Chicago Max
by Gary Inbinder
1906. It’s a frigid Chicago New Year, and detective Max Niemand has a hot new case. A meeting between a high society playboy and an underworld denizen at the notorious First Ward Ball catches Max’s attention.
The chance encounter draws Max into a tangled web of murder, deceit, racketeering and corruption. He follows the clues and leads from Chicago’s most dangerous slums to the Gold Coast mansions of the Windy City’s social elite.
His investigation involves a variety of characters, both male and female, from all walks of life. They are playing a dangerous game for high stakes, and Max doesn’t know if he can trust any of the players. He’ll need all his detective skills to solve this case, and a mistake could cost him his reputation or even his life.
Chicago ain't no sissy town. — Michael "Hinky Dink" Kenna,
First Ward Alderman, 1897-1923
Chapter 3: A Fresh Corpse
part 1
Max spent New Year’s Day with Vi. He opened the door to his downtown office at eleven the following morning. He needed a shave, and he entered on wobbly legs, carrying with him a morning newspaper, a bag of freshly ground coffee and two Kaiser rolls from a local bakery.
After depositing the paper and rolls on his already cluttered desk, he hung his hat and coat on the coat rack then made a beeline for his vacuum coffee pot. He figured he would not accomplish much that day, but he could not begin to recharge his brain without his morning coffee and rolls, plus one shot of the hair of the dog.
Max returned to his desk and began riffling through the newspaper. He did not have to search long before he found what he was looking for: his client had filed for divorce. The snapshot had done the trick; Max shook his head with an ambivalent blend of sympathy and disdain when he recalled the surprised look on the couple’s faces. There’s always a price to pay when your Johnson KO’s your brain. A rule to live by, and he sometimes wondered if it applied to his relations with Vi Novak. So far, Johnson was ahead on points.
After two cups of black coffee, a shot of rye, and a Kaiser roll, Max telephoned Moe Weinberg. The operator placed the call, and Max waited through several rings before he heard a hushed, shaky answer: “Hello... Who is it?”
“Happy New Year, Moe. It’s your old pal, Max. I hope you don’t mind answering a few questions?”
“Not now. I got a customer. Come by later.”
“OK, Moe. How about two?”
“Yeah, OK.” Click.
Max put down the phone. I wonder why Moe’s so jittery. Weinberg was a loan shark, fence, blackmailer and a police snitch. Not a good insurance risk. Max pulled his .38 Smith & Wesson Military and Police model out of its shoulder holster and checked the cylinder for a full load. He was a stickler for keeping the weapon clean and serviceable at all times. Might come in handy when I go down to Maxwell Street to pay my respects.
He glanced at his wall clock: eleven-twenty, almost time for Olga’s lunch break. Max rubbed his chin and cheek. Damn. No time to shave. He walked over to a sink and mirror in a screened-off corner, turned on a light and made a critical self-examination of his face. Could be worse, he observed.
Max would have to leave now if he wanted to catch Olga this morning before he went to Maxwell Street to pay a call on Weinberg. Should he go see Moe first? If he’s in trouble, my showing up unexpected could make things worse. I’d better go later, like I said I would.
He could have waited a day or two to see Olga but, for some reason Max wanted to see her as soon as possible. Olga could be part of a good New Year’s resolution. His relationship with Violet was like a dead-end street with nice scenery: a pleasant diversion but, at some point, you had to turn around and go back where you came from.
Max grabbed his hat and coat and locked the office. He would hop on the “L” to save time. On the way to the music store, Max kept wondering what was bugging Moe Weinberg; Moe had a reputation for being a cool customer. It would take someone, or something ugly to make the crafty hoodlum jumpy. However, Max figured there was no use speculating; he would discover what was eating Moe soon enough.
* * *
The shop doorbell jingled as Max entered at 11:40. The store, which had been packed from Thanksgiving to Christmas, was now empty of customers. Olga and her boss, a fussy little man in his late forties, were in front of the counter rearranging the displays. Both interrupted their work and turned to look at Max. He ignored the manager and went straight to Olga.
She greeted him with a smile that lit up the dingy store. With her Marcel-waved hair done up in a pompadour, spotless white, lace trimmed shirtwaist, and floor-length pleated chocolate brown skirt, she reminded Max of a pretty young schoolteacher.
Max smiled and tipped his hat. “Good morning, Miss Boyer, and best wishes for a happy, healthy, and prosperous New Year!”
“Thank you, Mr. Niemand. And I wish you the same.” Olga gazed at him with a gleam in her eyes that made him want to take her in his arms and kiss her despite the manager’s looming presence.
Her boss observed their greetings with a sour expression and then went about his business while thinking that Miss Boyer was paid to keep the store neat and well stocked, and to make sales. She was definitely not there to flirt with customers.
Max sensed the manager’s negativity. I’d better let her sell me something to square things with her boss, he thought.
“Miss Boyer, I was wondering if you had any more of the new Caruso records. I’ve almost worn out his Questa o quella.”
“Oh, yes, we do. Please follow me.” She led him to a display next to the talking machines. “They’re all wonderful, but this one’s my favorite; Cielo e mar, from La Gioconda. Shall I play it for you?”
“Please do,” he replied. Max looked over her shoulder and caught one of the manager’s dirty looks. The Hawk stared back with eyes colder than the frost on the display window. Olga’s boss retreated to the stacks behind the counter.
Olga wound up the machine, placed the record on the turntable and carefully lowered the needle onto the spinning disc. After the usual hisses and pops, the little store filled with a voice that transcended the primitive technology, a sound that was ineffably pure, sweet and angelic yet at the same time powerful and manly. Max closed his eyes and for an instant allowed Caruso to open the portal to another world.
After a couple of minutes, the music faded away; the needle scratched in the end groove. Olga lifted the arm and carefully removed the recording. She looked up at him. “Well, Mr. Niemand, how did you like it?”
“It’s wonderful, as you said, Miss Boyer. I’ll take it.” He could not say more; he hadn’t quite come back to earth.
She placed the record back in its brown paper sleeve and led him to the cash register. As she rang up the sale, Max remarked, “I attended a performance of La Gioconda at the Auditorium, but the tenor was forgettable. Nothing like Caruso.”
Olga smiled and handed him change. For an instant, her fingers lightly brushed against his palm. “I’d love to go to the opera at the Auditorium, and I wouldn’t care if the tenor was forgettable. I’d remember the evening always, just the same.”
“Well, Miss Boyer, perhaps you’ll go, some day.”
Her eyes widened mischievously. “Do you mean you’d take me, Mr. Niemand?”
Max did not see this coming, but he answered smoothly, without a trace of surprise: “I’d be delighted.”
Olga pouted. “Oh, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your kind invitation. You see, I don’t have a thing to wear. To the opera, that is.”
Max grinned and shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re just kidding me about the opera, Miss Boyer, but that’s all right. I have another idea, and you’re dressed perfectly for what I’m about to suggest. How about lunch at Henrici’s? We’ll split an apple pancake. It’ll be top-notch. What do you say?”
Olga glanced at her boss, who was still fussing with the display. He looked back at her with a disapproving frown. She turned to Max. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Niemand, and I do think lunch at Henrici’s would be lovely. Unfortunately, I brought a lunch. You see, I only get a half-hour break.”
Max thought a moment. “You sure can’t rush at Henrici’s, and I don’t want to get you in Dutch with your boss. How about this? You do get a half-day on Saturday, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Niemand; I finish work at 12:30.”
“All right, then. I’ll meet you out in front of the store, at 12:30 this Saturday. Is it a date?”
Olga looked up at Max with a smile as pure, sweet and beguiling as Caruso’s high tessitura. “Thank you, Mr. Niemand. Yes, it’s a date.” She handed him his package.
Max tipped his hat, turned and walked out of the store feeling very content and pleased with his prospects for 1906. However, as soon as he was back out on the street, his thoughts turned to Moe Weinberg. The self-satisfied smile faded to a grim frown. Why ruin the day with a visit to that grifter? Then, business was business, and he would need more big cases to afford the salary he believed Olga deserved. Enough to buy a dress and cape for the opera.
* * *
Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder
