Hell's Gate

by Richard E. Crabbe

  “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 thre
e 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.”

  “Oh, that guy,” Mike said. They waited for the range master to give the all clear. “Yeah, I heard about him. They say he’s just lucky.”

  “Bullshit! No luck about it. You guys should have a cup of that espresso the Italians drink. See if you can work together. He might be interested.”

  The all clear sounded. Mike brought the Colt up fast, but aimed with care, squeezing off three rounds, putting them all in the black.

  “What makes you think he’ll want to work with me, especially since he’s been making progress like you say?”

  Tom didn’t answer immediately. He aimed his revolver and fired once, thumbed back the hammer and fired again and then a third time. Mike noticed how he fired as he exhaled, lest his breathing throw off his aim. The target showed just one irregular hole. “He’s had death threats,” Tom said. “Not just against him, but his family, too. He’s got two kids, a boy and a girl. Had to move them out of the city. He doesn’t want to quit, but his captain thinks it’s time to take a breather, work on something else.”

  Mike nodded.

  “I’ll set it up,” Tom said. Then, changing the subject, he asked, “So it turns out that bottle was actually a man?”

  “Not sure entirely, but that guy I shot said he knew about somebody called the Bottler. I’m guessing that’s a man. Didn’t have time to question him on it. He was dying right in front of me. I had to try to get help.”

  “Thought I’d heard of every damn alias and nickname in the city but Bottler’s a new one. Only thing I can figure is that if Mickey Todt was in with him, then he’s got to kick back to Paul Kelly. Todt is one o’ Kelly’s men. Makes sense.”

  “So what do you think I oughta do? Kelly’s protected. Got at least two gunmen with him at all times.”

  “Has the Wigwam on his side, too,” Tom said. He took three more shots, firing faster, but with the same kind of care. The shots weren’t in the same hole, but they could have been covered by a silver dollar. “So, what I think is that you should be careful, oh, son of mine.”

  * * *

  There were giggles from the other girls as Ginny left Miss Gertie’s front parlor. She tried to appear composed, but she felt almost giddy under the old madam’s concerned, but benign frown. Mike stuck his hands in his pockets like a schoolboy, not even aware he’d done so. He could not recall a time when she’d ever looked so beautiful and despite their history, he suddenly felt shy. Ginny wore a stylish, but understated dress in a pale gray with pink stripes, a short jacket over a high-necked, white blouse, kid gloves, and a modest, but very handsome felt hat with a turned-up brim and a delicate veil of white lace. She looked like any of the countless numbers of shop girls in New York, only better. To Mike she had never looked so good. He couldn’t stop staring as he accompanied her down the front stairs to their waiting cab. The other girls had stared too, some with delight, some with the narrowed eyes of jealousy.

  “God, you look so beautiful,” Mike said. It was wrong of him to encourage her, he knew, but she did look wonderful.

  Ginny frowned. “Well, you don’t have to sound so surprised.” Mike fumbled for a response, much to Ginny’s delight. She knew she couldn’t embarrass a man who didn’t care. “Thank you,” she said, putting a soft hand on his arm. “I know how you meant it.”

  Ginny put her arm through his as they rode to Pastor’s theater in the back of a cab. The clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on cobbles and pavement was the only sound for some minutes as the newness of the situation tied both their tongues. They had been as intimate as a man and woman could be, yet this was beyond their experience; an everyday intimacy, simple yet profound.

  Mike smiled at Ginny, but couldn’t help wondering about her true feelings as she smiled back. Was he just another client, one she liked a bit more than the rest, but a client all the same? Was he a way out for her, a stirrup on the saddle of respectability? Did she actually love him? Mike hesitated to even think the question, let alone entertain the idea. More likely this was just a lark, a diversion from the drudgeries of the business, he told himself. That thought put him in mind of the others. How many might there have been? Hundreds? He’d never given that a moment’s thought before. She had been there for him to use whenever he wanted, whenever he could afford to pay. That had been his only concern. Why was it that here in the cab, in the light of day, with both of them fully clothed, his mind was doing the sexual math; so many months at the house, so many clients per night, six nights a week.… He lost count quickly. But why was he counting at all? Mike couldn’t answer that question.

  Ginny tried not to think of their outing as a charity date, but the feeling kept creeping into the back of her mind. Mike had felt sorry for her when he suggested they go out. There wasn’t any doubt on that point. Still, if he hadn’t cared he wouldn’t have asked. There was some consolation and hope in that at least. It was hope that helped her pick out her smartest clothes, leaving the flashy outfits on the rack. Today she would be like any other girl in the city, out with her beau. No one would know the things she’d done for her fine kid gloves, the tears she’d shed for her high-laced boots. Ginny was determined to put it out of her mind for just these few hours. She would be Mike’s girlfriend, innocent and fresh and the day would be perfect. She felt herself a gardener, tending her hope like an orchid, a rare and reluctant bloom.

  * * *

  Pastor’s was wonderful. Ginny couldn’t recall when she’d had so much fun. The show was a variety, a Bowery b’hoy one-act play, followed by an Italian tenor, singing opera, or what she thought opera sounded like, a pair of comic jugglers, who had the audience howli
ng with laughter, some chorus girls who did a modest variation of the cancan, showing a lot less leg than they did on the Bowery, followed by a strongman named Sandow, who bent nails and steel bars and lifted ten members of the audience on his back. The finale was a series of poems recited by the great Bowery b’hoy, Chuck Connors, that left the audience cheering and stomping for more.

  Ginny was chattering like a schoolgirl when they filed out with the crowd onto Fourteenth Street. Mike was buoyant, too, taking her arm in his and walking her over to Luchow’s for coffee and pastries.

  “I had a wonderful time, Mike, really,” Ginny said once they’d been seated. “Thank you so much for taking me. Did you like the show?” She wanted to ask if they could do it again, to tell him how she loved to be seen with him, his arm around hers on the street like any other couple.

  “I did, Gin. I really enjoyed it.” He felt her wait for more and a small flash of guilt shot through him that he could not give it. He took her hand across the table and Ginny squeezed it with both of hers, making Mike wince.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mike. Did I hurt you?”

  “It’s just that cut on my wrist from the other night, a present from that bastard, Smilin’ Jack. It’s a little sore is all.”

  Ginny pulled his sleeve back and looked at the bandage. She considered what a dangerous job he had. She’d read the account of the shoot-out in the harbor, of course, but somehow it hadn’t seemed real to her. It was more like a dime novel the way it read in the papers, the product of a reporter’s overactive imagination. But the bandage on Mike’s wrist and the small stain of blood from the unhealed wound were real. Ginny’s breath caught in her throat, frozen by the image of a blade slicing Mike’s flesh, the blood running down his hand. On an impulse she picked up his hand, bringing it to her lips. She kissed it.

  Mike let her, a warm amazement creeping into his eyes and greater guilt into his heart. It wasn’t fair to let her get too close, Mike reminded himself. He was a sporting man, and unlikely to become anything more. Still, he could not help but admit how pretty she looked in that dress and how her eyes seemed deep enough to drown in.