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

it.”
    Lionel sighed and reached into his pocket. “So how much do I need to pay you, Mister Connors?”
    â€œGimme a hun’red fer now,” Connors said as easily as he’d ask for a light for his cigar. It was an amount most men would not earn in a month. “An’ if I can arrange t’ings, I’ll take ten percent. If not, den we’s square.”
    â€œWhat will you do?” Lionel asked, swallowing the ten percent like a horse pill with no water. “Will you go to Kelly directly?”
    Connors scratched his head. “Nah, Kelly’d gimme an’ ear, but it’d likely be my own if ya get my meanin’. But even Kelly’s got higher-ups ta keep happy. Dat’s where da juice is. Dat’s why a bloke like Kelly’s where he’s at. He kicks upstairs, ya get me? He gets da votes out an’ goin’ da right way, t’ings like dat. I gotta go where da levers is. Dat’s where ta put on da pressure.”
    â€œTammany.”
    â€œLots o’ chiefs in da Wigwam,” Connors said. “Trick is knowin’ which one’s got da pull.”
    â€œIndeed,” said Lionel, cursing himself for not having done a better job of cultivating contacts there. He got up from the table and Connors rose with him. “I’ll leave that up to you then, Mister Connors.” He gave Connors the money and one of his cards. “I can be reached there during business hours. When might I hear from you?”
    â€œGimme a couple days,” Connors said. “Hard sayin’ ’xactly.”
    â€œThank you,” Lionel said, putting out his hand. “There’ll be something extra in it for you if terms are favorable.”
    Connors nodded with a wry smile. “Jus what I’d ’spect from a gen’lman like yerself.”
    Lionel left not sure of how he should feel. Only time would tell if his hundred was good money thrown after bad. He looked back over his shoulder as he got up into his carriage, half wanting to go back in and call the deal off. Instead he sighed and flopped into the back.
    Chinatown Nellie had joined Connors where he stood at the end of the bar watching Lionel leave.
    â€œWho wuzzat, Chuckie?”
    â€œA man dat don’t know when ta quit,” Connors answered.
    â€œHuh,” she said, grinding her rear for him.
    â€œOwes Paul Kelly ten grand.”
    â€œNo kiddin’? Glad I ain’t him.”
    â€œMe, too, doll. Me, too.”

8
    MIKE MET PRIMO Alfieri outside a coffeehouse on Prince Street. Tom had arranged it, just as he’d said he would. At first Mike had walked right by him. Tall, blond, and blue-eyed, with a dimple in the middle of his chin, he appeared at first glance to be English or perhaps German. But something about the way he stood, a wariness that was hard to define, the way his eyes scanned the street made Mike take a second look. When he did, Primo smiled and stuck out his hand. The grip was firm and dry and Mike found himself squeezing hard to match it. They held for a long moment, neither wanting to let go first.
    â€œYou don’t look Italian, but I guess I’m not the first one to tell you that,” Mike said as they went in and sat down at a small table near the front window.
    â€œYou know lotsa Italians then?”
    Mike knew he was being baited and it put him on edge despite Primo’s smile. “Nope. Not many on the force,” Mike replied with a straight face. “Maybe they ain’t smart enough.” Primo stopped smiling. He started to say something, but stopped when a waiter came to take their order. Primo spoke to him in Italian. The waiter turned and left. Mike raised a hand, but Primo said, “I order for you. You no so stupid you didn’t know that?” He cocked his head at Mike curiously as he crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.
    â€œMy famiglia is from the north, by Lake Como.” Primo said, ignoring