The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 24: Blood on the Streets

A yellow-green light appeared in the sky like a cloud of poisonous gas. Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed, the big guns firing on a celestial battlefield. Birds circled the lake front, crying out a warning of the coming storm. Along the city’s broad boulevards, avenues and side streets, pedestrians and vehicles sped up, each hoping to reach shelter before the torrent rained down on them. A few heavy drops were followed by a sprinkle, like a light spring shower; the preliminary before the main bout. After that, the deluge, like beer gushing out of an unbunged barrel.

The weather didn’t bother the crowd at Otto’s, on North Avenue. The smoke-filled barroom crackled with its own peculiar intensity, loquaciousness fueled by Otto’s high-test boilermakers, talk of the upcoming elections and rumors of street wars. There was one major distraction from current events, a high-stakes game of bottle pool between friendly rivals, Joey Bartkus and Conrad Vogel.

Otto had four tables tucked away in the far-left corner of the room, three with pockets and one without. A prominently displayed sign on the wall said: No gambling allowed on the premises. To put a twist on Shakespeare, this was a rule honored neither in the breach nor the observance, since it was rarely observed and never enforced.

To Otto and his regulars, the sign was a joke. The rule never interfered with poker and craps in the back room, which was certainly part of the premises. What’s more, when the two best neighborhood pool-shooters met in a “friendly game,” the bookies crawled out of the woodwork, and Ed Mahoney’s syndicate got its piece of the action. As for the law, the beat cop Flynn and Jimmy Dolan, his predecessor, made substantial wagers with the bookies.

The odds favored Joey, who was thoroughly familiar with the complexities of the game, which gave him an advantage over Conrad, who was more skilled as a straight pool shooter. The match had reached a critical stage; it looked like Joey could win with one masterful shot. He chalked his cue calmly, studied the table and was about to shoot when Mueller and Mike Sugrue entered the barroom. A murmur ran through the crowd; heads turned; Joey stood up straight, pulled back from the table and set down his cue.

“Don’t let me spoil your shot, Joe,” Mueller called out from the other side of the room.

Joey smiled, returned to the table and got into position. His eye was true, his hand steady, his stroke clean. The cue ball caromed off an object ball and then on into the bottle, knocking it while leaving it standing on its base. Onlookers gasped. An automatic win.

“Game!” the scorekeeper cried.

A round of applause and congratulations for the neighborhood champ. Conrad and Joey shook hands.

“Next time I’ll get you at straight pool,” Conrad said.

“All right, Con. I’ll look forward to it,” Joey replied.

Mueller and Mike came over to Joey. The spectators, including Flynn, who was in uniform and Jimmy Dolan, melted away at the detectives’ approach. Conrad was the last to go. He smiled and said: “You guys shoulda come earlier. You missed a great game.”

“Yeah, too bad,” Mueller answered with his typical growl. “We coulda got a piece of the action.”

Conrad smirked. “I’ll make it up to you. Stick around, and I’ll buy drinks.”

“Thanks, Con,” Mueller replied, “but it’s only fair the champ here should buy.” He turned to Joey. “What about it, Joe?”

“Sure, Lieutenant. One round on me.”

“That’s swell. Now if Conrad don’t mind, we got some private business. Let’s go to the back room, all right?”

Conrad glanced around and said, “I’ll meet you guys at the bar.” Then he turned and headed in the direction of Otto, Jimmy Dolan and Flynn, who were having a confab at the far end of the bar. Conrad guessed they were discussing weightier matters than billiards.

Joey reached into his pocket and checked his watch. Then to Mueller: “I hope this won’t take too long.”

Mueller shook his head. “Nah, just a friendly chat.”

“OK,” Joe replied. He was prepared to cover for Max, if necessary. In fact, he had no clear idea at the moment where his boss was, although he was aware of the meeting on Mahoney’s boat.

Joe and the detectives headed toward Otto and company. Otto, Conrad, Flynn and Dolan clammed up.

“Hey, Otto,” Mueller called out, “all right if we use the back room?”

“No problem, Lieutenant,” Otto replied. “It’s empty.” He reached into his pocket and handed Mueller the key. “Just lock up and return the key when you’re done.”

“Thanks, pal,” Mueller replied. Then he added, “Give us a bottle of whiskey and three glasses to keep out the damp chill.”

“Right,” Otto said. He turned around to the counter and reached for a bottle of his best Rye. Then he stacked three glasses on a tray and placed it and the bottle on the bar. “Here you go, Lieutenant. It’s on the house.”

“Thanks, Otto,” Mueller said with a grin.

Big Mike grabbed the tray. Mueller, Sugrue and Joey continued on to the room that was reserved for high-stakes gambling as well as political and underworld meetings. As soon as the three disappeared behind the closed door, Otto said: “So, what do you think, Jimmy?”

“I think The Hawk is circling, and there’ll be blood on the streets for sure.” Lightning flashed across the sky followed by thunder that rattled the barroom’s plate glass windows. The retired patrolman and former precinct bagman muttered, “A dirty night.” Then he knocked back a shot and chased it with a long swallow of beer.

* * *

The detectives and Joey sat around a poker table lit by a green-shaded ceiling lamp. For a few minutes, they drank in silence. The place seemed eerily still and empty without the players and kibitzers, the raucous voices and the haze of tobacco smoke that would have filled the room like a lake fog. Mueller had decided to let Big Mike speak for both of them. The sergeant was Max’s former partner and a trusted friend. Joey knew Mike well and would be more apt to believe the message about to be delivered if it came from the sergeant’s mouth.

“Joe,” Mike said, “we got an urgent message for Max. Donavan ordered us to bring him in for questioning on a West Side murder case. We think it’s a bum rap, but our jobs are on the line. At any rate, things change. We know you’ve heard the rumors of trouble leading up to the election. So, we’re willing to give Max some time. We’ll stall Donavan for forty-eight hours. If you can get a message to your boss, let him know that.”

Joe nodded. “Thanks. Is there anything else?”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “You better watch yourself and that girl you work with, too. Best she takes a couple days off until this business settles. Right now, Max’s friends ain’t safe. What’s more, if things don’t come out in our favor...” Mike stopped short. He glanced at Mueller and turned back to Joe before continuing, “we may all be out of a job, or worse.”

“What’re the odds?” Joey asked.

Mueller jumped in and answered, “I’d say they’re better than even for us, but a lot depends on your boss.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” Joey replied, “I don’t think we got much to worry about.”

* * *

Closing time at Otto’s. A few boozy stragglers exited the front door; Otto switched off the lights and locked up. Joe and Con headed up a quiet North Avenue, in the direction of the El station. A light, steady rain came down, pattering and pooling on the dark pavement and running off into the streaming gutters. Clouds covered the moon; the golden glow of countless street lamps reflected on the damp sidewalk and street. Both men had just enough booze in them to pass by a large touring car idling at the curb with its lights out, without paying much attention to it.

As they approached the station, Conrad was the first to react to the sounds of whining gears, an accelerating engine and the splash of tires on wet pavement. What happened next was instinctual, a matter of seconds in which thought gave way to reflex action.

Conrad shoved Joey aside, spun around and whipped out his .38 from its shoulder holster. Time seemed to expand as though it were elastic stretched to the breaking point before the tension was released and it regained its natural shape.

The car roared past the spot where Conrad stood next to Joey, who from the force of his friend’s shove had slipped and fallen to the sidewalk. Two yellow flashes accompanied by loud blasts came from the car; a small flash and a loud pop replied from the handgun. Conrad was down on the pavement next to Joey, his left trouser leg shredded and bloody from shotgun pellets.

The car swerved and skidded on the slick pavement. Then, with brakes screeching and tires squealing, it disappeared around the corner.

“Conrad, are you OK?” Joey held his friend, supporting has back and shoulders.

“Yeah, I think I’ll live.”

“I should have taken the lead. It was meant for me, not you.” Joey took out a handkerchief and pressed it against Conrad’s thigh in an attempt to stanch the bleeding.

“Forget it, Joe. It ain’t nothin,” Conrad grunted.

Flynn ran up to them. “I seen it all, the dirty bastards,” he cried. He got down on his knees and examined the wound. “It could be worse. Stay with him, Joe. I’m gonna call an ambulance. They’ll be here in a jiffy, and the hospital’s not far.” Flynn got up and raced to a nearby call box.

“Hang in there, Con. The ambulance will be here, soon.” Joey kept pressure on the wound.

“You know who done it?”

“Can’t be sure, but I’ll bet it’s Ritter and Lewis. Whoever it was, I’ll get the sons-of-bitches.”

Con nodded. “I’m sure you will, pal, if your boss don’t get ’em first.” He grimaced at the sharp, hot pain shooting up his leg. “Damn,” he muttered, “just hope I live long enough to see those bastards laid out in lavender.”

Joey squeezed Conrad’s hand. “You gotta stick around for that and longer, too. After all, I owe you a game of straight pool.”

“That’s right, pal. I’ll have my revenge in more ways than one.” He gritted his teeth before adding, “You got any whiskey on you?”

“Here; take this.” Joey pulled out a flask.

“Thanks, Joe,” he said. Conrad took a long swig.

They were interrupted by the welcome sound of the ambulance’s clanging bell. The ambulance pulled up to the curb, the back doors swung open and the stretcher bearers jumped out. “It’s all right, mister,” one of the medical attendants said to Joe. “We’ll take over from here.”

“Thanks,” Joe said. “Is it OK if I ride with my buddy?”

“Sure, we got room in the back,” the attendant replied.

They didn’t talk much on the way to the hospital until Conrad turned to Joey and said, “You gonna try to contact Max?”

“Yeah, but knowing my boss, I’m guessing he’ll get in touch with me first.”

* * *

Five a.m. in the surgical ward. The surgeons had removed all the pellets from Conrad’s thigh and leg, cleaned and dressed the wound. They told Joey his friend would be fine, as long as he took it easy for a while. But Conrad’s condition was not conducive to his job as a hotel detective. Joey wondered if his pal would be able to keep his job, and he worried about how Con would take the news. At any rate, Con needed rest, and the nurses wouldn’t let Joe see his pal, at least not until visiting hours.

Joe spent the early morning pacing up and down the grim, gray-painted institutional corridor, resting at intervals on a hard, wooden bench. The linoleum hallway reeked of bleach disinfectant. Attendants wheeled anesthetized patients on gurneys from the operating rooms to the recovery room, and half-groggy patients from recovery room to the wards. Joe noticed the cloth-draped bodies of a couple who hadn’t made it through surgery; the morgue was their destination.

He checked his watch against the wall clock. Time to phone Rosie, before she takes off for the office, he thought. He got up from his uncomfortable bench and proceeded up the hallway to a phone booth. He rummaged through his pocket for change, retrieved a nickel and placed the call. After several rings, a thickly accented voice growled through the receiver. It was Rosie’s father.

“Good morning, Mr. Mandelbaum. It’s Joe Bartkus. Sorry to disturb you, but I have an urgent message for Rose.”

“Yeah, all right,” was the gruff response. Muttering Yiddish curses, Mr. Mandelbaum went to fetch his daughter. A minute later, Rosie answered: “What’s the matter, Joey?”

“Last night, when we were coming out of Otto’s, guys in a touring car took shots at Conrad and me. I’m OK, but they hit Con. I’m calling from the hospital. The doctors say Con will be all right, but he’ll be out of action for a while. Now this is important. Stay put. I’m coming over. Can you explain the situation to your folks without them going bughouse?”

“It won’t be easy, but I’ll try. Are you armed?”

“Yeah. I got my .38. You still got the .25?”

“Uh-huh, and plenty of ammunition. You want me to get a message to Max?”

“Yeah. Use the special way. Of course, he might contact you first. Anyway, that’s enough over the phone. I’m gonna leave a message for Con. Then I should be at your place in about an hour.”

“OK, Joe.” She said good-bye and hung up.

Joey made a bee-line for the nurse’s station. He dashed off a note for Conrad and asked the nurse on duty to please see to it that his friend got the message as soon as he woke up. She assured Joe she would. Then he returned to the phone booth, placed a call to the cab company and requested Number 35, a trusted driver.

According to a special arrangement between Max and the company, Joe ordered the taxi for twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The company agreed and said they’d send Number 35 out right away. Having taken care of his immediate concerns, Joey left the surgical ward and went down to the main entrance to wait for his ride.

Proceed to Chapter 25...

Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder

Proceed to Challenge 1035...