Hell's Gate (23 page)

Ginny did not complain. It wasn't because she was too timid, rather it was the weight of silence around her. None of the other girls complained, though each was as badly used as she. They seemed to take it as a matter of course that they'd be treated as such and set about their extra work with no more than a sigh.

At eight, as she took the elevator down, Ginny said to Esther, “How do you stand it? You know he's just milking us for extra pieces for no good reason. It's like blackmail.”

“You thought something different,” Esther said with a grim laugh. “Listen, sweetie, he's no worse, that Polack shuffler than the rest of them. Till ten o'clock I used to woik sometimes,” Esther said, “making up mistakes only a magnifying glass could see. At least that Polack don't grope me or nothin'.” There was a general murmur of agreement as the gate clanged open. “Anyway, heaven this ain't,” Esther said as they stepped out into the graying street, “but I been to hell, sweetie, an' you got it better here, lemme tell ya.”

Ginny said her good-byes and headed for the subway on leaden feet. She stopped after just a few steps, turning to look back at the park and the tree where the man in the straw boater had stood. He was not there, but she'd felt as though she had to look. What if it had been Mike and he'd been looking for her, she wondered, a pang of guilt running through her. She had not been looking for him. That uncomfortable truth weighed on her more heavily than her aching back and sore leg. He'd be looking for
her
by now, searching the city, turning every brothel upside down, every hat shop, tobacco store, dance hall and dive, or so she imagined, so she hoped.

Ginny wanted to be found. But she was so weary, with barely the strength to drag herself to her machine in the morning and her bed at night. She'd told herself she'd get used to it, that her muscles would cease their stabbing pains and that her energy would return. None of those things had happened yet, which only made her guilt grow deeper. She should have contacted him by now, should have at least tried. He'd have been to Miss Gertie's. He'd have heard the story or rather Gertie's version. Ginny could only speculate on what he'd heard, but she knew her disappearance and her silence could only be seen as signs of guilt. She wondered then if Mike was really looking for her at all. The thought alone added weight to her feet and a slump to her shoulders. She'd thought that once she had a job, had shed the oily skin of her old profession, that then she'd let Mike find her, let him see the woman she'd become. But the Triangle Shirtwaist Company was peeling not just skin from her back, but muscle from the bone.

Nearing Astor Place, Ginny saw a boy selling apples and bananas out of an old packing crate. Her growling stomach commanded her to stop and reach into her purse for a penny. The fruit was mostly bad, the apples bruised, the bananas black, but it made no difference. She ate a banana, bruises and all, and before she even thought about it, handed over another penny for a second. She ate that one only a bit slower than the first. Within minutes she felt a surge of energy run through her and she realized that perhaps part of her weariness was due to her simply not eating enough. She'd never had to worry about food before, nor the money to pay for it, not at Miss Gertie's and certainly not at home. But feeling the amount of energy a couple of pennies worth of bananas produced, she knew she hadn't been doing a very good job at keeping her strength up.

Ginny lingered at the top step of the new subway entrance, weighing her guilty thoughts of Mike, the lateness of the hour, the ache in her back, and the stab in her calf against the glow of two overripe bananas. Making her decision, she headed down, using the handrail to ease her way. She took the train to Spring Street. Police headquarters was just a couple of blocks north and east, looming shabbily over the surrounding neighborhood. It stood in stark, self-conscious contrast to the tenements with clothes fluttering on fire escapes and the cast-iron façades of the loft buildings on Spring. Ginny walked the short distance, feeling better than she had in many days, aching but resolute. She had no idea if Mike was stationed there. He'd never said exactly. The stories he'd told her about cases he'd worked, things he'd seen and criminals he'd known, seemed to have taken him all over the city. If she was to find him she had to start somewhere and she was certain they would know at police headquarters where any one of their detectives were stationed.

“What's your business, ma'am?” a desk sergeant inquired after she'd stood in the echoing lobby for an uncomfortably long minute. The place wasn't set up like a traditional precinct house. Instead of the high main desk and railing that loomed like a rampart in most police stations, here there was a single desk, of more or less regular dimensions, where a sergeant passed his hours in institutional boredom.

“I was looking for Michael Braddock,” Ginny said.

“And who would he be, miss?” he said, managing to ask the question without a hint of curiosity.

“He's a detective, I think.”

“You think?”

“Yes, a detective,” she said with more certainty.

“But you're not sure.”

“No, I'm sure.” She tried to get more conviction into her voice and thought she managed it, but the sergeant didn't appear convinced.

“Okay, now you're sure,” he said, “and this detective that you're sure of; you think he's stationed here at the detective bureau? You know there's detectives in all the precincts, don't you?”

Ginny nodded as though she did, but thought it might be better to say as little as possible on the topic.

“You think he's here, but you aren't sure, are you?”

“Not exactly,” she admitted. “It seemed like the best place to start.”

“You wouldn't be in the family way, would you, miss? That wouldn't be the reason you're trying to find Braddock? You know there's homes for women in your condition, places where you could go and quietly—”

“No! No! That's not it at all!” The color was rising above Ginny's tight collar and her eyes were flashing daggers. “I just need to find him. We're…” Ginny searched for the perfect definition of what she and Mike were to each other. “We're very close,” she said, knowing it wouldn't do. “But we haven't seen each other for some time. I've been away at Albany with my sister and I'm back now and thought I'd surprise him.”

The desk sergeant looked at his watch. “At eight thirty,” he said, looking up at her only a bit less skeptically. Ginny kept quiet. “So you want to surprise Mike Braddock, who might be a detective and might be stationed here, because you and him are very close. Am I getting this right?”

Ginny gave the sergeant as innocent and winning a smile as she could muster. “I suppose when you say it like that it sounds a little silly, Officer, but I confess that is my dilemma, which is why I would be so very grateful for your help.”

The sergeant seemed to soften a bit, though he didn't go so far as to return her smile. “Ma'am, I know Mike Braddock pretty well, see him most every day. Used to work with him at the Fourth.”

Ginny's heart began to race, so she barely heard what the man said next.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Virginia Caldwell.”

“Well, Virginia Caldwell, in all my years I've known Mike Braddock, never once did I hear him mention your name. Pretty odd you being very close like you say.”

“Are you going to let me at least go up to the detective bureau?” Ginny said, her voice flat with defeat. “Please?”

“Listen, I can't let you up unless it's on police business and clearly this ain't that. Only thing I can tell you is come back tomorrow, sometime around four. I think his shift starts then.”

Ginny was grateful for the information, but knew she couldn't take advantage of it. Leaving her job in the middle of the day wasn't possible, not if she wanted to return. She sighed. “Can I leave him a note?”

The sergeant hesitated and for a moment Ginny was sure he'd say no. She waited, determined not to speak until he gave her an answer. He opened a drawer, took out a pad and pencil. “This is no message service,” he said, “but I'll put it on his desk before I leave tonight. How's that?”

Ginny wrote as fast as her mind and hand could work, afraid that at any instant the sergeant might reconsider. Walking out a few minutes later she turned north, covering almost two blocks before she realized that her leg had stopped cramping. She looked down at it with a puzzled frown, stopping to flex her foot. She bent to feel the calf and was surprised when she poked herself with something sharp. The pencil was still gripped tightly in her hand. She put it in her small handbag with a shake of her head.

25

“CHUCK! IT'S FOR you,” the bartender called to the back. He'd had a phone installed primarily for Connors's calls and was used to acting as an informal answering service. “You comin'?”

Connors snatched the mouthpiece after a slow shamble to the bar. “Yeah?”

“Mister Connors? Are you there?”

“Who da fuck else'd be here?”

“My God! I've been trying to reach you since early this morning. This is Lionel Saturn.”

Connors didn't see any reason to comment on the first bit of information and certainly not on the second. He knew who it was.

“Mister Connors. I say I've been trying to reach you. This is an emergency, man!”

“Yeah, well, I don' keep reg'lar hours, Lionel.”

“But I've been assaulted. They were Paul Kelly's men. They almost killed me!”

It was Connors's turn to digest things. “But you ain't dead now I take it?”

“No, no, of course not. I was rescued by two detectives. Listen, Connors; you have to do something. They said Kelly didn't like me going to Big Tim. Told me to keep him out of it or they'd kill me. You have to get Big Tim to back off or I'm a dead man.”

“Can't do it.”

“What?”

“Kelly's been paid off. Big Tim done what youse wanted an' now by da way youse owe me a grand.”

“But for God's sake, there has to be some way to reverse this, something you can do.”

Connors thought for a moment. “Listen,” he said “Big Tim's out maybe eleven grand on dis. Youse gotta pay 'im back, an' quick. What youse owe me, too,” he added.

“God!” There was a long pause. “I suppose. There's stock, I suppose, stock in the steamship company. Would he take that?”

“Stock?”

“Yes, you know, shares in the company. They're worth quite a bit actually,” Saturn said with an air of resigned sadness.

“Don' know what Tim'd do wit dose,” Connors said, though he knew quite well. “How much youse got?”

“Never mind how much, Mister Connors. Suffice it to say it's enough to pay Big Tim several times over.”

Connors waited for what he thought was an appropriate time before saying, “I could call Tim, I guess.”

“Good, good,” Saturn's voice sparked through the earpiece. “And what about Kelly?”

“Fucked if I know. What about 'im?”

“Well, damn it, man, that's what this is all about. Can't Big Tim talk to him or something? I mean with Sullivan out of the picture, maybe Kelly would be more amenable.”

“Paul Kelly's a lotta t'ings Lionel. Fucked if 'meanable is one o' dose.”

“But he has his money, you say. What more can he want?”

“Listen, I ain't gonna talk for Kelly. What 'e wants is what 'e wants, get me? My advice is you wanna stay breathin', youse play along, see?”

“All right, Connors. What choice do I have?”

Connors smiled into the mouthpiece. “Youse could go ta da cops.”

“Don't patronize me, Connors.” The line went dead and Connors chuckled. He had the bartender flick the cradle for the operator and a few moments later had Big Tim on the line. “Tim? Looks like Kelly done youse a favor,” Connors said into the phone. He gave Sullivan the short version of his conversation with Saturn. He heard a chair creak and pictured Sullivan's bulk leaning back in victory.

“Easier than I thought, Chuck. But then Kelly is nothing if not predictable, eh?”

26

MIKE AND PRIMO took the thug they'd caught for an intimate conversation in an outhouse behind a decaying tenement on Ludlow Street. There they persuaded him to tell them all he knew about the attack on Saturn. His name was Joe Martin, but he went by the moniker Bones. He was uncooperative at first, but came around once they shoved him halfway into the pit. With him suspended by his feet, they promised to drop him in if his attitude didn't improve.

Martin was a low-level bone-breaker for the Gophers, a gang that controlled a large portion of the West Side. He'd been recruited by Jack McManus for this job in return for a favor Jack had recently done him. He said he didn't know who Saturn was nor why he'd merited a special visit from Eat-'em-up Jack and his pals. When Mike and Primo were convinced they were getting the whole truth and nothing but, they went on to ask about the Bottler. In this area he was of less assistance. He knew of the Bottler and freely admitted to gambling there, a risky thing to do for a Gopher, but his knowledge of any other activities, smuggling, or river piracy was nonexistent.

The interview came to a sudden and unpleasant end when Primo lost his grip on the leg he was holding and Mike was forced to let go or fall into the cesspool himself.

“Damn,” Primo said, seeming more surprised than upset.

“It's okay. It's not that deep, I think,” Mike observed as the man thrashed about to right himself.

“No. It is my handcuffs. He still has them on. What am I gonna do?”

“Hey, I wasn't the one who let go first.”

Primo grumbled under his breath. He paused when the thrashing in the cesspool stopped. “Bones, you okay down there?” he called.