Hell's Gate

by Richard E. Crabbe

  “There. Feel better?” Ginny said with the sunny voice of a mother talking to a child.

  “Yeah,” Mike whispered. “It does.”

  7

  THE General Slocum gleamed at its moorings, all glossy white in the late-afternoon sun. Lionel Saturn walked down the gangplank to the dock without giving the steamer a second look. He knew what a fresh coat of paint could do, and what it couldn’t.

  As he approached his carriage and his waiting driver, he wondered how much extra that coat of paint had cost the Knickerbocker Steamship Company. He’d already been forced to pad the payroll with one no-show job. The paint had been another unnecessary expense. It had been “suggested” that maybe a coat of paint would be good for business. It had also been suggested that he do business with a particular dealer in paints. Lionel sighed. He knew he’d have to sign off on the bill and dreaded even seeing it. He was the senior vice-president and chief financial officer of the corporation. If he couldn’t bury these expenses, no one could.

  He checked his watch as he settled into the back of the carriage. It was a beautiful timepiece, with an engraved gold case, his initials in fanciful script, and an enameled lithograph on the back with two steamers breasting the waves. It was a gift from his wife on their twentieth anniversary, a couple of years before. He wondered, not for the first time, what it might be worth. He wished that he could sell it, sure that it might bring a hundred dollars or more. There was a diamond on the fob that had to be worth that alone. He knew he couldn’t though. His wife would surely notice. Lately he’d been investing a great deal of time making sure his wife didn’t notice things. Adding to that list was a depressing notion.

  He sighed and gave his driver an address, then settled back into the tufted, leather seat. He watched the Slocum slide out of view. She’d have to wait a bit longer for the maintenance she really needed. She was a sound ship after all and had steamed for years without incident under a captain who’d just been honored for his safety record. For now the paint would have to do.

  The carriage bumped along through the usual congestion of the docks. Wagons and their teams jostled for space, maneuvering around shipments loading and unloading, half of which seemed to take place in the street. Lionel thought about the meeting he was going to. Connors could help, he was certain. Whether he would or not was the question. There wasn’t a man in the city that didn’t know Connors. He was an icon of the Bowery b’hoy made good, and claimed to know most everyone worth knowing in the metropolis.

  Connors was well connected, his annual balls at Tammany Hall attended by swells, politicians, businessmen, and bone-breakers. He’d worked his way into an odd sort of celebrity, making a career of being the quintessential “Noo Yawk” character. For many years he’d conducted tours of the Lower East Side and Chinatown, where he was once one of the few whites who knew the Chinese well. He’d been a “lobbygow” for the best of society, and even led visiting royalty on those tours, but he’d also spent his life on the streets and in the saloons of the city. If Chuck Connors couldn’t act on his behalf, Lionel wasn’t sure who could.

  It took some time for Lionel’s carriage to make its way to Connors’s “office”—Barney Flynn’s Old Tree House on Bowery and Pell—just around the corner from Professor O’Reilley’s joint with its garish sign: WORLD CHAMPION TATTOOER. Connors held court in Flynn’s most days from around three till whenever, drinking, telling tall tales in his exaggerated Bowery accent, and occasionally taking meetings with those like Lionel, who needed guidance in matters of a confidential nature.

  Lionel bumped through the front doors and was enveloped in a haze of cigar smoke and the welcoming smell of spilled beer. The lunch crowd was gone, but the regulars clung to the bar like it was a life raft, elbows planted for stability. Lionel squinted into the semidarkness, his eyes watering from the smoke and stink of stale beer. “Chuck Connors,” he said finally to the bartender, once he’d given up trying to spot the man. He got a nod toward the rear and a grunted, “Up to his eyeballs in bullshit as usual.” Lionel wandered past the bar where a man turned with a fistful of beers, bumping him and spilling some on his pants and shoes. The man just shouldered past after a withering once-over of Lionel’s tailored suit. A burst of laughter brought Lionel around, cutting off his protest. A group of men and a woman sat at a table in the rear. They stomped and howled as one man stood. It was Connors. “’Scuse me whilst I attend to nature,” he said, heading toward the men’s room. Lionel stopped. He didn’t favor the idea of conducting a meeting in a toilet, but on consideration, it seemed a good place to start, better than breaking into the convivial atmosphere of the table. Lionel followed. Connors had his back to the door, his front to a big, porcelain urinal when Lionel entered. He sighed as Lionel took the one next to him. Connors glanced over, then concentrated on the business at hand.

  “You’re Connors?” Not waiting for an answer, he went on, “I’m Lionel Saturn. Tommy Byrnes told me you’d meet me here.”

  “Winky? Winky Byrnes?” Connors said. Lionel nodded. He’d forgotten Byrnes’s street name. Byrnes ran a coal yard where the steamship company had their contract.

  “Sure, sure,” Connors said, cobwebs visibly clearing, “You’re da steamboat mug dat needs help.”

  “I’m the ah … mug, yes,” Lionel said as he unbuttoned his pants.

  “Pleased ta meetcha,” Connors grunted, sticking out a hand. Lionel hesitated. He was afraid of getting off on the wrong foot, but was equally queasy about shaking a hand that had just been “attending to nature.” Connors shrugged and wiped his hand on his vest, sticking it out again, a bit more forcefully. Lionel put on a smile and shook with the famous Chuck Connors, whose bladder seemed bottomless and whose fingers were damp.

  “Youse got a problem, huh?” Connors said, raising an eyebrow at Lionel. “What I hear’s you gotta push back from the gamin’ table. Fine gen’leman like yerself oughta know better. Wut is it? Wut’s yer game, then?”

  “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 encoun
ter 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.”