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.

“Bottle,” 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.

“You’re Braddock’s son, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“I 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 what?”

“What you doin’ here?” the patrolman asked, not rising to the bait.

“Looking for a saloon, dance hall, or something like that. A place with bottle in the name.”

“Huh?”

Mike paused and tried a different tack. “Know any places called bottle-something, like Brown Bottle, or Broken Bottle, you know, like that?”

“Sure,” 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.”

“Sounds 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.”

“What,” Mike said. “No tablecloths?”

“Oh, yer a funny one now. Regular laughin’ corpse.”

“Thanks,” 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.”

“Tom’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.

“Hey, fellas,” Mike said, adding just a bit of an alcoholic slur to his voice and a wobble to his gait. “How’s da beer?”

“Wet,” one of them said. The others laughed. Mike laughed, too.

“Just how I like it,” Mike said as he started down the darkened front stairs.

“Watch 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 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.

“Pretty good show,” Mike said, nodding toward the empty stage.

“Yeah, 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.”

“First 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.

“Fuckin 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?”

“Don’ 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.”

“Hmm,” the dandy said. “Shame ’bout Jack. How ya know ’im?”

“From 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.”

“Know 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.”

“They 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?”

“Yeah, 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 you’d like ta tell me what da job is, huh?”

Mike smiled, but shook his head. “I’ll tell ya dis,” Mike said, feeling he had to give up a little information to seem credible, “dere’s a ship comin’ in soon’s got a big cargo. Me an’ Jack had some inside information on it. You’ll know more when you find me da guy. You get me dat an’ maybe then we talk gelt, huh?”

“Gelt. A subject neah an’ deah to my heart. I guess if Smilin’ Jack was good wit’ it den it’s a sweet job. He always had an eye for that kinda thing, exceptin’ fer dat last job.

“You come see me tomorrow night, see. Maybe I got somethin’ by den, maybe not.”

“Right,” Mike said. “Can’t ask fer more’n dat. See ya then.”

*   *   *

As Mike walked away from Jimmy’s Broken Bottle he couldn’t shake the feeling that his promising start had come too easily. He put the idea out of his head though, figuring that Smilin’ Jack was such a well-known character in the neighborhood that he’d have been able to get something out of most any man in the place. Still, he stopped to loiter once or twice, watching for anyone following.

It was getting late and the street traffic had dwindled to a trickle. The whores outnumbered the pedestrians and he was propositioned five times in two blocks. One group of three, the youngest no more than twelve, the oldest maybe sixteen, blocked his way near the corner of Cherry and Governeur. It was an old hustle. If they couldn’t get him to pay for sex, they’d paw at him until they had every dime in his pockets. Mike put his wallet in an inside jacket pocket as they closed in. Gaudy makeup, cheap perfume, and mismatched colors surrounded him. An arm went around his neck and a hand went in his pocket. He didn’t realize it wasn’t one of the girls until he saw the man in front of him with the length of lead pipe. The girls ran, laughing. The arm tightened from behind as he started to struggle. The pipe flew toward his head. The best he could do was to duck forward. He was hit, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected and there was a grunt of pain from the man behind him. The arm loosened. Mike kicked at the attacker in front, cracking him solidly in the knee. His hand found the butt of the Colt. He didn’t bother to pull it out of the holster. He thumbed the hammer and pulled the trigger as he tipped the muzzle behind him. Muffled by his jacket, the shot wasn’t very loud. The arm around his neck disappeared. He whipped the pistol out as the one with the pipe came again, swinging. Mike crouched and fired as the pipe passed above his head. The man cried out and staggered back, then collapsed, holding his leg. Mike spun about, still in a crouch as the man screamed, high-pitched and frantic. “You shot me! You shot me, you fuck!”

The other man was running away, bent over, holding his side. It looked like Mickey Todt, but Mike couldn’t be certain. “We wasn’t gonna hurt ya,” the other screamed. “Oh, Christ, my fuckin’ leg. Oh, Christ.”

Mike turned back to him. The leg was at an odd angle and deep red blood was pouring from the wound.

“Empty your pockets!” Mike shouted at him.

“I didn’ mean it. Wasn’t gonna hurt ya, damn it. Why’d ya shoot me?”

“I’ll shoot you again, you don’t empty your fuckin’ pockets now!” He kicked the pipe away as the man did what he was told. “That was Mickey Todt,” Mike said more than asked.

“Tol’ me you was the cop killed Smilin’ Jack. Had yer picture from the papers. Oh, shit my leg hurts, you fuckin’ bastard.” A knife came out of one pocket, a pair of spiked brass knuckles from another.

“All of it,” Mike said. He glanced up and down the street. The whores watched from a distance, shouting something about filthy cops. A scattering of men, gangsters mostly, some in small groups, some alone, lurked at a distance like scavengers at a kill. There were no lights in windows, no crowds of citizens gathering, no police whistles as there might be in other parts of the city. People here were too afraid of the gangs to even be seen watching.

Mike bent over the man, looking closely at the wound. There was a great deal of blood. “Hit the artery,” he said. “Gimme your belt. Hurry before you bleed to death!” The man fumbled at the buckle and Mike pulled it off. He went to work fast, wrapping the belt around the upper thigh and cinching it through the buckle. “Hold this tight.” The man did what he was told, gritting his teeth behind blue lips. “Quick now. What’s yer name and whadya know about the bottle?”

“Youse know about the Bottler?” the man groaned through his teeth.

“The Bottler?” Mike said, glancing again up and down the block. “It’s a person, a man?”

“Fuck, I dunno,” the gangster said. “My fuckin’ leg’s broke. I’m fuckin’ crippled, you bastard. Crippled, see!” Even in the dark he looked ghastly pale. Though the tourniquet helped, he was still bleeding out. Mike saw he didn’t have much time. “Keep that goddamn belt tight,” Mike said, “or you’ll be a dead cripple. I’m goin’ to get help.” He surveyed the street again, Colt still in his hand. “Be back in a couple minutes.” He spotted the prostitutes in a doorway across the street. “Keep an eye on this man,” he called. “There’s money in it for you if he’s alive when I get back.” Mike stood to go, but the man grabbed his leg. “Shit! Don’ leave me,” he said, his eyes wide with fear. “Don’ go!” Mike turned and trotted off in the direction he’d last seen the patrolman. The gangster’s shouts followed. “Don’ leave you bastard! Wait! Wait!” When Mike didn’t stop, his wails changed. “Fuckin’ copper! Shoulda bashed yer head in good! Somebody shoot the fuck! Shoot ’im! Kill the fucker!”

He’d only gone a block and a half when he saw the cop near the next corner. He was walking with purpose, but in no great hurry.

“You the cause o’ them shots?” he asked when they met in the middle of the block.

“Yeah. Got jumped. C’mon, I need a hand with one o’ them.” Mike turned to jog back, but the cop did nothing to quicken his pace. Still, it didn’t take more than a few minutes to make it back. But as they rounded the corner they were brought up short. Governeur Street was empty. Not a window or doorway showed a light. Not a soul could be seen. In the block beyond, they could see a wagon moving, hookers working the street, people passing. On Governeur Street, the watching windows stood silent and empty. Even the streetlamps seemed dimmed. A chill ran down Mike’s sweating back. The feeling of being watched was overpowering. As he and the patrolman worked their way down the street, going doorway to doorway, it became clear that even Mike’s attacker had vanished. A pool of blood was all that was left.

“Take a look at this,” Mike said as he bent over the scene. There were footprints in the blood. One was his, but there were more, two others at least. They led off a few feet to the center of the street, then vanished. “We’ll need help. We gotta search for him.”

“You outa your fuckin’ mind? You’re lucky you ain’t dead already. You wanna go poking’ ’round here in the dark, you go right on without me.” The cop cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Anybody wants can come see me, Patrolman Sanders.” The words bounced off the unforgiving buildings, the locked doors, and shuttered windows. “You know anything about the man shot here, there’s ten dollars gold in it for ya.”

“That’s it?” Mike said.

“No, that ain’t it. Gimme ten dollars,” Sanders said, holding out his hand. “I sure as hell ain’t gonna pay for it.” Mike handed over the coins and Sanders shouted the same message once more as they walked down the street. “You come back in the daylight, you wanna poke around,” he advised Mike.

“Wait,” Mike said. He stepped over to a wall covered in handbills and tore two of them off. He went back to the bloody footprints and pressed the paper over them, getting a fair impression of the shoe prints.

“Detectives!” Sanders huffed. He shook his head and walked away. “Mark my words, Braddock. When we find him, if we find him, he’ll be no use to anybody.”

Mike followed Sanders, watching their backs as they retreated, their footsteps echoing in the empty street.