The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 12: The House by the Cemetery
The area around Clark and Lake looked damp, dirty, depressing; a canyon formed by tall brown brick buildings with the iron and wooden elevated structure running along the busy streets in between. The trains rushed by on their early morning schedule, rattling the windows in Max’s office. He usually opened shop, at least on days when he was in town. But not this morning. Joe and Rosie sat in the outer office, enjoying their coffee and breakfast rolls while speculating about the boss and his new case.
“Max was out late last night,” Joey said. “Guess he’s sleeping in for a change.”
“Guess so. He was out on a job for that O’Neill dame,” Rosie said with a contemptuous squint that implied her opinion of her boss’s new client. She took a sip of coffee before adding, “Out all night in the Forest Preserves. Can you imagine what that was like?”
Joey finished his roll and washed it down with coffee. “I can imagine all right. I was out in the rain shadowing that grifter in the insurance case. The joker was very lively for a dead man.”
Rosie grinned. “Hope you got some good snapshots of the spook?”
“Yeah,” Joey said with a self-satisfied smile, “the ghost and his grieving widow.”
“Sounds like the big insurance case is in the bag.”
“Sure is. Max should be pleased.” Just as Joey said this, the boss entered the office.
“What’s there for me to be pleased about?” Max growled. His face was gray and unshaven, his eyes bleary, and his voice rasped like sandpaper on rough wood.
“Morning, boss.” Joey got up from his chair. “I got the goods on the dead man in the insurance case. Caught the old crook out on the town with his child bride beneficiary. You should see the swell photos.”
“I should, huh? How did they come out?”
“OK. I’m sure, that is. They’re being developed right now.”
“I see. Let me know when you get the prints.” Then Max turned to Rosie. “Miss Mandelbaum.”
“Yes, boss.”
“I got a job for you. Give me about ten minutes, then come into my office.” Then to Joey: “You better get in on this, too.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Max filled his mug with hot coffee, grabbed a roll and shuffled off to his inner sanctum.
With Max out of earshot, Joey bent down and whispered to Rosie, “This case he’s on must be a doozy.”
Rosie nodded her agreement without further comment.
* * *
His customary working-day breakfast had done little to brighten Max’s dark mood. Joe and Rosie thought they knew their boss. He was tough, sometimes edgy, but he lightened things up with a wisecrack and a smile. Not this morning. They sat silently, waiting for him to speak, each guessing that Peg’s death and Mary O’Neill’s suspected lack of candor were bugging the boss far more than the routine troubles of an average case.
Max checked notes and shuffled paperwork, ignoring his employees on the other side of the desk. Then he looked up at Rosie: “I want you to get every bit of information you can on the Lady of the Lake; the owners, where they’re located, the cargo she normally carries and her ports of call. OK?”
“Got it, boss.”
“Good; you can go.” He turned to Joey. “You stick around.”
“Sure boss,” he replied.
Rosie got up and returned to her desk. She did not like being cut out of the discussion. On the other hand, she guessed there were things about this new case she did not want to know.
Max opened a desk drawer and pulled out a half-empty bottle of rye and two glasses. He poured doubles and handed one to his operative. Before they drank, Max said: “This is a tough one, kid. I’m gonna need your help.”
“You can count on me, boss.”
“I know I can.”
Max downed his shot. Joey nursed his. Then Max said, “Rosie told me she’s carrying a .25 and you’ve been teaching her how to shoot and fight. Is that true?”
Joey hesitated a moment before saying, “Yes, that’s true. I didn’t see any harm in it. After all, I know you have plans to make her an operative.”
“I do have plans for her, but we can’t rush things. She’s not ready for a case like this. If she got hurt on the job, I’d never forgive myself. You understand?”
“I understand, boss.”
“All right. Now that we got that out of the way, I’m going to fill you in.” Max gave Joey the details of the information he had gathered so far regarding Peg’s death and Bob O’Neill’s disappearance. Then he shared an idea that had been worrying him the last couple of days.
“I think Peg’s death, Sharkey and Schmidt’s racket, O’Neill and Buford’s disappearance and the Lady of the Lake are all connected, but I’m a long way from knowing how and why. Here’s where you come in. Do you know Sharkey’s bartender, Frank Olson?”
“I know who he is. And I got a source who hangs out at Sharkey’s.”
“Good. Olson gave false testimony at Peg Rooney’s inquest. My guess is he was paid off by his boss. I want to talk to him, but I don’t want to waste time. If he’s smart, he’s either lying low or taken a powder. See what you can find out.”
“OK. Anything else?”
“Yes. I want you to go to the Grand Pacific and talk to Conrad, the house dick. We’re old pals and he owes me a favor. Get all the dope you can on Mary O’Neill, her comings and goings, visitors, anything else that’s relevant and then report back to me.”
“All right, boss. Con’s a friend and a stand-up guy.”
“Good. And before you go, I just wanted to let you know you did a swell job on the insurance case. Provided those snapshots come out,” he added with his first smile of the day.
“Thanks, boss,” Joey said with a sense of relief. Max seemed to be getting back to normal.
“One more thing before you go. Be nice to Rosie. Tell her we appreciate all the work she’s doing. I don’t want her to feel left out, it’s just that I... well, you know what to say.”
“Don’t worry, boss. I know how to keep her sweet.”
“I’m sure you do, Joe,” Max said with a grin.
* * *
A quiet street in the western suburbs in the vicinity of a large old cemetery and a brand-new amusement park, near the Des Plaines River. A few houses occupied the dead-end block, all surrounded by broad lawns, trimmed bushes, and picket fences. Leaves on tall elms and oaks dripped moisture into puddles left-over from the storm; a mild breeze stirred the humid air carrying with it the fresh scent of blooming lilac.
A large touring car drove up the red brick pavement and parked near a horse trough and carriage step in front of the most imposing house in the neighborhood. Milt Ritter, the cop Max had spotted in the Forest Preserves, exited the car and approached the lavender-painted clapboard house.
The house had been built in the 1880’s, an example of the popular Queen Anne style, its roof a gingerbread amalgamation of gables, chimneys, dormers, and turrets. Bay windows protruded from the side walls like a pair of jug ears. Ritter opened the gate, walked up the brick pathway and climbed the front porch stairs. He looked around for a moment, smiling at the incongruity of locating a whorehouse on a tranquil dead-end street between an amusement park and a graveyard. Then he pressed the doorbell and lit a cigarette as he waited for a response.
A peephole opened in the door; a pair of dark, suspicious eyes scrutinized the visitor. Upon recognition a high-pitched male voice said, “One moment, please.” The door swung open with a creaking sound.
“You ought to oil them hinges, Gino,” said Ritter.
“Yes, Mr. Ritter,” replied a small man in his early thirties. He wore a pink silk shirt; a floral-patterned ascot hid a scrawny neck. His jet-black hair was parted in the middle and slicked-down with pomade, his freshly shaved face was pock-marked like the moon’s surface and reeked of lilac water.
“I’m here to see your boss. Where is she?”
“Oh, so sorry; I’m afraid the mistress is still sleeping.”
“Well, wake her up. I ain’t got all day.”
Gino’s eyes widened and his lips pursed, the expression of an individual faced with two unpleasant alternatives. He wisely chose the lesser of two evils. “I’ll go to her now. Please wait in the parlor.”
Gino escorted Ritter through a pair of sliding doors opening onto a room decorated in New Orleans cat-house style. The walls were covered with raspberry watered silk paper, the windows draped with velvet of the same color as the wall-paper.
In the center of the room stood a dark brown baby grand with its top down and keyboard cover locked. A large crystal gas chandelier wired for electricity overhung the piano. Persian carpets covered a parquet floor; plush-covered divans, settees, love-seats and chairs were strategically placed around the room. A Victrola with a large brass horn rested on a mahogany corner table. Japanese screens with scenes of a drinking party and soaring cranes, several potted plants, and a marble fireplace completed the décor.
Ritter seated himself in a comfortable-looking chair. “Don’t be too long, pal,” he said.
“I’ll do my best,” the pimp replied. Then he left for the unhappy task of waking his boss, closing the doors behind him.
Ritter finished his cigarette and tossed it into an ashtray on a nearby end table. A stereopticon and a box containing slides were set on the table next to the tray. Ritter grabbed the device and a few slides, returned to his chair and amused himself viewing three-dimensional images of half-naked young women in provocative poses.
The doors slid open just as the detective was examining a round little behind peeping through the slit in a pair of lace-trimmed linen drawers. He set down the stereopticon and slides, rose from his chair and removed his hat in a display of mock deference to the madam.
In walked a female of indeterminate age. A red silk kimono enveloped her dumpy body, a pair of three-inch-heeled mules elevated her height to just over five-feet. Her auburn-dyed hair was up in curlers, her wrinkled face covered in cold cream. Her lips spread in a rictus-like grin, revealing a row of dazzlingly white false teeth.
She shuffled over the carpet and eased into a chair across from Ritter. “What brings you out this early in the morning?” she asked.
Ritter returned to his chair and rested his fedora on his lap. “Good morning, Minnie. It ain’t so early for us ordinary working folks,” he answered with a smirk. “I come to see the kid. How’s he doing?”
“Not so good since he heard his dear little sister didn’t show up as promised. We had to give him something to calm down, poor boy.”
“I hope whatever you gave him didn’t leave him too goofy to talk?”
“No, just a mild sedative.”
“I see. Where is he now?”
“We made a nice, cozy little space for him in the basement. But we can’t keep him there forever.”
“Take me to him.”
“Has there been a change in the plan?”
Ritter stared at her without speaking.
“All right,” she said with a shrug, “follow me.” She led him out of the parlor and down a narrow hallway to a door under the main staircase. She reached into her kimono, produced a key and opened the lock. “He’s down there,” she said as she pushed on the door, revealing the top steps of a stairway. “It’s dark, so watch yourself. There’s a light switch on the wall to your right. Best to turn it on before you go down.” She handed him the key. “Lock up when you’re done. Gino will wait for you in the parlor. Return the key to him. I’m going back to my room for more beauty sleep.”
“OK. Thanks.” Ritter switched on a low-wattage bulb that lit the area surrounding the rickety wooden stairs. When he reached the basement floor, he glanced around and spotted Bob O’Neill hunched over on a cot set up in a corner beneath a boarded-up window. As Ritter approached, he caught O’Neill’s attention. The young man looked up and stared at his visitor with anxious eyes.
“How’s it goin’ kid?” Ritter asked with his best imitation of a friendly smile.
“Not good.” O’Neill shook his head. “I should’ve been outa here by now.”
Ritter pulled up a chair and sat across from O’Neill. He tried to appear sympathetic and reassuring. “I know, kid. Anyways, we didn’t know your sister would show up in Chicago and complicate the situation. You should ’a told us you wired her to meet you.”
“I... I forgot about that. I just wanted to borrow some cash without letting the old man know. I couldn’t have guessed what would happen when we docked in Chicago.”
“No, you sure couldn’t. And I suppose you couldn’t have guessed that your sister would start nosing around when she missed you at the hotel. Like the poet said, ‘The best laid plans of mice and men... ’And a couple other things. You spilled your guts to your pal Dan Buford. Not wise. Now he’s gone missing. And you didn’t tell us your old man was Tim O’Neill—”
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry,” he broke in. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and upper lip; his hands trembled. “Can I have a cigarette?”
“Sure.” Ritter reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pack and handed it to O’Neill. He watched as the kid fumbled with the matches trying to strike a light. “Here, I’ll get it for you.”
He gave him a minute to calm down before saying, “We have to change our plans. You were supposed to convince your sister to pack up and go home. So, we set up a meeting and she didn’t show up. I suspect she’s got a shamus working for her, and she can afford the best. What’s more, we got guys out looking for Buford. It’s all fouled up so, for the time being, you gotta lie low till we work things out.”
“For how long?”
“Don’t know, pal. It all depends. Anyways, I’ll see to it you’re taken care of. Food, drink, smokes, maybe even a girl to keep you company, now and then.”
O’Neill sighed. “Just get me out of here as soon as possible.”
“I’ll do what I can. Gotta go now. In the meantime, keep your chin up and make the best of it. After all, I can think of lots worse places to be than a whorehouse, even if it is in the basement.” Ritter smiled, but much worse places did come to mind, including the cemetery and the nearby river.
Proceed to Chapter 13...
Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder
