The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Chapter 16: Hoosier Shipping

part 2

“Well, as I live and breathe,” said Dolan, “if it ain’t the lieutenant come to pay a call on his old pals on this cold and rainy night.” Max had been off the force for several years, but Dolan and the other old-timers still called him “the lieutenant.”

Otto added, “Hey, Max, how’s tricks? We ain’t seen you in a while.”

“Everything’s jake, just busy with a new case.”

“Ah, Lieutenant, yer always busy with a new case, but never too busy to hoist a few with yer pals.”

“That’s right, Jimmy. So here I am, in from the rain like a half-drowned rat.”

Jimmy and Otto laughed at the half-drowned rat crack.

Then Otto said, “How’s about a rum toddy to keep out the damp chill?”

“That’s the ticket!” Max answered. “And one for Jimmy, on me.”

“That’s very friendly of you, Lieutenant,” Jimmy said with a broad smile.

“Coming right up,” Otto said as he went to mix the drinks.

Max turned to Jimmy and lowered his voice. “I’ve come to talk business, Jimmy.”

“Didn’t think you was out for pleasure,” the old patrolman replied with a twinkle in his blue eyes. “Is there something in it for me, besides a rum toddy?”

“Might be. Depends on what you know, or what you’re willing to find out.”

“Depends on what yer askin’, don’t it?”

Before Max could respond, Otto returned with the drinks. He served them and said, “Looks like you fellers are about to talk confidential. Why don’t you take them drinks to the back room? No one else is using it tonight.”

Otto’s back room was reserved for private confabs among the politicos, cops and members of Ed Mahoney’s North Side mob as well as high-stakes poker and crap games. Max was a regular with preferred status; in that regard, this place was like a second office, a home away from home.

“Thanks, Otto,” Max said. “We’ll be OK here. Going to the back room might draw unwanted attention.”

Otto nodded his understanding. “All right, Max. Just sing out if you want another round.” Max and Dolan’s corner of the bar was quiet; Otto would see to it that it stayed that way.

“Jimmy,” Max said in a low voice, “I know you keep your ear to the ground. I suspect Sharkey and Schmidt are expanding, or they might be part of a larger racket. They operate south of the river, so I assume Ed isn’t involved?”

Dolan took a sip of his toddy, wiped his moustache on the back of his hand and took a moment to think before answering. “Ed ain’t involved, that I’m sure. As you know, he and Colosimo have a gentleman’s agreement; Colosimo’s gang stays south of the river and Ed and his boys stay north. But the dagos are warring amongst themselves. I suppose you’ve heard about Big Jim’s troubles with the Black Hand?”

“I heard Colosimo brought in a New York enforcer, Johnny Torrio from the Five Points Gang, to clamp down on the Black Handers.”

“That’s right, Lieutenant, and you might be onto something. Sharkey and Schmidt have an alderman and a captain at their backs, and that takes a big cut out of their profits. Up to now, they’ve been operating in neutral territory, near the Rush Street Bridge, so they don’t have to pay Big Jim or Ed. But maybe things have changed, now that the Black Hand is in the mix, though up till now the Black Handers have stuck to shaking down their own people.”

Max nodded and took a sip of his drink. Then: “You know anything about a freighter called the Lady of the Lake and Minnie’s, a whorehouse in the west suburbs near the cemeteries and the new amusement park?”

Jimmy narrowed his eyes and stroked his moustache without saying anything.

Max reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten-spot. Jimmy kept squinting and stroking until Max pulled out another ten. The stroking hand left the moustache and sunk beneath the bar top rail molding where it remained concealed, palm open. Max slipped the bills into the waiting hand, which grasped them and pocketed them with a well-practiced, fluid motion.

“Don’t know nothin’ about the boat, but I do know somethin’ about Minnie’s. They’re operating outside the Chicago mob’s territory, and the locals can’t do much about it. Big Jim and Ed don’t like it, but they ain’t done nothin’, at least not yet.”

“Do you know who owns the whorehouse?”

“No, but I can find out.”

“OK. One more thing. Is Milt Ritter on the take?”

“You don’t know about Milt?” Dolan shook his head and sighed.

“No. That’s why I’m asking.”

“His wife’s got consumption. He sent her to a sanatorium out west. That, and three kids to raise with the help of his widowed sister. It’s a heavy load, on a sergeant’s pay.”

“Do you know who’s paying him?”

“No, but like with the owners of Minnie’s, I can find out. But it’ll cost you more than twenty bucks.”

“How much?”

“A C-note.”

Max hesitated. He’d have to charge this as an expense to the O’Neill case. “No, I’ll go fifty.”

“Seeing as we’re old pals, I’ll make it seventy-five.”

“Seeing as we’re old pals, and seeing as you owe me at least one favor, sixty, and not a penny more.”

Dolan grinned. “Ah, you drive a hard bargain, Lieutenant, but I got to keep the wolf from the door in my old age. So, for you, sixty.”

Max reached into his pocket and took out a third ten. “Half now; the rest when you deliver.”

Dolan grabbed the bill and said, “Done.”

Max looked toward the other end of the bar, caught Otto’s attention and signaled for another round.

* * *

Max’s flat around midnight. He leaned forward in his leather armchair and studied the chess board on the table before him. The scene was lit by a brass gooseneck lamp set on a mahogany end table next to the armchair; the table also contained a half-smoked Havana corona smoldering in a dark green ceramic ashtray, an empty whiskey glass and a bottle of twenty-year old Scotch. Light from street lamps filtered in through rain-streaked window panes.

He had reached the decisive twenty-sixth move. This was the climax, the moment of electric tension preceding the thunderbolt, the instant before the trap sprung on the gallows. Mate in two! He reached out and tipped over the black king. Then he retrieved his cigar from the ashtray and took a couple of satisfying puffs. The chess problem was a necessary distraction; his mind was still on the case.

He dropped the cigar in the ashtray, got up from his chair and walked across the living room to a table-top Victrola. He opened a cabinet containing his record collection and brought out Caruso and Ancona’s recording of Bizet’s Au fond du temple saint. After removing the record from its cardboard sleeve, he placed it on the turntable, wound the mechanism, and then carefully set the needle in the opening grooves. A few hisses and pops, and then the gates of heaven opened.

He returned to his chair, leaned back, and let the sublime sound pour over him like surf washing up on the pristine sands of a beach. This was his refuge, his momentary escape from the war of all against all, the mean streets where life was nasty, brutish, and short. The refuge kept him from tripping and falling into a deep, dark hole from which there would be no escape short of death. The doorbell rang and broke in on his reverie.

“Damn,” he muttered. He got up, walked to the Victrola, lifted the tonearm and turned off the mechanism. The doorbell rang again. “Keep your shirt on!” He headed to the front hall where he switched on the light and glared at the buzzer. Maybe it will go away. Who was it? Someone who wanted Max dead? That could be one of any number of people, but Max was hard to kill and assassins did not usually announce themselves. Perhaps it was someone who wanted him off the case but wasn’t prepared to kill him to achieve that goal, at least not yet. Possible, he thought, but not likely. He guessed it was Mueller and Mike coming to fling another corpse in his face. A third ring. Max growled into the speaking tube. “This had better be good.”

“I’m sorry Max,” came a timid reply. “It’s Mary. Please let me in.”

“All right, Mary.” Max did not like midnight surprises, but in this case, he was not completely surprised. He pressed the buzzer that opened the downstairs entrance door. Then he opened the front door to his flat, walked out to the hallway landing and waited as she climbed the stairs. As she came up to his floor, he could see that she was soaked. He recalled his barroom crack about the half-drowned rat.

“Max, I don’t know what to say. I... I...” She stood there dripping and shivering like a wet dog; her eyes wide and frightened, her lips quivering.

“Don’t say anything. We’ll talk later. Come on in.”

She followed him into the apartment. He walked around her, closed and locked the door. Then he turned back to her and in a calm, reassuring voice said, “You’d better get out of those wet things. You can towel off in the bathroom. When you’re ready, I’ll bring you something you can wear until your clothes dry.”

She stared at him without speaking. She might have been a wary young woman who had never been alone with a man in his flat, or at least trying to act the part. Regardless, she was obviously hesitant to comply with his request.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “As long as you’re with me, you’re safe. Later, you can explain why you didn’t stay at the hotel like I asked you to. Now, you’re soaked and shivering. You don’t want to catch cold, or worse. I’ve got a robe and pajamas you can wear. They’re clean. Presents from last Christmas; I’ve never even worn them.”

She nodded and said, “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Follow me.” He led her down the hallway, opened the door and turned on the light. “There are clean towels on the rack. When you’re ready, call me. I’ll hand you the robe and pajamas, you hand me the wet clothes and I’ll take them to the kitchen and hang them up to dry. I’ll fix us both a toddy. I’m sure you can use one. Then we’ll talk, OK?”

“OK,” she said. She entered the bathroom and closed the door.

Max smiled and shook his head when he heard the lock click. I bet she’s got one hell of a story.

To be continued...