Hell's Gate by Richard E. Crabbe Read Free Book Online

Gettysburg and the Wilderness, and still had a hard reputation on the force.
    â€œI hear the ladies like a man in a sporty automobile,” he said.
    Mike smiled. “That so?”
    â€œThat’s what I hear.” Tom put his arm around Mike’s shoulder. Mike could feel the strength in it as they turned to go. “Maybe I’ll give you some lessons, let you take that Ginny Caldwell out for a drive.”
    Mike had a sudden image of Ginny, the salty breeze of Coney Island pulling bright strands of hair from under her bonnet, the glow of the summer sun on her skin.
    â€œDon’t sound bad,” Mike said, trying not to sound like a kid on Christmas Eve.

5
    THE CABLES OF the Brooklyn Bridge sliced by Mike’s window as the train rumbled toward Manhattan. He sat on one of the oversprung wicker seats, staring out at the city. The East River was a black void below, reminding him of what he’d faced two nights before. He’d managed to forget for a while, but now it was back, replaying behind his eyes. The cables framed the images, so they seemed to pass just beyond the glass, suspended, flickering in space. Mike’s jaw tightened and the wound on his wrist throbbed. As the images winked by he tried to alter them, tried to bend the bullets’ paths, or back up time and relive a decisive moment. Sometimes it worked, mostly not.
    â€œBottle,” Mike said in a whisper. He looked at his watch. It was only nine. As the train crept to a stop in the Manhattan terminal of the bridge, Mike got up and waited anxiously at the door.
    He caught the Second Avenue El, running as the doors closed. He only went two stops. Once he was back on the street, he checked his pistol. Turning into a darkened storefront, he jacked a round into the chamber. He eased the hammer down and set the safety, sliding it back into the holster under his arm. He patted his vest pocket for his extra clip, then set off on Canal Street, toward Corlears Hook.
    *   *   *
    Mike worked his way through the jumbled sidewalks of Jefferson, Henry, Madison, and Clinton streets, where the gutters were choked with manure and the stink of outhouses, abattoirs, beer halls, and rotting produce. This was the Eastman’s territory, Monk Eastman’s old gang, ruled now by Kid Twist, who had taken over after Monk went to Sing Sing just a few months before. The gang, nearly a thousand strong, ruled everything from the Bowery east to the river and north to Fourteenth. The Hookers had paid tribute to them, as did a number of other specialized gangs in the area. There was grim satisfaction in the fact that the Hookers wouldn’t be paying anymore.
    Mike knew it was a chancey thing to go poking about these streets, especially at night. He pulled his bowler low, keeping a wary eye for any who might recognize him. The night was warm and the streets were full. Pianos tinkled through open saloon doors. Prostitutes in twos and threes jostled men off the sidewalks, sometimes pulling them into tenement doorways. Groups of boys prowled for pockets to pick or drunks to overpower. Sailors, oystermen, dockworkers, factory men, and gangsters mixed.
    A uniform caught Mike’s eye at the corner of East Broadway and Clinton. It took a hearty patrolman to walk these streets alone. The uniform was a target, particularly to gangsters looking to make a name for themselves. More likely the cop was on the Eastmans’ payroll and enjoyed some small measure of immunity, so long as he didn’t interfere too much in gang affairs. Mike approached him cautiously. He identified himself as the officer looked him up and down.
    â€œYou’re Braddock’s son, eh?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI heard about him,” the man said without inflection. “Ain’t heard o’ you.”
    Mike looked at the man directly, not sure what to make of that. He shrugged and replied, “Ain’t heard o’ you either. So