Hell Gate

by Jeff Dawson

  ‘This way’s called “chasing the dragon”,’ he said. ‘We had this Chinese guy here… Jimmy…’

  Jimmy Chang.

  ‘Hey, Sammy,’ yelled someone else this time. ‘Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut.’

  Sammy lay back and drifted off.

  Then – Finch didn’t know why – he took the pipe himself…

  * * *

  And then, finally, Finch got it. He understood – the bliss, the euphoria, the sheer golden ecstasy that was flooding through his entire body. He was an eagle, soaring high near the sun, then swooping down, in a great warm rush, to flash through cherished scenes of his own life, each glory, each triumph, each outpouring of love swelling to an opiated rapture, a state of transcendence that he never wanted to end.

  Marx was wrong. Religion isn’t the opium of the masses.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been gone – hours… days… weeks… months…? Time no longer had meaning. But eventually, as the feeling began to subside, he could hear a voice, and feel a motion, a rocking… a beating, a drumming.

  ‘C’mon.’

  He was down in the dark, swimming, then crawling his way up a rabbit hole towards the light.

  ‘C’mon,’ the voice was going again. ‘If you want to be part of this – to live here – you’ve got to prove yourself.’

  He was up and out, a human soul once more, in an aching body – a body that now just wanted to sleep. He squinted to focus. It was Sheldrake. He was kicking the sole of his shoe.

  ‘Prove myself?’

  ‘Show that you’re committed to our cause. Not just full of bullshit… Call it an initiation.’

  Chapter 22

  In the dead of night, the horse cart plodded down the lower end of Broadway, wheels creaking away till it reached the towering thicket of granite that constituted the Financial District of Lower Manhattan.

  There had been a small group selected for the mission and they huddled in the back alongside Finch – Sheldrake, his woman, the red-haired kid, Sammy and two brothers, also part of the crowd who had been dossing down at the house. Twins or not, Finch had yet to determine but, amid the general silence of drunkenness and delusion, the pair were the only ones who seemed to speak on the journey – conversing in their own private language, grinning to each other as if over some shared secret. They were leaning back against a mouldy old wooden crate, part-covered with a horse blanket, that reeked of chemicals, petroleum of some sort.

  The cart diverted off the main drag where the driver – a shaggy-haired man who went by the name of ‘Moose’ – brought his overworked beast to a halt, steaming and snorting in a narrow passageway in the shadow of the Federal Hall.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Sheldrake, and kicked down the tailboard with a nonchalance, signalling for them all to get out.

  He motioned to the brothers.

  ‘Clarence… Claude…’

  The siblings, still half-intoxicated, scraped the wooden crate to the edge. It was about four feet long, three wide and deep, and clearly heavy. They grabbed the rope handles to dump it down on the sidewalk.

  Finch was having trouble focusing his vision, but it was then, when the blanket was whipped off, that he saw it, that solitary word stencilled in black paint…

  ‘DYNAMITE’.

  ‘What the…?’

  He tried to shake the fuzz that was still enveloping his thinking.

  ‘Exactly what it looks like,’ hissed Sheldrake.

  The two brothers laughed their strange fraternal laugh.

  ‘No, I mean how old is this stuff?’

  The wood was mould-stained, rotten around the bottom.

  Sheldrake referred the question.

  ‘Moose?’

  ‘Dunno,’ he shrugged. ‘My cousin brought it back from out West one time. Workin’ on the gangs. Buildin’ a dam in the Arizona Territory.’

  ‘When?’ spluttered Finch.

  ‘Guess… maybe eight years ago… ten. Shit’s been sittin’ there in a lock-up in Fort Lee ever since. Figured it was goin’-a waste.’

  Finch gestured urgently into the back of the cart.

  ‘The crow bar…’

  ‘The what bar?’

  ‘Whatever you call it? The jemmy… the jimmy…’

  One of the gurning brothers passed him the iron tool.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ shrieked the girl.

  But Finch was already at work, carefully inserting the wedged end under the lid and gently prising it off, easing up the rusty nails that had been holding it down.

  There was enough street light to see inside. Resting on old straw, the stack of eight-inch cardboard tubes were sticky with goo which had crystallized to a crust in parts.

  ‘Jesus Christ. Do you realize how unstable this is?! Dynamite’s only good for a year at best – and with regular turning to avoid chemical imbalance. This liquid seeping out—’

  He pointed.

  ‘—it’s nitroglycerin. Just a physical shock – a small jolt – can set it off.’

  Sammy was backing him up now.

  ‘He’s r-r-right, remember what Mr Chang said?’

  Sheldrake cuffed him hard round the ear. He mimicked him cruelly.

  ‘He’s r-r-right. Will you shut up about the goddamn Chinaman. You’ve been warned enough. If the stupid Chink hadn’t got himself locked up, we wouldn’t be relying on this cheap shit.’

  One of the brothers went to light up a cigarette.

  ‘No, damn you,’ snapped Finch. ‘Put that thing away!’

  ‘Hey, I give the orders around here!’ barked Sheldrake. ‘And what the fuck do you know anyway? What you told us – the army – you were just a medic.’

  ‘I know enough that it’s a wonder we’re all still here in one piece.’

  Sheldrake gave one of his smug, self-satisfied smiles.

  ‘Then that’s going to make things very interesting.’

  He gave a signal to Moose and smacked the nag on the rump.

  ‘See you at the pick-up.’

  The horse clip-clopped off.

  Finch came face to face with him.

  ‘What the hell are you up to, Sheldrake?’

  He grabbed Finch by the arm and led him purposefully to the corner, from where they could peer, from behind the bronze statue of George Washington, across Wall Street into Broad Street.

  ‘There.’

  In the full glare of Edison’s electric street lighting stood the tall, imposing white building with its marble portico, soaring Corinthian pillars, and the triangular pediment atop it with its Romanesque demigod statues: ‘Integrity protecting the works of man.’

  ‘Behold, the belly of the beast.’

  Its name was carved in gold for all to see.

  Finch spluttered through his own incredulity.

  ‘You seriously telling me you’re going to blow up the New York Stock Exchange?’

  Sheldrake nonchalantly extracted a pack of Bull Durham plug tobacco. He pulled off a wad, tucked it behind his lower lip and chewed it over.

  ‘I’m not. You are.’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t…’

  There was a sneer as he leaned in. He was holding in his hand Finch’s battered passport, part mangled from its dip in that Ohio river, but still just about presentable. Finch checked his jacket… the lining… If MO3 had missed it, Sheldrake hadn’t. He must have taken it from him while he was out of it.

  He lunged for it. Sheldrake whisked it back.

  ‘Otherwise I’m sure there’ll be some people very interested in the whereabouts of a certain “Mr Bradley Collins”. People not necessarily known for their kindness, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘What if I just walk away?’

  ‘You’re free to do as you like. But a man like you…? Says here you’re the Managing Director of a corporation called British Nitrate. For me that doesn’t quite square with being the anarchist you claim. Yep, I figure a man like Bradley Collins is hiding somethi
ng – the truth most likely. Either that or he’s on the run… So, do this little job for me – for us – and we’ll talk. Then you can get back to procuring all those weapons you promised us… Unless, of course, that was a pile of shit too.’

  Finch let out a sigh.

  ‘I don’t deny that Bradley Collins is a name I’ve used. One of several. My occupation is a cover. What I told you – about South Africa… my views on war… on empires – I meant every word of it. You think I’m slumming it with you just for kicks?’

  ‘You’re “slumming it” with us – if that’s how you want to put it – for something.’

  There was a scrape and a scuffle behind them. The brothers had ignored Finch’s warning and were part-carrying, part-dragging the accursed crate towards them, the others in tow.

  ‘Jesus. No!’

  That was it, knew Finch. The confirmation. Black Flag were not a credible political group, rather just a personal cult – a vainglorious exploitative exercise on the part of some spoilt, feckless brats – and one almighty bullying brat in particular.

  I must go along with them now regardless.

  ‘So here’s what we’re gonna do,’ instructed Sheldrake. ‘You and Tommy—’

  He pointed to Finch, then the red-haired kid.

  ‘—you’re going to take the crate and place the sticks around the main door.’

  ‘Sheldrake, listen to me. Think this through. You have dangerous, unsafe ordnance. None of us is in a fit state. You can see from here, too, that the door’s solid metal. Steel probably. You’ll put a dent it for sure, but you’re not going to bring the house tumbling down. What, exactly, are you hoping to achieve?’

  ‘To show that capitalism’s days are numbered,’ snarled the lady friend on his behalf.

  ‘And what about him?’

  Ambling up past the building’s steps was a policeman, whistling to himself, swinging his nightstick. He seemed like an afterthought in all this.

  ‘There’ll be more,’ cautioned Finch. ‘The Centre Street station is just round the corner. Trust me, I’ve been there… in a cell.’

  Sheldrake looked Finch in the eye. Finch could see it now – not idealism, just sheer malevolence… hate.

  ‘“What is genuine is proved in the fire. What is false we shall not miss in our ranks” – Karl Marx.’

  ‘Actually it was Engels.’

  Sheldrake faced Finch and lifted his own shirt. He revealed a long-barrelled Colt revolver tucked into the waistband, its stock resting on the hollow stomach below the near-emaciated ribs.

  ‘I really don’t give a fuck.’

  Sheldrake signalled to one of the brothers, snapped his fingers, and he scampered off back into the shadows. Finch could see the brother darting along the front of the buildings, presumably off to create some kind of diversion at the other end of the street.

  ‘Right… according to Moose’s cousin, the fuses are good for sixty seconds. So Tommy – and you—’ he said it sarcastically. ‘Mr “If”… When you’re ready…’

  ‘You mean you don’t even know for sure about the length of the fuse?’

  The girl was agitating now.

  ‘See, he’s a counter-revolutionary.’

  I have to do this.

  ‘Look,’ offered Finch. ‘Why don’t we go up the side of the building? That alleyway over there. No one will see us. We can sneak up. If this is about symbolism, the newspaper headlines will still announce that an attack was made on the New York Stock Exchange, plus you’re less likely to get any innocent bystanders hurt.’

  ‘The police aren’t innocent. The more we take down the better.’

  ‘Then for God’s sake, just—’

  ‘The front door. I want to blow capitalism’s ugly face right off. Show her for the ugly bitch she is.’

  Finch studied the crate. It would be a cumbersome exercise to drag it with them, not to mention highly dangerous.

  ‘Then let us do it this way. You – Tommy…’

  The red-haired youth turned to him.

  ‘Take your jacket off. Carefully wrap four sticks in it. Then, when the policeman is distracted, we walk across. Note “walk”, not “run”.’

  ‘What about the rest of the dynamite?’ snarled Sheldrake.

  ‘Leave the crate. The police will see it, recognize its volatility, and dispose of it accordingly. In and out quickly – you live to fight another day.’

  The lady friend was agitating again, this time directly into Sheldrake’s ear.

  ‘You want me to do this or not?’ asked Finch.

  With reluctance Sheldrake nodded.

  There had been little thought put into strategy. Before they were even ready to cross the road, Claude, the brother, had appeared at the far end of Broad Street, hurling abuse at the policeman. He was turning to march in his direction.

  ‘Christ almighty,’ yelled Finch, and motioned for Tommy to hurry. Finch himself removed his own jacket and lay four sticks in it, swaddling them like a newborn.

  The constable was shouting back at Claude now, threatening him with immediate arrest if he didn’t shut up and go on his way. Attention would already have been drawn.

  Finch, with Tommy in tow, crept out from the shadow of the Washington statue. They hugged the wall along Broad Street, then, when opposite the Exchange, prepared to cross. Finch looked over. The copper had already drawn his nightstick.

  ‘Tommy… Now… We cross!’

  Tommy was struggling. His bundle was insecure. He fumbled a stick but caught it mid-air. Finch felt the trickle of cold sweat. But there was no time to waste. He used the cover of Claude’s distraction and edged across the cobbles and up onto the marble steps, Tommy behind him.

  There was more shouting, more abuse. Then the policeman blew his whistle. Two short blasts, the call for assistance. The response – one short blast – was already being echoed by several of his colleagues round about.

  The whistles threw Tommy. He hesitated. There were the sounds of frantic footsteps then a ‘Hey you!’ as he was spotted, exposed in the street lights’ glare.

  As he turned, he lost his grip…

  The next thing there was a blinding white flash and an almighty crash of an explosion, the blast reverberating around the narrow avenues of concrete.

  Finch ducked behind the base of a column and threw his body over his own dynamite, cradling it as if it were a living thing. Stone and gravel rained down.

  As the thick, acrid smoke began to clear, he could see that, where Tommy once stood, was now a small crater.

  There was also a policeman who’d been flung to the ground nearby. He was getting to his feet now, dusting himself down.

  A gunshot rang out. There, back by the Washington statue, was Sheldrake.

  You colossal idiot!

  He’d wrestled a handkerchief up round the lower half of his face in some styled approximation of an outlaw and was waving his revolver. A second shot followed. There was a shout. Another copper, the one who’d tussled with Claude, was down, clutching his thigh. Claude was running back towards the sanctity of his gang.

  Another shot. In an instant, the downed copper had pulled his gun and had felled him. Claude took two, three strides, then tumbled over on his front, motionless. Clarence his brother was now screaming dementedly, trying to reach his prone sibling but being restrained by the others.

  There were more whistles, more police heading their way.

  Finch gently placed his deadly cargo where it could be seen, laying it all out for the authorities to find and deal with. He kept low and darted across the cobbles again. Screened by the smoke, he pulled alongside Claude and felt for a pulse.

  He was alive… just.

  But there was a bullet wound in his side. What it had hit within him, he simply couldn’t tell.

  Finch helped Claude up, draped his arm round his own shoulder and forced him to his feet, dragging him back into the shadows, ducking down just as another policeman clattered past.

  The gods had a
sense of humour, he sensed. They were sheltering under the J. P. Morgan building on the corner. He wondered what John Pierpoint would be thinking of his old dinner companion now.

  ‘Claude… The rendezvous. Where is it?’

  Claude groaned and clutched his side.

  ‘Claude… Listen to me… I’m a doctor… When we get back, I’m going to patch you up, you hear me? Now tell me… the rendezvous.’

  ‘He told me not to tell you,’ he gasped. ‘You were meant to take the fall.’

  ‘Where?!’

  ‘The Trinity Church… the rear…’

  Finch had spotted it on the way down. It was just a couple of blocks.

  ‘Claude. This next bit’s going to hurt like hell. But here…’

  He pulled Claude’s muffler from around his neck and folded it.

  ‘Press this to the wound with your free hand… hard… Claude, stay with me…’

  He was beginning to pass out. Finch delivered a slap to his cheek.

  ‘You hear me?’

  Claude groaned and nodded.

  Five minutes later they had staggered their way to Moose’s horse cart. It was beginning to clop away. Finch heard a scream.

  ‘Wait!’

  It was Clarence, the brother, yelling at the driver.

  Finch reached the cart and helped Claude up, to be pulled on board and embraced by his sobbing brother, the pair breaking immediately into their strange unintelligible language as Claude was eased down to the floorboards. Finch threw himself in after him. Numbed by adrenaline before, he was now acutely aware of the pain in his own knee.

  ‘Clarence… Sammy…’ he said.

  They each nodded.

  ‘Clarence, you keep talking to him. Keep your brother focused, awake. Sammy, the scarf. I need you to keep the pressure on to stop the bleeding.’

  They did as he said.

  Finch looked out the back. Somehow – and he wasn’t quite sure how it was even possible given the shambolic nature of the operation – they’d given the police the slip.

  ‘Moose. You need to get us back to Gramercy Park as quick as you can. You hear?’

  Moose twitched his whip and worked his old mare up into a trot.