Hell's Gate (25 page)

“Jesus Christ! You okay?” Mike called out as the air cleared.

“Yeah, I guess,” Tom said as he rolled to his knees. He was bleeding from a half dozen cuts to his head and hands. “Hell, I don't know.” He sounded dazed and far away.

Mike realized that his ears were ringing like sirens. He looked at the smoking ruin down the hall, the walls and ceiling so splashed with blood it appeared they'd been painted, the man's shoes, yards away, with his feet still in them, and again, this time through the haze, he saw the face peering around the corner. It disappeared and was followed by the sound of running feet.

“Stop!” Mike shouted.

Tom was on his feet, hands on his knees. “You see that guy?” he said as he started forward.

“Yeah,” Mike said, breaking into an uncertain run. “We're gonna lose him, we don't get moving.” They passed Primo's door, hanging on one hinge, the glass jagged and gaping like the mouth of a shark. “Primo, you okay?” He got a lifted hand in reply. “We'll be back,” he called as he ran after Tom, sprinting against a tide of nurses, doctors, patients, and orderlies, shouting, “Police! Out of the way!” Mike followed Tom to the stairs, which they took in leaps and tumbles. Bursting into the early morning sun, they squinted up and down First Avenue, but saw no one.

“You sure he came this way?” Mike asked between breaths. He wiped his forehead at what he thought was sweat, but the hand came away bloody.

“I saw him duck into that stair,” Tom said, looking back at the hospital. “I was sure he was below us.” They were near the front gate. “You check up the block, I'll go down.”

He turned, but Mike stopped him. There was a man walking toward them with both hands on his middle. Even at a half block away they could see him stagger. He croaked something at them and they ran to him.

“Ice wagon,” he said in a reedy voice, his hands red at his belly. “Got my horse.”

Tom spotted a white-coated doctor and shouted for help, waving his arms. “What wagon? Where?” Mike asked. Looking up the block, he saw a man on a horse with no saddle, the remains of a harness dangling. An ice wagon sat at the curb nearby. “There he is!”

He started to run, but Tom stopped him. “Never catch him on foot. C'mon.” He ran in the opposite direction, all the while shouting for the doctor. Mike took off after him with a last worried look at the blood pooling at the iceman's feet.

The Oldsmobile started with a quick turn of the crank and Tom was behind the tiller before Mike could climb aboard. The horse and rider were three blocks ahead, disappearing around the corner of Thirty-fourth Street by the time the Olds got moving, the single cylinder hammering hard. They passed wagons and carriages at an alarming rate and the turn was coming up fast. Tom braced himself, leaning into it, one hand on the tiller, the other on the seat rail. He looked wild and ragged, hair flying, blood running from his cuts and into his paper collar. They skittered through the turn, the thin tires screeching and slipping. Tom stayed at full throttle and when they were through and running straight again, he was grinning like a crocodile. He and Mike exchanged a look. He hunkered forward, willing the little car on.

The rider was closer now. His horse, not accustomed to anything beyond a trot would not stay at a gallop for more than a short distance despite the man's flogging.

“We got this bastard” Mike shouted as they started to climb toward Fourth Avenue. Slowly they closed the gap, whittling it to no more than a hundred yards as they neared Lexington. The rider hadn't looked back, probably figuring it unlikely he was even followed, much less caught at the rate he was moving. The horse had slowed to a jog as it climbed the hill, passing the corner, going straight on toward Fourth. The Olds slowed too, but not as much, its momentum carrying it forward. Mike had his Colt out, though the distance was still too great for it to be of any use. The rider saw them then, glancing over his shoulder almost casually before booting the animal into a run. Still the Olds closed, the engine grinding away the distance with each thump of its cylinder. Mike shouted for the rider to stop as the gap narrowed to fifty yards. He threw a wide-eyed glare over his shoulder as he bent low over the nag's mane. Mike tried holding the pistol on him, but the bouncing of the Olds had the sights waving like a kite in a storm. “Not yet!” Tom shouted. There were pedestrians at the corner of Fourth, businessmen off to work, a woman pushing a pram. Some were crossing the street, unaware of the horse and automobile bearing down on them. The horseman didn't slow, riding as if to continue straight on Thirty-fourth, but at the last instant with people shouting and running for safety, he turned south, hooves flailing at the pavement, slipping, clattering, but somehow keeping horse and rider aloft. Tom and Mike braced for the turn a moment later, leaning to the left like sailors in a racing yacht, hanging over the side. Tom put the tiller over, fighting it as the tires screamed and hopped sideways. Faces in the crowd flew by, mouths open, cursing, shouting.

The road was not wide enough. They were going sideways into the curb. Tom yanked the tiller the other way and took the curb at an angle, bounding onto the sidewalk and so close to the side of a building that Mike could not understand how they didn't hit it.

The rider was now more than a block ahead, running hard downhill toward Thirty-second, widening the gap. The Olds careened back onto the pavement. Tom pressed the speeder hard, trying to regain their lost momentum. The rider was almost at Thirty-second Street and rode into the turn as hard as his ice wagon horse would go. Again Tom and Mike braced for the turn. But they were going downhill and had gained at least another five miles an hour by the time they hit the corner. Tom fought to slow the Olds, hands and feet dancing at the controls, one hand hard on the brake handle. They slowed, but not enough. The Olds tilted as it reached the apex of the turn, rising up on two wheels before hitting the curb.

Mike felt them going over, the sidewalk hitting his shoulder and head and knees, felt Tom crash on top of him. They rolled into a wall in a tangle of arms and legs. Mike was on his feet before he knew it or even considered what his injuries might be. He tried to focus on the rider, now nearly two blocks away and disappearing fast, but his head was spinning and he fell against the wall and slipped to the sidewalk. Tom groaned at his side, holding one arm and bleeding from somewhere.

“You okay?” was all Mike could manage.

“I look okay?”

“No.”

“Fuck it,” Tom said and got up, wincing as he set his feet under him. “C'mon, let's get this car up.” A crowd had gathered, angry shouts and curses ringing them. “Police,” Tom growled at them. “Out of the way!” He grabbed a crumpled fender at the front and Mike the one at the rear, his head still wobbling about on his shoulders in a most unsettling manner. “On three,” Tom said.

It took two tries to get the Olds on her wheels, but then it became clear that the little red car would go no farther. Two flat tires spread like pancake batter under her.

“Shit!” Tom kicked at a fender and leaned heavily against the car, then turned and slid to the sidewalk.

“Dad?”

“A little light-headed is all. I'll be okay” Tom said in a fuzzy voice. “Where's all this blood coming from?” He wiped at his eyes and smeared his face with it.

“Your head's bleeding. Hand too, I think.” Mike was leaning on the fender now himself, trying to sort out where he hurt the most. No one in the crowd offered to help, though most had at least stopped cursing them. There were distant shouts and heads turning. Mike couldn't see what the commotion was. He climbed unsteadily atop the Olds, standing on the seat. “Something's happened. There's a crowd over by Broadway.”

Tom got to his feet, gritting his teeth. “Let's go.”

He and Mike hobbled west. Tom found a handkerchief and wiped at his face.

“Sorry about the Oldsmobile,” Mike said, doing his best not to grimace as he walked.

“Me too, but I'll be damned if that wasn't fun!”

“Oh, Christ, if that's your idea of fun—”

He didn't finish. The crowd ahead had grown and high-pitched screams echoed down the block at them.

“Let's get moving,” Tom said, breaking into a jog. They ran the last two blocks, parting the crowd, and shouting, “Police!” There was a patrolman on the scene already, but there wasn't much he could do. A woman was screaming repeatedly, the cries ripping from her throat with steam-whistle intensity. Others tried to calm her with no success. The ice horse was down, struggling and screaming, two legs broken, bones protruding, a deep gash in its side. A streetcar was stopped, blood pooling in its wake, bits of flesh and clothes in a short trail to the body. Behind the streetcar lay the man they'd chased, cut diagonally in half from crotch to shoulder.

28

“YOU'RE SURE THEY were cops,” Paul Kelly said, looking closely at McManus. They were in a back room at the New Brighton Dance Hall, Kelly's headquarters.

“Saw a badge on one of 'em.”

“Badges aren't that hard to come by. Could be they were Pinkertons or something like that.”

Jack held up his left hand, wrapped in a fresh cast. “T'ings was dicey, Paul. Could'n be sure, not a hun'ed percent.” Kelly sat back, considering the situation. He was not a believer in chance or coincidence. For a man like Kelly such inconveniences as coincidence or lack of information could not be allowed to get in the way.

“Truth is, Jack, that Big Tim had some protection arranged for our friend, Mister Saturn. No matter if it was Pinkertons or detectives or goddamn Daybreak Boys.”

“Daybreak Boys? Paul, them mugs been gone fer years. I don'—”

“I was making a fucking point, Jack. Anyway, the point is that Big Tim is protecting that fuck Saturn. He's the ticket into the goddamn steamship racket, so naturally he'd want to protect his stupid ass.” Kelly wanted to find out what the Bottler had going that he hadn't told him about. Kelly figured it for smuggling. He knew the Bottler's style and that would fit him like an old suit. What bothered him was the Bottler's trying to keep it quiet. That wasn't to be tolerated. He'd have to be confronted and he'd have to cut Kelly in if he wanted to stay healthy. But Kelly wanted that boat for his own reasons now that he knew there was a possibility of getting a piece of it. There was gambling, prizefighting outside the three-mile limit, and smuggling of his own to be done. “You say you stomped him pretty good before the cavalry arrived, right?”

“Sure, Paul. Kicked his ass proper.”

“Okay, that's good. The message got sent. You told him to stay away from the Wigwam?”

“Sure, jus' like youse said.”

“Wish you'd had the chance to bring me the Bottler. Between this and that fucker Twist we got an interesting situation.”

Kelly sighed. “So, first things first. We have to protect the Bottler, but I need him here as soon as you can haul his fat ass. You got that? Anything happens to him, it's gonna be me makin' it happen. We gotta keep Kid Twist off him, and get his ass back in line, so we're in on this
Slocum
thing. Let Twist get his flippers on the Bottler's game and before you fuckin' turn around, we'd have every fucking up-and-comer on the East Side trying to eat our lunch.” Kelly looked McManus in the eye. “You make sure nothing happens to the Bottler. Not until I say so, got it?”

“Sure, Paul. I got some mugs we can count on if t'ings get noisy.”

“Good. Make it happen. Now as to Big Tim.” Paul steepled his fingers and took a deep breath. “The man will not get what's rightfully mine. I don't give a shit about the money or whether we're palsy-walsy come election time, nobody pushes me like that. But whatever gets done, Tim can't know who did it. That's more important than anything. I fucking hate what Tim did, but we can't do business on the East Side without him. Simple as that.”

“He could have a accident. Every mug has accidents.”

“No! Only make things worse,” Kelly said. “Forget it.”

“He's gonna hear about Saturn.”

“Yeah, but he won't be sure who did it, will he?”

“No way, Paul. Da mugs I used don' know nothin'.”

“Good. That's exactly how it's got to stay. Now listen, I want you to go back and keep an eye on the
Slocum
. There's a couple of things I want you to look into.”

29

ALL THROUGH THE day Ginny dreamed. Her hands and feet worked on their own. She'd made two mistakes already and it wasn't even one o'clock. Nickels and dimes had lost their significance. They were hardly worth worrying over. Esther was beginning to look at her strangely. Ginny didn't care. Each time the elevator door rumbled open her heart danced in her chest. When Mike came she'd leave with him and never look back.

Her lunch was eaten in big tasteless lumps, hardly chewed, washed down with a bottle of Moxie. Esther and the other women chattered and gossiped as usual, but Ginny didn't join in.

“Your head's someplace in the clouds today,” Esther said. Ginny shrugged as if she had no idea what Esther was talking about.

“A man's in your head, maybe under your skirt too from the look of you.” Ginny blushed. “He's good to you, too?”

Could Ginny say Mike had been good to her, or nice in a conventional way? They'd had only one afternoon together, one afternoon without sex and money to tip the scales. But Mike had been good to her and kind in almost every way, so for now that had to be enough. Ginny smiled.

“And he's nice between his legs, too,” Esther said, holding her hands six or so inches apart then slowly widening the gap till they both broke into gales of laughter. The bell rang, ending the lunch break and they went quickly back to their machines, the shop whirring to life again and the lint billowing like mist.