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

ran water on his hands, splashing some on his face. There was a long silence before he answered. “Da answer to dem questions is da same. Dunno. Gotta have maw ta woik wit befaw I know, like who youse owe fer one, an’ how much youse owe fer anotha. C’mon, let’s sit an’ chew da fat.”
    Lionel and Chuck went back into the bar where he introduced Lionel to the others at the table. “Dis is Chinatown Nellie, my doll.” The others were Frank Ward O’Malley of the Sun and Roy McCardell of the World . Lionel shrank in his suit, suddenly feeling like an ant under a magnifying glass on a hot day. Connors covered for him though, introducing him as, “Jimmy Buttons, from up Boston way,” much to Lionel’s relief. Connors asked for a little privacy and the reporters and Nellie moved to the bar without complaint. Connors slapped her on the rump as she left, which seemed to amuse her considerably. “So, where ya been playin’ stuss? It’s one place, right? If it’s all ova town, den I dunno I can help ya. You’d be in da soup wit more’n da one I think youse is.”
    Lionel nodded. This was very hard for him, hard to admit he had a problem at all, and perhaps even harder to have to come to a rough-around-the-edges Bowery character like Connors. He forced himself to say the name of the man who ran the game. It came out like a death rattle. “The Bottler.”
    â€œOh, boy! Youse got yer balls in a twist, you do! Youse know who really runs dat game? Paul Kelly, dats who. Fuckin’ king o’ the Five Pointers.”
    Lionel nodded without looking at Connors. Though he’d never had direct contact with Kelly, it had been made clear by the Bottler to whom he ultimately owed his debts. One of the problems with that was that the Bottler had insisted he deal with him and not Kelly. He’d given the Bottler no reason to doubt his compliance, but Saturn wasn’t about to be dictated to by the Bottler. He knew that if he managed to satisfy Paul Kelly, then his troubles would melt away. They had to, for the latest of the Bottler’s demands would plunge him into waters that were way over his head.
    â€œThat’s why I came to you,” he said, looking around the bar to see if anyone had heard. “I need a way to negotiate a settling of accounts. Their demands are getting out of hand.” Lionel lowered his voice and leaned closer to Connors. “They’re making demands that involve the steamship line, not just me. If I could just have a bit more time to liquidate some assets, I could easily settle up, but they’ve got me over a barrel.”
    â€œA barrel of yer own makin’ seems ta me,” Connors observed. “Yer a smart business fella. Once youse let a mug like Kelly get his flippers in yer pocket, youse’ll never get ’em out.”
    â€œA bit too late for that,” Lionel said, his shoulders slumping.
    Connors gave him a hard, but not unsympathetic, look. “So, how much is it?”
    â€œAbout ten now,” Lionel said, lifting his head and sticking his jaw out in a transparent show of confidence. “Not quite ten, really.”
    â€œGrand? Ten grand!” Connors whistled. “Dem ain’t small potatas. Youse shoulda come see me sooner.”
    â€œI should have done a lot of things,” Lionel said. “I’ve always come out ahead before. Or nearly so. That’s the thing. I’ve really been quite lucky till now. In fact, given a little more time I’m sure my luck will turn. Certain of it!”
    â€œSure thing pigs’ll fly outa me arse someday, too,” Connors said. “Plan on sellin’ tickets ta see it. A sure moneymaker.”
    â€œI don’t need to be mocked, Mister Connors.”
    â€œSure, sure,” Connors said, unfazed. “But youse need me all da same, so save yer huffin’ an’ puffin’ fer dem wots impressed by