Chicago Max
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 21: Duel at Dawn
The moon hid behind a cloud bar. In the early morning hours, a small caravan of four automobiles crossed the city limits, their destination an unincorporated area where law enforcement was scanty, relaxed, and corruptible. The cars chugged and rumbled down a macadamized roadway at twelve miles per hour.
Snowflakes swirled around the narrow beams of light streaming from front and side-mounted acetylene and oil lamps. Max sat in the back seat of the second to last automobile, next to one of Ed’s most trusted lieutenants. Bundled up in heavy overcoats and fur hats, they still felt the sting of the icy winter air.
They passed through an industrialized area and entered the rural suburbs; from there the procession continued into a wasteland of rubbish-strewn fields, ash heaps and undeveloped lots. An endless row of telephone and telegraph poles lined the roadside, beyond which a network of railroad tracks stretched out into the distance. At one point, they stopped at a crossing for a freight train. Max amused himself counting cars.
Max would meet Bugsy in an abandoned warehouse; they would fight with stilettos. The odds had shifted slightly in Bugsy’s favor because, by reputation, he was a master of the traditional knife fight. But Max knew this contest was not about fighting; it was about survival.
Victory would not necessarily go to the more skillful knife fighter; there would be no points for style or technique. Rather, the winner would be the better killer. Max knew something that bolstered his confidence. Bugsy was a born murderer, but he was mentally unbalanced and tended to kill in the heat of passion. Max killed from necessity. He was cold and calculating; his killer instinct was as strong as his will to survive. He thought he had a slight edge, if he could keep his fear in check.
Max was not crazy; he wanted to live. And because he wanted to survive, he knew fear. Nevertheless, he had always controlled his emotions. The problem was not being afraid but, rather, letting fear get the best of you and showing it to your enemy. Bugsy’s mental state made him effectively “fearless”; that had carried him through many battles with weaker men. However, Battaglia’s “craziness.” while unpredictable, was not necessarily an advantage with an opponent like Max.
About five miles outside the city limits, the pavement ended. The cars slowed to a walk on the ice- and snow-crusted dirt road. They made a right turn onto a rickety wooden bridge crossing a drainage ditch. The wind gusted over a vast empty field overspread by a network of iron rails half-covered in snowdrifts. Max could see an obscure brick structure looming in the near distance. Like the Colosseum, he thought. I’m here for the main event.
The cars pulled up and parked near a concrete loading dock by an abandoned rail siding. A couple of derelict boxcars rested nearby, their rotting wooden exteriors covered with hobo graffiti. Max saw Bugsy step down from the running board of the lead automobile. The gangster glanced back with a blank expression. Max stared with predatory eyes that said, One of us will die soon, and it isn’t going to be me. Bugsy dropped eye contact first; Max took this as a good omen.
The seconds all carried lanterns, lighting the way up the loading dock stairs and into the warehouse. The light-bearers formed a semi-circle near the entrance. In addition to the seconds, there was a doctor with a surgical kit. He opened his bag and examined his instruments.
Max and Bugsy approached each other like boxers in the ring, each accompanied by a second. The combatants removed their hats and coats, exposing themselves above the waist. Max was bigger and hard as granite, Bugsy compact and tough as whipcord.
One of Colosimo’s lieutenants droned out the agreed-upon terms of the no holds barred duel. A fight to the death. If Bugsy survived, he would go free with a twenty-four hour grace period to get out of town. If Max prevailed, he would get Hills’ documents and Bugsy’s signed confession to three murders. The documents were displayed for inspection. Max gave them the once-over and nodded his agreement. Both combatants shivered and stamped their feet to keep their circulation going; their breath came out in small clouds of vapor.
A second presented a matched pair of stilettos. As the challenged party, Bugsy got first choice. Max examined his weapon. It’s OK, he thought. Let’s get it on before we freeze to death.
Bugsy caressed the blade with his fingers. He looked up at Max with a twisted smile on his dark, scarred face. “You’re dead, Niemand.”
Max returned the smile and answered in kind. “You can kiss Vito in hell, you crazy bastard.”
Bugsy moved so quickly it surprised everyone but Max. He rushed forward like an enraged bull, thrusting his dagger point at Max’s exposed mid-section. Max sidestepped the lunge like a matador dodging the horns. Bugsy’s blade nicked Max’s side at the same time Max plunged his dagger into the gangster’s throat.
Bugsy Battaglia’s eyes widened as if to say, “What the hell happened?” He dropped to his knees like a poleaxed ox. Blood gurgled in his throat; it foamed at his lips and gushed out in a scarlet stream. He toppled forward onto the concrete floor. His body twitched spasmodically for an instant, and then lay still as red rivulets poured from his mouth and nostrils.
Max looked at the stunned seconds. “Sorry, boys,” he said. “It’s too damn cold to play games.”
One of the South Side boys muttered, “Marone!” The rest remained silent.
The doctor was still checking his instruments, unaware that the fight was over. When he heard voices, he turned and saw Bugsy bleeding out on the floor. The doctor walked over to the body. Kneeling, he made a cursory examination. Then he turned to Max. “You severed the artery. He’s dead.”
“I should certainly hope so,” Max replied.
The doctor, a veteran of Cuba who was accustomed to death on a large scale, asked, “Are you all right, son?”
Max glanced down at his side. “Just a scratch, doc.”
The doctor pointed toward his surgical kit. “It’s not bad. You won’t even need stitches. Let’s go over there and I’ll clean it up.” Max followed the surgeon. The doctor handed Max a flask and said, “Have a snort.” As he was cleaning and dressing the wound, the doctor asked, “What happened? It went by so fast I didn’t see a thing.”
“It’s simple, doc. The guy was a hothead. I said something he didn’t like, and he lost it.”
The doctor finished bandaging and then eyed Max with a questioning squint. “Sounds like you planned it that way.”
Max nodded and grinned. “You may be on to something, doc.”
The South Side gang wrapped the body in a tarpaulin and carried it out to one of the cars. Their work would not be done until they disposed of the corpse. Max put on his hat and coat; he gathered up Hills’ papers and the confession, and then he returned to the car with Ed’s lieutenant.
While one of the gunsels got busy cranking the engine, the lieutenant said, “That was a neat stroke, Mr. Niemand. I know your reputation, but I didn’t see that coming.”
Max shrugged and lit a cigar. “Just another roll of the dice, pal. Bugsy crapped out.”
After some effort, the engine turned over. As the sun rose over Lake Michigan, the automobiles headed back into the red light of dawn.
Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder
