The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 21: Another Corpse

Max needed aspirin for his aching head and rest for his weary body, but he had miles to go before he would sleep. He got off the train at the elevated station near the town hall. At three a.m., he was the only passenger in the car. Clouds covered the moon on a deep purple night. Nevertheless, the landmark was unmistakable as its red walls and green cupola glimmered in the glow of electric lamps that illuminated the small park in which it stood.

He walked past the park and up a silent street, no people, no traffic, not so much as a barking dog or a yowling cat to break the stillness. In a couple of hours, the sleeping neighborhood would come to life: trolley cars would start picking up passengers on their way to work; horse-drawn vehicles of all descriptions and a few automobiles would rumble up and down the red brick pavement.

He arrived at the side street near the brownstone and entered the alley. Was the cab still there? Sure enough, he found it parked and unmolested where he had left it. At least most folks around here are honest, he thought. He climbed into the driver’s seat and felt underneath for his flashlight. Then, he walked noiselessly to the back-yard entrance to the brownstone. The gate was still open, as if by invitation. Clutching the flashlight in his left hand and the .38 in his right, he passed through the gate and entered the garden.

A breeze stirred, rustling the lilacs lining the garden path. Keeping a low profile, he crept through the back yard. When he reached the back stairs, he hunkered down beneath the landing. He scanned his surroundings before dropping down to the areaway and then edged his way along the wall to the door. He watched, waited and listened. Not a sound came from the basement apartment. He tucked the flashlight into his belt, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to cover his fingerprints as he tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked; he pushed and, with a creak of the hinges, it swung open.

Max sheltered next to the doorframe, his revolver held at the ready position in his right hand, the flashlight in his left. He flicked on the light and let it shine into the apartment. He peered around the corner and saw a sparsely furnished room. Low ceiling; boarded-up windows; three chairs and a square table. No sign of life. He entered cautiously. A threadbare curtain covered the entrance to an adjacent room; he drew it back slowly and aimed his light at the interior. The flashlight revealed a cot with a man’s body lying face down on a blood-soaked mattress. He entered to get a closer look. There was a deep gash on the body’s forehead and the throat had been cut; a cursory examination indicated the individual had not been dead for long, perhaps no more than an hour or two.

Could it be Bob O’Neill? Max recalled the Lady of the Lake mate’s description and Mary’s photo: about thirty; medium build; sandy hair; blue eyes; scar over the right eye; tanned complexion; eagle and anchor tattoo on right arm. Except for the scar, which could have been covered by the recent wound, the description matched the corpse, right down to the tattoo. Why kill the goose that was about to lay a golden egg? It did not add up, but the mystery would not be solved by hanging around this place. He took out his handkerchief and wiped everything he had touched, then he switched off the flashlight and left the apartment.

* * *

Around five a.m., Max returned the cab to the taxi company’s garage and walked the four blocks to his office. The elevator operator was off duty, so he trudged up the stairs. Tired as he was, he figured he would be up at least another twenty-four hours before he got any sleep. He opened the office, switched on the lights and locked the door behind him. Then he headed straight for his inner office and the screened-off area that contained a sink, mirror and first-aid kit.

He examined the back of his head in a shaving mirror. Not too bad; won’t need stitches. After this quick assessment of the damages, he washed the cuts with soap and water, dried the wounds and applied iodine. Next, he examined his face, rubbing his cheeks and chin. He needed a shave, but that could wait. Finally, he popped a couple of aspirin tablets in his mouth and washed them down with cold water.

His next stop was the front office, where he started brewing a fresh pot of coffee. He returned to the inner office and eyeballed the messages on his desk. But before he had a chance to review the messages, a lock clicked. The front door swung open. Rosie entered. He looked up and called out to her: “You’re early, Miss Mandelbaum.”

“I had a lot of work to catch up. And have you seen your messages? You’re awfully popular these days.”

“I’ll bet. Anyways, I got the coffee going. Should be ready soon. When it is, grab our cups and the pot and join me for a confab.”

“OK. And I brought fresh rolls.” She held up the brown bag.

“That’s swell. I’m starving.”

Rosie placed the coffee and Kaiser rolls on a tray, brought it into the inner office and placed it on Max’s desk. That was her first good look at him.

“What happened to you? Were you in a fight?”

“I slipped on a banana peel.”

Rosie had her suspicions, but she figured they were best left unsaid. She started on her breakfast and waited for him to go through the messages.

“I see Tim O’Neill’s in town,” he said.

“He certainly is and raising holy hell now his girl’s gone missing along with his boy.”

“Has he been to her hotel?”

“He sure has. You’ll see a message from Conrad Vogel. Old man O’Neill spent the better part of an hour with him.”

“I’m sure that made Con’s day. Any other bad news?”

“I’m afraid so. Lieutenant Mueller and Sergeant Sugrue want to talk to you.”

“That’s no surprise.” He shook his head and sighed. “Anything else to brighten my day?”

“Joe tracked down Regis Goonan, the title holder to the house in Forest Park and the registered owner of the Chalmers Detroit.”

“Oh, yeah? And where is Mr. Goonan?”

“Where he’s been for the last ten years, resting peacefully in Calvary Cemetery.”

He shrugged resignedly and shuffled through the remaining messages. “I see Jimmy Dolan dropped by. He wants to set up a meeting but he didn’t say with who.”

“No, he didn’t. But I can guess.”

“Don’t guess. I’m gonna meet with Ed Mahoney, the sooner the better.”

“I thought you were trying to avoid Big Ed?”

“I was, but this case calls for extreme measures. Do you know what it means to cut the Gordian knot?”

“I’ve heard the expression. Doesn’t it have something to do with Alexander the Great?”

“Yeah. When Alexander was on his mission to conquer the world, he came upon a very tough knot. According to legend, it was tied by an old king of Phrygia named Gordius. The prophecy was whoever untied that tricky knot would rule all of Asia. Alexander was no fool. He knew no one could untie the damn thing, so he swung out his sword and cut through it.

“This case is like that knot. I haven’t got time to keep playing Sherlock Holmes. Radical action is called for. So, like it or not, I’m gonna meet with the boss of the North Side mob, my old pal, Ed.” He turned his attention to the last note. “Walt Wagner called with some dope on the Lady of the Lake and Hoosier Shipping.”

“That’s right. He said it was urgent.”

Max grinned. “It’s all urgent, sweetheart. I’m gonna call Walt, but not from here. Nothing from Mort Williams in Indianapolis?”

Rosie shook her head. “No, are you going to call him, too?”

“Yeah, later. If he calls, tell him that. Now, I’m gonna make like Houdini and disappear. I need twenty-four hours. You and Joe have gotta give me that. If you get pressed by O’Neill or the cops, tell them I’m out looking for Bob and Mary. I left you a message to that effect and that’s all you know. Got that?”

“Got it. But won’t you at least talk to the cops? You don’t want them out on your tail.”

“You forget that, in a way, I’m still one of them. Besides, if Big Ed calls off the dogs, they’re off. At least for the time being. He has a direct line to their big boss, Deputy Chief Crunican.”

“Is Mahoney really that influential?”

“Yes, he is. And with all the dough the mob bosses are throwing around these days, finding a cop in Chicago who isn’t on their payroll is like finding a four-leaf clover. That might even go for Big Mike Sugrue, but we’re still pals... sort of.”

Rosie said nothing. She sipped her coffee and looked down at her hands.

“Sorry, kid. That’s our racket. If you want to be in it, you’d better get used to it.”

“But there’s been talk of reform, with the election coming up.”

“Oh, yeah. ‘Reform.’ Turn out the old crooks, bring in the new. But I think you may be onto something. There’s a campaign right now against vice. Clean up the Levee; get rid of the brothels, the gambling and opium dens, and the crooked saloons. The Anti-Saloon league and WCTU are pushing for a dry America. My pal Ed and Big Jim Colosimo know that reform’s a lot a hooey.

“The same goes for the City Hall gang and slick operators like my old boss Chief Crunican and his crony Judge Moran. Sure, they’ll shut down Sharkey’s and the brothels on the Levee to make a show for the reformers and the sob sisters. Then they’ll move the rackets elsewhere, like the suburbs or onto boats out in the lake.”

Rosie raised an enlightened eyebrow. “So, you think that’s what’s going on with the Lady of the Lake and the house in Forest Park?”

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure, and I’ll be one-hundred percent sure when I get more information, especially after I talk to Ed Mahoney. But that still doesn’t satisfy my suspicions about Peg Rooney’s death or the disappearance of Bob and Mary O’Neill. There’re still plenty of missing pieces to those puzzles.”

“And you need twenty-four hours to gather the missing pieces?”

“At least twenty-four hours, so there’s no time to lose.”

“Don’t worry, Max. Joe and I will run interference for you.”

Max smiled. “I knew I could count on you, kid. And don’t worry. I’ve gotten outa worse jams, lots of times.”

Rosie returned the smile and nodded in the affirmative. But deep down she wondered if The Hawk was about to be trumped by an eagle.

* * *

Max entered Joe Vessio’s barbershop on South Halsted through a back-alley entrance reserved for special customers. Max was a regular and a friend of the family; Joe’s establishment provided more than a first-rate shave, haircut and shoe-shine; he had connections with the police, politicians and the South Side mob. The family business flourished, but it remained a front for the local numbers racket. In addition to the dough Joe raked in from the legitimate operation, he pocketed plenty of jack from the mostly immigrant numbers players.

Max waited at a small, plain wooden round table set up in the corner of a sparsely furnished room. The meeting place was painted a dingy, institutional green and lit by a single ceiling fixture. The only bright spot was a Coca-Cola wall calendar featuring a pretty brunette sporting a fashionably enormous hat decorated with scarlet ribbons and a single, red rose. Max stared at the calendar; the model bore an uncanny resemblance to Mary O’Neill.

A lock clicked; he turned his attention from the calendar girl to the doorway. Joe Vessio appeared, dressed in an immaculate white barber’s jacket. Joe The Barber was a small, dapper man in his fifties with a lightly pocked-marked swarthy complexion, thinning gray hair, and an impeccably waxed handlebar moustache.

His sharp brown eyes looked directly at his old pal, a friendly smile exposed a row of healthy, white teeth. He approached Max, right hand extended in greeting. His presence filled the small room with the sweet, potent aroma of Lilac Vegetal. Max got up and walked around the table. They shook hands warmly and Vessio made an observation: “You could use a shave my friend, but I’m guessing that’s not why you’re here.”

Max rubbed his chin and grinned. “Right on both counts, Joe. You always have your ear to the ground. I’m looking for some information, and I thought you might help.”

Joe smiled shrewdly, as though he already knew what Max was about to ask. “Sure, Mr. Hawk, I always got time for you. Take a seat. You want something to drink?”

“Thanks, Joe. I could use a shot of whiskey.”

“Me too. Just a minute.” Joe walked to a nearby cabinet, grabbed a bottle and a couple of glasses, and returned to the table. He set the whiskey bottle and glasses on the table and said, “Single or double?”

“Double for me.”

Joe grinned, poured two doubles and handed one to Max. “Salute!”

They downed their shots. Joe spoke first. “So, tell me, how can I be of help?”

Max looked the barber straight in the eye. He knows, but how much is he willing to tell me? he wondered. “There’s a new racket in town. They’re involved in gambling, smuggling, prostitution, extortion. I don’t think they’re connected to Colosimo and Torrio. I know Big Jim brought Torrio in from New York to handle his problems with the Black Hand. But I don’t believe this new racket is run by Black Handers. You know what I’m talking about?”

“Maybe.” The barber’s dark eyes squinted; a slight smile creased the corners of his thin lips. “Tell me more. Give me a name, something to go on.”

Max provided some detail: The Lady of the Lake; the house in Forest Park; Levitsky; the corpse in the West Side basement flat and the disappearing O’Neills from South Bend. When he mentioned Ritter, Sharkey, Schmidt and Peg Rooney’s death, the barber interrupted: “You think Sharkey, Schmidt and Ritter got something to do with this new racket?”

“Yeah,” Max said with an affirmative nod. “What do you think?”

The barber frowned. “I think we got big trouble. Torrio thinks that way, too. And he also thinks Ed Mahoney’s behind it all. Big Jim ain’t so sure.”

“If that were true, it would mean war. That’s bad for everybody, especially with the upcoming election.”

“So, what do you think?”

Max was not sure, but he intuitively knew which card to play. “I think it’s a case of divide and rule. An out-of-town mob is trying to muscle in on your boss’s and Ed’s territories. They stir things up so everybody’s fighting one another, South Side, North Side, the cops and City Hall. When the dust settles, these out-of-town guys move in and take over.”

The barber rubbed his chin meditatively for a moment. Then he nodded in agreement and said, “That makes a lot a sense. So, what do we do?”

“You talk to your people. I’m going to meet with Ed, see what he knows. Then we can meet, make a plan, work things out. And we’ll have to act quick; we ain’t got a lot of time.”

“OK, Mr. Hawk. You always on the level. Whatever you need, just ask.”

“Thanks, Joe. First, I gotta make some calls, local and long distance.”

“OK. Anything else?”

Max rubbed his cheeks and chin. “I could use a shave. If I’m gonna be talkin’ to the big shots, I better look sharp.”

The barber grinned and gave Max the once-over. “You could use a shoe-shine, too. Don’t worry. We fix you up real nice.”

Max returned the smile. Yeah. Nice as a corpse at a first-class funeral, he thought.

Proceed to Chapter 22...

Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder