Hell's Gate by Richard E. Crabbe Page A

about the shootings of Todt and the other, and the newspapers all reporting it too, new leads would be scarce, unless they were lucky enough to come across someone with a beef against Todt or the Bottler. They agreed that would be their next best shot, but Mickey Todt had to come first. “If he’s alive,” Mike grumbled. “He was running pretty good after I shot him, so maybe he’s not too bad off. One thing’s sure. He hasn’t shown up in any hospitals. I have them all on alert. First thing I did that night.”
    â€œThe gangsters, they have doctors who take care of things for them. You have a list of doctors in that place, maybe five blocks around. He maybe no go so far with a bullet in him.”
    â€œYeah. We’ve been checking the doctors. Nothing so far, but we haven’t covered them all. There’s others too, men who maybe have medical training from the war in Cuba or even the Civil War. They’ll be harder to find.”
    â€œWe ask the women,” Primo said. “The women they always know the doctors. They take the little ones.”
    Mike glanced at Primo. He hated to admit that the idea hadn’t occurred to him so he made no comment.
    The day waned as Mike and Primo canvassed the neighborhood, working their way from door-to-door, from basement saloons to six-story walk-ups. After a while they stopped asking about Mickey Todt. The answers were all the same. Almost everybody claimed not to know him either by Todt or Stolzenthaler. The few who admitted knowing who he was claimed not to have seen him for weeks. Some just refused to open their doors.
    At one point they passed a flower cart among all the vendors of more necessary items parked along the curbs and on the sidewalks. Flowers were a frivolous luxury in this neighborhood and were more often sold by young girls, whose real line was prostitution. The old man beside the cart looked none too prosperous, but the flowers were fresh enough. Mike stopped for a moment and arranged to have a bunch delivered to Ginny. He took out one of his cards and wrote on the back, “Ginny, I had a wonderful time with you yesterday. I hope you like these. I’ll see you soon.” He looked at it with a frown, then crumpled it and took out another. He stood for almost a minute, his pencil in the corner of his mouth, trying to find the right words.
    â€œTell the girl you love her,” Primo said with an exasperated sigh. “To love is okay, no? You maybe love her, maybe somebody else. It’s all okay to love.”
    â€œGreat advice,” Mike said. “That a bit of Italian philosophy?”
    â€œNo, Alfieri philosophy,” Primo answered with mock pride.
    Mike chuckled and shook his head. “What kind of partner did I hook up with?”
    â€œOne who knows the woman, eh? So sign the card and we go.”
    Mike hesitated a moment, then signed, settling for “Warmly, Mike.” Primo sighed and shook his head. “Who is this Ginny?”
    â€œTell you later,” Mike said as they opened the door to a basement cobbler’s shop, ringing a little bell on a spring. The smell of leather and shoe polish rolled over them. A workbench occupied one side, with an assortment of tools, shiny from wear spread about its top. A single chair sat opposite. The walls were covered with more tools, shoes and boots already repaired or awaiting attention, and sole leather, cut to various sizes and stuck in little cubbyholes. A man emerged from a back room, through a sheet that covered the doorway. Mike could see the foot of a bed and a small stove behind it. The man was perhaps sixty, but appeared much older. Stooped and bowlegged, with fingers that looked like the roots of a tree, he shuffled toward them, adjusting his glasses and tugging at a boot-blacked apron.
    â€œShoes’re in no need o’ mendin’,” he observed after a quick look down, “so it’s somethin’ else