Free Hell's Gate by Richard E. Crabbe

wasn’t sure who could.
    It took some time for Lionel’s carriage to make its way to Connors’s “office”—Barney Flynn’s Old Tree House on Bowery and Pell—just around the corner from Professor O’Reilley’s joint with its garish sign: WORLD CHAMPION TATTOOER . Connors held court in Flynn’s most days from around three till whenever, drinking, telling tall tales in his exaggerated Bowery accent, and occasionally taking meetings with those like Lionel, who needed guidance in matters of a confidential nature.
    Lionel bumped through the front doors and was enveloped in a haze of cigar smoke and the welcoming smell of spilled beer. The lunch crowd was gone, but the regulars clung to the bar like it was a life raft, elbows planted for stability. Lionel squinted into the semidarkness, his eyes watering from the smoke and stink of stale beer. “Chuck Connors,” he said finally to the bartender, once he’d given up trying to spot the man. He got a nod toward the rear and a grunted, “Up to his eyeballs in bullshit as usual.” Lionel wandered past the bar where a man turned with a fistful of beers, bumping him and spilling some on his pants and shoes. The man just shouldered past after a withering once-over of Lionel’s tailored suit. A burst of laughter brought Lionel around, cutting off his protest. A group of men and a woman sat at a table in the rear. They stomped and howled as one man stood. It was Connors. “’Scuse me whilst I attend to nature,” he said, heading toward the men’s room. Lionel stopped. He didn’t favor the idea of conducting a meeting in a toilet, but on consideration, it seemed a good place to start, better than breaking into the convivial atmosphere of the table. Lionel followed. Connors had his back to the door, his front to a big, porcelain urinal when Lionel entered. He sighed as Lionel took the one next to him. Connors glanced over, then concentrated on the business at hand.
    â€œYou’re Connors?” Not waiting for an answer, he went on, “I’m Lionel Saturn. Tommy Byrnes told me you’d meet me here.”
    â€œWinky? Winky Byrnes?” Connors said. Lionel nodded. He’d forgotten Byrnes’s street name. Byrnes ran a coal yard where the steamship company had their contract.
    â€œSure, sure,” Connors said, cobwebs visibly clearing, “You’re da steamboat mug dat needs help.”
    â€œI’m the ah … mug, yes,” Lionel said as he unbuttoned his pants.
    â€œPleased ta meetcha,” Connors grunted, sticking out a hand. Lionel hesitated. He was afraid of getting off on the wrong foot, but was equally queasy about shaking a hand that had just been “attending to nature.” Connors shrugged and wiped his hand on his vest, sticking it out again, a bit more forcefully. Lionel put on a smile and shook with the famous Chuck Connors, whose bladder seemed bottomless and whose fingers were damp.
    â€œYouse got a problem, huh?” Connors said, raising an eyebrow at Lionel. “What I hear’s you gotta push back from the gamin’ table. Fine gen’leman like yerself oughta know better. Wut is it? Wut’s yer game, then?”
    â€œStuss.”
    â€œStuss! Fer chrissake, stuss’s fer dem suckers from outa town. Where’s yer sense?”
    â€œI’ve won my share,” Lionel said, “more than my share actually. Just had a run of bad luck of late. It happens to the best of gamblers.” He’d been telling himself the same for months and for quite some time he’d actually believed it. But now it seemed as hollow as an empty barrel. Connors clearly heard the echo.
    â€œYouse got it bad,” he said as he shook the last drops. “So how much youse owe?”
    â€œI’d say that’s my affair. More importantly, what do you think you can do for me, and exactly what is it going to cost?”
    Connors