Ghosts Of Manhattan Part 3

"I certainly do," he said aloud, before reaching for the whisky bottle he'd abandoned earlier that morning, pulling the stopper free, and taking a long slug.

The train that ran from Long Island to Manhattan was a vast, gleaming masterpiece of modern engineering. Constructed around a sh.e.l.l of iron, it had a tip like a snub-nosed bullet capped with a carapace of s.h.i.+ning white ceramic. The carriages snaked in a long procession, linked by joints of reinforced rubber, forming one continuous, open s.p.a.ce within. Unlike the more traditional locomotives that still crisscrossed most of the country, the Long Island train had abandoned its reliance on steam and coal. Instead, the engineers had adopted a powerful pneumatic engine, created during the war for transporting missiles along the coast, but now relegated to shuffling people back and forth to the city. The result was a powerful, reliable, high-speed means of traveling to Manhattan Island, and Gabriel hated every moment of it.

It wasn't the speed of the thing, nor the discomfort; a first-cla.s.s ticket commanded a particularly high standard of travel, and Gabriel could easily afford it. It was simply the fact that he was too enamored by the sense of control he felt when he sat behind the wheel of his own car to care for the relatively pa.s.sive experience of being a pa.s.senger on the train. He couldn't abide the notion that he was placing his own destiny in the hands of other people; no matter how unreasonable he knew that notion to be. He felt affronted by it, as if it somehow eroded him, made him lesser in some tiny way. It was a hangover from the war, from the horrible things that had happened to him over there, in Europe. Those experiences had left him feeling impatient, unwilling to concede control. Perhaps that was why he had a tendency to sabotage his own happiness. Perhaps.

Like most of the lost generation, Gabriel Cross was damaged, irrevocably scarred. The difference was that he recognized the fact, and embraced it. It was this that had prevented him from going insane. But even that, he knew, was debatable.

Stifling a yawn, he disembarked onto the platform, stopping to b.u.t.ton his overcoat against the brisk winter chill. Behind him the engine sighed majestically, as if weary after its long journey, and the platform suddenly swelled with jostling people as the carriage disgorged the remains of its charge.

He stood for a moment, watching the crowds of people as they swarmed toward the exit, one after another, just like a flock of birds. His hand dropped almost involuntarily into his pocket, fingers probing for the item he had secreted there earlier. He found it, and the cold, hard feel of it was rea.s.suring. His service revolver. It was an old weapon, now, basic compared to the more advanced designs of recent years, but it had never let him down, and he carried it with him whenever he came to the city. Or rather, whenever he came to Joe's.

Turning up the collar of his coat, he set off, following the herd of travelers as they scrambled up the steps toward the cold Manhattan night.

The sky was clear when he emerged, his breath fogging in the frigid November air. It was dark, and the city was lit up like a showhall; electric lights burned in every tower, crisp and bright and stark against the black fabric of the sky. He checked his watch. Nine-thirty. He had time to walk.

He set off, carrying himself with an insouciant air that he didn't feel. Cars hissed by on the road, their engines crackling with heat and steam. Pedestrians continued to spill from the station exit, flooding the sidewalks with their loose tongues and even looser morals. Drains exhaled columns of steam; the breath of the underworld rising unbidden into the physical realm. Gabriel marched on. It felt to him as if the city were somehow alive, as if it were watching him with impa.s.sionate eyes from every window, from every corner or shadowy doorway. The thought made him shudder. He wanted to stop for a cigarette, but instead he pressed on, turning a corner into a fierce breeze that rattled down the avenue, bringing a cold bite in off the ocean. He ducked his head and continued on his way.

Half an hour later, just as he was beginning to wish that he'd taken a taxi after all, Gabriel rounded the block and turned onto East 14th Street. He blew into his hands to stave off the chill. The Sensation Club, or Joe's, as the regulars knew it, was between Fifth Avenue and Broadway, down a short flight of steps in the bas.e.m.e.nt of a tenement building and behind an unmarked red door. The police knew about the place-of course they did-and knew also that it was patronized by a small-time crook named Johnny Franco, but they were also aware that the club served a valuable purpose. It kept the city's rich clientele away from the bigger, uglier drinking dens, and it kept Johnny Franco out of trouble. So they steered clear of the place, and Johnny went about his business, serving illegal gin to the elite of the city, reveling in the perceived radiance of the company he kept. Poor Ariadne had failed to see the charm of it all, but Gabriel knew it for what it was-an extension of the perpetual party, a home from home. And besides, Celeste was there.

Gabriel rapped on the door, and presently the handle turned and a small crack appeared between the door and the jamb. He leaned closer. He could hear the distant strains of music, see a bright red light s.h.i.+ning somewhere on the other side of the door. He turned his head. There was a scuffling sound from within, and then the door swung inward and a beaming man in a tuxedo was standing before him, waving him through to the mysterious club beyond. "Good evening, Mr. Cross. It's nice to see you again." The doorman, a wiry little fellow with a neatly trimmed beard and darting brown eyes, ushered him forward and swiftly closed the door behind him. "You're just in time. She'll be on in a moment."

Gabriel nodded and shrugged off his overcoat. He handed it to the doorman. "Thank you, Clive."

The doorman c.o.c.ked his head. He looked concerned. "Have your hurt yourself, sir?"

Gabriel looked down at his bandaged hand. "Oh, it's nothing, Clive. I had an incident in the car yesterday and gave it a knock. It'll be fine in a few days."

"Glad to hear it, sir."

Gabriel watched as the other man disappeared into a small cloakroom just off the lobby. Then, feeling the need for a smoke, he reached into his pocket, withdrew his cigarette case, and tapped out one of the small white sticks. He pulled the tab, and a moment later the sweet aroma of smoldering tobacco mingled with the myriad other scents in the club: alcohol, sweat, and cologne.

Pausing just a moment longer to smooth his rumpled jacket, he pa.s.sed along a corridor under the red glow of the lamps, turned a corner, and then descended a short flight of steps to the main amphitheater of the club. The staircase wound round in a tight spiral, and as he emerged into the dimly lit hall below, he had the sense of stepping into another world; a hidden world, a fantasia of light and sound and debauchery, simmering just beneath the regular layers of the city. People laughed and caroused, sitting together in small cliques at a series of tables arranged around a large stage area, upon which a young woman-a pretty girl he'd never seen before-was performing a popular jazz tune. To the left of the stage was a long bar, with a smat tering of people seated on stools along its length, all watching the girl on the stage whilst idly toying with their drinks.

The place was busy. Gabriel scanned the crowd. All the usual faces were there. Businessmen, politicians, sportsmen. Johnny Franco and his cronies had taken their usual table near the front. The man himself-tall, gangly, mid-forties, wearing a pinstriped suit-sat with his back to the room, nonchalantly exchanging conversation with a man Gabriel didn't recognize. But his men weren't so relaxed. There were at least five of them cl.u.s.tered around the table, each of them covering Johnny from a different angle, their hands nervously resting inside their jackets, just in case they needed to produce their weapons in a hurry. Gabriel thought they looked jumpy. He wondered if they were expecting something to go down.

Taking another draw on his cigarette, Gabriel wound his way through the tables toward the bar.

"Usual please, Joe."

"Coming right up, Mr. Cross."

Gabriel lowered himself onto a bar stool and watched the burly barman slosh a measure of bourbon into a tumbler. He slid it across the lacquered bar with a smile. Gabriel nodded his appreciation and dropped a handful of coins into the other man's hand. Then, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the gla.s.s, he downed the whisky in one quick motion and dropped the empty vessel back on the bar with a clink.

On stage, the performance had come to an end and had been met with a general apathy from the audience. Most of them weren't there to see the women. They were there to drink and do business. For some of them, of course, women were their business, but that was another matter altogether, and not something that Gabriel liked to dwell on for very long. Celeste was up next, however. Celeste always turned heads. Celeste was the jewel in Joe's crown, and everyone there knew it.

The lights dimmed. A hush rippled across the gathered audience. Someone smashed a gla.s.s across the other side of the room, and Gabriel could hear the tinkling fragments as they scattered to the floor. Joe placed another shot of bourbon by his elbow.

There was a mechanical grinding, the sound of gears choking and a chain being wound tightly around a barrel. Three enormous panels rose up from the stage, forming a petal-like arrangement behind the microphone stand. They were disk-shaped, and comprised of delicate iron fretwork and colored gla.s.s. Music stirred, slow and soulful, echoing around the cavernous interior of the underground club, the musicians hidden behind the stage or else somehow out of sight, ghosts murmuring sadly to the living. The gla.s.s panels began to turn, slowly and inexorably, like enormous multicolored wheels, cogs in some vast, unusual machine. Lights blinked on behind them, flooding the stage with dancing rays in reds, blues, pinks, and greens. And then, as if seeping from the ground like an ethereal puff of smoke, Celeste appeared, rising up through the center of the stage on a small wooden platform. She stepped forward toward the microphone.

She was wearing a red dress that fell just above the knee and accentuated her shock of auburn hair. Her lips were bright with crimson gloss, and her hands and forearms were covered in long, sensuous silk gloves. She reached out and took the microphone, silhouetted against the bright lights, and brought it closer to her parted lips. And then she sang, and not one person in the club stirred from their seat.

Gabriel felt a surge of desire. He watched her as she swayed on the spot, moving slowly with the rise and fall of the music. He'd known her sway in different ways; longed for her to sway that way again. And her voice ... It was sultry and pure, knowing and innocent, dark and forgiving; it was life, in all its manifest glory. The words meant nothing. She could have been singing about anything at all. But the sound of her voice was like a portal to her soul, and Gabriel knew that he would never, ever find another woman like her in this world.

He reached for his drink and gulped it down. All thoughts of the previous evening were lost, banished by the ache he felt for this woman and the sound of her voice. It was a curse, and he knew it. It would be his downfall. Celeste was his Achilles' heel. He played a game with her; let her think that he was something he was not, feigned disinterest. But truthfully, he was so very much in love with her that he knew he would do whatever she wanted. Knew he would- The loud report of a gun firing echoed around the enclosed s.p.a.ce. A woman screamed. Gabriel spun around on his seat to see a group of figures standing at the foot of the stairs, half-hidden in shadow. The music stopped abruptly.

Gabriel s.h.i.+fted nervously on his seat. Was this what Johnny Franco's goons had been expecting? He tried to weigh up the situation. There were five of the newcomers. Two of them were huge, wrapped in long black overcoats and wearing hats. They stood motionless at the back, near the bottom of the stairs, as if waiting for permission to move. Two more were smaller men, each clutching pistols in their fists. The one on the right brandished a smoking barrel; he had evidently fired the initial warning shot. Between these two stood a thin, gangly man in an immaculate evening suit. His hands were steepled before his chest and his head was slightly bowed, as if in thought or prayer. Everyone in the room-including Gabriel-seemed to be waiting for him to speak. Even Johnny Franco, who Gabriel imagined was bristling inside, had maintained his cool, and was evidently biding his time, waiting to see what move the intruders would make next.

The moment stretched. Then, finally, the figure came to life, stepping forward so that Gabriel could just make out his face in the stills.h.i.+mmering lights from the stage. His expression was serene, as if he were enjoying the interlude he had created. Nevertheless, Gabriel felt his hackles rising. There was something about this man, about the manner in which he carried himself, that spoke of violence and danger.

The man turned his head to survey the crowd, and Gabriel noted that the uppermost half of his left ear was missing. He didn't know who the man was, or who he purported to work for, but he had a notion. The Roman. Only the Roman would have the audacity to pull a stunt like this.

When the mobster finally addressed the gathered audience, it was with a soft, deliberate voice that sent s.h.i.+vers coursing down Gabriel's spine. "I apologize for the disturbance, ladies and gentlemen." He paused, as if carefully weighing his next words. "We will not detain you for very long. We have simply come to escort the lady from the premises, and then we'll allow you all to carry on with your evening." Gabriel felt his jaw clench as he realized that the man was indicating the stage-and, therefore, Celeste. What could these mob men possibly want with her?

The two goons on either side of the speaker-the men with guns-stepped forward. That was enough for Johnny Franco. With a bellow of rage he leapt out of his seat, accompanied by his small army of bodyguards and fellow crooks, and swung around to face the newcomers, brandis.h.i.+ng a handgun boldly before him. "Now, I don't know who the h.e.l.l you guys think you are, but this is my club, and I'm gonna give you one chance to quit before it starts getting messy."

Gabriel took the opportunity to glance over at Celeste, who was still hanging on to the microphone stand, clearly distressed, unsure how things were going to play out. He wanted to go to her. He needed to get her out of there. But he didn't want to give the crooks any more reason to start a firefight in such a confined s.p.a.ce. He needed to wait for his moment. His hand went to his pocket, clasped around the b.u.t.t of his service revolver. He felt a spike of adrenaline. And then, just as suddenly, he felt himself jerked back into the war.

Explosions flared before his eyes, scattering the dead that lay heaped on the muddy banks of the abandoned trenches. He could hear the whistle of projectiles swarming down on their position; see his friend, Olsen, with a hole in his skull the size of a human fist, his tin helmet spinning on the ground like a dropped coin. He took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut. When he peeled them open again, the moment had pa.s.sed. But Johnny Franco was lying on the ground, dead, a bullet through his heart, and everyone was screaming.

Gabriel leapt into action. He whipped his weapon out from his pocket and swung it round, drawing a bead on the nearest goon. Almost without thinking about it he squeezed the trigger and let off a shot, which whistled with deadly accuracy, catching the mobster in the temple and spattering brain matter across the wall. The man's body slumped in a heap on the tiles, and Gabriel didn't wait to see how his comrades would react. He turned and ran for the stage, dimly aware of the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire chewing up the bar in his wake.

Celeste was staring at him in blunt shock. "You ... you-"

Gabriel grabbed her by the shoulder. "Get down!" The command was uncompromising, and she did as he said, dropping to the stage just as the whole place ignited in a storm of bullets. Gabriel hit the wooden boards beside her and then rolled, keeping his weapon pointed at the intruders. He wasn't about to let them take Celeste, whatever the reason.

The thin man with the scarred ear had disappeared, and now the two hulking giants were lumbering forward, slapping people out of the way in an attempt to get through to Johnny Franco's guys, who were showering them with bullets, to little or no effect. Relentless, the looming figures stomped forward in the dimly lit bar, single-minded, resolute.

The other goon, the one who had originally fired the warning shot when they'd first stormed the club, was coming after Gabriel and Celeste. And behind him, Gabriel could see more of them flooding down the staircase, blindly firing their guns into the sea of seething shadows; the clientele of the club, desperately trying to escape. It was turning into a ma.s.sacre.

Gabriel raised his head just enough to squeeze off a shot, but his aim was wide and he missed the goon. A moment later the mobster replied with a spray from a submachine gun, which he was wearing on a strap around his neck. The gla.s.s panels behind Gabriel and Celeste exploded in a hail of colored fragments, and Gabriel felt gla.s.s embed itself in his back. He gasped with pain. But it was better than a bullet. He glanced at Celeste and then rolled again, crunching broken gla.s.s as he moved to the other side of the stage, coming up on one elbow and letting off another shot from his revolver. This time he caught the man in the throat, and the goon's head snapped back as his larynx was ripped out in a gobbet of soft flesh. Blood fountained into the air as he went down, his finger still depressed on the trigger of the tommy gun, spraying the floor with hot lead.

Gabriel didn't waste any time. He scrambled to his feet and darted over to where Celeste was still lying on her belly, her hands covering her head. Blood was streaming down his face from cuts caused by the gla.s.s shards. He wiped it away from his eyes, looking back at the stairs. There was no chance they were getting out that way, and what was more, the second wave of goons had now divided, half of them rounding on Johnny Franco's men, who were still putting up an extraordinary fight, and half of them heading in Gabriel's direction. He had bullets, but he knew he'd never be able to hold off six or seven armed men. He turned to Celeste, raising his voice over the clamor of the blazing guns and the screaming. "Is there another way out of this place?"

Celeste looked at him, her eyes wide with shock.

"Celeste! Listen to me! Is there another way out of here?"

She nodded weakly. "Under the stage. We have to get under the stage!"

Gabriel gave a curt nod and then squeezed off another three shots, trying to buy them some time. One of them struck home, burying itself in the shoulder of one of the men, who cried out in pain as he dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, clutching at the wound. There was nothing between them and the advancing goons except for an overturned table. That would give them precious little cover. But why had the men stopped shooting at them? A thought dawned on him. Celeste!

He grabbed for her arm. "Do you trust me?"

"What?"

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course, but-"

"No time to explain." He grasped her roughly by the shoulder and then, in one swift movement, leapt to his feet, hauling her round in front of him like a s.h.i.+eld. His heart pounded in his chest; his palm felt sweaty and hot against the grip of his revolver. He was taking one h.e.l.l of a gamble.

Celeste was screaming. "What? Gabriel, no!"

He whispered in her ear. "Be quiet and trust me!" He glanced over her shoulder. The advancing men had stopped, lowering their weapons. He was right, then. They were under orders to take her alive. Gabriel pulled her closer, so close that he could smell her perfume over the heady scents of damp earth and cordite that were otherwise overpowering in the confined atmosphere of the club. He glanced to the left. Franco's men had been decimated by the lumbering giants in the black overcoats. The army of bodyguards now lay sprawled and broken on the floor, limbs torn from torsos, shattered bodies still writhing in agony, but not long for the world. And all the while the strange, shambling things seemed able to absorb any amount of gunfire that was thrown at them without even flinching.

One of them had lost its hat, and Gabriel caught flashes of a green, faceless mask; he knew then that he had to get away, that even if he could hold off the goons with his ancient revolver, it was only a matter of time before the monsters finished with the remnants of Franco's men and turned on him. He guessed the thin man in the evening suit was counting on it. They would tear Celeste away from him, and then pound him to oblivion.

He glanced at the a.s.sembled men. Five of them, each one armed. Slowly, tentatively, keeping his revolver trained on the nearest of the crooks, he backed up, practically dragging Celeste across the stage with him. She was clearly terrified, and she had no idea what he was up to. He stopped when he saw one of the other men take a step forward.

"Easy ..." Gabriel waved his gun. "Just stay right where you are." There was a loud crash from over to the left, and he realized that signified another of Franco's men being flung across the room by the bizarre, green-faced henchmen. The crowds were thinning now, the revelers either dead or hiding. The scene was one of utter chaos and brutality.

Gabriel leaned in closer to Celeste, his lips practically brus.h.i.+ng her right ear. "How the h.e.l.l does that platform work? The one that brings you up onto the stage?"

"There's a paddle. It's on the floor, connected to a cable. It controls the speed."

Gabriel glanced around, looking for the paddle. It was just by his foot, a small black box with lever on it. He gripped Celeste even more firmly around the waist. "Hold on tight." He moved his foot.

Suddenly, the ground gave way beneath them. Gabriel was vaguely aware of the sound of Celeste screaming, of howling voices from above, and then blackness overwhelmed him.

The sky was on fire.

Gabriel craned his neck to watch the light show. Black funnels of oily smoke rose like inky towers in the distance, far beyond the trees, and searing plumes of orange and red streaked crazily across the bright canopy of blue. Rockets. Bombs.

He was in France.

He shook his head, tried to get his bearings. He was on his side. His leg was hurting. G.o.d! It was hurting so much. He felt around with his hands. Gra.s.s and metal. Mud. He was still in the plane, or at least what was left of it. He strained against his seat straps. The nose was crumpled and the propeller had gone, lost as he'd struck the ground. He'd lost a wing, too-that much was obvious by virtue of the fact that he was on his side-but the other was still intact, pointing up at the sky like an accusatory finger.

Forcing himself to breathe, Gabriel reached down and felt for the buckle that would release him. His fingers were numb with cold; he noticed his breath was fogging in the frigid air. He pulled the catch and slid out of the pilot's seat onto the damp loam, crying out as his injured leg snagged on the rim of the c.o.c.kpit.

Fumbling, he managed to extricate himself and struggle into a sitting position. The plane was buried in a long, deep furrow, ploughed as the machine had hurtled out of the sky, as he'd struck the ground at such tremendous speed, out of control and hoping not to die. He was lucky to be alive.

Gabriel pulled himself up against the fuselage, testing his weight on his damaged leg. He could hardly stand. He needed help. He surveyed the surrounding area. A farm. He was in a farmer's field, and about two hundred yards away the farmhouse sat small and squat, a tumbledown building that had likely stood there, unchanged, for cen turies. The battle was far off, now, raging away under that canopy of fire, and he knew that no one would come looking for him. They'd all a.s.sume he was dead-struck by an enemy missile, dropped from the sky. People didn't walk away from disasters like that.

The farmhouse it was, then. He looked up at the old building, suddenly cast in shadow, with some trepidation. Something about the look of the place caused the hairs on the nape of his neck to stand on end. But it was the only shelter for miles, and he needed to take a look at his leg. If he could get help there-or even find some sort of provisions with which to bind his wound-he could start thinking about how he was going to get back to the front and join up with his squadron.

The trek felt like miles, and each step caused him to whimper in pain, his feet sinking in the soft, sticky mud. He steadfastly refused to look at his injury. It would be of no use. There was nothing he could do until he got to the farmhouse. He kept telling himself that, over and over. Get to the farmhouse and everything will be okay. "Everything will be okay." He even spoke it aloud in his delirium.

It was only when he got closer that he realized the building was a partial ruin. There were gaps in the stonework and one of the windows was missing. The chimney had slumped to one side, too, opening the roof to the elements and scattering bricks to the ground. The place had been abandoned for some time, perhaps since the onset of war, perhaps even earlier. He felt his heart sink. At least it was somewhere safe, away from the crashed plane, away from the hail of bullets and rockets and death. At least in the farmhouse he'd be able to strap his leg and formulate some sort of plan.

Wincing, he shuffled toward the door and tried the handle. The old latch creaked as he turned the wooden doork.n.o.b, and he pushed the door open, stumbling inside. It was dark, lit only by the pale shafts of light that filtered down through the holes in the ceiling. The place was spa.r.s.ely furnished, from what he could see in the half-light: a roughly hewn wooden table; two chairs, one upturned; an old dresser against one wall. He crossed to the table, leaned heavily against it to catch his breath.

And then he heard it move. Something close by, in the darkness. Something large. He was suddenly alert, the pain in his leg forgotten. He backed away from the table, edging toward the door. What was it? What had he disturbed? A bear? Did they even have bears in France?

He caught sight of something then, in the thin light, a thick, glistening tentacle, curling slowly across the floor toward him. He stood transfixed, in abject horror, as another, and then another, crept forward, reaching out for him as though sniffing at the air. The thing must have been huge.

He turned and ran, all sense of pain in his leg gone. All he could think about was getting as far away from that farmhouse as was humanly possible. All he could think about was ...

Gabriel woke with a start.

His cheek was smarting. Celeste was on top of him, a look of desperation in her pretty eyes. "Wake up, dammit! Wake up, Gabriel!" She raised her hand to slap him again, but he parried the blow with his arm.

"I'm awake. I'm here." Groggily, he pulled himself up onto his elbows and looked around. He was in some sort of cellar. The walls were redbrick and slick with mildew. The ground wasn't much better. He could smell the damp, too, stuffy and pungent in his nostrils.

He tried to get his bearings, tried to shake off the remnants of his dream, of his memories. The club! Joe's club. They'd dropped through the stage. Now they were in a small room, positioned directly beneath the stage. A naked electric bulb was clipped to a bracket on the far wall, casting a pale, watery light. A long cable snaked away into the darkness, and Gabriel realized the room was flanked by two tunnels, one heading east and one heading west. It was remarkable, a cellar beneath a cellar. It was little wonder Johnny Franco had chosen the place as his base of operations. Absently, he wondered what these walls had seen in their time.

Gabriel glanced at Celeste. His vision was limned with fuzziness; he must have banged his head in the fall. He became aware of a series of sharp pains in his back. Gla.s.s, tiny fragments of it buried in his flesh. And then shouting, coming from somewhere above: a husky male voice barking commands.

Celeste, on her knees before him now, cupped his face in her hands. Her touch was soft and gentle, and it sent a s.h.i.+ver along his spine. "Gabriel. We have to go. They're coming for us."

Still a little dazed, Gabriel got to his feet. Then, realizing he must have dropped his gun in the fall, he began searching the ground where he'd been lying.

"Are you looking for this?"

He turned to see Celeste holding his service revolver. The weapon looked incongruous in her small, gloved hands. He nodded, and then took it from her, slipping it into his pocket. Then, giving her his hand, he allowed her to lead him along one of the pa.s.sages at a run, their footsteps echoing in the empty s.p.a.ce.

Minutes later, it became clear to Gabriel exactly where she was taking him. The tunnel terminated in a short flight of steps leading up to the bas.e.m.e.nt level of the next building. Johnny Franco must have bought the building next door to the club and kept the connecting tunnel as an escape route, should Joe's ever be raided and he needed to make a quick getaway. As he mounted the steps behind Celeste, Gabriel couldn't help thinking that Johnny could have done with an escape route that night. Not that he'd mourn the pa.s.sing of another gangster. Crooks usually got what they deserved, one way or another.

Celeste hesitated at the top of the stairway, putting her ear against the plain wooden door, listening closely for any sounds from the other side. She glanced back at Gabriel and shrugged.

He met her gaze. They could hear voices in the tunnel behind them. They didn't have much choice. If they encountered someone on the other side of the door, they'd just have to deal with them.

Gabriel climbed the last few steps, brus.h.i.+ng past Celeste in the tight s.p.a.ce of the stairwell. He pulled his revolver from his pocket; cracked it open and slipped a couple of extra bullets into the chamber. Then, taking a deep breath, he grabbed the door handle, gave it a sharp twist, and flung it open, covering the dark s.p.a.ce inside with his gun.

Everything was silent. He realized he was holding his breath. He waved Celeste inside and then rushed in after her, hoping there would be enough time to barricade the door behind them before the gangsters arrived.

The room on the other side was spa.r.s.ely furnished, with only one exit in the shape of an open door that appeared to lead out into the bas.e.m.e.nt proper. There was a roughly hewn set of wooden table and chairs, a mirror, a sink, and a pile of old newspapers. Gabriel guessed that this was where the showgirls prepared for their performances, preening themselves before the mirror and each other. It was hardly the most salubrious of dressing rooms.

Celeste made for the door. Gabriel called out, stopping her in her tracks. "No! Wait. Help me with this." He dropped his gun on the table and then grabbed the wooden lip, dragging the heavy piece of furniture toward the door, its legs squealing against the tiled floor in protest. Celeste rushed over to help him, and a moment later they had formed a rough blockade, propping the table beneath the door handle to jam it. Next, Gabriel heaved a couple of the chairs on top of the table and piled the rest around it, trying to make the barricade as deep as possible. It wouldn't stop the mobsters for long-especially if they had managed to bring one or both of their green-faced monsters into the pa.s.sageway with them-but it might just buy them enough time to get away.

Gabriel retrieved his weapon, and then indicated to Celeste to lead the way. She knew this building better than anyone. That was their only real advantage.

The bas.e.m.e.nt beneath this adjoining house had clearly been put to more nefarious use than the club next door. Pa.s.sing through the low archway that led from the small room, it opened out into a s.p.a.ce roughly the same size as Joe's. But here, the decor was far less plush and expensive, and it had about it the stink of old cigar smoke and whisky. Rats, too. Gabriel could always tell if there'd been rats. He hated the dirty animals. He'd seen them devouring the dead, in France. It still haunted his dreams.

He glanced around, trying to make sense of the shapes he could see hulking in the gloom. There were round tables, identical to the ones in Joe's. He crossed to the nearest of them. A deck of playing cards had been abandoned there; used, heaped haphazardly, along with half a dozen empty gla.s.ses and an ashtray, the stubs of fat brown cigars now cold and nestling amongst the ash. It took Gabriel only a moment to realize what this was. "Poker. A gambling den. So that's how Franco kept his nose clean at Joe's."

There was a crash from the small room behind them. The goons were trying to break through the door. Celeste nearly jumped out of her skin. "Come on!"

Gabriel rushed to her side. "Okay. Which way?"

"Follow me."

They raced to the back of the room, narrowly avoiding all manner of obstacles- wooden crates full of imported goods, barrels of cheap alcohol, boxes of cigarettes-as they wound their way toward the stairs that would lead them, hopefully, to safety. Franco had been running quite an operation. Gabriel wondered who would be in line to take it over, now that the man himself was dead.

Celeste, even in her heels, cleared the short staircase in three bounds, and Gabriel followed close behind. He could hear m.u.f.fled voices now, from down below, and realized that their pursuers had finally managed to smash their way through his temporary barricade.

Panting for breath, he called after Celeste. "We need a vehicle. A car. We need to get away from here."

Celeste stopped in the mouth of the doorway, hovering like some ghostly siren leading him on in a wild chase. Beyond her was the hallway, and beyond that, the relative safety of the Manhattan night. She turned toward him, a wild look in her eyes. "Where's your car?"