Chicago Max
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 6: What Crow Tastes Like
part 2
“Hart’s the favorite, but I’d take Burns. I like the tough little Canuck who punches way above his weight. He says he’ll fight the top contenders regardless of race, creed or color. Let the best man win. That’s my style.”
Gus grimaced and shook his head. “Well, Max, that ain’t the style of most fans here in the States. They want an American champ all right, but only if he’s white. If our best contender were of the wrong race, creed, or color, then they don’t want him.”
“You’re thinking about Jack Johnson, aren’t you?”
Gus nodded in the affirmative. “Johnson’s got what it takes, but I doubt he’ll ever get a shot at the World Heavyweight Title.”
“Why not? He’s earned it.”
“Can you imagine what would happen if a colored man beat a white man in the ring? It might start another Civil War. Remember what Senator Tillman said after Roosevelt invited Booker T. Washington to the White House.” Gus put on a vaudeville comic’s Southern drawl for emphasis: “’The action of President Roosevelt in entertaining that nigger will necessitate our killing a thousand niggers in the South before they learn their place again.’”
Max frowned. “The Civil War ended before I was born. They ought to get over it. After all, why did our parents come here? This was supposed to be the land of opportunity, with equal rights and justice for all. Not like the old country, where they judge you based on your ancestors, property and titles, the things you inherited, and not on your own abilities and what you can make of yourself with guts, brains and effort.”
“That sounds like a good Fourth of July speech, Max. You ought to go into politics.”
“Oh yeah, and join all the grafters who use the money they steal from the public to buy more votes so they can keep on stealing. No thanks, pal.”
Gus put down his beer and turned serious. “I can tell something’s eating you. I suppose that’s why I’m here. Does it have to do with Fielding?”
“Sorry, Gus. I’m afraid it does. Some kid might be taking the rap for a crime he didn’t commit. It happens often enough, but I hate to see it when it does.”
At that moment, the waiter came with more bread. Max ordered another round of beer. After the waiter left, Gus continued: “I understand. You might be on the right track. Do you remember a crime reporter named Bob Hills?”
Max thought a moment before saying, “Sure, I remember Hills. He was good, but he disappeared a while back. What happened to him?”
“A few years ago, he was an up-and-comer. A fine writer and a smart, fearless investigator. His editor liked him, and the reporters respected him. Everyone figured he was on his way to the top. We used to hang out at a bar near the paper to drink and gab about work and life in general. That’s how I learned about Fielding.
“Hills implied there was something more sinister to the incident at the Everleigh Club than the story that made the rounds. He remained tight-lipped about it, which is understandable because he gave the impression he was about to break something big, an exposé that would rock this town to its foundations.”
“So what happened to the story?”
Merkel smirked and shook his head. “The editor spiked it. Hills raised one hell of a stink. He socked the editor. A couple of reporters had to rush into the office to break it up. That was the beginning of the end for Bob Hills. He got his pink slip that same day. After that, he tried to sell the story to every paper in town, but no one was buying. I heard he was getting anonymous threats directed at both him and his wife; he was married with two kids. Finally, things got too hot for them, so they packed up and went west, first to Denver and then to San Francisco.”
“I never heard any of this. Did he go to the police?”
“I believe he did, but your old boss, Captain Crunican, sat on the case and did nothing. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I guess the fix was in.” Gus leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “Frankly, I want nothing to do with this. Not after what happened to Hills. I figure the subject is bad for your health.”
Max pondered: Crunican never said anything about it to me. I wonder if a file was opened. Maybe Big Mike would know. “I understand, Gus. I’ll leave you out of it. Do you know where Hills is now?”
“He’s been blacklisted. No paper will hire him. The last I heard, he was in Milwaukee working as a janitor. And that was almost a year ago. His wife divorced him and stayed with the kids in San Francisco. What’s more, he was drinking heavily and, on top of that, he picked up a hop habit. For all I know, he might be dead.”
Max finished his beer, took out a couple of cigars and offered one to Merkel. The information Gus provided had bolstered Max’s suspicions. He had a good contact in Milwaukee. Max could trace Hills; if he were alive and reasonably coherent, Max might get him to talk. However, that would require more time and money, and Max worried both of those precious commodities might be in short supply.
He puffed thoughtfully on his cigar for a short while before speaking. “Thanks, Gus. I’ll take it from here. You can forget we ever had this conversation.”
Gus smiled with relief. “No problem, Max. I guess you know what you’re doing. Good luck.”
* * *
Max’s body had gone through the motions with Vi, but his mind was elsewhere. He rested under the bedclothes with his head propped up on a pillow. A warm, freshly made bed was a good place to be on a cold Chicago night. The hawk rattled a frost-covered windowpane; outside that window, in the small, snow-blanketed back yard separating the house from the alley, the wind shook the bare branches of a gnarled elm. The rustling branches cast sinister images on the ceiling. He concentrated on the shadows, imagining they were enemies tailing him through the city’s obscure streets and back alleys.
A kerosene lamp on a nearby dresser burned low; its pure flame gave off a golden light reflected in a mirror. The coal stove in a corner of the room radiated warmth, but it was not half as comforting as Vi’s body heat. Her quiet presence, seductive odor, and soft regular breathing thrilled his senses, encroaching upon his concentration to the point where he felt he must make a clean break from her, and soon.
What did he owe Vi? They were adults; she knew from the start what this sort of arrangement entailed. She had stopped going to church; she could not abide the dirty looks and whispering, like the stares and whispers she encountered on the neighborhood streets and at work.
Max came to her without lies or pretense; he was clean, he carried no loathsome disease, and they took precautions to avoid pregnancy. He was considerate, brought her little presents, took her out occasionally, and never raised his voice or a hand to her in anger. What more did she want? Marriage. That evening, she had said, half-jokingly “Well Max, when will you make an honest woman of me?” His answer was an enigmatic smile, which was no answer at all. He had already resolved that, after this night, he would stop sleeping with her.
Moe, Fielding, Burns, Battaglia and Capucci. How do I connect the dots to get the evidence that will clear Benny Levy? He had good leads, but he would need to grease palms and take risks to get something out of them. Weasel, Iverson and Hills. They could pan out or prove to be dead ends. In fact, Hills might already be dead, and Iverson and Weasel would be at risk. Would fifty each be enough, or would they want more? How much were their lives worth? Would Harry Levy pay?
Max sighed. The case could make or break me, he thought. Then he remembered Olga and their lunch date. Could he afford to take her on before this case closed? He figured a female shop assistant did not make much, maybe five dollars a week, tops. He thought he could do better than that, but it would be prudent to wait. I’ll feel her out about the job, but make no promises. It can wait until I’ve solved the Levy case.
Vi stirred and turned over on her side, with her back to him. She’s sound asleep, he thought. Now’s a good time to get out. He did not want to talk to her. She might ask why he was leaving so soon, and he would have to come up with an answer. What if she cried or, worse yet, got angry and raised a ruckus, enough to wake the neighbors. But her tears worried him more than loudly articulated grievances; they would be chains that bound him to her, even if only for the moment.
Max swung his legs out from under the covers and over the side of the bed. He snuck across the carpet to a large, velvet-upholstered armchair where he had left his clothes, holstered revolver and shoes. He dressed quickly, but carried his shoes to avoid making noise on the creaking floorboards. Then he retrieved his hat and overcoat from the front closet and picked up his galoshes at the door. For an instant, he thought of leaving money as though he could ease his conscience with a cruel insult. Some men could do such a thing, but that was not Max’s style.
He exited stealthily, with a sense of relief that he had succeeded in not awakening her, thus escaping a difficult situation. However, he could not escape feelings of shame and guilt that would trouble him for some time to come.
Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder
