The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 11: Stakeout in Thatcher Woods

Max was not Daniel Boone. He would rather be prowling through the back alleys of Chicago’s toughest neighborhood than here, in nature’s realm. His flashlight’s beam guided him forward as he followed a narrow trail winding down a low bluff overlooking the river.

Unseen creatures stirred in the thick foliage lining the path; perched on the branch of an ancient oak tree, an owl scanned the surrounding undergrowth with sharp yellow eyes, searching for its next victim. Snakes, Max thought. I bet this place is crawling with snakes. He wondered if they were poisonous. Just as he was thinking about snakebite, its effects and the painful treatment, cutting across the bite with a heated knife and sucking out the venom, something ugly, like a giant rat — it was in fact a possum — scampered across the trail ahead of him, then vanished into a thicket. The owl flapped its wings, darted from its branch and swooped overhead.

While Max was preoccupied, thinking about snakes, giant rats and birds of prey, he almost stumbled over a protruding root. To hell with the outdoors! It’s for the birds and the Boy Scouts.

* * *

The trail ended at the ruins of an old saw mill on the muddy river bank. Max reconnoitered and found a space behind a masonry wall where he could crouch and observe through a gap between stones without being seen, or so he hoped. He drew his revolver and kept it ready, just in case.

The moon remained hidden; the narrow, shallow river made burbling noises as it flowed over rocks worn smooth by the current; insects chirred and varmints rattled through the tall grass. He watched and waited; he did not have to wait long.

About ten minutes after Max burrowed into his hidey-hole, two men came down the trail; the first carried a lantern. As they approached the mill, there was just enough light from the lantern for Max to make out the features of the first man. I’ll be damned; it’s Ritter.

Milt Ritter was a Detective Sergeant with the Chicago Police. Moreover, he and Max had once been pals, and they had remained on friendly terms after Max left the force. He felt as though a viper had slithered out from under a rock and bitten his ass.

They stopped about twelve feet upstream, on the other side of the ruins. He could see and hear them, but they could not see him, as long as they did not come closer and aim the light in his direction. Ritter set the lantern on the remains of a fallen wall, took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to his partner. They lit up and smoked in silence for a couple of minutes.

Max didn’t recognize the second man. He was tall and slender, fair-skinned and clean-shaven. He looked young, probably in his early to mid-twenties. He wore a checked flat cap, a brown tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, like he was attending a sporting event or out for a stroll in the country. He was the first to break the silence: “Do you think the girl will show up?” He puffed on his cigarette and glanced up the trail, then looked back at Ritter as he waited for an answer.

“Don’t know. The kid seemed to think so.” Ritter answered tersely; that was his manner. It went with his “lean and hungry” look, the expression of a man more comfortable with action than with words.

Who’s the ’kid’? Max wondered. Bob O’Neill or someone else? Why are these guys waiting for Mary? What’s their game?

“I don’t like it, Ritter.” The young man pulled out his watch and checked the time. “She’s late. How long should we wait?”

“What’s the rush? You got big plans for tonight?”

“I don’t like it,” he repeated for emphasis. “How many girls would come out alone, late at night to a place like this, just to get their brother out of a jam? What if she has company, for protection?”

“So, what if she does? We already discussed that possibility. If she brings someone, we’ll deal with it.”

“Maybe you know something I don’t?”

Ritter shrugged and took a drag on his cigarette.

“Maybe she hired a shamus, a good one like The Hawk. She can afford it, after all.”

Ritter grinned. The light shining up from the lantern made his hard features look menacing like a villain in the flicks. “So, what? Like I said; we’ll handle it.” He paused a moment before adding, “I hope you ain’t turning yellow on me?”

In these surroundings, Max got the impression of a gnarly Oak chewing out a sapling.

The young man tried to control himself before saying, “I’m not yellow. I just... I just—”

“I know,” Ritter broke in sarcastically, “you just don’t like it.”

The young man shut up. Ritter pulled a flask from his hip pocket and took a snort. He offered the flask to the young man; the young man shook his head. Ritter had another swallow, then capped and pocketed the flask. They watched and waited.

Max rubbed his legs to avoid a cramp. I can’t crouch like this forever, he thought. What were his options? Rush out and confront them? He had the ready weapon and the advantage of surprise. But Max knew Ritter. The veteran cop would not panic. He would guess Max would not shoot except in self-defense. Max would get nothing from Ritter, and he would have shown his hand to boot. What about the young man? He might break under pressure, reveal a secret, some information Max could use to crack the case. How would Ritter react to that? Too risky. Better to lie low and see what develops.

* * *

Twenty minutes later it rained, a drizzle at first, followed by small drops, and then it came down heavy, like a multitude of winos pissing off a bridge. Damn! Water’s pooling in the ruins. Max could not leave without showing himself, and he did not want a confrontation. He prayed to the Supreme Being, or any other god-like entity who would listen: Please make these two schmucks return from whence they came. And while you’re at it, could you please stop the rain? Amen. He almost prayed — this Goddamn rain — but Max feared such blasphemy might only make things worse.

A few minutes later his first prayer was answered; Ritter and the young man called it a night and started back up the trail. Max thought about following them but gave up on the idea. Sticking to the path risked blowing his cover. On the other hand, there was no way he was going to hack his way through the dense, tangled woods in a downpour. He was definitely not Daniel Boone.

Max waited a while to make sure the two would not see him, then headed back to his car. On the way, the rain let up, for which he was truly grateful. When he arrived at the parking space, the sky had calmed to a light, intermittent drizzle. He removed the wet tarp, shook it out as best he could and stowed it. Then he put on his duster, cap and goggles and cranked the engine. After some coughs, wheezes and sputters, the motor came to life on the third try. He got behind the wheel, drove to North Avenue and headed east.

Light from an endless row of electric streetlamps reflected in puddles on the dark pavement. Tufted clouds blanketed a purple sky and a pre-dawn glimmer appeared on the horizon. The Buick sped along the quiet street at a steady thirty miles per hour. Max tried to make sense of the jumbled jigsaw puzzle he had been handed.

He needed more information about Mary O’Neill and her family. He had a contact in Indianapolis who owed him a favor; he made a mental note to call him. He also wanted more dope on the Lady of the Lake, beginning with the registry and ownership, the scheduled ports of call and the cargo she carried; a job for Rosie.

Then there was Milt Ritter and his young companion; what were they up to? Max had his sources; he needed to start working them as soon as possible. Those same sources could also provide more dope on Sharkey and Schmidt’s racket, for a price. He hoped that price would not be more than he was willing and able to pay.

As he approached his near North Side apartment, he heard thunder rumbling like distant batteries of artillery; forked lightning streaked through the sky over Lake Michigan. He picked up the pace; the Buick was doing forty when he applied the brake, down-shifted, slowed without skidding and then turned right on Wolcott. He entered the alley and stopped at his garage.

The rain started just as he raised the door; he drove into the garage and parked. Good timing. The flat cap and duster provided some protection as he raced through the yard and ran up the back stairs to his third-floor apartment. He fumbled with the key, unlocked the door and entered the kitchen, his soaked duster dripping on the linoleum. He removed the damp cap and duster and draped them over a chair to dry. Then he made a beeline for his living room liquor cabinet, retrieved a bottle of pricey scotch and poured himself a double. He knocked backed the shot and got ready for bed. He hoped to get a few hours’ sleep before checking in early at the office.

The whiskey helped, but Max tossed and turned for some time before drifting off. One problem in particular kept him awake: Rosie’s intuition. Was she on to something? Is Mary O’Neill on the level?

To be continued...

Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder