Hell's Gate (11 page)

Miss Gertie had told her she'd have to go. No hint of violence, at least on her girls' part, had ever been permitted to exist within her walls and could not be tolerated now. She didn't give a snap for Johnny Suds or his cracked head, but she couldn't be seen to let the matter slide. It wouldn't be good for the other girls, she explained, who might get ideas, and above all her business depended upon a clean reputation. Houses like hers were becoming a rarity now. Hers was no panel house, with thieves hiding behind the walls. Her customers paid handsomely for privacy, discretion, and security. They paid more than they had to so as to take their pleasures without fear.

Ginny didn't care, not about Miss Gertie's reasons, not about the proper behavior of whores, the reputation of the house, not even about the growing bruise on her face. She knew that it had been as much the work of Kelly's man as anything else. She was leaving, a thing that she'd learned was not easily done without Miss Gertie's consent, or the fear of being dragged back by Kevin. Ginny was leaving and the price of her ticket had been paid in full.

10

“AN' HOW'S DA kids?” Connors asked as Big Tim Sullivan settled into his office chair. His headquarters were in the Occidental Hotel, a once fashionable affair, now in decline. It was in a good location though, in the heart of his empire, on the corner of Bowery and Broome.

“Ouch, growin' like weeds, Chuck. Eatin' me outa house an' home.”

Connors laughed, though his own experience with children was of the bastard variety. He took a seat across the cluttered desk from Big Tim and got a cigar going. Though Big Tim wasn't a smoker or a drinker, he tolerated the habits in others. Connors looked about the office; a splendidly shabby affair with a window overlooking Bowery. He eyed the photos arranged on the walls. There were dozens; testaments to the warm and cordial relations Sullivan shared with the rich, the powerful, the political, the ecclesiastical, and the criminal elements of the city. McClellan was there, McKinley too, and, of course, Howe and Hummel, the best and certainly the most corrupt defense attorneys the city had ever seen. Even Roosevelt was captured shaking Big Tim's hand, though he appeared less than pleased to do so.

“Ah, if these walls could talk,” Connors said. “You'se come a long ways, Dry Dollar,” Connors said, calling him by his old nickname, from when he owned the Dry Dollar saloon on Chrystie Street, once the headquarters of the Whyos gang. Big Tim had six saloons now and many other interests beyond his nominal job; head of the Third Assembly District, which included the Bowery. Along with the famous gambler, Frank Farrell, and Big Bill Devery, possibly the most crooked cop in New York, Big Tim ran a protection racket for gambling joints throughout the city.

Sullivan smiled, but said, “It's just as well these walls stay silent.”

“T'ings what get talked about here stays here. Always has always will,” Connors said, bristling at a reminder that he of all people didn't need.

Sullivan was a powerful man, more powerful than even the framed photos might seem to indicate. All the ward healers, all the shoulder-hitters, gamblers, bartenders, gang bosses, cops, city inspectors, pimps, and banco men in the district owed their allegiance and, in many cases, their existence to him. There was hardly a job in any of the city's departments that he didn't have control of one way or another, at least when it came to his turf.

He'd started his career in his teens as a saloon keeper, but soon expanded that to controller of the Whyos' votes and was a repeat voter of great talent and creativity. He'd won his seat in 1892 with a vote of 395 to 4. He'd beaten poll-watchers in his younger days and was without doubt one of the best shoulder-hitters the city had ever seen. He was a master of the shakedown, regularly putting the arm on local merchants, saloon keepers, gamblers, whores, liquor vendors, and the like to buy tickets to his many clambakes, chowder suppers, and summer outings to College Point.

His generosity was every bit as outsized as his extralegal endeavors. It was widely agreed that he gave away something like $25,000 a year to the poor. He regularly went out at dawn with groups of the unemployed to secure jobs for them on the docks. His Christmas dinners for the down-and-outers of the Bowery were legendary and it was not unusual for him to host well more than four thousand indigents. Thousands of pounds of turkey, hundreds of loaves of bread, thousands of pies, and at least a hundred kegs of beer would be consumed and every man left with a pipe, a bag of tobacco, new socks, and shoes.

“So, you got a problem,” Sullivan said. He didn't ask. Nobody who visited his office came without a problem.

“Not my problem. A gentleman, name o' Saturn, got a gamblin' debt ta Kelly. Wants me ta meditate.”

“Mediate,” said Big Tim, crossing his hands over his stomach.

“Right,” Connors agreed. “Anyway, I figured youse could help.”

“How bad?” Sullivan asked, tapping a pencil to his lower lip in an attempt to hide a smile.

“Ten.”

“Thousand?” Big Tim asked. He didn't raise an eyebrow or give any other sign of his astonishment. It wasn't that he was surprised at the number itself. Wealthy men sometimes lost that much and more. What was astonishing was that the debt was to Paul Kelly. Kelly wasn't one to let a debt grow to those proportions. He'd had men killed for much less. People who owed Kelly either paid up quick or got hurt, usually both.

“Who is this
gentleman?
Saturn, you said his name was?”

“Knickerbocker Steamship Company. He's da senior VP or somethin'. Kelly's puttin' da screws ta da guy.”

“As only our Paul can do,” said Tim thoughtfully. “Can Saturn pay?”

“Says he can. Needs time like they all do. Same ol' story.”

“And why would I want to help?” Tim asked, narrowing one eye at Connors.

“Five percent. Five hundred fer a phone call or two.” They both knew it wasn't quite as simple as that, but they nodded as though it was.

“What's your end?”

“Five fer me, too,” Connors said. “Everybody wins.”

“Except for this fellow Saturn.”

“Well, o' course, not him. But what da fuck, he got himself in dis mess.”

Sullivan chuckled. He was a notorious gambler himself, the only difference being that he could afford to be one. “What's his game?”

“Stuss,” Connors said almost spitting the word with distaste. “Clever fella like him shoulda knew better.”

“Funny what some men'll do, the risks they'll take for the thrill o' winning. Doesn't mean he's stupid, just that he loves the thrill, convinced himself he can beat the odds.” Tim shook his head as Chuck let out a blue cloud of cigar smoke.

“Where'd he play? Not the Bottler's game, I hope?”

Connors shrugged. “Don' matter ta me. Could be, why?”

“Nothin',” Big Tim said. He looked at his watch, then got up from his chair. “Take a walk with me, Chuck.”

Connors stood. “Where youse goin'?” He'd just been getting comfortable in Big Tim's leather chair, feeling like a big shot, pulling strings.

“Out an' about, Chuck. Out an' about. A politician's no good to anybody if you can't see him.”

As they left Big Tim's office, two men fell in behind them. One was Photo Dave Altman, his bodyguard, the other was called Sasparilla, though his real name was Thomas Reilly, Tim's sometime valet, factotum, and doer of things he preferred not to do himself. When they left the building they turned west on Broome. Photo Dave went two paces ahead, Sasparilla a pace behind. Connors had no doubt they were armed, but somehow that knowledge didn't make him feel safe.

Men on the street tipped their hats to Big Tim. Connors got his share of recognition as well, but it was nothing against the steady surf of greetings that followed Sullivan. A woman stopped them just a block from the park, stepping into their path suddenly and startling Photo Dave, who reached into his jacket. Tim just shook his head and Dave relaxed. The woman poured out a tale of woe, which Chuck only half heard. He watched with interest, though, as Big Tim listened carefully, questioning her in detail on one point or another. After a minute, he produced a wad of bills and peeled off a few into the woman's palm. Patting her on the shoulder and giving her a few soft words of encouragement, he sent her off. Sasparilla scribbled something in a notebook.

“Husband's sick an' the fookin' landlord's puttin' them out,” Big Tim explained. “He's a good man, a good Democrat. Always good for two, three votes. We'll fix it with the damn landlord.” He gave a slight nod to Sasparilla, who nodded back as he wrote.

They didn't talk about the Knickerbocker Steamship Company, stuss games, Kelly, or Saturn's debt, but Big Tim thought of those things constantly as they walked, rolling them around in his head, looking for the perfect angle, that delicate point at which the least leverage might be applied to the greatest advantage.

He had been in the habit of hiring a steamer for his day trips to the North Shore of Long Island in the summers; part reward for the party faithful, part extortion. They were splendid affairs, complete with massive barbeques, horseshoes, dancing, swimming, and fireworks. He always made sure that there was a solid sprinkling of families who needed a good meal and a day away from care. They were altogether satisfying endeavors and Big Tim took pride in them, always trying to make the next one a bit more fun than the last. And though they had always been moneymakers, he hadn't held them strictly for that. But this thing with the fool Saturn and his steamship company had the power to add another level of interest. Big Tim made a calculation and came up with a number. It was a good number, a number that put him in mind of how he might look in a captain's uniform. He imagined himself behind the wheel as the steamer churned the river, saw himself blowing the big steam whistle, and smiled at the notion of literally tooting his own horn.

“Somethin' funny?” Connors asked. Sullivan shook his head.

“Nothin', Chuck,” Big Tim said, making a mental note to check his numbers before he made any moves. There was nothing funny about it, nothing funny at all.

11

MIKE HEARD THE Oldsmobile before he saw it. He was crossing at the corner of Spring and Crosby, not far from where the new police headquarters was being built, a grand beaux arts pile that was to replace the aging and unpretentious old building on Mulberry. The Olds's horn honked twice, like a goose made of brass and rubber. Tom was dressed in a white duster that enveloped him like an Arab. Long gloves in yellow kid covered his hands and little round goggles were strapped around his head just under his black bowler. He grinned incandescently and waved like a boy on his first bike ride, letting go of the tiller for an instant. The car weaved in response to the sudden lack of piloting, the white tires bouncing crazily, the tiller whipping about before Tom grabbed it again with a look somewhere between panic and foolishness. He brought the car to a stop beside Mike with a flurry of pulled levers and twisted controls. It stalled with an indignant chug and sputter, a puff of smoke shooting out the back.

“Damn spark,” Tom said as he pulled the goggles down around his neck. “Haven't got the hang of it yet,” he said with a wave at a brass lever. “Keep forgetting to retard the damn thing.” In reality, Tom wasn't exactly sure why the Olds sputtered when he stopped but he was damn sure Mike knew even less about it than he did. “Heard about Mickey Todt,” he added as he pulled off his gloves.

“Yeah. He's
todt
for sure now. We're back to square one. That's why I'm heading over to check the rogues' gallery, see if I come up with any aliases. Sure as hell the Bottler ain't his real name.”

“Maybe Ma and Pa Bottler couldn't decide on a name for junior,” Tom said with a glance back at the Olds. “So how's Primo working out?”

“Good. He's a wise guy, but he seems to have his head on straight. He knows what he's doing and he's careful. Did all right with the Mickey Todt thing. He'll be at headquarters in a minute,” Mike said with a glance at his pocket watch. “So what're you doing here?”

“Meeting with the Chief. Going over budgets,” Tom said with a grimace. “Spend more time looking at balance sheets and fuckin' reports than anything like real police work. It's all bullshit.” He gave an audible sigh. “But necessary, I guess. Keeps us on the straight and narrow.” Mayor McClellan, who'd only been on the job for a few months, was not toeing Tammany's line and had made a point of appointing Independents to his administration, which had not been lost on the higher echelons of the department.

“Heard you were out with Ginny the other day,” Tom said, changing the subject abruptly. “I'm surprised they let you take her out of the house. Your mom almost never let that happen.” He appeared to catch himself, then added, “But things were different then.”

“Yeah, well, I paid for the favor,” Mike said. He was uncomfortable with the subject as always with his father. “How'd you know, I mean about us going out?”

Tom just smiled and wiped his goggles on the hem of his duster. “Your mother got this outfit for me. Said it'll make me look sporty. I'm not so sure. Think maybe I just look stupid.”

Mike grinned. “Maybe, but you know what they say, Stupid is as stupid does.”

“Talking about yourself, Mike?” Primo said behind them. “Oldsmobile, huh.” He said, looking longingly at the car. “It is good, the red. A very sexy color. The women they will chase you down Broadway like the bulls with the matador.”

“Yeah, well, don't say that in front of my wife. I'd be driving a black one the next day,” Tom said. “You boys open in an hour or two?”

“Maybe. Why?” Mike asked.

“Got an idea. Somebody you should maybe see.”

“Who?”