Hell Gate

By robert l. bryan

The situation was not uncommon. A teenage boy takes up with the wrong crowd and begins running wild on the streets of New York City.  His behavior degenerates from petty thefts and vandalism to much more serious crimes.  His frustrated parents believe that the only solution to save their son is to send him to live with his uncle.  The only problem is that this is the 1930s and the uncle lives in Germany.  Seventeen year old Willie Kuhn is about is about to take up with the wrong crowd again.  This crowd, however, wears swastikas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: robert l. bryan
• Release date: Jul 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223077787

robert l. bryan

Thank you for purchasing my book detailing the early history of policing in New York City.  This is the tenth book in the “Police of New York City” series. This is a change of pace for me as most of my previous works have been memoirs regarding my police career as well as humorous works of fiction. You can check out all my books on my Amazon Author Page.  Again, thanks, and I hope you enjoy reading about this small piece of New York City policing history.  I would greatly appreciate a brief review when you have completed the book. https://www.amazon.com/Robert-L.-Bryan/e/B01LXUSALG/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1

Book preview

PROLOGUE

December 5, Present Day: It was always there, this anger, escaping into every aspect of his life.  He was angry at store clerks and drivers on the road.  He was angry at his wife and kids at home.  He was even angry if his sandwich from the deli wasn’t made just right.  But on the job was where the real explosions occurred, and the fuse was quickly burning towards a nuclear detonation.

It was 10 AM and the mobilization for the project was supposed to have been completed by 8 AM.  By this time crews should have been hard at work preparing the Hell Gate Bridge for its new paint job.  When Amtrak Superintendent Frank Gallagher pulled his truck to a stop on Shore Road in Astoria Park, he observed numerous crew members around the bridge’s concrete support tower, but not much activity.  Frank Gallagher was a burly man with powerful shoulders, a fierce dark face, and eyes that seemed to flash a savage nature.  Twenty-two years of managing railroad projects had carved out a face made to dominate the environment: never a face to patronize or pity. All his movements were large and perfectly balanced, like those of a wild animal, and when he appeared at a job site, he seemed like a wild animal held in a cage too small for it.

In his haste to exit the vehicle, Gallagher almost forgot to put his truck in park. What the hell is going on, he screamed. Get off your asses and get to work. He scanned the area, looking for someone in particular among the now scattering workers. Where the hell is Hampton?

Here I am Mr. Gallagher? John Hampton was shaking, and with good reason.

Why aren’t these assholes at work? Gallagher bellowed.

The primer only got here twenty minutes ago, sir, Hampton stammered.

Then why hadn’t the scraping started. Gallagher didn’t wait for an answer.  He waved his hands in disgust and turned to walk away.  He took three steps before wheeling about and pointing a menacing finger at his foreman. I’m going to Wards Island to make sure the foreman on the other side of the bridge is not as incompetent as you.  When I come back I better see a lot of progress – understand?

Yes, Mr. Gallagher.

Frank Gallagher slammed the door on his Amtrak truck and turned on the ignition.  Just before he put the vehicle into drive, the woop of a siren drew his attention to the rear-view mirror.  An NYPD patrol car had pulled up behind him.

Aw Christ, Frank groaned. What the hell now.

Frank kept focused on his mirror as he watched the cop exit the passenger door and pass behind the truck.  He was big and husky, but not a normal-looking cop.  His shirt was white and he had gold braid around his cap. 

Good morning, the officer greeted as he approached the driver’s window.

Good morning, Frank replied. What can I do for you?

I am Captain Bill Kuhn. I’m the commanding officer of the 114th Precinct.

Congratulations, Captain, Frank blurted. I’d love to talk about your career but I have a crew of do-nothings to manage on this bridge project.

That’s pretty good, Captain Kuhn chuckled. I appreciate a good sense of humor.

I’ve been accused of a lot of things, Gallagher said, but having a good sense of humor is not one of them.

Okay, Captain Kuhn nodded, I can see you’re a busy man so I’ll get right to my business. You’re in charge of this bridge project, correct?

Correct.

What is the exact scope of the project? Kuhn asked.

We’re painting the bridge, Gallagher replied. The last time it was painted was during the early 90s, and that paint sucked – it wore away within a year.

Does your work include the concrete support towers?

Yeah, we’re gonna scrape and wire brush the entire bridge. We’ll use rock miracle to remove a hundred years of graffiti on the stone work.

The stone work is what I want to talk to you about, Kuhn said.

What about it?

Kuhn beckoned with his right hand. Can I show you something on the support tower?

Gallagher took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. I really am behind schedule, Captain.

What’s your name? Kuhn asked.

Frank Gallagher.

Please Frank, it will only take a minute and it’s very important.

What the hell, Frank sighed as he opened the driver’s door.

It’s over here, Frank, Kuhn said as he led Frank to the north side of the rectangular support tower. Wow, Kuhn continued, there really is a lot of graffiti on this tower.

Yeah, it’s wall to wall art work, Frank mocked, but that all ends today. When I finish this project, these towers will be totally clean.

That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Frank. Do you think you could forget to scrape off one little piece of graffiti?

Are you crazy? Frank bellowed. Captain or no captain, I have a job to do and all the graffiti goes – sorry.

Do you see that, Frank?

What?

Captain Kuhn pointed to a section in the middle of the wall about four feet above the ground. It was a small area approximately two feet by two feet.  There were no elaborate bubble letters or cartoon drawings in the area. There was only a series of black painted letters and numbers.

What are those? Frank asked.

That’s what I want you to leave alone. Kuhn replied.

Gallagher leaned in close to the wall and read the letters and numbers out loud. K-P-M-M-O-H-H-G-B-1-9-4-2. He turned back to Captain Kuhn. It’s bullshit. It doesn’t mean anything.

It means something to me, Kuhn responded, and to a lot of other people too.

I don’t know what to tell you, Captain. Frank moaned. I have a job to do, and that includes removing all the graffiti on that wall. Now I really have to check the other side of the bridge.

Don’t go yet, please, Kuhn urged. What time do you get off duty today?

Four o’clock – why?

There is a story that you must hear, but it’s going to take a while to tell. Do you know where the precinct is?

Yeah, sure, Frank replied.

Do you know where the Shamrock is? It’s the gin mill down the block from the precinct.

Yeah, I’ve seen it, Frank said.

Good, Kuhn said. Meet me there at four and I’ll buy you a drink while I tell you the story.

I don’t know, Frank sighed.

What do you have to lose, Kuhn said. I’ll even buy you two drinks.

...

The bar looked something like the interior of a coffin. The wallpaper was a dark burgundy with a strange shine to it. Either the shine was part of the effect, or no one had cleaned the place for the last twenty years or so and the smell of stale beer and nicotine was dominant.  Frank’s eyes began to adjust to the low light level enabling me to discern the finer features of this dilapidated joint.  To his left, the worn wood bar ran about 25-feet in length and to his right, four equally worn wood tables bordered the wall.  The only additional décor were the two old boozehounds staring silently into their drinks.  Frank paused at the bar’s midpoint to survey the terrain.  The framed photos and posters that adorned the wall behind the bar indicated no particular theme, as the likes of Mickey Mantle, John Lennon, a Long Island Railroad Diesel Locomotive, Batman, and the famous Anheuser Busch print of Custer’s Last Stand were prominently featured.  His scan of the area terminated at the far corner of the bar.  Although he was now in civilian clothing, Frank recognized Bill Kuhn at the corner of the bar. Frank saddled up to the bar next to Bill Kuhn. This looks like a real popular place, he scoffed.

Business picks up a little later, Captain Kuhn said. What are you drinking?

The bartender was tall and thin with long hair and a beard, both of which were predominantly grey.  His short sleeve black t-shirt with a Harley Davidson logo printed on the front revealed numerous tattoos on both arms. 

Bud, Frank said.

Two Buds, Pete, Kuhn called.

The bartender plopped two mugs down on the bar. Good luck, Kuhn said as he lifted his mug in salute.

Thanks, Frank replied as he returned the salute with his own mug.

Both mugs plopped back on the bar. Bill Kuhn wiped his mouth with his hand. How did your project go today. I hope your men didn’t remove that graffiti today?

Frank laughed. At the rate they’re going, they won’t get to that graffiti for a week. He took another sip of beer and then turned on his stool towards Kuhn. Now, you said you had a story for me.

Bill Kuhn reached to his belt and grabbed his iPhone.  He pressed a few buttons on the screen before turning the phone towards Gallagher. See this photo, he said.

Frank leaned closer and studies the screen.  He was an old man – a very old man.  Still somewhere within those ancient eyes Frank could see a playful young boy, full of life.  The old face was a map of a very long life.  The wrinkles on his face charted the journey and told of a man who had traveled many decades to get to the moment of the photo.  Wow, Frank declared, that’s one old fossil – who is it?

This is my great grandfather, William Kuhn.

I didn’t mean no offense with that fossil remark, Frank said.

Bill waved his hand. None taken – and you’re right, he is a fossil.

How old is he?

103.

Oh my God – 103 – God bless him.

Kuhn took a deep breath. He really is a good old guy, and he still has all his marbles. And he is the reason why you must leave that graffiti in place.  It all began back in the 1930s...

INTRODUCTION

Queens, New York City, 1934: Eleven o'clock. Willie waited on the southern track of the Hell Gate Bridge, savoring the bottle of cold Rheingold beer while taking in the view.  Even though it had dominated the Manhattan skyline for two years, Willie continued to marvel at the majesty of the Empire State Building, particularly when its lights became the beacon of the city night.  Kevin paced back and forth on the center track, chain-smoking Lucky Strikes and tossing the butts over the side.

Willie extended his hand and admired his bottle. This Rheingold really hits the spot tonight. I can't wait until we can walk into the store and buy it legally ourselves.

Kevin kept pacing and puffing. Well, that day is still a year away.

Are you sure your father isn't going to miss the beer you took? Willie asked.

Not a chance, Kevin replied. When Prohibition ended, my old man went out and spent all his money loading up on beer. The entire house is filled with Rheingold and Ballantine. He ain't gonna miss a few bottles.

Well, why don't you stop pacing and drink your beer, Willie suggested.

Where is he? Kevin whined. He should have been here a half hour ago.

Relax, Willie said. Charlie will be here. He took another sip of his beer.

Why did we have to meet him on the bridge? Why couldn't we have waited down in the park?

Kevin rolled his eyes. Because, dopey, we are the Hell Gate Boys. This is where we do our business.  If we were the Astoria Park Boys we would be down in the park.

Built in 1916 the Hell Gate truss bridge was a three-track railroad trestle spanning the dangerous waterway also known as Hell Gate. It connected Randall's and Ward's Islands, in the East River, to Astoria, Queens.  It was a quiet bridge, rarely used by trains, and accessible only to trespassers like the Hell Gate Boys.

Kevin and Willie turned toward the hollow metal thumping sounds resonating from inside the support tower. Charlie? Kevin called, is that you?

The dark figure stumbled onto the tracks as he emerged through the door. Yeah, it's me, Charlie gasped, attempting to catch his breath. I hate making the climb up here. Why did we have to do this here? Why couldn't we do it in the park?

Kevin threw his head back and stared at the starry sky. I just went through this with Willie Boy and I'm not going through it again. Let's get down to business - did you bring the stuff?

Charlie smiled as he rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. Whadya think?

Willie stared at the eight wristwatches attached to Charlie’s left wrist and forearm. Where did you get them? Willie asked.

Charlie raised his eyebrows. Let's just say they fell off the back of a truck.

Kevin ran his hand along the faces of the watches. You did good, boyo. We should be able to get ten bucks a piece for these from Axelrod.

Stay where you are and you won't get hurt! The origin of the warning from the east was unmistakable.

Kevin wheeled toward Charlie. You idiot - you let the bulls follow you here. Kevin glanced to the east. Let's go! he yelled before leading his friends in a sprint along the tracks to the west.

The Hell Gate Boys only made it thirty yards before the tracks to the west glowed from the illumination of six flashlights.  The glare prevented them from seeing who was holding the lights, but the Irish brogue was crystal clear. Be good lads now and lie down on the tracks if you please. I'd hate to have to kill you all.

At midnight Willie sat on the edge of the wood bench with his head buried in his hands.  Kevin lay on his back on the dirty floor with his hands clasped behind his head. Buck up, boyo, he barked as he kicked Willie’s left leg. The cops got nothing on us but a lousy trespass.  Charlie was stupid enough to be seen climbing up the bridge but those morons have no idea where the watches came from.

Willie – Willie Kuhn – is that you?

Willie glanced up and then his focus returned to the floor. Hello Sergeant Finnegan. he said sheepishly.

The sergeant bellowed down the long hallway. Officer, come open this cell for me right now!

The loud click was followed by the clanking and squeaking of the steel cell door being pulled open.  The enormous arm of Sergeant Seamus Finnegan reached inside