Chicago Max
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 19: Second Meeting With Ed
part 2
Max’s cab pulled into an alley behind the club. A sharp wind blew rubbish down the narrow passage. Three crooked telephone poles presented themselves in moonlight and shadow, like crosses waiting for unknown victims. The atmosphere was one of indifference and neglect, as though a heinous crime could be committed in these environs, and no one would care.
The horse snorted, stamped its hooves in the snow and exhaled a cloud of steaming breath. Max stepped down to the pavement, said a few words to the driver and walked to the back door. He knocked three times. A slat slid open revealing a pair of dark, suspicious eyes.
“Max Niemand. I’ve an appointment with your boss.”
The peephole closed. There was the grating of a bolt and the iron door creaked open. Two well-dressed goons greeted Max.
The uglier of the pair said, “Come in, Mr. Hawk.” On further inspection he added, “What’s that you got in your hand?”
Max smiled congenially. “A present for Big Jim.”
“A present, huh? Hand it over, real slow and careful.”
Max handed the package to the first goon. The gunsel undid the string and tore away the brown paper wrapper. He examined the item and grinned, displaying a few sparkling gold teeth.
“That’s real thoughtful of you, Mr. Hawk.” Then he addressed his partner without taking his eyes off Max. “Check him out, Augie.”
The smaller, slightly less sinister-looking gunsel said, “OK, put your hands up.” He started with the bowler hat and worked his way down under Max’s overcoat where he found the shoulder-holstered .38. He continued through pockets, patting all the way from Max’s waist to his boots where he discovered the switchblade. “Nice little toothpick,” he said with a sarcastic smile.
“You missed something, pal. Check up my right sleeve.”
The smile turned to a worried frown. The gunsel pulled out the derringer and glanced at his partner, who looked back with a dirty sneer.
“I wouldn’t want to get you guys in trouble with your boss,” Max said.
“Real cute,” the big gangster replied. He turned to his partner. “Augie, you hang on to his weapons.” Then to Max: “You come with me.”
They walked up a dimly lit corridor. Max could hear familiar sounds coming from the front parlor: the professor playing a sedate version of “The Maple Leaf Rag” on a well-tuned piano, muffled conversation and laughter, the popping of champagne corks. The gunsel stopped in front of a heavy oak door. He knocked. A deep, rough voice said, “Enter.”
Max followed the goon into an opulently furnished office brightly lit by Tiffany lamps and an electrified crystal chandelier. Max spotted the elegantly dressed boss seated behind his desk. Big Jim’s silk tie, watch chain and fingers sparkled with diamonds, high-quality rocks that gave the boss another moniker: Diamond Jim, like the New York financier famous for his big spending, big eating, and relationship with Broadway star, Lillian Russell.
Big Jim gave Max the once-over, then glanced at the item in the goon’s hand. “What you got there, Bruno?”
“A present for you, boss. From Mr. Niemand.”
“Oh, yeah? Hand it over.”
Bruno presented Max’s tribute to his boss. Big Jim’s eyes widened; a broad smile spread under the thick, waxed handlebar. He rose from his chair and gazed at Max with admiration and respect. “Caruso, eh? You got taste, Mr. Hawk.”
“Thank you, Mr. Colosimo. I’m glad you like it.”
“Sure, I like it. You see what I got over there?” The boss pointed to a table in the corner. There, beneath a gilt framed painting of nude sylvan nymphs and chubby cherubs, sat a talking machine with a tremendous speaking horn. “That’s the latest model Victrola. We gonna listen to some beautiful music before we talk.” He turned to the gunsel. “You can go, Bruno.”
Bruno frowned. “But, boss, don’t you think I should—”
“Scram,” Big Jim broke in with a scowl. “This guy likes Caruso. He’s on the level.”
The gunsel gave Max a “You better not try anything funny” stare before leaving and closing the door behind him.
Big Jim handled the record as if it were a holy relic. He removed the disc from its cardboard sleeve, taking care not to dirty the grooves with his oily fingerprints. The boss walked to the machine, turned the crank to wind up the mechanism, placed the record on the turntable and lowered the needle with the precision of a doctor performing eye surgery.
The room filled with the sound of Caruso singing M’apparì from Flotow’s Martha. The boss remained by the horn, closed his eyes and let the music take him to another, better world.
Max eyed Big Jim curiously. He’s completely dropped his guard, Max thought. I could sneak up on him, break his neck, and he wouldn’t know what hit him.
The music faded and died. Big Jim opened his eyes and sighed. He lifted the needle and then turned to Max. “That young man sings like an angel, don’t he?”
“Yes, he does. I wish he’d come to Chicago.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Big Jim said as he returned to his desk. He pointed to a large leather armchair. “Park yourself over there. You wanna drink? I got grappa, but maybe you prefer whiskey?”
Max sat and replied diplomatically, “I’ll go with what you’re drinking.”
Big Jim grinned. “Whiskey. Grappa’s traditional, but I like good whiskey.” He poured two glasses and handed one to Max. The boss raised his glass. “Salute!”
Max replied in kind, and they downed their shots. Big Jim went on about Caruso: “Here’s something you’ll appreciate. I’m gonna try to get Caruso to come to Chicago. We’d fill the Auditorium for him every night, standing room only. What do you think of that?”
“That’d be swell. I’m not sure the New Yorkers really appreciate him.”
The boss squinted. “Oh yeah? What makes you think that?”
“From what I’ve read, the critics there still prefer De Reszke.”
Big Jim’s eyes burned; his mouth twisted in an ugly scowl. “De Reszke, huh? So, they prefer that Polack has-been to a rising Napolitano star? To hell with them. That’s nothing but prejudice, that’s what it is. Am I right?”
Max nodded. “You’re right, Mr. Colosimo.”
“Of course I’m right. By the way, where do your people come from?”
“From the Ruhr, mostly. Coal mining country.”
“Coal mining. That’s a hard life. I can think of better ways to make a living.”
Max smiled. “Me, too.”
The boss nodded sympathetically and leaned back in his chair. “OK, now we talk business. I understand you had a problem with Battaglia and Capucci. Half that problem is solved. I approve. I don’t like guys going behind my back and cutting deals with that rat bastard Ike Burns. So what are you gonna do about the other half of your problem?”
“If you mean Battaglia, I have an idea, but I thought you might have a suggestion.”
Big Jim moved forward and stroked his moustache. “We could take care of him, but we’d have to find him, first.”
Max already guessed Bugsy had gone to ground, but he figured the South Side mob could find him if their boss gave the order. “I see. Battaglia has something I want. Papers he took when he killed Moe Weinberg. It might be easier to retrieve them if we offer Battaglia a deal.”
The boss narrowed his eyes skeptically. “What kind of deal?”
“I’ll fight him. If I win, I get the documents and Battaglia takes the fall for three murders: Weinberg, Alf ‘The Weasel’ Hogg, and Bob Hills.”
Big Jim laughed and shook his head. “I respect you, Niemand. Hell, I may even like you. But now I think maybe you got more balls than brains. What makes you think Battaglia will accept the challenge?”
“I have it on good authority he plans to kill me. I figure he’s vain enough and crazy enough to try it in a fair fight, especially if his freedom is an added incentive for winning.”
The boss lit a cigar and considered Max’s proposition before saying, “You got a big reputation, but I know Battaglia better than you do. He’s a born killer and crazy as a bedbug. For him, murder’s more pleasure than business. And he’s killed lots more than three men.”
Max looked hard at the boss. “He’s killed more than three. Well, so have I.”
Big Jim took another draw on his cigar before setting it down in an ashtray. “Yeah, I guess you have at that. But there’s more to this than Battaglia, right?”
Max nodded in the affirmative. “There’s a man in county jail, wrongfully charged with Weinberg’s murder. If I provide evidence of Battaglia’s guilt, an innocent man goes free. And there’s the matter of Prescott Fielding, Ike Burns and their white slavery and pornography racket. It’s a dirty business.
“I mean, it’s not like the honest whorehouses you operate. Those guys get their young women hooked on dope, abuse them, take photos and sell them to scum who go in for that sort of thing. I’ve seen what they did to one of the girls, and I know what Fielding did to another. He as good as killed her, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were others.
“Weinberg blackmailed Fielding and Burns; they hired Vito and Bugsy to get Weinberg to stop. They stopped him, all right. Bugsy iced Moe and took the evidence. Those are the documents I want and, to get them, I’m willing to risk my life in a fight with Bugsy.”
Big Jim played his cards close to the vest. He was aware of Fielding’s relationship with Burns, but he was not sure how much Max knew about their operation. “How much do you know about this white slavery racket?”
Max told the boss about the house in Austin, the real estate front, the countess, Oliver and Nora Iverson. He tried to read Big Jim’s expression and mannerisms, but he could not penetrate the poker face. The boss knew about the incident with Fielding, Nan Evans and the subsequent cover-up.
Some secrets must be kept; certain individuals could not be eliminated with impunity. Max was dancing on the edge of a cliff. He suggested: “Your business interests must be protected, and whatever is decided must be squared with the aldermen. Ed Mahoney said he can persuade Burns to give up the rackets and retire somewhere far from Chicago. The same must be done with Fielding and the countess. Battaglia takes the fall for the murders, and Oliver Parr and Nora Iverson go down for the white slavery racket. But Oliver and Nora must be silenced. I suggest a deal. Light sentences and enough dough to make it worth their while.”
The boss frowned and shook his head. “There are a lot of moving parts to this machine. Too many things that could go wrong. You can take out Battaglia, and Mahoney can deal with Burns. I agree this racket out in Austin is bad for business, but I’m worried about the limey pimp and the madame. What if they don’t take a deal, or they want too much dough? Same goes with Fielding and the countess, although they’ve got a lot more to lose, so maybe they would be more persuadable. Let me think about it. In the meantime, my guys will locate Bugsy. We’ll be in touch.”
The boss got up from his chair, indicating the meeting was over. He pressed a button on his desk; in a few seconds, Bruno entered. “You finished doing business, boss?”
“Yes, we’re finished.” Then, to Max: “You’re all right, Mr. Hawk.” He held out his hand.
Max smiled and shook hands. “Thanks, but if it’s OK with you, I prefer Max.”
“Sure, Max. And you can call me Jim.”
Bruno was more respectful on the way back to the alley door. He retrieved the weapons from Augie and handed them to Max.
Max holstered his guns and then stuck the knife in his boot. He grinned at Bruno. “I’ll be seeing you around, pal.” Then he exited to the alley where the nervous cabbie greeted him with a smile of relief.
Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder
