Chicago Max

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 4: A New Client

Max went straight from Maxwell Street to his office and worked late. Around six-thirty that evening, he sat at his desk studying the evidence he had lifted at the crime scene. The matchbox came from the Gardenia Club, a front for one of Big Jim Colosimo's brothels. Too clumsy or too obvious, Max thought. It's as though the murderer left a calling card.

Did someone plant the matchbox in an attempt to pin Moe's murder on Big Jim or one of his soldiers? Could Battaglia and Capucci's North Side excursion have something to do with it? Why use a Russian silver candleholder as a murder weapon? Guns were too noisy and could be traced with newly developed scientific methods of detection. But the South Side mobsters were experts with a silent stiletto or a garrotte; that was their style. And then there was an overarching question: What was Moe doing with Prescott Fielding III at the First Ward Ball?

Max sighed and shook his head in dismay. He could spend days compiling a list of people with a motive to kill Moe and still come up short. Moe had more enemies than there were bedbugs in a South State Street flophouse. Mueller and Mike would know that, and so would Moe's killer or killers.

Max wondered how much effort the detectives would put into the investigation. Moe was hardly a pillar of the community; his presence on this planet would not be missed. It was Moe's connection to Fielding and all its implications, especially the potential for blackmail, that intrigued Max, and the police were unaware of that connection. At least, Max presumed they were unaware.

All these thoughts were running through Max's brain when a man opened the door and entered the office hesitantly, as though he had crossed the Rubicon and decided mid-stream that he had made a mistake. He appeared to be in his late twenties, or thirty at the oldest. Tall, sandy-haired, clean-shaven, full-lipped and pale, he wore an expression that exuded worry mixed with disdain for his surroundings. Max had observed that look on the faces of many prospective clients.

The young man wore a fashionably tailored chesterfield overcoat, silk scarf, and dark grey homburg and he carried a silver-handled walking stick, accoutrements indicating he was either a fellow who could afford to pay cash up front or a stylish grifter. The young man contemplated Max with suspicious blue eyes through a gold-rimmed pince-nez balanced on his prominent nose. His face had a pinched look, as though he had sniffed something offensive.

Max put on his best professional smile, rose, walked from behind his desk and held out a hand in greeting. "Good evening. I'm Max Niemand. How may I help you?"

The young man replied with a desultory shake. Then he reached into an inner coat pocket and produced a business card. "Good evening, Mr. Niemand. I'm Harry Levy."

Max glanced at the card and gave a nod of recognition. He knew the business well; one of their markets — the original — was on Maxwell Street, not far from Weinberg's store. Harry held the impressive title of Vice-President and General Manager.

This kid could be a gift from above, Max thought. "Levy's Kosher Meats," he said with genuine enthusiasm. "I'm a big fan of your pastrami and frankfurters. Please take a seat." Max indicated the only one, a well-worn leather armchair stationed in front of his desk.

The young man eyed the chair critically, as though he feared it might contaminate the seat of his pants. He sat, removed his hat and gloves, placed them on his lap and rested his hands on the handle of his walking stick. He stared silently at Max with anxious eyes.

Max took his place behind the desk, leaned forward and folded his hands. Still smiling and speaking softly to put the young man at ease, he said, "Now, Mr. Levy, perhaps you'd like a cup of coffee before we get down to business. I’ve just brewed a pot."

"No, thank you, Mr. Niemand. I apologize for... for calling on you at this late hour. I... I'd like to state the purpose of my... my visit, if you please."

Max noticed Levy's stutter and persistently stiff manner. The kid's in real trouble, he thought. "Of course, Mr. Levy. Please state your business; I'm listening."

"As you may know, one of our markets is across the street from Morris Weinberg's second-hand store. Early this afternoon we were visited by a detective investigating a homicide. The detective's name is Sugrue. I believe you know him?"

"Yes, Mike was my partner and then my subordinate, when I was still on the force. Please continue."

Levy stared at Max for a moment; he seemed confused. "Excuse me, Mr. Niemand. You were at Weinberg's this afternoon, weren't you?"

"Yes, I was. May I ask how you know that?"

"One of my employees saw you speaking to Officer Coughlin. You're well known in the neighborhood. People call you der Falke — the Hawk."

Max smiled, crossed his arms and leaned back in his swivel chair. "Forgive me, Mr. Levy. Unless I'm mistaken, I don't think you came here to discuss my reputation on Maxwell Street or to ask what I was doing at Weinberg's store this afternoon. Rather, I believe you have some concerns relating to the investigation into Moe Weinberg's death. Please correct me, if I'm wrong."

"You aren't wrong, Mr. Niemand. Sergeant Sugrue questioned me and my employees to determine whether we had seen anyone entering or leaving Weinberg's store that morning or if we had noticed unusual activity in the vicinity. He also questioned us to see if we knew about Weinberg's... business. None of us had seen anything of interest that morning. As for what Weinberg did, besides selling second-hand goods, that was none of our concern."

"How many of your employees did he question?"

"Four. Three were in back, cutting and packing meat all morning. They wouldn't have seen anything. One of my helpers and I were in front, but we were too busy with customers to notice what was going on at Weinberg's." Levy paused a moment and frowned. "Frankly, as you know, Mr. Weinberg had a bad reputation and... and such dealings were, as I said, of no concern to me or my employees. That is, they weren't of interest to me until... " Levy stopped. After a moment, he said, "Excuse me, Mr. Niemand. Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all, Mr. Levy." He picked up a brass ashtray and moved it to Levy's side of the desk.

Max noticed a tremor in Levy's hand as he reached into a jacket pocket for his cigarette case and matches. He fumbled with the first match and didn't get a light until he struck the second. Something's really rattling him, Max thought. I wonder if he withheld information from Mike. For that matter, I wonder how straight-up he's going to be with me?

Levy took a couple of deep drags before continuing. "That Morris Weinberg came to a bad end was no surprise to me, my employees, or as far as that's concerned, to the police — or I presume to you, Mr. Niemand."

"Moe was a foul ball. But that didn't give anyone the right to kill him, unless it was in self-defense. I'm sure you agree, Mr. Levy."

Max's sudden change in tone and demeanor took Levy by surprise. "Of course, I'm not justifying or excusing..." He paused as if to consider carefully what he was about to say. "At any rate, what I meant to say was that what happened to Weinberg was of no consequence to me until I received a telephone call late this afternoon. The call was from my younger brother, Benjamin. I call him Benny. He telephoned about a personal problem, a family matter. Maybe... maybe if I told you something about Benny, his background and relationship with our family, it will help you understand the situation... the predicament that brought me here."

"Go ahead, Mr. Levy."

Levy told a familiar story. Benny was the spoiled younger son of newly rich, immigrant parents. Unlike his older brother, who went to college with the intention of using his education to help grow the family business, Benny was a dropout with no interest in Kosher meats. He possessed a singular talent for music, from classical to ragtime, and more than his share of the common vices of young men his age, including liquor, gambling and fast women. In due course, Benny alienated himself from his family, with the notable exception of older brother Harry, who stood by his younger brother and helped him out as best he could.

"How does your brother support himself?" Max asked.

"During the day, he plays piano in a Nickelodeon on Ashland. At night he plays in a sporting house on South Dearborn."

Probably one of Colosimo's joints. Maybe the Gardenia Club. "Do you know the name and address of the sporting house?"

"No, Mr. Niemand, I'm afraid I don't."

A good question for Benny. "All right, Mr. Levy; I get the picture. Your brother's sowing his wild oats and, as a result, he's persona non grata with your folks. But he's twenty-four; maybe he'll grow up, some day. Most of us do, eventually. Now what's the specific problem he phoned you about?"

"My brother has debts. I've helped him out of jams many times before. But this was serious. He owed two-thousand dollars in promissory notes — I believe you call them markers — which Morris Weinberg had purchased from the gamblers."

"Excuse me, was that two thousand with or without the vig?"

"The vig? I'm sorry; I don't know what you mean."

"The vigorish. It's a percentage the sharpers and loan sharks charge their marks, that is to say their debtors."

"I'm not sure; he just said he needed two-thousand fast, and this was by way of explaining why he 'borrowed' a pair of silver candle holders from our home."

Max remained cool. At this point, only the police, the coroner, Max, and the perpetrator or perpetrators would have known how Weinberg was killed. "Silver candle holders, you say. Are they valuable?"

"They're antiques, Mr. Niemand; they've been in our family for generations. The workmanship is very fine and the silver content quite high, but beyond that they have considerable value to my father for any number of personal reasons. He would certainly pay far more than their market value to recover them."

"Were you prepared to give your brother the money?"

"Under normal circumstances I would have, although there would be the devil to pay when my parents discovered what he had done. However, when he telephoned, I already knew Weinberg was dead. I told him so, and I also told him about Detective Sugrue."

"How did he react?"

"He was silent for a moment; then he told me he had taken the candle holders to Weinberg that morning. Weinberg accepted them as a pledge, and gave my brother forty-eight hours to pay him in full. Otherwise, he would contact our father and demand payment to redeem the candleholders. My brother was angry, there was an argument, but he agreed to get the money and then left the store with Weinberg still very much alive. My brother swears that's the last time he had any contact with the man."

"Did your brother mention what time he was at the shop? Weinberg opened at eight and he died sometime around eleven-thirty."

"He just said this morning; he didn't give me the exact time."

Max gave Levy a cold, penetrating look before saying, "Do you realize you just identified your brother as a suspect in Weinberg's murder? He had a motive, the means and the opportunity to commit the crime. Absent a good alibi, or some other exculpatory evidence, that's how Mike Sugrue and the lead investigator, Lieutenant Mueller, would see it."

"I... I understand that, Mr. Niemand. That's why I'm here."

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder