But am I wrong in supposing you are military… or ex-military?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just somethin’ about the way a man carries himself – a certain detachment, an economy with movement… with words.’

  ‘Then you’ll forgive me if I apply extreme economy to my answer.’

  Delgado laughed.

  The further they progressed, the more people there were – turning out of every side street, every streetcar, every new subway station, all heading in the same direction. There were the cries of street-corner hawkers, selling peanuts, pretzels, frankfurter sausages in bread buns…‘hot dogs’.

  Finch was starving. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast on the ship. Hunger was an unusual sensation given the gluttony of the past few days. He sated it with a three-cent hot dog which he slathered in a garish yellow mustard and a tomato ‘catsup’ sauce.

  There were glances cast – a ‘gent’, a tuxedo, chowing down on fare meant for the baggy caps and bowlers.

  ‘Watch the shirt,’ warned Delgado as a dollop of sauce dripped.

  The NBI man purchased a programme and studied it while Finch ate.

  ‘And you?’ Finch asked between mouthfuls. ‘Military service?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens. Did my bit for Uncle Sam. From Pinkerton’s I was co-opted into the Signals Corps – military intelligence, the Spanish–American War. Like I was sayin’ before, of all the Presidents, Teddy Roosevelt’s the first one to truly appreciate the value of a secret service. So, afterwards, when he acceded to the White House…’

  Half of the sausage had slithered out onto the sidewalk. Finch wiped his face and hands with a napkin. The thing was messy.

  ‘You went with him?’

  ‘Me and a few hundred others. With the McKinley assassination, Pinkerton’s turned over its archive to Washington… that Rogue’s Gallery I was talkin’ about. Resources were pooled under the Department of Justice. Such was the fear of anarchists – a threat which can be ratcheted up or down according to political need, by the way – that the Bureau was born.’

  Finch screwed up the paper wrapper and threw it in a trash can.

  Said Delgado: ‘Course you know why they call it a hot dog, right?’

  Finch didn’t. Delgado grinned.

  ‘’Cause it often has mashed-up canine in it.’

  When they turned the corner, the building rose l
ike some transplanted version of the Alhambra palace, grand and ornate, complete with soaring minaret – an incongruously exquisite venue for two men trying to bash each other’s brains in.

  And there was the source of those spotlights, being yanked round by their operators, burning into the sky, heralding the impending ‘Big Event’. On the concourse, people swelled around the entrance gates. There was a fevered buzz of anticipation.

  Back home, Madison Square Garden had become synonymous with the shows of Barnum & Bailey. But, once inside, it was evident that this was no less of a circus. The round auditorium was festooned in red, white and blue. Around the perimeter a college marching band strode, blasting out the latest stirring offering from Sousa. And there, in the centre of a baying bear pit of a standing crowd was the circus ‘ring’ itself – albeit rectangular – 20 square feet of canvas stretched across a raised platform.

  In Britain, sport and showbusiness were entirely separate disciplines. In America, they were one. Finch had heard of ‘razzamatazz’ before, a concept somewhat abstract. Now he got it.

  ‘Not every day you get to sit in a private box,’ enthused Delgado, surveying the scene like a satisfied Caesar. ‘I guess the Bureau’s not all bad.’

  The box was for four. They even had seats to spare.

  Amid the throng of drab day-suits down below, a tuxedo was jostling its way through. It was a struggle. Minders were trying to beat a path for its wearer.

  ‘Actually, there’s a good reason the Bureau procured us a box – three good reasons. One, we’re up here out of harm’s way and with a damned good view to boot. Two, we get to use these without suspicion…’

  He unclipped a pair of opera glasses from beneath the velvet balcony rail and motioned for Finch to do the same, easing back into the shadows to make it less obvious.

  ‘And three?’ asked Finch.

  ‘There,’ said Delgado. ‘Lower tier. Five boxes along.’

  He followed the line of Delgado’s arm. It took a moment to pull focus.

  ‘The man in the grey suit?’

  He was middle-aged, fit-looking and tanned with slick dark hair.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ went Finch.

  When he moved to his left you could see a deep scar on his cheek.

  ‘Allow me to introduce Mr Manfred Muller.’

  He was laughing and joking with a pudgy-looking male colleague and an attractive blonde-haired woman.

  ‘Never misses the big fights. Likes to be seen… and run an illegal book. The biggest purse tonight? Won’t be Johnson’s, I can tell you.’

  Down below, the sporter of the lone tuxedo hoisted himself up and eased himself between the ropes, blinking into the spotlight. He was handed a megaphone, at which he proceeded to make an inaudible announcement – something about public safety. It elicited a round of jeers. There was already blood on the canvas, Finch noted, courtesy of the undercard.

  In their box there had been a courtesy bottle of Tennessee whisky waiting for them – a straight bourbon, Jack Daniel’s Old No.7. Delgado poured two glasses. As they toasted each other’s health there was a commotion to one side of the auditorium. And then Finch saw it: Johnson’s opponent, Jim Jeffords, entering the arena.

  ‘Ya dumb palooka!’ taunted Delgado, a man now in his element.

  With his trainer and team, Jeffords followed the same path to the ring that the MC had trodden. As entrances went, it was inauspicious. When he neared the centre, there came a cacophony of boos and abuse.

  ‘From California,’ asided Delgado. ‘Used to fight bare-knuckle.’

  A crewman parted the ropes for Jeffords. Someone threw a drink at him and missed. While his team went to their corner and set up the stool, Jeffords, a pasty man in blue trunks, went through some shadow moves – feints and jabs.

  And then it went completely dark. The full dramatic entrance had been reserved for another. As a single spotlight picked out the tunnel, all eyes turned.

  Jack Johnson was an impressive physical specimen – a shaven-headed black man in a black silk robe, over six feet tall with arms that seemed just as long and hands the size of shovels. At the sight of him, the arena erupted.

  ‘Look at ’im, the magnificent bastard!’ yelped Delgado.

  He was on his feet, whooping and clapping as much as anybody else.

  The spotlights spun and swivelled for effect, turning the great hovering fug of cigarette smoke into a flashing thundercloud. The marching band struck up another tune, though you could barely hear it.

  Where Jeffords looked on edge, Johnson exuded a quiet determination. He had a bigger entourage, that was for sure. They ploughed enough space for him to conduct his shadow boxing all the way through the crowd and into the ring. Once in, ropes stretched apart for him, the robe was removed to reveal an oiled, muscular torso glinting in the spotlight above his jet-black trunks.

  The referee, in shirt sleeves and waistcoat, went through the ritual of the rules and nodded to the ringside judges. To a volley of wolf-whistles, a young woman, in a skirt and tunic fashioned from the Stars and Stripes, walked around the ring carrying a sign saying ‘Round 1’.

  And, with her exit, the two boxers were touching gloves. If there was a bell, no one but those up close heard it. The next thing you knew, the pugilists were skipping around, testing each other out – a few jabs, a few pokes – both of them experienced enough not to try anything silly this early.

  ‘You know they locked him up once in Texas,’ said Delgado.

  ‘Muller?’

  ‘No, Johnson…! Galveston, his home town. Prize-fightin’s illegal there, see. And of course, they don’t take too kindly down there to a negro whuppin’ the ass of a white. That said, he’d just been KO-ed by Joe Choynski, who was a big deal at the time, but past his prime… one of his last bouts. So anyway, they throw ’em in a cell together – 28 days – and what does Choynski do… old “Chrysanthemum Joe”? Teaches Johnson everything he knows, that’s what. Master and student. And now…? Look at him, the beautiful sonofabitch!’

  As if to sign off the opening round, the beautiful sonofabitch threw Jeffords a sharp left hook to the side of the temple.

  ‘Ha, somethin’ to think about!’ Delgado mocked. ‘Stumblebum!’

  As the boxers took their corners, the cheering and hollering transitioned to the buzz of discussion.

  ‘Delgado!’

  Someone was calling the NBI agent’s name.

  ‘Mr Delgado. I thought that was you.’

  ‘Shit.’

  In the gradual rake of the auditorium, the shout came from the tier below, a few boxes along, slightly forward. It was a man in his 50s, balding but with a lustrous, thick moustache.

  ‘I say, Mr Delgado!’

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Finch.

  ‘Name’s Stanford White,’ said Delgado. ‘Pain in the goddamn ass.’

  Delgado winced out a smile and an insincere return.

  ‘Mr White. What a pleasure!’

  White made some gesture, about having a drink together… about coming up.

  ‘Shit,’ went Delgado again. ‘Last thing I wanted is my name bandied about.’

  In the ring, the trainers set to work with their buckets and sponges.

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘The Pinkerton days. Did some work for him while he was building this place.’

  Delgado registered the look of confusion.

  ‘This… Madison Square Garden… Technically it’s his home. Keeps an apartment up on the roof – the penthouse. Designed the Washington Square Arch, too, amongst others. Damnit, Mr Collins… Stanford White… he’s the most famous architect in all of the Americas.’

  Finch had glimpsed the arch earlier when traversing Fifth Avenue, a great triumphant marble portal – part Parisian, part Ancient Rome… part Hyde Park. It fit with America’s new imperial ambitions. Though he felt stupid for not knowing who White was.

  The boxers were out of their corners again.

  ‘Spent most of my time gettin
g dirt on White’s rivals, love rivals, for his interminable lawsuits.’

  He touched the side of his nose conspiratorially.

  ‘Let’s just say Mr White has a problem keeping it in his pants.’

  He pointed.

  ‘See, down there…’

  Next to White sat a teenage girl, quite pretty, with long brown ringlets, in a revealing turquoise dress.

  ‘His daughter?’

  ‘His goddamn lady friend.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Name’s Evelyn Nesbit. Chorus girl, actress, photographer’s model… you get the picture.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Only it gets worse. She’s actually somebody else’s wife. Some other crazed millionaire. Short fuse. I don’t know why White flaunts her so brazenly. Only one way it can possibly go.’

  Johnson was at Jeffords again, affording his opponent the courtesy of some body blows, but always nudging him back into the target zone, there to drop him when required.

  Finch panned his binoculars over to Muller’s box. He seemed of a piece with Stanford White – the bon vivant, enjoying his company, quaffing champagne. Only this time there was someone new – a tall, thin man who, though wearing a dinner suit, had dark skin and long braided hair.

  Delgado noted the surprise.

  ‘You just seen the redskin, huh?’

  ‘Who?’

  The second round was into its third minute. Johnson signed off this time with a sharp jab to the gut, which had Jeffords doubling over.

  ‘Name’s Teetonka. A warrior brave. Blackfoot Sioux. Plains Indians. One of the few survivors of Wounded Knee, or so they say. What you might call the strong silent type. Works for Muller as a valet, his muscle, henchman… call it what you will.’

  There was a knock on the door. It was Stanford White.