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.

“Paul musta been pissing nails when he heard I was dead,” the Bottler said. “And you let it happen.”

“Had to tell ’im,” McManus growled. “If I didn’, ’e woulda known somethin’ was up. Dis way, it was just a fuckup, nothin’ more to it. He was not fuckin’ happy though, I can tell ya dat.”

“Paul can be a bastard, but still, you’ve been together so long, I was surprised you came to me. Not that you haven’t had your reasons,” he added a little hastily when he saw McManus tense. “Believe me, I know.”

Jack had become restless under Paul’s thumb, and less willing to put up with errand-boy shit like watching the boat. “Yeah, Kelly, he wants ta run da whole damn show, an’ he don’t share wit da mugs like me what does da woik.”

“I know it,” the Bottler agreed.

“Always liked da way youse ran da game, too. An lemme be honest, youse ain’t got a problem wit spreadin’ da dough aroun’. Paul jus trows us da crumbs.” Jack raised a glass in his direction.

But mostly Jack liked the Bottler’s angles, the money from the coca smuggling, and the bottling of the concoctions he sold to the block-and-fall joints were pure genius. There was a bigger future to be had too once the Slocum thing got moving at full throttle. Just like Kelly, the Bottler had plans for gambling, prizefights, and whoring, too. And he was much more willing to share.

“Kelly didn’t wonder why you went after Braddock?” the Bottler asked.

“Nah, t’ought it was just a grudge, which it fuckin’ was anyway.”

“The nerve of him!” the Bottler said, “And that fucking dago partner of his, sitting in on my game, like I’d never figure out who they were. That cop who booked Kid Dahl came the next day and gave me the whole story, Saturn, too. They know I pay good for information. That’s how I’ve stayed in business so long. You gotta spread the money around.”

“A t’ing Kelly could loin about.”

“Exactly! A shame Braddock ain’t dead,” the Bottler said. “Not your fault though. Put one right through his fucking kisser. Musta looked dead enough.”

“In a fuckin’ puddle o’ blood last time I saw ’im,” Jack said regretfully.

The Bottler thought for a moment and said, “Well, he’ll be out of commission for a while and no bother to us anyway. You sent him those tickets, right?”

“Sure, made it look like that Saturn shithead sent ’em.”

“Good. We’ll have another opportunity then. And the girl?”

McManus barked a low laugh. “Johnny Suds! Jesus, was he fucked-up! Couldn’t wait to give me every goddamn thing he knew about that bitch. Hell, I almost thought he was gonna pay me to take care o’ Braddock. Anyways, I got a mug on it; keepin’ an eye on ’er.”

“Good,” the Bottler said with a grin. “She might be useful somewhere down the road. If nothin’ else we can put her to work on the ship once we’ve got things in hand.”

“Wouldn’t mind a piece o’ dat twist,” Jack said. “Saw ’er da otha night wit’ Carl. Nice little bustle on ’er.”

The Bottler laughed. “You’ll get your chance, Jack. I guarantee it.”