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

what?”
    â€œWhat you doin’ here?” the patrolman asked, not rising to the bait.
    â€œLooking for a saloon, dance hall, or something like that. A place with bottle in the name.”
    â€œHuh?”
    Mike paused and tried a different tack. “Know any places called bottle -something, like Brown Bottle, or Broken Bottle, you know, like that?”
    â€œSure,” the patrolman said. “What you want with places like that? The ones ’round here is all dives; rotgut whiskey, watered beer, and used-up women.”
    â€œSounds like fun.”
    The cop didn’t crack a smile. “Listen,” he said, stepping closer. “Watch yerself ’round here. The whores’ll pick yer pockets or put knockout drops in yer beer. The gangsters’ll stick a knife in yer ribs for a couple dollars. Don’ make me come mop you up when its over.” He waited for some sign of hesitation from Mike, but saw none. He shook his head. “There’s a Blue Bottle over on Montgomery, near Cherry, a place everybody calls the Bottleneck, right down here on Clinton, near Water. Them two are okay if you’re careful. Then there’s Jimmy’s Broken Bottle. That one’s full o’ Eastmans this time o’ night. Kind of a saloon with whores upstairs. That place I wouldn’t go within a block. Knock yer head in for sport they will. Take my advice an’ stay clear.”
    â€œWhat,” Mike said. “No tablecloths?”
    â€œOh, yer a funny one now. Regular laughin’ corpse.”
    â€œThanks,” Mike said and meant it. “But I’ve got sand enough.” He turned to go but the patrolman said, “Maybe, but don’ think even yer father’s got that kinda sand.”
    â€œTom’s got guts enough for both of us,” Mike said as he walked away.
    Jimmy’s Broken Bottle was in the cellar of an old, wooden row house on Cherry, near Jackson. The windows sagged in the upper three floors. The walls bulged and bowed to such a degree that the clapboards were popping off. The building seemed it would tumble into the street except for the tenements on either side propping it up. A bile green coat of peeling paint gave the place a leprous look.
    Three thugs leaned against the iron railing beside the front steps. Bowlers pulled low, they watched Mike from across the street. Their rough conversation stopped as he approached.
    â€œHey, fellas,” Mike said, adding just a bit of an alcoholic slur to his voice and a wobble to his gait. “How’s da beer?”
    â€œWet,” one of them said. The others laughed. Mike laughed, too.
    â€œJust how I like it,” Mike said as he started down the darkened front stairs.
    â€œWatch yer step,” one of the men said.
    Mike noticed the glass first. The dirt floor seemed to be covered in it, crunching under his shoes as he walked. The near silence was what he noticed second. Despite the fact that the saloon was close to full, it was as quiet as a Protestant wake. The only sound was an odd sort of music coming from the back beside a tiny stage, not much bigger than a couple of tables put together, which was probably what it was. On the stage were two women, stark naked. They danced and intertwined, their movements liquid, flowing in a stream of sexual suggestion. Hips gyrated and hands ran over each other’s bodies. Mike stood still, watching. The gaslight flickered over the crowd of men. They seemed to hunch forward, straining. Mike realized, once his eyes became accustomed to the gloom and smoke that the women weren’t naked, but wore flesh-colored tights. Neither was handsome or even pretty, yet they cast a powerful spell over the room. The music was part of it. A clarinet and a single drum played something that was part snake charmer’s melody and part funeral dirge. The drummer gradually quickened the pace as Mike watched. The dancers were close. Thighs and hips ground