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Chicago Max

by Gary Inbinder

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Chapter 29: Saint Patrick’s Day, 1906

conclusion


Otto wore green on Saint Patrick’s. In honor of this singular occasion, the German tavern transformed into an Irish pub. Beer and whiskey flowed liberally from casks and bottles. This was good public relations, a time when members of diverse ethnic communities could come together without drawing blood.

Max joined Jimmy Dolan and a chorus of jovial, half-crocked cops led by Captain Crunican, in a rousing rendition of “The Minstrel Boy.”

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you will find him.
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
“Land of Song!” said the warrior bard,
“Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!”

The Minstrel fell! But the foeman’s chain
Could not bring his proud soul under.
The harp he loved ne’er spoke again,
For he tore its cords asunder
And said, “No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free
They shall never sound in slavery!”

Afterwards, the captain wiped tears from his eyes and placed his arm around Max’s shoulder. “We’ve missed your fine baritone, lad. But then, you’ll always be one of us.”

Max nodded his silent agreement, finished his beer and signaled Otto for another. Max elbowed his way to the crowded bar. The captain followed him. Max lifted his stein and turned around. Crunican was leaning toward Max so he could be heard above the din.

“I’d like a word with you in private, Max.”

Max followed Crunican to Otto’s back room. He recognized the two men guarding the door. One was a sergeant from Crunican’s precinct, the other was one of Ed Mahoney’s soldiers.

Max crossed the threshold, followed by Crunican. Ed Mahoney greeted Max with a comradely smile and a firm handshake. “I hope you don’t mind talking a little business on Saint Patrick’s?”

Max smiled amiably. “Not at all, Ed. I’m always pleased to have a friendly confab with you and the captain.”

“Good old Max. Just like back in the day on Goose Island. Well, not exactly. Now we all got respect and the jack that goes with it. We can indulge in the finer things.” Ed gestured toward a bottle of his special reserve and three glasses. He uncorked the scotch, poured and gave a toast. “To the land of opportunity.”

Max and the captain echoed Ed’s words and then they all downed their shots. Crunican proposed another toast: “To men who see their opportunities and take them.”

They drank. Ed said, “Now it’s your turn, Max.”

“To crime.” Max grinned slyly and raised the third glass.

Ed and the captain glanced at each other before saying, “To crime.”

They finished drinking and sat at the round table. Ed reached into his breast pocket and produced three Partagás Double Coronas. “Here you go, gentlemen. There’s no finer cigar on the market.”

Crunican and Max thanked Ed, lit up and expressed their appreciation of his excellent taste and generosity. Having observed the polite formalities, it was time to get down to business. The captain spoke first:

“We have a weighty proposition for you, Max. We’d like you to give it careful consideration. This Ward needs new blood. Alderman Doyle’s well past sixty—”

“Near seventy,” Ed broke in.

“Yes, he is at that,” Crunican said with just a hint of irritation at being interrupted. “Anyways, the old gentleman’s done well for himself over the years. In fact, he’s rich as Croesus. It’s time he stepped aside, and let someone else have a chance. Now, what would you say to running for Doyle’s seat on the City Council come next election? You’d be the party’s picked candidate with no serious opposition.”

“No opposition at all, Max,” Ed chimed in. “We’ll guarantee that. What do you say, pal?”

Max puffed on his cigar and looked from one to the other. He blew a couple of rings and watched them float toward the ceiling and disappear before saying, “That’s a tempting offer and I’m grateful, but I’m afraid I’ll have to say no. I’m a detective, not a politician.”

The captain and Ed exchanged puzzled looks as if to say, What more does he want? Neither of them could understand a man with Max’s brains, guts and ambition passing up a once in a lifetime chance at making a fortune in graft. Perplexed for an instant, the captain decided to try another tack.

“I think I understand, Max. Maybe you’d prefer to come back on the force as a captain of your own precinct. It might take a bit longer, but I’m sure I could swing it for you.”

Max smiled and shook his head. “Thanks, Captain, but my answer’s still no. You see, I gave my word once that I worked with you, not for you. It’s a fine point of honor. I’m sure you understand.”

Crunican frowned and shook his head. “Honor is it? Well, my boy, I’d say honor is gaining respect and all the good things that go with it. Ain’t I right, Ed?”

Ed looked Max straight in the eye. He knew him far better than the captain did. “You made a promise to someone, Max. Like a sacred oath, something that can never be broken under any circumstances. Am I right?”

“That’s right, Ed. A promise that can’t be broken in this world or the next.”

Ed glanced at the captain, shrugged in resignation and turned back to Max. “Well then, that’s that. How’s business these days?”

“Business is good. I got a kid working for me now. He’s wet behind the ears, but he’s got the makings of a fine operative.”

“Joey the newsy?” Ed asked.

“Yeah. You know the kid?”

Ed nodded. “Sure. He’s ugly and dirty, but a sharp little monkey. Reminds me of us when we were kids.”

Max smiled sadly at Ed’s reference to their desperate childhood and youth. He wanted to help Joey escape the worst of it. He took out his watch and checked the time. “If you’ll pardon me, I have an important engagement. I’ll be back later, if you’re still around.”

“I’m afraid I must be off, too,” the captain said. “It’s a holiday for some, but business as usual for a politician. I’m off to work my own precinct. I doubt I’ll make it back to Otto’s before the end of the day.”

“Yeah,” Ed said, “I got to make the rounds of the neighborhood. At any rate, I’m sure we’ll get together again soon. How about one for the road?”

The three downed one more shot in honor of Saint Patrick’s and shook hands. Max left, and Ed was about to follow when Crunican said, “Can you stick around for a minute? I have a question for you.”

“What’s on your mind, Captain?”

“I guess you know Max better than anyone. What’s this guff about honor and promises? We just offered him a once in a lifetime opportunity and he walks away. I don’t get it.”

“I’m not sure, but I guess it has something to do with the girl who died in the tunnel.”

“Was he sweet on her? It don’t make sense. The bitch played him for a chump.” The captain grimaced in disbelief.

“I don’t think Max sees it that way.”

Crunican shook his head. “There’s one born every minute. Anyways, I never took Max for the sentimental type. What he needs is another woman, one with expensive tastes and ambition who’ll give him a good shove when he wants shoving.”

“Sounds like my Vi.” Ed smirked.

“Actually, I was thinking of my own dear Mrs. Crunican.” The captain glanced at the empty whiskey bottle. “A dead soldier. I’m in no great rush to go out politicking. How about we chase that fine whiskey with a pint of Otto’s excellent beer?”

“I’m with you, Captain. Lead on to the bar; I’ll follow.”

* * *

Melting snow and ice revealed large patches of mud mixed with sickly looking grass. A mild breeze from the lake rattled tree branches that would not sprout buds till May. A few clouds passed overhead in a bright, blue sky. Max sat on a marble bench, gazing ahead at a sad granite angel; he had chosen the monument because the face reminded him of Miss Wells.

He would not let the county bury Olga in a potter’s field. He paid for a respectable funeral, the monument and a plot in Graceland Cemetery. Max did this anonymously, but people guessed who was behind the lavish interment for an otherwise obscure, penniless young woman. Ironically, an unmarked, common grave held the unidentified remains of Prescott Fielding III.

You should have trusted me, Olga. The investigation determined the fire was an accident, the result of a gas leak and faulty furnace. Prescott Fielding was a “missing person” and no one connected him to the house in Austin and the John Doe. Everyone, including old man Fielding, wanted the case closed.

You would have done a short stretch for attempted extortion and been safe in prison. I would have seen to that. When you got out, you would have come to work for me, just as I planned. He sighed and shook his head. Was it the gun? You got the drop on me once. I couldn’t let you do it a second time. If only you’d have given me a chance to explain.

He read the simple epitaph: Olga Sokolow Boyer 1883-1906. R.I.P.

Were you ever straight with me? I guess I’ll never know.

Max looked beyond the grave toward a small artificial lake surrounded by weeping willows. That was the “high rent” district where the wealthy and powerful rested in elaborate tombs. He imagined how green and lovely the surroundings would be in May. In a month or two, I’ll come back and place flowers on your grave.

Max checked his watch. Time to get back to Otto’s. It was a good day to hang out with the fellows and get drunk. Gus Merkel would be there, telling stories about the championship fight and the wonders of far-off Los Angeles.

Goodbye, Olga. I’ll see you again when the leaves and grass turn green.

He got up slowly and walked back in the direction of the main entrance and the Sheridan Road “L” station.

Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder

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