Chicago Max

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: The First Ward Ball

In Chicago, they call the wind The Hawk. On a winter evening in 1905, this hawk swooped down through vapor rising over frozen Lake Michigan. It gripped the sprawling metropolis in icy talons; it soared over the breakwater, up Lake Shore Drive, along broad boulevards, avenues, snowbound, ash-strewn streets and alleys. It streaked around the corners of skyscrapers, over elevated railroad tracks and trestles circling the Loop, rattling the icicles overhanging iron cornices and gutters. The wind roused a chorus of telephone wires and set them singing from their crossbeams atop an urban forest of tall Southern pine.

Another “Hawk” was on the prowl that night. Max Niemand’s right hand grasped a dangling strap while his legs balanced against the rocking rhythm of a Wabash Avenue streetcar. His fellow passengers pressed around him, swaying and shivering under their damp woolen and sealskin overcoats. Ten-Watt bulbs lined the ceiling; lights flickered as the car bumped down the tracks.

Max gazed at his reflection in an ice-streaked window. The “Hawk” stared back with piercing eyes. Max smiled when he thought of The Hawk, his nickname on the street: Max Niemand, private investigator, formerly Lieutenant Niemand, Detective Division. How did he get the moniker? Some said he came down on crime and criminals like a bird of prey. Others said he was as cold and cruel as the Chicago wind. Then there was his raptorial physiognomy, perfectly balanced and proportioned, but too hard and angular to be handsome. Jet-black hair streaked with silver, hawk-like nose, steely blue-grey eyes, thick but neatly trimmed moustache, firm lips, and strong, clean-shaven chin. A face admired, respected and feared by men and women, but not a face a mother could love.

The three-car trolley plowed through swirling snowdrifts. The destination was the Coliseum at 15th and Wabash on the near South Side. A crowd had already gathered on the sidewalk from 14th to 15th, spilling over onto the street fronting the massive, crenellated fortress where the First Ward Ball was to be held. Powerful electric lamps cast their brilliant white illumination on the prison-like facade; falling snow slanted downward through beams of light.

A bell clanged; the car screeched to a halt. Straphangers, mostly male, jostled one another and rushed by the seated passengers, mostly female, fighting their way to the exits. Both sexes shoved and cursed, but most of the men gave way to the women. Max went with the flow to the rear exit, turning up his collar and holding the brim of his black derby in anticipation of another meeting with the ubiquitous wind.

The line of passengers debouched from the narrow, ice-slicked steps that led to pavement covered in slush, the big-city variety, a grey mixture of snow, mashed horse droppings, yellow piss and black soot from thousands of smoke-belching chimneys. The passengers joined the milling throng on the sidewalk, men and women bundled up head to toe, purple lips exhaling clouds of steaming breath, flapping their arms and stamping their feet in a futile attempt to keep warm. This gathering herd of faithful serfs awaited the arrival of their feudal lords, the infamous bosses of the First Ward, Hinky Dink Kenna and Bathhouse John Coughlin.

Max pushed on through the crowd while trying to keep a low profile. Many of these people — crooks of all varieties, ward-heelers, cops and a sprinkling of slumming swells — knew him, and most would not welcome his presence. Fortunately, the cold and the anticipated appearance of the “Lords of the Levee” who would initiate the grand, midnight parade so distracted the throng that they failed to notice the black-clad figure making his way through the stone-arched main entrance to the hall.

He moved on patiently with the long line, keeping his head down. Max handed his ticket to a uniformed cop manning a turnstile.

The cop eyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing here?” the cop grunted.

Max glared back at an old acquaintance. “What’s it to you, Driscoll? I paid for my ticket, like everyone else.”

The cop made a face as if he had just stepped on dog turd. He glanced over his shoulder at a very large man wearing a tight-fitting dark brown three-piece suit and a derby at least one size too small for his bullet head. The redheaded, freckle-faced giant grinned wryly at Max and gestured for him to come over.

Max approached his old partner, Detective Sergeant Mike Sugrue. Big Mike, who had four inches and fifty pounds on Max’s six-foot one two-hundred pound frame, greeted his former superior with a grimace and a bone-crunching handshake.

“What’s up, Max? You know you ain’t welcome here.”

Still grinning, Max replied, “Like I told Driscoll, I paid for my ticket. I’d say my presence was a tribute to the munificence of our two Trimalchios.”

Big Mike let go of Max’s hand and crossed his arms over his massive chest. “What the hell are you talking about, Max?” he asked with a bewildered frown.

“Sorry, Mike. I was comparing our hosts, Hinky Dink and Bathhouse John, to an ancient Roman who was known for giving grand banquets.”

Mike uncrossed his arms and eased up on his skeptical squint, but not entirely. “Ancient Roman is it? Well, I suppose that’s OK. But don’t crack wise. Among certain people, it ain’t appreciated.”

“You mean people like Captain Crunican?”

Mike nodded. “Yeah, especially him. He’s never forgiven you for leaving the force and turning private gumshoe.”

Max smirked. “You don’t say? I didn’t know Crunican cared.”

“It’s no joke. You were his best detective, and what’s more, you had a reputation for being clean. Having you cracking cases made him look good in the newspapers and kept the reformers off his back.”

“I see. Maybe I’ll send the captain flowers, and we can kiss and make up. By the way. Why are you homicide boys on the premises? Expecting a murder or two?”

Mike shook his head. “You just won’t take it serious, will you? Anyway, you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“All right, Mike. Just between you and me, I’m on a job. A man’s got to eat, you know.”

Big Mike lowered his voice to a near whisper and came close so Max could hear him over the crowd. “Damn it, Max. You know the aldermen don’t want no snooping around here. And I hope you’re not carrying a gat. Maybe I should frisk you?”

“No need for that, Mike. I give you my word I’m not carrying. As for why I’m here, that’s confidential. But don’t worry. If there were a crime involved, you know I’d report it.”

“All right, but promise you won’t do nothing to shame the aldermen or the police.”

“Mike, I told you it’s confidential. No one gets hurt if no one blabs. And by the way, aren’t you worried this conversation might be drawing someone’s attention?”

The big man lurched away so quickly it almost made Max laugh. Mike glanced about to see if anyone was watching. Satisfied that their discussion had gone unobserved, Sugrue slapped his old pal on the shoulder and said, “Run along now and have a good time.”

Max winked and said, “Thanks, Mike. That’s the plan.” Then he turned and joined the mob checking their hats and coats.

* * *

“There’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight!” At midnight, massed bands blared out the popular ragtime tune; its boisterous strains reverberated throughout the vast interior of the high-vaulted arena. Hinky Dink Kenna, the more flamboyant of the two aldermen, led a rambunctious, mostly inebriated and hopped-up line of brothel-owners, whores, gamblers, dope peddlers, gunsels, ward heelers, and other assorted undesirables as they snaked their way around the immense floor.

Ostensibly an annual party fundraiser, the First Ward Ball was really an event created to shake down shady entrepreneurs and underworld types who bought protection from enforcement of the city’s business codes and anti-vice laws. The aldermen paid for the function by selling overpriced tickets to saloonkeepers, brothel and gambling den owners, slumlords, sweatshop operators, and the wide variety of gangsters dwelling within their satrapy. Local liquor merchants and breweries seeking to remain on good terms with the aldermen donated an ocean of beer, champagne and booze.

Business owners refusing to support Hinky Dink and Bathhouse John’s extravaganza could expect numerous visits from the city inspectors, and those who were recalcitrant might get back-alley persuasion from blackjack-wielding goons or see their businesses go up in smoke and flames. In such cases, neither the police nor the fire department would be very eager to respond to calls for assistance.

The most sharp-eyed bird of prey would have difficulty identifying and culling out two individuals from among the thousands assembled in the Coliseum, but Max would make the effort for a handsome fee. He was looking for a couple: a fifty-year old millionaire grain speculator, a member of the Board of Trade, and his eighteen-year old floozy. Max had photos and excellent descriptions of his quarry, including a reliable tip concerning the young woman’s costume. She would be dressed up like a boy in jockey silks. Max’s client was the millionaire’s wife; his job was to obtain a compromising photo of the couple; his means of obtaining the snapshot was a spy camera disguised as a pocket watch.

As the snake dance twisted and turned round the hall, one band switched to “Hello Ma Baby!” while another on the opposite end of the floor struck up “Ma Blushin’ Rosie!” Several hundred boozy voices joined in: “Hello! ma baby, Hello! ma honey! Hello! ma ragtime gal. Send me a kiss by wire. Baby, my heart’s on fire.” Another group belted out “Rosie, you are my posy; you are my heart’s bouquet. Come out here in the moonlight, there’s something sweet, love, I wanna say.” The resulting antiphonal cacophony sounded like two assemblages of fans rooting for their teams from each side of a playing field.

As the bands played on, the choristers waxed obstreperous in their attempts to shout each other down. Back east, an insurance executive named Charles Ives, who wrote serious music in his spare time, experimented with similar effects in his compositions, such as the clash between two bands playing different tunes in a parade.

Amid the din and chaos, the line’s discipline broke down. A jolly, soused fat guy reached ahead and grabbed a woman’s wriggling posterior so hard she screamed, spun around and slugged the joker square in the jaw. The unexpected force of the enraged hooker’s haymaker knocked the three-hundred pound joker back into the trailing line-dancers. The result was like a bowling ball hitting the sweet spot between the one and three pins. As several plastered dancers staggered backward, collided, and landed hard on their prats, a waggish observer yelled, “Strike!” The crowd rewarded the witticism with peals of laughter, cheers and applause.

Knocking the groping fat guy on his ass was not sufficient retribution for the livid tart, and it wasn’t the offense to her virtue, which she had abandoned somewhere during the last decade of the previous century, but the outrage to her sense of professional integrity that enraged her. Simply put, if a man wanted a feel he ought to pay for it.

She lifted her skirts, straddled the unwitting masher’s gargantuan belly and began pummeling him with her not too delicate fists.

“Jesus, lady, oh, ow! For the love o’ God, I was only kiddin’!”

This was more fun than the snake dance. The fallen dancers rose from the floor, dusted themselves off, and formed a circle as they would for a good old-fashioned bare-knuckles Pier-Six brawl. Dozens, then hundreds, then thousands joined them.

“I’ll put a ten-spot on Mamie,” one sporting spectator shouted out. “She’ll take fatso in one round.”

“You’re on, Mac,” was the reply. “Blubber guts ain’t begun to fight!”

The ensuing pandemonium drew the attention of several uniformed cops who were on hand to makes sure the guests didn’t spoil the party by murdering one another. This was all to Max’s benefit. While the Donnybrook distracted the mob, he scanned the perimeter. He figured his quarry would take advantage of the situation to slip off somewhere, and he guessed right. He spotted them walking toward the dimly lit corridor beneath the first tier balconies. Max followed.

The couple paused near an exit that led to a stairwell. The man reached into an inner jacket pocket and retrieved a small snuffbox. He opened the box, took out a tiny spoon, dipped it into the white powder and inhaled a snort. He passed the paraphernalia to his companion, who did the same. Their appetites whetted with cocaine hors-d’œuvres they passed through the doorway to partake of the main course.

Max approached the doorway, pulled out his camera, held it in his palm and waited for his cue. He did not wait long. Loud baritone grunts and groans interfused with tender soprano sighs prompted his entrance.

Max opened the door and staggered onto the landing acting like someone who had had more than one too many. The “jockey” was standing with her face to the wall in the corner of the landing below, her silk pants pulled down well below her hips while the millionaire banged her vigorously from behind. Lifting the camera as though he were checking his watch, Max muttered, “Damn, it’s late. Better get home before the wife comes after me with a baseball bat.”

The grunting, groaning, and sighing stopped abruptly. The couple turned out of the shadows to stare at Max, their startled faces lit up by a bright electric wall fixture, just right for a candid snapshot. Max pressed the stem-winder, tripping the shutter.

“Oh, sorry folks,” he mumbled in his best imitation drunk. “I guess this ain’t the men’s room, huh?”

“No it ain’t,” the man growled. His scowling, sweaty red face looked volcanic, and his snapping eyes displayed murderous intent.

Max staggered and swayed. “Awfully sorry, pal, honest I am. Uh, anyway, a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to the both of you!”

He turned on seemingly wobbly legs and bumped into the door. “Where did that come from?” he muttered. Then he grabbed the handle and exited with a satisfied grin. The sound of cheers, screams, and shouting greeted his ears as cops struggled to control the fight that had burgeoned into a near riot. He glanced at his camera and returned it to his vest pocket. A neat stroke of business, he thought as he made his way up the corridor to the cloakroom.

As he waited in line for his hat, coat and galoshes, Max noticed something incongruous. Standing in a dimly lit corner near a row of public telephones, in an area partly hidden from view by a low partition, a handsome young man in evening clothes was in heated conversation with Moe Weinberg, a low-level hoodlum. Moe was a loan shark, and Max had occasionally used him as a snitch. The young man looked familiar. Where have I seen the kid? Max wondered. In the society pages, maybe? What’s he up to with a lowlife like Moe?

The line moved. Max reached into his pocket for his cloakroom ticket and a generous tip. For the moment, he forgot about Weinberg and the mysterious young gent.

Proceed to Chapter 2...

Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder