Hell's Gate
Authors: Richard E. Crabbe
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Contents
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For Chelsea
Acknowledgments
WITH GRATITUDE TO Peter Joseph, my editor, whose judgment and insight I have come to rely on. His emphasis on economy and pacing have shown me the error of my ways and made this a better book.
Thanks go to Richard Barber, my agent and friend. His unstinting generosity of time and effort have kept me from sudden death on publishing's minefield.
And to Kim, my wife, the anchor of my life and the sirocco of my dreams, I give my love.
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I will not doubt, though sorrows fall like rain,
And troubles swarm like bees about a hive;
I shall believe the heights for which I strive
Are only reached by anguish and by pain;
And though I groan and tremble with my crosses
I yet shall see, through my severest losses,
The greater gain â¦
âE
LLA
W
HEELER
W
ILCOX
,
Faith
1
THE FLOATING BETHEL rolled on the oily, black waters of the East River, riding the swells of a passing steam tug. Its steeple sketched lazy arcs against the moonless sky like the needle of a compass, searching for true north. There was no sound save for the restless slap and swish of the river against barnacled hulls and pilings. The church windows were dark. The organ was silent. Any souls in need of saving would have to wait for the light of day.
Detective Mike Braddock wondered whose idea it had been to build a church on a barge in the East River. New York had no lack of churches and wouldn't seem to need another, especially not the floating sort. Still, the little church had bobbed on the river for many years now. The notion had been to bring a church to the seamen of the port, who notoriously shunned those inland, where finery trumped soul-saving most Sundays.
Mike glanced at the other officers in the steam launch, all men from the harbor police, the steamboat squad as it was called. All five of them were armed to the teeth. They were hard men, used to the cutthroat brand of criminals that worked the waterfront. Mike had insisted they be handpicked by their captain for this job. They were the best the squad had and they knew what they were about.
The police dock was watched, they'd told him. On moonless nights, when the gangs did their best work, there was always a watcher, ready to signal the comings and goings of the water cops. So tonight they'd headed upriver to throw any scouts off and had ducked in behind the Floating Bethel at the foot of Pike Street.
“We'll sit tight here for a time,” the sergeant in charge of the squad said. “Stay outa sight an' be sure we weren't spotted.”
Mike nodded. Though it had been his informant who'd tipped them, it was the steamboat squad who'd be running the show. Mike checked his watch. It was nearly one. Almost time. He watched as a big gray rat ran across the barge and up a hawser to the dock, where it disappeared behind a barrel. He could hear the squeak and scuttle of others. Where there was one to see, there were always at least three more hidden in the shadows. That was the way with rats regardless of how many legs they walked on.
The gang Mike was after was a last remnant of the Hookers, so-called for their territory around Corlears Hook, just up the river. They were getting more ambitious from what he'd been told and tonight they'd planned on looting a ship anchored just south of Governor's Island. Though Mike didn't usually concern himself with waterfront crime, this was a special case, a chance to grab the whole gang in the act, the kind of case that made a career.
Being the son of the legendary Thomas Braddock, captain of the Third Precinct, a man as appreciated for his facility at cracking skulls as cracking cases, did not provide a sure ticket to the top. In fact, the pressure had always been a notch higher, the expectations greater. He accepted that. He'd never asked for special treatment or plum assignments. Tom wouldn't have helped if he had and he definitely wouldn't have approved. Mike had wanted to earn his stripes on his own merit. He'd done well enough, rising through the ranks to detective sergeant in solid if unspectacular fashion. Still, he wanted more.
“Let's get moving,” Mike said. The sergeant looked about one more time and nodded. They'd lain hidden for more than half an hour, enough time to throw off anyone who'd seen them leave the dock. The patrolman at the wheel threw a long, brass lever and the launch started to back out into the current. The propeller churned up the black waters. The stink of salt water and sewage rose off the river like a choking hand. The shoreline was dotted with open drains for miles upstream. Human waste, horseshit, brewery dregs, slaughterhouse effluence, and industrial wastes of every description drained in sluggish streams under the city. The river was the biggest sewer of all.
As they cleared the cover of the Floating Bethel, the men scanned the shoreline, searching for signal lamps in darkened windows. Once out in the river, the engine was reversed and the bow turned toward the harbor. They gathered speed, the heavy waters whispering behind, so that in minutes the steeple's outline was lost in the tangle of masts and hulls moored on the waterfront. One of the patrolmen threw a small shovel of coal into the boiler, lighting his face briefly. It was their only show of light, still, Mike wished they'd had one of the new naphtha-powered launches, which needed no stoking.
In a few minutes they were closing on Governor's Island, heading for Buttermilk Channel between the island and the Brooklyn waterfront. One by one the men checked their weapons. Rounds were chambered and safeties thumbed. Once they cleared the channel, they'd be exposed. There'd be no time to check weapons then.
The plan was to make a dash from the cover of the island and surprise the Hookers while still on the ship. Mike knew how often plans went wrong. Everyone aboard did. The Hookers had been close to impossible to catch in the past and even harder to hold. They'd fight if given the chance. With men in their ranks like Smilin' Jack O'Banion, Joey Bones, and a one-eyed thug known as the Oysterman, the Hookers were as hardened and vicious a collection of butchers as the city had ever seen. Mike's men were ready though. Two of them had model '97 Winchester pump shotguns. The short-barreled riot guns had six loads of buckshot, carrying nine .32 caliber balls to a load. The others were armed with standard-issue revolvers, but they all had at least one backup tucked in a waistband or pocket. Mike had his service revolver, but preferred a new Colt .38 auto. He kept the revolver as a backup. Though the automatic wasn't much good for anything beyond fifty feet, it could fire as fast as he could pull the trigger. He carried it in a holster under his left arm. Its bulk felt hot against his side, the leather holster damp with sweat.
They could see the ship, a big sidewheeler called the
Warrior Prince.
It swung at anchor, its bow pointing off toward the Statue of Liberty. The tide had turned an hour before and she was turning with it. They couldn't see anything, no activity, no other boats near. The cop at the helm throttled up for the dash across the open water. They'd decided to run flat-out, then cut the engine, and drift to the ship's side in silence. The wind picked up and the bow skipped through the water. They all crouched low as a mist of salt spray dashed over them. The engine thumped like a galloping horse. Mike found himself remembering another night fifteen years before, an age ago it seemed, when he was just sixteen and barely shaving. He, his father, and Mitchell Sabattis, the legendary Adirondack guide, had pursued a murderer for more than a hundred miles through lakes, rivers, and forest in the wildest reaches of upstate New York. On a moonless night, they'd rowed after him for miles up Long Lake, sweat and spray soaking them. That had been a chase for the ages. This little dash was nothing by comparison.
A hundred yards off and the engine went silent. Their momentum and the tide carried them in toward the hulking form of the steamer. The twin masts cut across the stars and the massive, rounded sidewheel housing loomed above their heads as they closed in.
“There,” one of the men said in a hoarse whisper, pointing to a darkened space behind the sidewheel. A launch just slightly bigger than theirs lay in the shadows. They couldn't see if anyone was aboard. The sergeant tapped the patrolmen with the shotguns, pointing where he wanted their weapons trained; one on the launch, one on the ship's rail. They bumped against the side of the launch a few moments later. Mike held his .38 on it as two men clambered over the side. A few seconds later, the men waved an all clear.
“Up,” the sergeant said and they began to rise. But at almost the same instant there was a commotion from above, muffled shouts and stamping feet. They all looked, turning their eyes toward the starry sky as a body came hurtling over the side. There was no cry, no sound at all except a laugh like the barking of a dog. There was no time to react, no place to go. The body crashed into them, a leg landing square across one man's back, the rest of the body striking with splintering force, then careening overboard, arms and legs at impossible angles. It splashed into the harbor and disappeared.
The patrolman was down, moaning in the bottom of the launch. A voice from up on the steamer said, “What da fuck? Hit our goddamn boat!”
Two heads appeared over the rail, black balls on hunched shoulders. The sergeant and another patrolman didn't see them. They were bent over their fallen man. Mike and the rest saw well enough, heard one of them curse, and for a moment they disappeared. “Up!” Mike shouted, but it was too late. In a burst of sound and light a hail of bullets rained down on them. Splinters flew off the deck and rails, lead pinged off the iron boiler. There was the unmistakable sound of bullets on flesh. Men dove and ducked for whatever cover they could find. Mike hid behind the boiler. An officer fell on him. Someone stomped on his hand and he almost lost his pistol. It seemed as though nobody was returning fire. The boat rocked. Curses and cries rang out. A shotgun boomed. Mike got himself untangled as it fired again. He was looking up and saw a chunk of the ship's rail disintegrate in splinters. The firing stopped from above, though it was hard to tell as the steamboat squad fired blindly, those that were able.
