Hell's Gate (29 page)

37

BIG TIM SULLIVAN stuck out a meaty hand, giving Tom a heartfelt smile. Tom took his hand. He was impressed that Tim had taken the time to come, but it was the sort of gesture Sullivan was known for.

“Thanks for coming, Tim, and for the flowers,” Tom said as they shook. They'd known each other since Sullivan's early days at the bar on Chrystie Street, where the Whyos held court and Tim had made his start in politics, but they were acquaintances, more than friends, their paths intersecting over the years whenever their shared interest met.

“Och, it's nothin', Tommy. How's the boy? Hell of a thing he got into.”

“A little rough right now,” Tom said with a look over his shoulder at Mike. “He's lucky though. Bullet went right through his mouth. An inch or so higher and he'd probably be dead, a little lower and the jaw would've been shattered. As it is, he's lost a few teeth and they had to stitch a gash in his tongue. They say he's got a hairline fracture of the jaw, but it's not too bad. His brain's shaken up pretty good. A patrolman cracked his head with a nightstick, if you can believe that.”

“What for?”

“I'm going to find out what for,” Tom said. “That guy better have a fucking good excuse. My temper's on a short fuse, and I'm in no mood for bullshit.” Though Tom's head was aching and his balance wasn't right, he was mad enough to go after that cop and ask questions later. Technically he wasn't even supposed to be out of his bed, but he wasn't about to let a doctor tell him what he could or couldn't do.

Big Tim put a hand on his arm. He knew how impulsive Tom could be from the old days. “Better let that cool for a bit, Tommy. How's Mary holding up? All right, I hope?”

“Thanks for asking. She didn't sleep all night. Hell, neither of us did. But she's strong, stronger than me in some ways. She'll be okay. She'll be here later. She's setting up a room at home for Mike to stay with us when he gets out.”

“They'll not be releasing him so soon though, right?”

“No, not for a few days at least, but you know Mary; lots of nervous energy.”

Tim pursed his lips. “Understandable.” He looked again at Mike, who could barely be seen for all the flowers that had sprouted around him. They'd been arriving all morning; big bunches in wicker baskets, roses, carnations, ferns, and baby's breath.

“Hope the flowers aren't too much. I asked for somethin' nice and cheery.”

“No, they're fine, Tim. It's the bunch on the other side of the bed.” Tom pointed to a huge basket, the flowers bursting out in a riot of color, a large, golden ribbon with
Get Well Soon
in red script draped around them.

Tim nodded. “Who the hell was it, Tom? They know yet?”

“One's a Five Pointer, the other's with the Gophers from what I hear. Not sure how it happened. Mike hasn't been able to tell us.”

“A Pointer and a Gopher,” Tim said. “An odd combination.”

“Yeah, you could say that. Makes you wonder.”

“Anything to do with what happened at that stuss game?”

“Not sure.” Tom had no intention of telling Tim anything about Mike's suspicions of the Bottler. He didn't think Tim would consciously do anything to hurt Mike, but he wouldn't doubt that he might put his interests ahead of Mike's. On the other hand, Tom didn't have a problem with asking a few questions. “You ever hear of a gentleman by the name of Saturn? He's a vice-president at the Knickerbocker Steamship Company.”

“I've heard of him,” Tim said. “Chartered one of his boats last year for my annual picnic. Great fun. I keep asking you to come. You really should.”

“Never met him though, huh?”

Tim turned his palms up. “I meet so many damn people, Tommy. Can't remember 'em all. Probably did, but I don't remember. Why do you ask?”

Tom was pretty sure he wasn't getting the whole truth. Big Tim had more secrets than the U.S. Mint. “Anyway, he got jumped, this fellow Saturn that is, a couple nights ago, just after coming out of the Bottler's. Three guys.”

“The same who attacked Mike?” Tim was as interested in that point as Tom. He and Connors had been almost certain it had been Kelly's doing, but there was no real proof beyond Saturn's hysterics.

“Not sure, but Mike and his partner, Primo, broke it up. Two attempts on Primo's life and this thing with Mike in the last two days; an awful lot of coincidence.”

“You think there were three? But you said he shot two, right?”

“Yeah, but there might have been a third.”

“But Mike hasn't said.” Tim pursed his lips in thought.

“Nope.”

“So let me understand this, Tommy, you learned about the attack on that Saturn fellow because Mike and his partner were there, is that right?” Tim hadn't decided what to do about Saturn yet, only that Paul Kelly was going to have to learn his place in the pecking order before he got his beak clipped. This new information about Mike's attackers was starting to give him an idea.

“Yeah, Mike and Primo pretty much saved his skin,” Tom said, watching Tim's face for a reaction.

“But the suspects got away, I assume, or this would not be a mystery.”

“They had caught one, but let him go after questioning. Mike's partner was able to tell me that.” Primo had begun to speak that morning and was now conscious and relatively lucid. Tom didn't mention to Tim that he was going to bring Saturn in to help identify the bodies if he could.

Big Tim scratched his nose and thought how this information might be of use. There was certainly a nugget of something there. He decided to phone Saturn later that morning. The man might prove more useful than he'd imagined. “You tie these crimes together and who knows where it may lead, eh?” he said. “Maybe the whole is more than the sum of its parts, or something like that?”

Tom looked at Mike, the bandages on his head so white among the riot of flowers. “That's what I'm hoping to find out.”

*   *   *

Mary and Ginny, who arrived just after Big Tim left, sat with Tom and Mike all morning. Ginny felt herself to be little more than a bystander. A procession of cops and friends paraded by, sometimes crowding the room to the point where it seemed more like a bar than a hospital, and there was no time to speak to Mike in the way she wanted. Mike felt like a cigar store Indian, unable to talk and barely able to move. He saw how Mary and Ginny had come in together, and was amazed by it, but relieved, too. He smiled inside, knowing how his mother had undoubtedly taken charge and found himself more appreciative of her than he could possibly express, even if he could have opened his mouth to speak. His jaw hurt like nothing he'd ever known, so the best he could manage were grunts and hoarse whispers. He tired fast and though he tried to put up a strong front, Mary could see his exhaustion and shooed everyone out by noon.

He'd been put on a liquid diet, which he didn't mind. He could hardly open his mouth and the thought of chewing made him cringe. He was hungry though and sipped all the broth Ginny fed him. Mary had started to do so herself, but stopped after taking the tray of food from the nurse, and turned it over to Ginny instead. She watched with a secret smile. Mike gulped gratefully, feeling the strength flow back into him with each spoonful.

Tom went to speak with the doctor. He needed a headache powder. The morning's activity had given him a real pounder. The doctors had released him only after Tom threatened to walk out, permission or not. The way his head felt, he figured maybe the doctors knew what they were talking about after all. Mike's doctor, a rumpled, balding gentleman named Alpert, who wore a ready smile under his bushy mustache, told him that Mike would require some follow-up surgery to repair his face. There was a doctor on staff who specialized in such things.

“Makes the tiniest stitches on staff. He makes the finest seamstress jealous,” Doctor Alpert told him. “He'll always have scars, of course, but hopefully they can be minimized.”

“And what about his teeth? He's lost how many?”

“Five.”

“Ugh.” Tom's jaw hurt just thinking about that. “He's got to have one hell of a toothache.”

“I'm afraid so. We've given him something for the pain, but there's a limit to how much we can do with something that severe. We don't want to send him home a laudanum addict.”

“Understood,” Tom said. “So what'll happen with the teeth?”

“Denture plates,” he answered, “but that's not my specialty. The oral surgeon took out the roots when we had your son in surgery. When the gums heal he'll be able to fit him with new teeth.”

Tom thanked the doctor, who said he'd be in to check on Mike during the afternoon rounds. Then Tom stopped in to see Primo, who was conscious, but in a lot of pain, his whispered words sometimes not making complete sense. A nurse said his appetite was good though and that was always a hopeful sign. Tom decided not to tell Primo about Mike. He seemed too weak to take that sort of news just then. Primo gave Tom's hand a hard squeeze when he bent to tell him he'd be back later.

*   *   *

Ginny had finished spooning broth into the narrow opening of Mike's mouth, when Mike signaled that he wanted a pencil and paper. Mary found them in his nightstand drawer and gave them to Mike, who took the pencil and wrote quickly, “You're amazing.” Ginny watched as he wrote and said, “I'm not the one who's amazing.” Mike hoped they could see him smile through the bandages.

Ginny took his hand. “Your mother has been so kind to me, Mike. I can never repay such kindness. She took me in. I'm staying in the guest room upstairs.” She didn't tell Mike how magnificent the room was to her, or how she'd sunken into the huge, white bathtub down the hall, letting the steam take her away with a sigh. She didn't say how unworthy she felt at such treatment, or how she'd tried to protest when Mary insisted they go shopping for new clothes the next morning. Those things were almost unreal and she experienced them in a near dreamlike state, certain that they'd slip away when she awoke.

“You're beautiful,” Mike wrote next, giving the note to Ginny. She put the note to her breast, and with a sigh lowered her head to his chest. Mike's hand went to stroke her hair.

Mary coughed. “I'll just go talk to the nurse for a moment.”

38

THE BOTTLER WAS pretty happy for a man who'd had his brains blown all over his stuss table. Jack McManus couldn't remember when he'd seen the man more relaxed. The Bottler could be a regular fidgety bastard most times, worrying over this or that, and giving the boss headaches over his fucking stuss game.

But the stuss game was over now. Kelly would let Kid Twist have the dregs of it. The Bottler didn't care, not anymore.

“Fuck, I would've given anything to see it; watch myself get shot to hell,” He said. “Can't anybody say they saw themselves get their fucking face shot off,” he said.

McManus just grinned. “An' live to tell it, least not da ones I done.”

They were in the cellar of a Pitt Street dive, one of the hellholes the Bottler had bought with the profits from his brew. It smelled of fresh concrete and wood, but it was finished as finely as any parlor on Gramercy Park, with a rich Persian carpet, mahogany paneling, and deeply tufted leather chairs. There were at least three ways in or out of the place that Jack knew of and probably at least one more he didn't. Small doorways cut through the brick foundations of the adjoining row houses, leading to others Jack had to presume. He'd entered through the tenement next door, admitted by a boy of sixteen, a hard-looking lad with the dead eyes of a killer. The Bottler had himself a fortress here; a little kingdom that Kelly didn't even know existed. Jack's grin widened. There was a lot Kelly didn't know.

“Christ, he must have been one surprised sonofabitch. Damn, wish I could'a seen his face.” He laughed as Jack did a pantomime, mouth open in a big
O
, eyes wide as headlamps.

“Where'd ya find 'im?” Jack asked. “'E was a pretty good fuckin' match; did his hair da same an' everyt'ing.”

“'Course he did! I been trainin' him for weeks. Had to know how to deal stuss first off, but I got 'im set up right; clothes, haircut, mustache, the works. Even had him talking like me.”

“An' he didn' s'pect nothin'? Jus' went along wit it?”

“Sure, why not? I was paying him good to keep his pie-hole shut. Best damn money I ever spent.”

“Where'd youse find 'im?” Jack asked again.

“Had some of my guys on the lookout for a mug who could play me,” the Bottler answered. “I think they found him blacking boots somewhere on the Bowery.” The Bottler had known as soon as he'd decided to go against Kelly, keeping his hold on Saturn and the steamship line secret, that a double would be a useful thing to have. His odds of living had gone way up when he'd found the right man. They'd gone through the roof when he'd heard that Saturn had fucked things up by going to Big Tim. He had McManus to thank for that bit of information. He didn't need to tell Jack that having his double killed by Cyclone Louie, a known confederate of Kid Twist, was about as certain a thing to start a gang war as anything he could ever have devised. It had cost him five hundred, but was worth every cent. He'd been disappointed when Jack told him that Kelly had decided not to retaliate, at least not yet. Kelly was smart, too smart to be drawn into a war when there was nothing to be gained. The stuss game was worthless now, and the Bottler's hopes of watching from the shadows while Kid's and Kelly's gangs shot each other to pieces were going to have to wait. But there were other ways to get that done.

The idea of devising a strategy like the Bottler had made Jack's head swim, but he knew he'd made the right decision to go with the Bottler on the sly. He was a thinker like Kelly, but he could be a sharer, too. Jack had another thousand-dollar wad in his pocket to remind him of just how generous the Bottler could be. Kelly had never been that generous, not in all the years they'd known each other. He'd always kept the prime rib and left the soup bone for everybody else.