Chicago Max
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 23: Where’s Olga?
The next day at the office, Max had a premonition. He anticipated at least one important phone call, maybe two or more. He guessed the news would not be good. He had accomplished a great deal in the last couple of weeks. But at what price? Six men had died: Weinberg, Weasel, Petey Mullen, Hills, Capucci and Battaglia. With the exception of Hills, all were criminals, and the worst of them, Bugsy, was a homicidal maniac. Hills was the best of the lot, and he was a down-and-out rummy.
Max felt sorry for Hills, but he would not lose sleep over the others. What troubled him were the deals he’d cut with the bosses to get Benny out of jail. He was glad the kid was on his way to New Orleans with Lil; things had turned out well for them. However, he figured more bodies would be added to the count before this case was closed, and Olga’s sudden disappearance worried him. He imagined her in any number of situations, all of them bad.
The phone rang. Max lifted the receiver and answered, “Niemand Detective Agency. Max Niemand speaking.”
There was a slight hesitation at the other end. Then: “It’s Walter Johnson, Mr. Niemand. I wondered...” The voice sounded faint and tired. Johnson paused and cleared his throat. “Have you heard about the explosion and fire next door?”
“No, Mr. Johnson, I haven’t. What happened?”
“About three this morning there was a loud bang; it rattled the windows and shook our bed. The wife and I woke up immediately. We were plenty scared and confused. I ran to the window and looked across the way. I could see flames and smoke pouring out of broken windows. I went downstairs to the telephone and called the fire department. Then the wife and me put on our coats and shoes and went outside.
“Some of the neighbors were already out on the sidewalk, watching the place burn. Dogs were barking all over, and more people came out to see what was going on. Before long, we heard the bells and steam whistles of the fire engines. Thank God they got there right quick and kept the fire from spreading.”
“Was there anyone at home? Do you know what happened to them?”
Johnson paused a moment before saying, “I saw the firemen carry three bodies out on stretchers. I guess they were burned pretty badly.”
“Do you know if Miss Iverson and her gentleman friend were among the casualties?”
“We asked, but the firemen wouldn’t say anything. I guess there’ll be something about it in the newspapers. But I can tell you this much. I’m sure Miss Iverson was there, and her gentleman friend, too. The Pope Toledo is parked out front, and it hasn’t been moved.”
“I see. Well, thanks for the information. I hope you and Mrs. Johnson are all right.”
“We’re fine, thanks. Just shaken up a bit. But we were wondering if you might have any idea how this happened. I mean, do you think it was an accident?”
Max was almost certain it was not. Nevertheless, he said, “Probably. Sounds like a gas explosion, or a faulty boiler or furnace. At any rate, the Fire Marshal will investigate, and you can read about it in the newspapers.”
“That’s what I figured, too. The wife’s upset. We don’t know what went on over there. I mean, it’s none of our business. But they were people, after all. You hate to think of anyone going like that.”
“Yes, Mr. Johnson. It’s sad, but accidents happen, even to the best of us. Anyways, thanks for the call and please give my regards to Mrs. Johnson.”
Max hung up. He recalled his conversation with Crunican and Mueller: Now don’t you worry about the West Side racket. We’ll take care of it. “They took care of it, all right,” Max muttered. He lit a cigar and thought about the three bodies. Nora and Ollie make two. Who was number three?
Max telephoned Gus Merkel’s pal, Andy Anderson, at the newspaper.
“Hello, Andy. This is Max Niemand. I appreciated your help. Would you mind doing me another favor?”
“Sure, Mr. Niemand. What can I do for you?”
“About three this morning there was an explosion and fire in a house on Pine Avenue in Austin. Could you get me the straight dope on it? I believe there were three casualties. I’d like to know who they were. I’d also like to know any preliminary findings as to the cause of the fire.”
“I’ll see what I can do and get back to you.”
“Thanks, pal. You hear anything from Gus?”
Anderson laughed. “Yeah, he sent me a telegram. Says the sun’s shining, the dames are swell, numerous and very friendly. I guess the championship’s just a sideline.”
“I envy him. Thanks again, Andy.”
* * *
The next call came late that afternoon. It was the operative who was doing the background check on Olga.
“Hello, Max. I got some information on Olga Boyer. Sorry it took so long.”
“That’s all right. What have you got?”
“First of all, her name ain’t Boyer. It’s Sokolow; Olga Sokolow. She did time in the House of Corrections for passing bad checks. But here’s an interesting twist. Someone with pull got her an early release.”
“Who got her out and when?”
“She was released early last year. Judge Moran signed the order, but I can’t find out who got the judge to spring her.”
I met her not long after she got out, and Moran’s the crook the family bribed on the Levy case. “Whoever sprung her might have gotten her the job at the music store. Have you looked into that?”
“I questioned the manager, but he’s keeping his mouth shut. My guess is someone greased his palm or threatened him. Maybe both.”
“She’s gone missing the last couple of days. I talked to the store manager and her landlady. No one seems to know where she is. You have anything on that?”
“No. Do you want me to investigate?”
“No, thanks. I’ll deal with it. You have anything else for me?”
“No, Max, that’s all I’ve got. Hope it helps.”
“Thanks, pal, it does. Let’s meet up at Otto’s one of these days. I’ll buy.”
“All right, Max; I’ll take you up on that. See you around.”
Max hung up and set down the phone. Olga’s been playing me all along, he thought. But someone put her up to it, someone with enough clout to get Moran to sign an order for her release. Who did it and why?
Max decided to pay another call on the music store manager.
* * *
“I’m sorry, Mr. Niemand, I’m closing.” The manager’s frown matched his less than friendly greeting.
Max pushed back and bulled his way into the store. “That’s good, pal. We can talk without being disturbed.” Max entered the dark showroom and locked the door behind him.
Anger turned to fear; the manager’s eyes widened and he stuttered. “Mr. Niemand if... if you don’t leave at once, I shall call the police.”
“Go ahead. I’m an ex-cop.” Max grinned menacingly. “Those guys are my best friends. We’ll have a nice reunion.”
“What do you want?”
“You know what I want. I’m looking for Olga. Where is she?”
“I already told you. I don’t know where she is.”
Max took a couple steps forward. He grabbed the manager’s collar and pulled him close. “You know more than you’re letting on. Who told you to hire her?”
“Let me go. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—”
The slaps came rapidly like pistol shots: Pop! Pop! Pop!
The manager’s knees buckled. Max held him up. The man shook his head to regain his senses. Snot and blood dribbled down from his nose.
“Guess that rung your bell. OK. I’m going to ask you again, and think hard before you answer. I don’t want to hurt you. Who told you to hire Olga?”
“It... it was Mr. Fielding.” The man’s eyes widened in fear; sweat beaded on his forehead.
“Prescott Fielding?”
“Yes, it was he.”
Max smiled. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Did he pay you?”
The man looked down and nodded in the affirmative.
“How much?”
“Two hundred dollars. I... I support a family. I didn’t see any harm in it.”
“When’s the last time you saw Fielding?”
“Last year, when I hired Olga.”
Max grabbed the man’s chin and raised his head so he could look him in the eye. “Are you sure? You haven’t seen him or had any communication since then?”
“Yes, yes. I swear it.”
Max let go of the man’s collar, and backed up a step. “Go ahead and clean yourself up.”
The manager wiped his nose and mouth with a handkerchief.
Max studied the result in the dim light. “Not too bad, pal. If someone asks, you had an accident in the store. I wasn’t here. You follow?”
The man nodded his head. “Yes, Mr. Niemand.”
“Good. By the way, I never got your name.”
“It’s Robinson; Henry Robinson.”
“Your friends call you Hank?”
“Some do.”
“OK, Hank. Sorry I had to get rough. Everyone lies; that’s human nature. But now I got a very low tolerance for bullshit. Just a few more things before I go. If you see or hear anything from Olga or Fielding, you telephone my office. If you can’t get me on the phone, drop a note at the newsstand on Clark and Lake. Tell the newsy it’s a message for Max. And don’t be stingy. Tip him two bits. Got that?”
“Yes, Mr. Niemand.”
“Max.”
“Yes, Max.”
“Good. Now if anyone comes round here asking about me, you know nothing. Then you contact me. OK?”
“OK... Max.”
“All right, Hank. I’ve been a good customer. I bought a Victrola and plenty of swell opera records from this store. You ought to be more friendly; it’s good for business, not to mention your health and peace of mind.”
“Thank you. I’ll remember that.” The manager tried to smile, but it came across as a wince of pain.
“That’s great, Hank. I’ll leave you with one more piece of advice. Next time a guy like Fielding offers you lots of dough for a favor, think twice before taking it. Such deals often have consequences, some of them very unpleasant.”
“Indeed; I’ll keep that in mind.”
Max smiled. “Good thinking. Well, I’ll be off now.” Trusting he had made a profound impression on the manager, Max turned around and walked out the door into a frosty Chicago evening.
Henry Robinson walked to the entrance and peered out into the street. He waited there a full minute to make sure Max was gone. He sniffed something foul. “Damnation,” he muttered. “The bastard made me wet my pants.”
Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder
