Hell's Gate Page 13

  “Pigs. Sure. They eat anything, bones, shoes, brains. They are not so picky eaters.”

  Mike grimaced. “Nasty. The Black Hand?”

  “Of course. They no forgive so easy. For them it is vendetta.”

  Mike grinned at that, which drew a puzzled frown across Primo’s brow. “What is so funny? They want to turn me into pig shit and you think that is funny?”

  “Exactly! That’s what’s funny, partner. You’re pig shit already.” Mike pulled the knife from his desk and examined the hole it left with a frown. He fingered the needle-sharp point of the blade. “I suppose you thought about fingerprints?”

  “I put the talcum powder on it when it was still in the door. No prints. They are angry, but not so stupid.”

  “Listen,” Mike said, turning serious. “You can stay with me if you want. I got room. Probably be a lot safer.”

  “With you?” Primo shook his head and said with a smile, “You draw trouble like flies on the shit. I would be a safer man in the Tombs.”

  “Could be, but don’t say no. Say maybe at least. Think about it.”

  “Maybe then.”

  “Good. The door’s always open, partner.”

  Primo didn’t say anything. He just stuck his hand out to shake. Mike took it, standing as he did.

  “Now what,” Primo said after an overlong silence.

  “Now we solve the case, find the girl, put a muzzle on that stupid cop, and try to keep you from getting fed to the pigs.”

  Primo laughed. “Easy. What are we doing after lunch?”

  * * *

  They headed toward the hospital, but made a detour to the shop where they’d beaten the cop, whose name they had learned was Bascomb. The shop owner was happy to see them. “The cops was just here,” he said with a glance out the window. “No more’n two minutes ago. Listen, I told ’em all about the two gangsters beat that cop in here. Eastmans they were; one tall an’ dark with a scar on ’is cheek, the other shorter an’ heavier with bandy legs an’ a tooth missin’.”

  “Very convincing,” Mike said with a somewhat relieved grin. “Anything else?”

  The storekeeper told them everything he’d told the cops, pretty much a straight description of what had actually happened while leaving out any references to him and Primo. There was no need to embellish that really. They thanked the man and Mike made an effort to give him ten dollars, a week’s wage for a man like him, but he refused. “Worth ten bucks just to see that bastard get a good beatin’,” he told them almost wistfully. “You boys go on an’ don’t worry ’bout me.”

  * * *

  They started toward the hospital, but stopped after a couple of blocks. Mike looked at Primo, who seemed to know what he was about to say. “What the hell are we going to see that bastard for?”

  “You are saying what I’m thinking,” Primo said, nodding. “We tell the captain Bascomb was sleeping when we went.”

  “Sleeping. Yeah, he was sleeping an’ the doctor said not to disturb him.”

  “Sleeping, yes. So what now?”

  “I was thinking we should stop back at that store,” Mike said once they were outside the hospital. “We forgot to ask him about the Bottler.”

  “The clerk? Why bother?” Primo said. “I thought you got everything from that Suds guy.”

  “Ya don’t ask you don’t get any answers, right? Besides we did him a favor, maybe he’ll help.”

  The shopkeeper was surprised to see them again. He was still friendly, if a bit puzzled. “You boys forget somethin’?”

  “We have returned to ask the thing we wanted yesterday,” Primo said, which brought a wary cloud to the shopkeeper’s face. “We are looking for a man. He is called the Bottler, a strange name I know, but maybe you have heard it?”

  The shopkeeper looked from Primo to Mike as if measuring them before he replied. They caught his look, but said nothing, watching as the man made his decision. Mike could almost see the gears turning in his head. He’d helped them out with the Bascomb situation. He might figure they were even. So they waited, hoping that the weight of silence might do what words could not. The shopkeeper took a swipe at the marble countertop with a damp rag he’d been holding, rubbing at a stain on the stone. He looked up from his countertop after a moment and took a deep breath as if he was about to plunge into icy waters. He smiled then in a resigned sort of way and said, “Ain’t you boys had enough trouble?”

  18

  MIKE SALTER’S BAR on Pell Street was as good a place as any to meet without causing too much of a stir. Big Tim sat in the back, facing the door. Photo Dave was to one side, Sasparilla on the other. They were both well armed, a wise precaution given the situation. Big Tim’s brother Dennis, known as Flat-nose Dinny, and his half brother, Larry Mulligan, stood at the bar as close to the door as possible. Between them all they had six pistols, three dirks, four pairs of brass knuckles, and three blackjacks. Big Tim wasn’t armed. He considered it beneath a man of politics to carry weapons.

  Flat-nose Dinny nodded to Big Tim shortly after they had settled in and a moment later Eat-’em-up Jack McManus was framed in the doorway. McManus had a reputation out of all proportion to his stature. He had a compact physique, all chest and shoulders with only the hint of a neck sprouting from his Celluloid collar. He wasn’t more than five foot eight, but for him that was an advantage. Low to the ground, and heavy as he was, he didn’t go down easy. Many a larger man had found himself looking up at Jack. He’d been the bouncer at the New Brighton Dance Hall, Kelly’s place from years back, a place where wild nights and wilder characters were commonplace. Jack had handled them all, gangsters, drunks, bricklayers with hands like stone, upstate farmers hard as the earth. They got out of hand at the New Brighton and Jack had shown them the door. It was not his size or strength that had made his reputation, but his absolute unwillingness to ever give up, and to use whatever tools necessary to win. Brass knuckles, a knife, and at least one lead-filled sap were his standard equipage, though he was known to resort to teeth, beer bottles, chairs, and anything else that came to hand with equal aplomb. He was still head bouncer, but had left the daily bone-breaking to lesser men and was now said to be one of Kelly’s top lieutenants. He was at ease today and when he entered he stepped to one side and quickly surveyed the room, which at that time of the afternoon was hardly filled. He eyed Dinny and Larry, but gave no sign he recognized either, though he knew them both well enough. Slowly he moved down the bar and positioned himself near the back. He looked at Big Tim and touched the rim of his bowler before he ordered a beer. The door opened again and Johnny Spanish stepped in, followed closely by Paul Kelly, sporting a snappy homburg and dressed in a tailored suit over a plaid vest. Pearl buttons and cuff links gleamed and a gold watch chain hung at his waist. A diamond stick pin secured his cravat and gleaming white spats framed his black leather shoes. The man ran the largest criminal empire in the city. He strode into Salter’s like he owned the place even though Pell Street had become neutral territory just the year before.

  Kelly looked neither left nor right, seeming not to care who might be in some dark corner, a measure of his confidence in Jack and Johnny. He’d left Kid Dropper at the door outside to head off any last-minute interruptions. Kelly walked over to Big Tim’s table, a warm smile lighting his handsome features. Tim hauled his bulk from his chair as he approached and stretched out a massive paw. “Ach, you’re lookin’ like a new penny, Paul. Good ta see ya.”

  “You too, Dry Dollar. Always a pleasure. It’s a shame our commitments keep us so busy. It’s been too long.”

  It had been about a year since they’d seen each other, when Big Tim had presided over a gangland sit-down in a dive called the Palm Café on Chrystie Street, the goal being to settle a turf battle between the Five Pointers and the Eastmans. Minor skirmishes had occurred with increasing frequency in 1903 to the point where the newspapers were starting to call for a crackdown on gang activities. But the skirmishes erupted into an all-out gun battle when a
group of Five Pointers raided a stuss game run by the Eastmans. They shot it out under the Second Avenue El at the arch at Rivington and Allen. More than a hundred gangsters had blazed away, including Monk Eastman, arrested when a company of police charged into the melee, killing three and wounding seven. Nobody knew how many had really died. The gangs were known to bury their own in cellars throughout the East Side.

  Big Tim and a Tammany fixer named Tom Foley had arranged a truce and set up the meeting at the Palm, which had for a while ended the war. But renewed skirmishes had required another summit later in 1903 where the famous boxing match between Monk and Paul had been arranged to settle gang boundaries. The dapper Kelly had fought the apish Monk Eastman for hours, bare-knuckled in a neutral spot in the Bronx, both men collapsing in a draw. Some said the draw was a fix, but Eat-’em-up Jack could attest that Kelly had pissed blood for a week after, a fact that had only heightened Jack’s respect for the man. Since that battle, things had remained relatively calm, which pleased Big Tim greatly. Murder and mayhem were bad business and he absolutely prohibited such foolishness around election time.

  Tim sat back down and waved a hand at a chair for Kelly, who settled in after a warm greeting to Photo Dave and Sasparilla. Big Tim had always liked Kelly’s manners. The man had polish, he had to give him that. Kelly could have gone far in the Wigwam if he’d chosen politics, despite being Italian. Kelly’s real name was Vacarelli, a fact not generally known by his gangster associates. He’d named himself Kelly to better fit in with the Irish gangs when he’d started his criminal career in the eighties.

  “Things are going well I hear,” Big Tim said.

  “Well enough, Dry Dollar. The Tiger prospers too I trust.” The Tammany machine was often referred to as the Tiger, in political terms all too fitting.

  “May it ever be so, Paul,” he said with an adjustment on the hard chair. “Is there anything the Wigwam can do for you?”

  Kelly raised an eyebrow. He was unused to offers of assistance from Tammany Hall, especially the unsolicited sort. “Nothing comes to mind,” he said.

  Big Tim nodded as if these were words of deep import. “Kid Twist keeping to his own?” he asked.

  “Twist is Twist,” Kelly said with a shrug. “He’ll try some things now that Monk’s away for good, but it’s gonna take more than a flashy suit to fill Monk’s shoes. For now my boys are minding our own business.”

  “Wise,” Big Tim said. “Give Twist enough rope and he’ll end up with it around his neck, eh? Might actually work out that way. The Kid was always a bit too bold for his own good, too impetuous. Not that Monk was a model of decorum,” he added, laughing. Kelly grinned, but said nothing. In a way he had been sad to see Monk get sent up. But Monk wasn’t the reason Big Tim had called for this meeting and he was getting tired of the chitchat.

  “So, Dry Dollar, you didn’t ask to see me to talk about old times, as enjoyable as that might be.”

  Big Tim smiled sadly and shook his head. He steepled his fingers in front of him and appeared to consider something before he spoke. Finally he said, “There’s a gentleman by the name of Saturn.”

  “Saturn? Like the planet?” Kelly said.

  “Like the planet,” Tim replied. “He owes the Bottler something around ten thousand. I’m presuming you’re aware of that.”

  Kelly nodded, his mind racing, but his face a mask. “A lot of money,” he said. He made a show of plucking a bit of lint from his lapel, seeming quite unconcerned. “The Bottler must be getting lax with his accounts. I’ll have to have a chat with him, remind him of proper procedures.”

  “Really?” Big Tim absorbed Kelly’s words slowly like a man tasting a new wine. This particular vintage was all vinegar. Tim knew he had the upper hand, but it wasn’t wise to show it. A man like Kelly needed his dignity, especially in front of his lieutenants.

  “So, the Bottler hadn’t told you,” Tim said without inflection.

  “The Bottler doesn’t tell me everything, Dry Dollar. In fact, I leave him pretty much to himself, so long as he’s on time with payments,” Kelly said evenly. The fact that he actually was ignorant grated on him.

  “That’s a big number, Paul. Maybe you should ask him about it,” Tim said.

  Kelly shrugged and said. “So what’s this Saturn mug to you?”

  “A friend,” Big Tim said. “A friend of a friend actually.”

  “Nobody’s got more friends than you, Dry Dollar,” Kelly said with a grin that had no mirth in it.

  Big Tim couldn’t help but grunt a laugh. It was nice to see a man like Kelly squirm a bit. As much as he enjoyed his job, enjoyed helping his constituents, it was the exercise of power, the subtle bending of wills that he truly reveled in. “The curse of the political man, Paul,” he said with some theatricality. “And so long as I can keep ’em contented they’ll stay my friends, and voting Democratic.” He reached into an inside jacket pocket, a move that he noticed made Eat-’em-up Jack and Johnny Spanish tense up like dogs at the end of their chains. He brought out an overstuffed brown envelope and put it softly on the table. He slid it toward Kelly with one big finger. “This is to pay off Mister Saturn’s debt to the Bottler, with my compliments. And there’s something extra in there for your trouble,” Big Tim said. “A couple hundred to keep the peace so to speak.”

  Kelly didn’t touch it. “I can’t speak for the Bottler, Dry Dollar, not without knowing the particulars.”

  Big Tim waved a hand at the envelope. “If it ain’t enough, come see me. If it’s too much then keep the difference with my thanks, eh?” He knew Kelly had no real choice. He and the former Chief Devery had been taking protection from the Bottler for some time. They could yank that protection and let him twist in the breeze or shut him down outright. The Bottler’s game was the most profitable on the East Side. Nobody wanted anything unfortunate to happen, least of all Paul Kelly.

  Kelly seemed to read his thoughts. “Why not go to the Bottler yourself? Devery knows where to find him.”

  Tim smiled broadly. “Because Paul, like so many others in this great metropolis of ours—you are a friend of mine.”

  19

  THE ENVELOPE FELT like a lump of lead in Kelly’s pocket. Normally he’d be pleased to feel that thickness and weight there in his jacket. But this was no normal wad and there was no comfort in it. If anything it was a reminder of how easily he’d been trumped. Worse still there didn’t seem to be a damn thing he could do about it. Kelly ground his teeth as he stomped down Pell Street. McManus, Spanish, and Kid Dropper followed with glum resignation, walking fast to keep up. When the boss was like this it was best not to follow too closely.

  They climbed the stairs to the station of the Second Avenue El a few blocks away with Kelly still in a brooding silence. Jack mused on them taking the El like common citizens. The boss could afford a chauffeured barouche if he wanted, or one of the new automobiles, but those things meant nothing to him. Despite his sophistication, the boss still had the common touch.

  “Jack,” Kelly said with a twist of his head to indicate he’d like to talk to him alone, “I have a job for you.” He trusted McManus about as much as he trusted any man alive. He was a reliable, if somewhat unimaginative, lieutenant, not a bad combination to Kelly’s way of thinking.

  “Yeah, Paul. What youse want?” Jack said as he followed Kelly to a deserted portion of the platform. “Youse want me ta pay dat mug Saturn a visit?”

  Kelly let a smile creep across his lips. “You see, Jack, that’s why you and me get along so well.”

  Jack nodded as if that were true. “Youse want ’im hurt but not dead, right? Teach ’im a lesson in how t’ings is?”

  Kelly hesitated a moment before answering, considering again the implications of what he was about to order. Kelly had to assume that Big Tim did, in fact, have designs on Saturn’s Knickerbocker Steamship Company. The Tammany boss was not a man to make a ten-thousand-dollar investment for the sake of goodwill and a few votes. Sending a message to Saturn wa
s therefore a dangerous business. If Saturn wound up dead, he could lose Big Tim’s protection. At the very least, the cops would be all over his operations. It would be open season on the Five Pointers and everything he had built.

  “This has to be handled neat, Jack. Nobody pointing fingers back at me. Recruit somebody through one of your guys, a low-level guy, but somebody smart, who can do what he’s told. Got it?”

  “Sure, Paul, sure. I’ll fix it so’s nobody’ll know ’cept Saturn. He’s gonna know, I guarantee!”

  Kelly shook his head and stared hard at Jack, his eyes as black as a grave in a cellar. “No! Not even that! I don’t want him to know. Just make it look like a regular mugging or something. Maybe get it done on the street near the Bottler’s if that damn fool is still gambling. But remember, he’s gotta live.”

  “Sure sure. Livin’ an’ breathin’. I got it.”

  “And Jack, once that job’s done, I want to see the Bottler.”

  “Sure, boss, but youse could just go an’—”

  “No! Bring him to me! You got that? I want him where I can…” Kelly hesitated. The El train rumbled toward them, vibrating the steel beneath their feet. There really wasn’t a need to say more. “Just get him.”

  20

  MIKE AND PRIMO stuck to the shadows of Suffolk Street as much as possible. They’d been watching the tenement where the Bottler ran his game for almost four hours. The shopkeeper had confirmed the address Mike had gotten from Johnny Suds and they’d set up near each end of the block where they could observe men going in and out. It was like watching the tide and about as interesting. With the exception of a small-time gangster or two, most of the men they didn’t recognize. The only thing of interest was a carriage that had sat at the curb the entire time they’d been there, its driver dozing most of the time, getting down only once to tie feed bags to each of the horses.

  They had decided to just watch the place for a few days, see who went in and out, maybe match someone up with Smilin’ Jack’s gang of river thieves. Suds’s admissions weren’t enough to arrest a protected man like the Bottler. They’d need more for that. Though Mike would have liked to go in hard, wring the Bottler for his connection to the Hookers and cocaine smuggling, he knew that a more patient approach was likely to yield the better result.