The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 26: Vengeance Is Mine

part 1

Max had a tip from Jimmy Dolan. There was a high-stakes poker game at Sharkey’s that would keep going till dawn. Sharkey would be there, along with Captain Donavan and members of the Indiana mob. This was an opportunity Max would not let go to waste. He wanted to work alone, but he needed someone to watch his car and his back. Joe would have been his first choice for this job, but Joe was guarding Rosie and her family. So, Max chose another option.

Three-thirty a.m. The corner of Halsted and Van Buren. Max spotted a group of newsies. He pulled up to the curb in his Chadwick. The kids stopped whatever they were doing and stared goggle-eyed, as though a spaceship from Mars had just landed on the Near West Side.

“Hey, Alex. Wanna go for a ride?” Max called out to one of the newsies.

The kid walked over and climbed onto the running board. He was like Joey a decade earlier: dirty, tough, streetwise and eager to make a buck any way he could.

“I’d sure like to, Mr. Niemand,” the kid said, “but I got papers to sell.”

Max grinned, reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar gold piece. “I think that should take care of it, don’t you?”

The kid’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. He grabbed the shiny object, stuffed it into his pocket and jumped into the passenger’s seat. Then he turned to his pals. “Hey, fellas. You’re welcome to my papers for today. I got another job.”

The kids muttered things like “Lucky bastard,” and “That son-of-a-bitch gets all the breaks,” as tires screeched, and the Chadwick roared away from the curb. Max headed east, crossed the Van Buren Street bridge, then turned north toward River Street and Sharkey’s saloon. He pulled into an alley two blocks from Sharkey’s and parked behind a warehouse. He cut the motor and turned off the carbide lamps. Then he reached under the seat, pulled out an old British Bull Dog revolver and handed it to the kid.

“Here’s the play, Alex. I got business to attend to. Your job is to guard the car till I come back. Now, I know the night watchman at this warehouse. I’ve parked here before, but not this car. The watchman’s name is Casey Lewandowski. He’s a good egg. Big fat guy with a handlebar moustache. If he comes over, asking questions, just say this is my car and you’re watching it for me. He’ll leave you alone. You got that?”

“Yeah, Casey. I work for you. Got it.”

“Good. Another guy who might come over is the cop on the beat, Shanahan. If you spot him, hide the gun and tell him the same story. He’s been tipped off, so he shouldn’t give you any guff. If he does, tell him I said he should take it up with Lieutenant Walsh. OK?”

Alex nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, if anyone else comes over you pull that heater and tell him to back off. If he makes a false move or keeps coming, you shoot. You know how to use it?”

“Aim and pull the trigger, right?”

“That’s right. And you got just five rounds, so don’t miss. You got a watch?”

Alex reached into his pocket, pulled out a dollar watch and showed it to Max.

“That’ll do. I’m gonna make this quick. Give me twenty minutes. If I ain’t back by then you get your ass outa here. Ditch the gun. The gold piece is yours to keep. Is it a deal?”

“It’s a deal, Mr. Niemand.”

Max grinned. “You got guts and brains, kid. Do this right and I’ll have more jobs for you that pay real dough. You won’t need to hustle papers for nickels and dimes.” Then he turned around and disappeared into the darkness.

* * *

Max dashed through the weeds and trash of a vacant lot. He crossed an alley and came up against a five-foot wooden fence with a padlocked gate, which ran for about ninety feet behind Sharkey’s property. He stopped for a moment and listened: no voices, nothing stirring in the backyard. Just the sound of crickets, the barking of a dog in another yard, the rumbling of a truck on River Street.

He climbed over the fence and came down softly in the tall grass of the unlit yard. He ran up to the rear wall behind the saloon and edged along the brickwork past the locked back door until he reached the fire escape. There was a drop-down ladder, too high-up for Max to reach without something to stand on. He spotted an empty beer barrel in the yard. He rolled the barrel over, stepped up onto it, swung down the ladder, and climbed to the first landing.

The windows were all boarded up. He heard voices, the sounds of the poker game coming from a room one flight above. He climbed the stairs to the next level, hunkered down and snuck up to the boarded window. There were a couple of holes in the board that allowed him to peer into the room.

He could see Sharkey seated next to Captain Donavan along with three other guys sitting around the card table. The room was small, smoke-filled and lit by a shaded overhead lamp. There was one closed door, the only way in or out except for the window. Max felt the board; it was pine, not very thick, and the panes it covered appeared to have had the glass removed. He made a quick decision.

He drew two Lugers from his shoulder holsters and released the safeties. Standing with his back up against the iron railing, he raised his right foot and kicked in the board. The pine burst apart in a shower of splinters. The eight-shot semi-automatics barked, blazed and spit hot lead as Max picked off the players one by one, except for Sharkey. It was over in seconds; he stopped firing, climbed through the window frame and stepped into the room with both guns aimed at the stunned but still living gangster.

Sharkey shook like a junky in need of a fix; sweat gushed from every pore in his fat body. Max heard shouts in the hallway, the pounding of feet on stairs. The door flew open. Sharkey instinctively ducked. Max emptied the Lugers into two of Sharkey’s men. Yells, groans; the men dropped to the floor. Max ditched the empty guns and swung out the .38 revolver from his belt holster.

“Are there any more of your loogans?” Max growled.

“No... no more, I swear,” Sharkey stuttered.

Max noticed Donavan, who was slumped over the table, still twitching, blood gurgling in his throat. Max finished the captain with a bullet to the back of his head. Then he eyed a pile of cash on the table. “Nice pot, Sharkey,” he said. “I bet there’s at least a grand lying there.”

“Is that what you want? Take it. Take all of it.”

“I will, for expenses.” Max swept up the bills with his free left hand and stuffed them into his pants pocket. “We ain’t got much time. I’ve got some questions for you. Give me the right answers, and I might let you live. You follow?”

“Yeah, understood.”

“Good. Harry Schmidt talked. I know Donavan paid you guys to blow up the Potawatomie. First question. Who paid Donavan?”

“Davies. He paid the captain.”

Max grinned. “Right. Next question. This one’s in two parts: Who iced Peg Rooney and who paid for it?”

“Sean Feeney killed Peg. Davies paid for it.”

“You mean you paid Feeney to kill her after Davies paid you. Right?”

“Yeah, but I’m awful sorry. Honest, I liked Peg—”

“Spare me the bullshit. Next question. Who killed Abe Levitsky and why?”

“Ritter and Lewis... maybe. You’d have to ask them. I wasn’t in on it.”

“What about Dan Buford?”

“I think Lewis and his moll Irene took care of him. I don’t know why.”

“Who’s Irene?”

“She’s a whore. Works for Minnie in Forest Park.”

“Short, dark-complexioned girl with a limp?”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“Last question. Where are Bob and Mary O’Neill?”

“Forest Home.”

“You mean the cemetery?”

“Yeah. Ritter and Lewis are hiding them in a mausoleum.”

Max retrieved his dropped Lugers. Then he motioned with his revolver. “Get off your ass. You’re taking me there, now!”

* * *

Alex saw two guys approaching the car. He aimed the Bulldog and cried, “Stop where you are!”

“It’s OK, kid. It’s me.” Max replied.

“I’m sure glad to see you. This place gives me the creeps.” Alex lowered his weapon. Then he looked at Sharkey, looked back at Max and asked, “Who’s this guy?”

“A passenger. We’re going for a ride. Get in the back seat and keep an eye on him.”

Alex shifted over to the rear bucket seat. Max ordered Sharkey to get in the front passenger seat, then added: “Don’t try anything funny while I’m driving. The kid’s a stone-cold killer.”

Sharkey glanced back at the skinny, freckle-faced gun-wielding fourteen-year old, then turned back to Max. “Whatever you say.”

Max lit the carbide lamps and cranked the engine. The Chadwick roared to life. He jumped into the driver’s seat, released the hand-break, put her in gear and streaked up the alley. At this early hour, with little or no traffic, he was able to drive through downtown and fly across the bridge to the West Side in record time.

Once over the river. he really opened her up, pushing the car past sixty along the quiet, pre-dawn boulevard. Like most motorists, he carried an extra gas tank and had to be careful about fuel consumption. Gas stations were new, few and far between. You could still buy cans of gas at general stores and some drug stores too, but nothing was open at this hour.

They streaked on at a frightening pace. Sharkey grasped a brass hand grip while wondering whether he was more likely to die from a bullet or as the result of a crack-up. On the other hand, young Alex was having the time of his life.

As the trio raced toward the cemetery, each concentrated on his own situation: Max was eager to complete his job and live to collect his fee; Sharkey just wanted to live; Alex thought about his newly acquired gold piece and the Bulldog revolver. He looked forward to a life of adventure. Violent death was all too familiar to the men; the boy had yet to make its acquaintance.

Max slowed and pulled over at a major intersection not far from the city limits. He turned to Sharkey. “I’m dropping the kid off here. Don’t even think about running.”

“No, I won’t.”

Max turned to Alex. “You did a man’s job. I’m proud of you. Now, hand me the heater.”

“But I thought you might let me keep it.”

Max shook his head. “No, it’s too dangerous. We’ll get together soon, and I’ll show you how to use it. Then maybe, when you’re ready, I’ll give it to you. Until then, I got something else for you.” He reached into his pocket, took out a five-dollar gold piece and handed it to the kid.

Alex was so pleased with the extra five bucks he returned the revolver with a big smile. “Thanks Mr. Niemand,” he said.

“Now, here’s your story and you stick to it like glue. Don’t talk about this with your family, your friends, anyone. If someone asks where you were and what you were doing, you say we drove up to the North Side and I paid you to watch the car. That’s it. You don’t know the North Side, so you don’t have a clue where we were or why. And you don’t tell no one, and I mean no one about the heater.

“As for our passenger, he doesn’t exist. There was no passenger; just you and me all the time. You gotta use your brain and watch your mouth if you’re gonna work for me. Remember, we’re pals, and there’s nothing lower on this earth than a guy who rats on his pals. So be a stand-up guy, do as I tell you and you’ll make some real jack. You follow?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You can catch a streetcar here and ride it to the El station, or you can walk to the El. It’s not far.”

Alex got out of the car and started walking north toward Lake Street. Max tucked the Bulldog into his belt, pulled away from the curb and drove on. When they reached Des Plaines, he turned left and continued a short distance to the cemetery. He parked on a quiet side street not far from the Des Plaines River and Minnie’s brothel. He grabbed a flashlight, motioned for Sharkey to get out of the car, then told him to lead the way into the cemetery.

Max followed Sharkey along a gravel pathway through a well-tended lawn, past monuments and headstones placed under the shade of tall, leafy oaks and elms. The funereal forms were barely distinguishable under a cloudy, moonless sky. An owl perched high near the top of a tree, hooted and winked a yellow eye at the intruders. They continued up a low ridge to the section containing the mausoleums.

Sharkey halted and pointed toward what appeared to be a miniature Greek temple, a mausoleum designed in the Ionic order. A small flight of steps, guarded by a pair of lion statues, led up to the tomb. Sharkey headed for one of the lions; Max followed close behind.

When Sharkey reached the statue, he asked Max to aim his flashlight at the base. Sharkey felt around the base until he found what he was looking for, a loose piece of concrete. He lifted the fragment and uncovered a key, which he retrieved and showed to Max. “This opens it,” he said.

They walked up the steps to the bronze doors. Sharkey inserted the key in the lock, turned it till it clicked open. Then he grabbed the handle and pulled; the heavy door swung open slowly with a metallic squeak.

Max aimed his light at the interior and moved it around. The chamber appeared to be empty except for the crypts containing remains of the long deceased.

“What’s the gag, Sharkey? Did they bury them alive?”

“I don’t get it. They were here yesterday. Ritter and Lewis must’ve moved them again.”

“You got any idea where?”

“They could be at Minnie’s, and if not, Minnie might know where they are.”

“OK. Next stop is Minnie’s. Give me the key.”

“Are you gonna leave me here?”

“Yeah. What’s the matter? Afraid of the spooks?”

“Could you at least give me the light?” Sharkey said as he handed Max the key.

Max handed over the flashlight and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll be back, soon. Give my regards to the goblins.” He walked out, closed and locked the door. Then he cut across the cemetery in the direction of Minnie’s.

* * *

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder