The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Chapter 25: Blood at the Mandelbaums’

part 2

Max sighed and glanced at his watch. No use putting off the inevitable. He grabbed the leather bag, got up from the chair and returned to the desk. He pressed a button that rang a bell, summoning the housekeeper to fetch the tray, dish and empty bottle. Then he walked over to a faux bookcase. He grabbed a sconce on the wall next to the bookcase and pulled down, releasing a lock that held the front of the case in place. The case swung on its hinges, revealing a secret passageway with stairs leading down to a concrete bunker. He switched on the lights and walked downstairs. The bookcase closed behind him.

He set the bag down on a workbench in the center of the bunker. Firearm cabinets and weapon racks along the walls held small arms, rifles, scopes, shotguns and ammunition. One of the cabinets covered another secret passageway that led to the garage in the alley behind the house.

The garage contained a Chadwick Model 19 Runabout, the fastest car on the road, capable of a true 100 miles per hour. By comparison, a new Model T Ford could do forty; Max’s agile little Buick could get up to fifty. Even the mighty Mercer, the Mercedes and the Apperson Jack Rabbit were good for about seventy at best. Everyone knew Max had a Buick, but the supercharged Chadwick was very recently acquired and a closely guarded secret.

There was a dial phone on the desk. Max reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small notebook. He flipped through the pages and found what he was looking for. He dialed Pat Tracy’s number. The phone rang several times.

A female voice answered: “Hello?”

“Hi. Could I speak to Pat Tracy, please?”

“You mean Pat the cabby?”

“That’s right, Pat the cabby.”

“Can I say who’s calling?”

“Tell him it’s Mr. Hawk.”

“Did you say Hawk?”

“Yeah, Hawk.”

“OK. Just a minute.”

Max heard knocking on a door followed by some faint, indistinct talk. A moment later, Tracy answered hesitantly in a barely audible voice: “Mr. Niemand?”

“Yeah, Pat, it’s me. Are you alone?”

“Uh, huh. The coast’s clear. What’s up?”

“Dora told me a couple of guys moved Bob O’Neill from the whorehouse, but she didn’t know who the guys were or where they took him. Now, I think they got O’Neill and his sister. Do you have any more information about the two guys and the O’Neills’ whereabouts?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I was going to call you, but you got to me first. Dora just overheard a conversation in the parlor between the two guys and another guy. She heard three names: Ritter, Lewis and Sharkey. She was listening at the closed parlor door when she heard someone coming, so she had to go about her business quick before she could pick up any details. Sorry about that.”

“That’s all right, Pat. I don’t want you or your girl to take any more risks. I got enough to go on. By the way, I’m sorry I had to sock Dora. I’m sure she told you why.”

“Yeah, she told me. That’s OK. She’s a swell kid, and tough, too.”

“She sure is. Anyways, assuming I make it through this business, I got a C-note for you and Dora.”

“Gosh, a C-Note! You mean it?”

“Hey, keep it down. Yeah, I mean it. Now we better cut this short.”

“Oh yeah,” Tracy said in a barely audible voice. “Thanks, Mr.... Hawk.”

“Don’t mention it, pal.” Max replied and hung up the phone. “Ritter, Lewis and Sharkey,” he muttered to himself. “Think I’ll pay a visit on Mr. Sharkey.”

Max opened a cabinet, removed a bulletproof vest and placed it on the worktable. Then he started gathering his “tools”: shoulder and belt holsters; two Lugers with extra ammunition clips; a Smith & Wesson .38 with a moon clip; a switch-blade stiletto; a make-up kit including a false beard and wig; and the late Harry Schmidt’s time-bomb.

In all forms of combat there is a critical moment when you transition from defense to offense. At this juncture Max was still on defense, but that was about to change.

* * *

“So, Max wants us to stay put?” Rosie said. She and Joe faced each other across her parents’ kitchen table. She put down her coffee cup and looked directly at Joe as she waited for an answer.

“That’s the message he left on his special line. We should be OK here. I’ve been in touch with Flynn and Jimmy Dolan. The precinct’s on our side.”

“What do you mean by ‘our side’?” she asked with a perplexed frown.

Joe hesitated to answer. He looked down and sipped his coffee. The tension between them grew until Rosie broke the silence: “Why are you holding back on me, Joey? I thought we were a team.”

Joe shook his head and set down his cup. He looked her straight in the eye and said, “We’re different. You come from a good family, grew up in a nice home. The boss and me grew up rough, on the streets. Maybe you shouldn’t be in this racket. Have you thought about it?”

“You sound like my father. He wants me to quit, but I’m not a quitter. And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“All right, kid, I’ll give it to you straight. We’ve come down smack dab in the middle of a gang war that’s mixed up with the election. Two candidates, two parties, two mobs, moneybags on both sides and the cops up for grabs. A fine situation, ain’t it?”

“I had no idea.” She shook her head in stunned disbelief. Then: “Do you mean to say the O’Neills are mixed up in all that?”

“Right up to their smilin’ Irish eyeballs. What’s more, Peg Rooney’s death may be mixed up with it, too.”

“I always thought there was something shady about that Miss O’Neill.”

“Yeah, well, shady or no, she’s our boss’s client, and he’ll do whatever it takes to save her and her brother.”

Rosie sighed. “Oh, Joey, it all seems so... so—”

“Dirty,” he broke in.

She frowned and nodded without speaking.

“Yeah, it’s dirty, all right. Sorry, Rosie. Welcome to our world.” He glanced around the kitchen before adding, “This really is a swell place. Not like where I grew up.”

She looked at his coffee cup. “You’re almost empty. Would you like a refill?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“OK. I’d like some more, too. I’ll make a fresh pot.”

* * *

Midnight. A scream followed by two gunshots. The sounds came from the second floor. Joe was keeping watch in Mandelbaum’s living room. He drew his .38 and ran to the staircase. A massive body thundered down the stairs and slammed into Joe, knocking the revolver out of his hand. The gun went off; a bullet buried itself in the wall.

Joe and the intruder fought hand-to-hand in the front hallway. Joe was a skilled boxer, quick and good with his fists but he was a wiry lightweight up against two hundred pounds of muscle. Joe was getting the worst of it when Mr. Mandelbaum switched on the lights and came running downstairs, armed with a baseball bat.

The sound of Mandelbaum’s footsteps distracted the big man for an instant, just long enough for Joey to slam a hard right to the intruder’s solar plexus. At the same time, Mandelbaum swung for the fences and connected with the intruder’s lower back. The big man howled, dropped down and rolled on the floor in agony. Joe reached down and retrieved his .38. He aimed at the man’s head.

“Who sent you? Give me the name or I’ll blow your brains out!” Joe’s eyes blazed. His face was battered and bloody.

The man groaned. Sweat poured down from his forehead. He could barely breathe enough to speak. “Sharkey,” he grunted. He coughed and spat blood. “Sharkey sent me.”

There was a loud pounding on the front door. “Police! Open up!”

“That’s Flynn,” Joe said to Mr. Mandelbaum. “Get the door while I keep an eye on this loogan.”

Mandelbaum opened the door. Flynn was there with a young patrolman. Both were red-faced and breathing hard following a sprint. Flynn caught his breath and said: “We heard shots. Is everyone all right?”

“Two guys broke in through an upstairs window. My daughter shot one of them. Joe Bartkus and me took care of the other.” Mandelbaum was still holding the bat. There was a hint of pride in his voice at having a hand in taking down a dangerous criminal.

The patrolmen entered. When Flynn saw the big man sitting on the floor with Joe’s revolver aimed at his head, he exclaimed: “If it ain’t Sean Feeney. You’re in big trouble now, boyo.”

Feeney glanced up at Flynn. “Screw you, copper,” he said, then turned his eyes back toward the floor.

“A real tough guy, huh?” Flynn said. “We’ll see how tough you are when we get you down to the station.”

They heard sobbing coming from upstairs. Mandelbaum ran to his wife and daughter.

“Can you guys keep an eye on this loogan while I go up and see how the women are doing?” Joe asked.

“Sure, Joe,” Flynn replied. “We’ll take care of him. The wagon’ll be here soon.”

Flynn put the cuffs on. Then he got Feeney up on his feet, made him face the wall and searched him while his partner kept his revolver trained on the big man. Joe went upstairs.

A body lay face down on a second floor landing blood-stained rug. Joe stepped over the corpse and entered one of the bedrooms. Mrs. Mandelbaum and Rosie were on the edge of a bed; the mother was trembling in her daughter’s arms. Mr. Mandelbaum was standing to one side, still holding the bat and looking like he very much wanted to be somewhere else. They were all in their nightclothes. The weeping mother looked up at Joe and glared at him with an expression that was at once frightened and frightening.

“You... you,” she said in a rasping voice, “you brought this misery upon us. You and your boss, der Falke!”

“Please, Mama,” Rosie said in a soft voice, “it’s not Joey’s fault. He’s just doing his job.”

“Job? What kind of job is this? You tell him you quit... you quit right now!” Then she turned to her husband and changed to Yiddish, some of which Joe understood. It was not pleasant.

Flynn came up in the middle of the scene. He said, “The wagon’s here. It’s all under control.” He paused a moment before adding, “I see we got a dead one.” Then he tried to comfort Rosie’s mother. “Don’t you worry, missus. We’ll get ’em outa here as soon as possible. Sure, it’s a shame about all that blood and mess.”

Mrs. Mandelbaum was not comforted. Her sobs and moans intensified, as did her Yiddish. Flynn turned to Rosie: “Did you shoot that bum out in the hallway, miss?”

“Yes, Mr. Flynn. I shot him.”

“Good for you, miss!” said Flynn with a broad smile. “He was a bad one, all right. One of Sharkey’s mob. Better off dead.” Then to Joe: “Will you come back downstairs, Joe. The lieutenant’s here. He’d like a word with you.”

Lieutenant Walsh was waiting for them. Walsh was a no-nonsense veteran, a stocky man with a drooping ginger moustache and ice-blue eyes. He was well-known to Max and Joe and had ties to Chief Crunican and Ed Mahoney.

“I hear we got a stiff upstairs,” Walsh said.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Flynn said. “One of Sharkey’s loogans. The young lady shot him in self-defense. Are you gonna call in the forensics boys?”

The cold blue eyes shifted from Flynn to Joe and back again. “What for? It’s an open-and-shut case. We’ll have a signed confession outa Feeny before the sun’s up, or my name ain’t Denny Walsh. These folks here have suffered enough without having the forensics crew nosing around. Now, there’s a crowd building up outside. It’s your beat. Tell ’em to break it up and go home.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Flynn said. He left to disperse the crowd.

“You look pretty beat up Joe,” Walsh said.

“Yeah, Feeny’s a tough customer.” Joe grabbed his pocket handkerchief and wiped some blood from his face.

“He won’t be so tough when we’re finished with him. Here. You look like you could use this.” Walsh handed Joe a cigar.

“Thanks, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t mention it. Come out back where we can have a smoke and some privacy.”

They walked through the house to the kitchen door and out onto the porch. About one a.m.; a cloudy early morning; no moon, no stars. A slight breeze coming in from the lake. It smelled like rain. They lit their cigars and smoked in silence for a minute or two.

Walsh spoke first. “I hear Conrad’s gonna be all right.”

“That’s what they said at the hospital. I guess he’ll be on crutches for a while.”

“A tough break. But it could’ve been worse.”

“Yeah, we could both be dead.”

Walsh nodded and puffed on his cigar. Then: “Do you know where Max is?”

Joe shook his head. “You know my boss. If I asked, he wouldn’t tell me, and if he wanted me with him I’d be there, not here. Whatever he’s about to do, he’s gonna do alone.”

The lieutenant’s eyes stared up at the sky for a moment before turning their cold gaze back on Joe. “He’s going after Sharkey.”

“You know that for sure?”

“No, but I’d bet on it.”

“I’d say that’s a good bet.” Joe figured the lieutenant knew more than he was letting on.

Proceed to Chapter 26...