Chicago Max

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 5: Back of the Yards

The stockyards stank. But the stench of thousands of penned animals, canals running red with blood, barrels of offal and piles of excrement did not offend the nostrils of the multitude of immigrant laborers who lived Back of the Yards and worked for the meat packers. To them, the stockyards smelled like jobs that put roofs over their heads, clothes on their backs and food on their tables. To the bosses who grew rich from their labor and the machine politicians who thrived on the new citizens’ votes, it smelled like money and power.

Max exited the Halsted Street trolley at 37th Street in the heart of the Lithuanian neighborhood where many of the packinghouse workers lived. He had arranged a meeting with Algis “Battling Al” Lutkus, the Gardenia Club’s bouncer. Lutkus had earned his nom de guerre by going twenty rounds with Bob Fitzsimmons the year Fitzsimmons took the heavyweight title from Gentleman Jim Corbett. Lutkus had built his strength and stamina lifting sides of beef, sawing through bone and muscle, cracking steers’ heads with a heavy mallet and using their butchered carcasses as punching bags.

Their meeting place was a popular local saloon; the time was early afternoon. At the same hour, Benny Levy, accompanied by Manny Rosen, was telling his story to Mueller and Sugrue at the Maxwell Street station.

Lutkus owed Max. Years earlier, the ex-prize-fighter had killed a man with his fists. An ambitious young Assistant DA wanted to charge Lutkus with second-degree murder and the lesser-included charge of manslaughter. Max gathered evidence to support the fighter’s self-defense claim, and he persuaded the DA’s office to drop the charges, thus making himself a friend for life. Lutkus proved a good source of information. He also sparred with Max at the gym, helping the young detective perfect his fighting skills.

The saloon was almost empty; all the regulars were still working. Lutkus leaned over the polished oak bar; he nursed a small beer while shooting the breeze with the bartender who was sporadically wiping glasses and arranging bottles. Several blazing gas jets supplemented natural light streaming through the plate glass windows, a pale yellow glow reflected in a long mirror behind the bar.

Max greeted Lutkus with a pat on the shoulder and a wide grin. “Hey, Big Al, you’re looking fit as always.”

Lutkus turned his large, close-cropped head, displaying a face as scarred and broken as a battlefield after a heavy shelling. “Good to see you, my friend. It’s been too long.” Lutkus gestured toward the bartender. “You know, Jonas, don’t you?”

“Sure I do,” Max said. He smiled at Jonas. “How’s the saloon business?”

“Good, Mr. Hawk. We got plenty thirsty people ‘round here. How’s the detective racket?”

“Real good, seeing as how Chicago’s got at least as many crooks as rummies, maybe more.”

Lutkus and Jonas laughed. Lutkus said, “You got job security, pal. This town’ll run out of cockroaches before it runs out of crooks.”

Max nodded his assent. “I’m buying, Al. Name your poison.”

The battler grinned widely, displaying several gleaming gold teeth. “Boilermaker.”

“Make that two.”

“Right,” Jonas replied. “You want ‘em here, or at a table?”

Max pointed toward a small round table in a quiet corner. “Just set them up here, Jonas. We’ll walk them over. I’ll sing out if we want another round.”

“OK, Mr. Hawk.” Jonas drew two large beers from the tap, and then poured two shots of rye. He set the drinks on a tray.

Max carried the drinks to the table; Lutkus followed. They sat, toasted each other’s health, and downed their shots followed by a long draught of the beer chaser.

Lutkus put down his glass and wiped foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ah, that hit the spot. So tell me, Max; what can I do for you?”

“Do you know a kid named Benny Levy?”

“You mean the little Jewish ‘professor’? Yeah, I know him. That kid can sure tickle the ivories. Is he in trouble?”

“I’m afraid so. He’s a potential suspect in a murder case.”

“Oh yeah? And who is he supposed to have murdered?”

“Moe Weinberg. I’m sure you recognize the name.”

Lutkus had long since licked his gambling habit, but he had borrowed money from Moe in the past. “That chiseler? Yeah, I knew him. Whoever iced Moe done the world a favor. But I doubt the Levy kid done it.”

“What makes you think the kid didn’t kill Weinberg?”

Lutkus took a swig of beer and thought a moment before answering. “I know plenty of killers, Max. The kid ain’t the killer type.”

“But the kid does have a temper. I heard he got in a fight outside the club. Some guy didn’t like his playing.”

Lutkus shook his head and smiled. “Oh, that. Like I said, the kid is good. Everybody likes his playing. That is, everybody but a gunsel named Battaglia.”

Max recalled what Jimmy Dolan had told him about Battaglia and Capucci, that night at Otto’s tavern. “Do you mean Bugsy Battaglia?”

“Yeah, that’s him. A crazy son-of-a-bitch. They don’t call him Bugsy for nothing. What he said to pick a fight had nothing to do with the kid’s playing. Bugsy was showing his pals what a tough guy he is by razzing Levy. That’s Bugsy’s style. He always picks on the little guy; the fellow he thinks won’t fight back. Gotta hand it to the kid. It took guts to stand up to the gunsel, and the kid did all right until Bugsy put his lights out with a hard right cross.”

“Do you think Bugsy holds a grudge against the kid?”

“You know what those guys are like. Levy’s lucky a cop was around. Otherwise, he would have ended up floating face down in the river.”

“I see. Was a guy named Capucci there that night?”

“Sure, he and Bugsy are goombas. They do everything together, including screwing and taking a leak.”

Max laughed to show he appreciated Al’s sense of humor. “Do you think they’d go so far as to frame the kid for murder?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past those two. They’d frame their own mothers if it would help them beat the rap.”

Max wondered silently whether Levy might have been framed or been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyway, what motive would Capucci and Battaglia have to ice Moe? Could it have something to do with their meeting with the Burns mob? Max decided to ask about the tobacco Levy said he smelled in Moe’s shop. “Do Capucci and Battaglia smoke cigars?”

Lutkus grimaced as though bewildered by the question, but he figured Max had some good reason for asking. “Capucci smokes cigarettes. Bugsy likes cigars.”

“Good cigars?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact he smokes big, fat Havana claros. The best. Why do you ask?”

Max avoided the question. He finished his beer and glanced at Al’s glass. “Time for another?”

Lutkus grinned. “Sure, seeing as how you’re buying.”

Max signaled the bartender before turning to another subject. “Did you ever come across a rich lad named Prescott Fielding?”

“You mean the guy caused a ruckus at the Everleigh Club a while back?”

“One and the same.”

“After the Everleigh sisters banned him, he tried to square things with Big Jim. He was allowed to visit the Gardenia Club and other houses, sort of like on probation. You see, he likes to get rough, which some girls don’t mind as long as he pays extra and don’t do any real damage.”

“I’ve heard the story. Some girl shot him in the ass with a .22 because he went too far, I guess.”

Lutkus laughed. “Yeah, it’s a good story, ain’t it?”

Jonas came with the boilermakers. Max and Al downed their shots before continuing.

“Do you know the name or whereabouts of the girl who shot Fielding?”

Lutkus shook his head. “No; it was all hushed up. But Nora might know.”

“Who’s Nora?”

“A kid who worked for the Everleighs and moved to the Gardenia not long after the Fielding rumpus. I think she knew something, but she kept her mouth shut.”

“Does she still work at the Gardenia?”

“No; she left a few months ago. Word is some rich john set her up in a nice little house on the far West Side.”

“Do you know her full name and address?”

“Her name’s Nora Iverson. I don’t know the address, but I can find out.”

“Thanks, pal. Can you do it discreetly? I don’t want you to get in Dutch with Big Jim.”

“Don’t worry about me, Max. Like you, I got my way of finding out things. The boss’ll never know.”

“You’re a good friend, Al. I owe you.”

The boxer shook his head. “You don’t owe me nothing. I owe you. You went to bat for me and got me out of a jam when my so-called friends didn’t know me. I won’t never forget it.”

Max smiled. “OK, battler. How about one more shot?”

Al flashed his row of gold teeth and raised his beer glass. “Now you’re talking. Buk sveikas!”

* * *

As soon as he returned to his office, Max went straight for the telephone without stopping to remove his hat, overcoat and galoshes. He placed a call to Rosen’s office and got his secretary. The young woman said Mr. Rosen was out and took a message. I guess Mueller’s still grilling the kid, he thought.

Max went from his desk, to the coat-rack, to his coffee pot. He needed black coffee to clear his head from the after-effects of three boilermakers. Seated behind the desk in his swivel chair, he sipped strong, steaming java from a mug while stopping at intervals to rub his throbbing temples. “Thank God we stopped at three,” he muttered.

Then, another thought crossed his mind. If I were running the investigation, I’d take the kid to the crime scene and do a walk-through reconstruction to see if it jibes with his story. He’ll mention the cigar smoke. What about the matchbox and ashes? Will Mueller pick up on it and remember that I walked off with a piece of evidence?

Max shrugged and finished his java. So what if Mueller remembered? If asked, Max would say he inadvertently picked up the matchbox and forgot to return it. He opened a desk drawer, took out a pad and pencil and made notes: Follow-up with Al regarding whereabouts of Nora Iverson; contact J.D. to see if he has any more information about Bugsy and Vito; phone Gus re: P.F.

Max suspected there was more to the Prescott Fielding incident than what he had heard through the grapevine, and he reckoned Gus Merkel would know if some reporter had investigated the matter. Max also figured that a story might have been spiked due to the Fielding family’s influence. He telephoned the sports desk and was put through to Gus.

“Hello, Max. How’s tricks?” Typewriters clicked, phones rang, and reporters, editors, and copy boys gabbed in the background.

“Everything’s Jake. You remember that picture of Fielding you sent me?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“I’d like to know more about that incident back in ’01.”

Gus was silent for a moment. Then: “Can’t talk now, pal. Can we meet somewhere?”

“How about Otto’s, tonight at seven?”

“Are you buying?”

“Absolutely.”

“OK, I’ll be there. Gotta go now; I’ve an editor with an ulcer and a deadline to meet.”

Max made another note. He might catch Jimmy Dolan tonight while the patrolman was making the rounds, one of his favorite stops being Otto’s tavern where the officer could always get a beer and sandwich on the house. Then he looked at his calendar. Lunch tomorrow with Olga, at Henrici’s. He smiled and allowed his mind to drift, for a moment. He had plans. Big plans.

That’s where I’ll put the partition, he thought. He had already talked to the landlord about placing a partition between his office space and a reception area. He imagined Olga sitting out there, answering the phone and greeting potential clients with her refined voice and bright smile.

Max dwelt silently on his dreams. She’ll add a touch of class and put the swell clients at ease. And with more business, I’ll bring in enough jack to hire another operative, maybe two. A real detective agency. That’d be something, wouldn’t it? Not bad for the son of a Ruhr valley coal miner.

* * *

The ringing telephone bell interrupted his daydream. He lifted the receiver. It was Manny Rosen, and he sounded worried.

“Well, Max, for once you guessed wrong. Mueller took the kid into custody, and the DA’s setting a bond hearing. He’s going for first-degree murder. If the judge buys it, there’ll be no bail.”

“Who’s assigned to the case?”

“Peterson.”

Max paused a moment before saying, “Peterson’s OK. He’ll give the kid a square deal, and he’ll take into account the fact that he came in voluntarily.”

“Peterson’s fair, all right. He’ll let Benny cop to second degree to keep him from swinging. He might even go for manslaughter if we don’t make too much work for him. After all, he knows Moe was a shit, so he’s willing to cut the kid some slack. All Benny has to do is change his story. Say there was an argument over the loan, Moe got real nasty, they fought and Benny conked Moe with the candlestick holder. That’s Mueller’s theory. But the kid’s sticking to his story.”

“What did Mueller think of the hidden cigar smoker?”

“He ain’t buying it. Guess what? Benny smokes cigars. Mueller and Sugrue took us to the crime scene and did a walk-through. The kid got rattled when he saw the chalk outline and the bloodstains on the floor. He asked if he could smoke. Mueller grinned, like he knew something we didn’t, and gave Benny the OK. And he took a particular interest in the kid’s matchbox. So much of an interest that he placed it in evidence, along with the cigar and the ashes.”

Mueller knew all along. He isn’t as dumb as I thought. “Was the matchbox from the Gardenia Club?”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then: “OK, Max. What do you know that I don’t?”

“When I went to Weinberg’s there were cigar ashes and a box of matches from the Gardenia Club on Moe’s desk. Moe didn’t smoke. What’s more, he didn’t like being around people who did.”

“Why the devil didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Sorry, Manny. I’ve got my reasons. You gotta trust me on this one.”

“Max, you’re a good detective. But sometimes you’re a real pain in the ass.”

“Listen, I’ve got some good leads. You’ll just have to use your charm to stall Peterson on the plea deal. Give me time, and I’ll find the real killer.”

“Great, so in the meantime the kid sweats it out in county. You know, that’s the cell block where they build up the gallows.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic. This ain’t the Klondike, where they try your client in the morning and string him up before sunset.”

“Very funny. You ought to quit the detective racket and go into vaudeville.”

“You’re a great lawyer, Manny, but you worry too much. That’s why you’re losing so much hair. I’m going to see Mueller. He might as well know I’m working with you. I’m going to be nice; try to get on his good side, if he has one. In the meantime, try to keep the kid cool and work your magic on Peterson. We’ll be in touch.”

After they hung up, Max sighed and shook his head. I’ve always wondered what crow tastes like, he thought. I guess I’m about to find out.

Proceed to Chapter 6...

Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder

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