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

together as hands went to breasts and buttocks. They writhed in a choreographed frenzy that lasted only half a minute or so before the music stopped and the light that had been on them was suddenly extinguished. The place erupted. The men jumped to their feet and bottles were smashed on the floor or against the brick walls, even against the ceiling. The men bellowed and clapped and stomped their feet until the lights went up and the two women, glistening with sweat took a quick bow, and darted into a back room. A door shut behind them and a huge man with a brass-studded cudgel rolled before it like a boulder before a cave.
    Mike pushed up to the bar, a couple of rough, wide planks atop a row of barrels. He managed to get a beer amid the crush of suddenly thirsty men. They were an unwashed lot, most of them, except for the occasional gangster dandy in bright colors and pomaded hair. Their finery couldn’t disguise the hooded eye, the scars, the back-alley clip of the tongue. One such up-and-comer pushed up beside Mike and ordered a gin.
    â€œPretty good show,” Mike said, nodding toward the empty stage.
    â€œYeah, dey get da boys all hot to trot,” he said as he cast a darting eye over Mike. “Foist time? Ain’t seen ya befaw.”
    â€œFirst time here, yeah,” Mike said over his beer. “Lookin’ fer somebody.” He added a slight leavening of the Bowery to his speech, though he never did feel comfortable saying things like foist . “Trouble is, I ain’t sure who ’e is.”
    The dandy got his gin and took a long, slow pull at it, as if he hadn’t heard Mike. He gave a small shiver as it went down. His hand had an alcoholic tremor.
    â€œFuckin good, dis stuff!” He tapped the glass on the bar for another, and turned to Mike, saying “Dis guy youse lookin’ faw, ’e got a moniker?”
    â€œDon’ know it,” Mike said. He lowered his voice. “Was talkin’ ta Smilin’ Jack last week. Had a job we was plannin’. Jack, he gets on the phone, see … you know ta check with whoever ’es gotta check wit’, an’ I hear ’im say somethin’ ’bout bottle, like a place or a name or somethin’. So I figure now that Jack’s gone … rest in peace, dat the thing fer me is ta check aroun’, see if I can see what’s what.”
    â€œHmm,” the dandy said. “Shame ’bout Jack. How ya know ’im?”
    â€œFrom da neighborhood,” Mike said, smiling. “Da one wit’ dar bars on Blackwell’s Island. We were on vacation together.” They chuckled over that. “Listen, I wanna make sure I got an okay on dis. Don’ wanna do a job an’ find out later the Kid or somebody’s got a piece. Dat kinda trouble I don’ need. Never been one ta step on toes, ya get my meanin’.”
    The gangster nodded and frowned. “Smart,” he said. “I’m Mickey Todt.” Mike nodded and stuck out his hand. “Arnie Beanstock,” he said, using the first name that came into his head. Arnie ran the soda shop down the block from his apartment. “Mickey Death? Interesting name.”
    â€œKnow yer German, huh? Da boys call me dat. Stolzenthaler’s my real name. Too big fer dem mugs. After I done da big one a coupla times, dey started callin’ me Todt ’cause o’ me being German. To dem it’s more like Toad , but what da fuck.”
    â€œThey jus’ call me Beansie,” Mike said. “So, you got any ideas on my problem? I gotta get on dis job. It ain’t gonna be good a couple weeks from now, ya get me?”
    â€œYeah, I get it, I get it. Lemme do some askin’ around, maybe give da Kid a call, see what he says. See if he knows anything ’bout any job Jack was plannin’.” Another gin slid down Mickey’s throat. He gave a small sigh as it spread out. “Don’ suppose