The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge
by Gary Inbinder
Chicago, 1910. The mysterious death of detective Max Niemand’s former girlfriend launches Max on a dangerous investigation involving gangsters, corrupt politicians, crooked cops, a missing key witness, and Max’s client, the missing witness’s attractive sister. Max will need all his skill and resources to stay alive and solve the case of The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge.
Chapter 8: Evening on Skid Row
Late evening on Skid Row. Down-and-outers panhandling; hookers scouting for tricks; junkies looking for a fix. A cacophony of saloon nickelodeons banging out ragtime; a chorus of winos at a mission, singing “Shall We Gather at the River?”; shouts, curses, laughter, screams. The stench of an urban stew; humanity packed into firetraps like animals in the stockyard pens. Furtive looks scanning passersby from the shadows of dark hallways and back-alleys; eyes filled with suspicion, fear and hatred.
Max entered the Majestic and went straight to the front desk. The nervous night clerk peered at him through thick lenses mounted in badly worn frames: “Can I help you, mister?”
“Are you new here, pal?”
“Uh, yeah... What difference does that make?”
“Plenty. I’m Max Niemand, and I’m in a hurry. You heard of me?”
“You’re The Hawk. Yes. sir, I’ve heard of you. What do you want?” The clerk shook visibly, his pasty face turned a paler shade of white.
“Information. Dan Buford in Number 3. Is he here?”
The clerk’s sweaty hands fumbled with the register. He looked up at Max. “No, Mr. Niemand. He checked out.”
“When?”
“About three hours ago.”
“Was he alone?”
“I don’t know. Levitsky was here when Buford checked out.”
“Where’s Levitsky?”
“Home... I guess.”
“Where’s home?”
The clerk paused a moment. He knew Max by reputation; he might pay for information, or he might get violent. But the clerk was needy, so greed trumped fear. “If I tell you, I guess you’ll make it worth my while?”
Max grinned ugly, like a malevolent jack-o-lantern. “Sure, pal. What are your teeth worth?
“My... my teeth?”
“Yeah, your choppers. I assume you want to keep them. What are they worth to you?”
“425 South Peoria, second floor,” the clerk blurted out. He valued his teeth and needed no further explanation of what Max might do to them.
Max growled, “Thanks” and left the flophouse.
* * *
Max rapped on Levitsky’s door. He could hear sounds of life in the apartment: Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland playing dreamily on the Victrola; the creak of a rocking chair relieved of its burden and the shuffling of feet over a carpet. Max banged louder for emphasis.
“Hold your horses. I’m coming,” Levitsky said. He unlocked the door, opened it the length of a chain and peered into the dimly lit hallway. Recognizing Max, he tried closing the door; a bad idea.
Max bulled his way into the apartment, breaking the chain and knocking Levitsky on his ass. He straddled the squirming flophouse clerk and got close so he could smell Levitsky’s breath, a mixture of onions, cheap whiskey and fear.
“Not very friendly,” Max said, “trying to shut the door in my face. Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“You... you oughtn’t to bust into a guy’s flat like that, Mr. Niemand. What do you want?”
“I want the truth for my ten bucks. I told you not to cross me.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Buford in Number 3. I asked you to tell me if O’Neill was with anyone. You told me about the two guys in the car, but you said nothing about Buford.”
“Uh, sorry. I forgot about Buford.”
“Bullshit! I ought to—”
“What’s the trouble? What’s goin’ on in here?” Levitsky’s landlady appeared in the doorway.
Max got up off of Levitsky and greeted the landlady with a smile. “Just showing my pal Abe a wrestling move. Guess it got a little out of hand.” He glanced down at his “pal.” “Ain’t that right, Abe?”
Levitsky got up slowly. “That’s right, Mrs. Monahan. We was just horsing around. Sorry.”
“Horsin’ around, is it? Two grown men actin’ like a couple of punk kids. Well, knock it off, see, or I’ll call the cops.” She left with a dirty look on her perpetually frowning face.
Max turned on Levitsky. “Start talking pal, or landlady or no I’ll get really rough.”
“OK, so maybe Buford slipped my mind. But I was straight with you otherwise.” He showed his ugly teeth in an attempt at a pacifying smile.
“Who paid you to clam up about Buford?”
“Uh, he paid me.”
“Buford? How much did he pay you?”
“A five spot.”
“Think again.”
“OK. Twenty bucks.”
“Twenty! The guy’s a deckhand sharing a room in your flea trap. Where did he get the dough?”
“How should I know?”
Max grabbed Levitsky’s ears and lifted him onto his toes.
“Ow! That hurts.”
“That ain’t nothing. Now where did he get the dough? Did the two gents give it to him?”
“Maybe. I ain’t sure. Honest.”
Max let Levitsky go. The desk clerk groaned and rubbed his sore ears.
“Tell me everything you know about the two gents.”
“I already told you all I know about them. I swear on my mother’s grave.” His eyes glanced up at the ceiling as he added, “May she rest in peace.”
Max stared hard at Levitsky before saying, “Anything you haven’t told me about O’Neill or Buford or the two gents, you better spill it now.”
“There’s nothing more. That’s it.” Levitsky sighed and shook his head.
“OK, for now. Sorry I had to get tough, but you had it coming.”
“Yeah, Mr. Niemand. I had it coming.” Levitsky looked down like a whipped dog and nodded his agreement.
Max was not completely satisfied, but he did not want to overdo it. He might get more out of Levitsky later. He said, “Good-night, Abe,” turned around and stomped out of the apartment. The record on the Victrola scratched and popped as it spun around in the end grooves. The night in dreamland was over.
Proceed to Chapter 9
Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder
