Chicago Max

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 15: Bubbly Creek

part 1

Racine Avenue and 21st Street past midnight: dark and deserted. The streetcar line turned off Racine at this point and proceeded south via Throop and Morgan to the stockyards’ main gate at 39th Street. Max sat next to Charles in the Packard as they headed toward Bubbly Creek at a crawl. From here, the street was unpaved and, for the most part, unlit.

The car rumbled down planks set amid slush and frozen mud. Two kerosene cowl lamps cast a dim light on the deeply rutted roadbed. Any deviation from the planking could plunge the automobile up to its hubcaps in a morass from which only a team of horses could extricate it.

The stink from the open sewer that ran from the yards to the river was almost indescribable. Max knew veterans of Cuba and the Philippines campaigns who worked in the stockyards. They were accustomed to a slaughterhouse stench. One older fellow had fought at Gettysburg. He recalled the smell of fields littered with the remains of thousands of unburied dead, rotting under a hot summer sun. He said he had not smelled anything that bad until he went to work in the yards, and the stink from the blood, shit, piss and offal pouring into the river was even worse than the smell of a battlefield.

About one-half mile from their objective, Charles grabbed the brake lever and brought the Packard to a sudden stop. Max jerked forward and caught hold of the dashboard.

Charles turned toward Max and raised his voice to be heard above the idling engine. “Sorry, sir. The planking ends a few feet ahead. I’m afraid you’ll have to go the rest of the way on foot.”

“All right, Charlie. Don’t go anywhere, OK?”

“I won’t, sir. Do you need a light? I have a small lantern.”

Max gazed ahead toward the dimly lit 35th Street bridge. There was enough moonlight for him to see where he was going and for the burglars to see him coming, too. “Thanks, pal. I’ll be all right without the lantern.”

“Very well, sir. Good luck.”

Max stepped down from the running board into an ankle-deep rut. He made his way up the road slowly, cautiously. There were no sidewalks; here and there, a twisted cottonwood appeared like an anthropomorphized monster in an enchanted forest, its gnarled limbs and branches reaching out to grab the unwary traveler. Shacks and wooden storehouses sprouted up like toadstools among the weeds; rickety structures much like those that had fueled the flames of the fire of 1871.

Uncollected garbage and junk littered the otherwise vacant lots. Early each morning rag-pickers, many of them Jews who had fled the Tsar’s pogroms, culled the trash heaps, searching for items they could sell at the Maxwell Street market. But they would not come before dawn.

Until then, the only scavengers around were the rats, stray dogs, crows and an occasional lone wolf. A tramp foolish enough to sleep rough in this neighborhood might be found the next day with much of the flesh gnawed from his bones.

Max kept his eyes and ears open. He saw the shadowy outline of the bridge in the near distance; he could still hear the reassuring chugging of the Packard’s engine, growing fainter as he neared his destination. A lonely train whistle pierced the early morning stillness, and the sound set off a round of barking and baying from stray dogs roaming the fields in search of prey and carrion.

In addition to his revolver, Max carried two back-up weapons: a Remington double-derringer in a mechanical sleeve holster that popped the gun into his palm at the flick of his wrist, and a switch-blade stiletto concealed in his boot. But more than these weapons, Max relied on his instincts, fighting skills, and a lifetime of experience in tight corners.

About twenty feet from the bridge, he could hear the gas bubbling on the surface of the stream. Two figures emerged from a thicket by the sloping riverbank. Max stopped and stared directly at them.

The men advanced a few paces into the open. The taller one spoke first: “Take your hands out of your pockets and come closer where we can see you.”

Max pulled out his hands, took a few steps toward the bridge and then halted.

“Jesus,” the shorter man gasped, “it’s the Hawk!”

Max grinned in recognition of the short man. “Hi, Willie. Long time no see. When did you get out of Joliet?”

The tall man turned in confusion to his partner. “Where’s the limey? What the hell’s going on?”

“I swear I don’t know,” Willie said. Then to Max: “What happened to Oliver Parr?”

“Sorry, boys. Ollie’s indisposed. He sends his regrets. I’m taking his place.”

The thieves engaged in a heated confab. Then Willie turned to Max. “Have you got the dough?”

“Yeah. Have you got the goods?”

Willie lifted a large leather bag. “It’s all here, Mr. Niemand. Show us the jack.”

Max opened his overcoat and started reaching into his inner pocket.

“Watch it, bub!” the tall man snarled. “Slow and easy with the hands. I’m carrying a gat, and I can whip it out quick.”

“I wouldn’t draw on my old pal Willie,” Max said calmly. Then to Willie: “Tell your friend to cool down. We’re here to do business, not gunplay.”

Willie turned to his partner and said, “Don’t you know who he is? It’s Max Niemand, the Hawk.”

“I don’t care if he’s Teddy friggin’ Roosevelt, I don’t want him playin’ dirty, is all.”

“No tricks, pal,” Max interjected. He pulled out a big brown envelope, slowly. “See this here? It’s a nice fat envelope filled with C-notes.” Max smiled, extended his hand carrying the envelope in an apparently friendly gesture and walked toward the tall man. When he had closed the distance to hand-to-hand range, Max dropped the packet and said, “Whoops!”

The tall man’s eyes widened with surprise. “What the—” He did not complete the expletive.

Max stepped in, planted his feet and dropped a dynamite right uppercut on the tall man followed by a speeding freight train left hook and a murderous right cross. The tall man was wide open and off balance. He went backward and down like a felled oak into the loose dirt at the crest of the sloping embankment. The ground gave way under his weight, and he tumbled and rolled over and down into the bubbling methane and hydrogen sulfide stew. He slipped into the deep channel, crying for help and thrashing about while grabbing frantically at the slimy, solidified surface waste before going under.

Max watched for a moment on the slim chance the tall man might re-emerge. Willie froze in place, paralyzed with fear and shaking like a junkie in need of a fix.

Satisfied that the tall man was in the toxic soup for keeps, Max picked up the envelope and walked over to Willie. “Well, my friend,” Max said, “what goes into Bubbly Creek generally stays there. I suppose what’s left of your buddy might pop up some day, but I doubt there’ll be much left of him to identify. Who was he?”

Willie mumbled incoherently.

Max pulled a flask out of his pocket and stuck it under Willie’s nose. “Take a stiff shot, pal. It’ll brace you up. Then we’ll talk business.”

The burglar swallowed half the flask, coughed and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. Then he handed the whiskey back to Max and said, “Petey Mullen. We was cellmates in Joliet.”

“Never heard of him. What was his racket?”

“Petey was from outa town, the Kansas City mob. He did a stretch for an armed robbery down in Cairo.”

“Sounds like a small-timer. I suppose he was the brawn on this job, and you were the brains?”

“Alma, the countess’s maid, came up with the plan. She learned about me through the grapevine. I cut in Petey for protection.”

“I see. Was it a three-way split?”

“Yeah... at least it was until—”

“Until Petey went for a moonlight dip. Now here’s the deal. I got three grand for you and the girl, but I want information and no bullshit.”

“But the deal was for ten.”

“It was ten for three, Willie; now it’s three for two. Of course, if you don’t like it, you have got a choice.”

“What choice is that?”

Max grinned like a jack-o-lantern. “You can take my deal or go swimming with your pal.”

Willie winced. “Oh... oh, you’re just kiddin’, ain’t ya, Mr. Niemand? We’re old pals, like you said. I was always on the level with you.”

“I’m not kidding, Willie. The fact is, I don’t like being out here at one o’clock. I prefer a nice warm bed. And old Petey was disrespectful to the President. You should never use “frigging” and “Roosevelt” in the same sentence. Now, I’m offering you and the girl a square deal: three grand, and I don’t say anything to the cops. In exchange, you hand over all the goods and answer my questions truthfully. What do you say?”

“Sure, Mr. Niemand. It’s a deal.”

“OK. First question. Are you and the girl on the level? Is everything you stole from the countess here in the bag?”

“Yeah, it’s all there, photos, negatives and the film reel. Everything, I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

So that’s Cora’s game. I’ll bet those objets d’art are “embarrassing.” “Can you identify the countess in the photos and on the film?”

“She wears a mask. They all wore masks. Alma can tell you all about it.”

Masks, huh? I can imagine. “Where is Alma, now?”

“She’s waiting. We got a place near Ashland and Taylor. But what do I tell her about Petey? She’s expecting him.”

“Tell her he got religion and joined the Salvation Army. How did you get down here?”

“We took the streetcar to 21st and walked the rest of the way.”

Max smiled. “This is your lucky day, Willie. You get to ride home in a Packard.”

Max grabbed the leather bag containing the photographs and film reel and escorted Willie back up Racine where Charles was waiting patiently with the car still running. Max explained Willie’s presence and told Charles about the side-trip to the thieves’ hideout on Ashland and Taylor.

“Very well, sir,” Charles said. “However, I shall have to put the car in reverse and back up the planking until we reach the pavement. Someone must carry a lantern and light the way.”

Max put his hand on Willie’s shoulder. “Sorry, pal. I guess you got a little more walking to do. But look on the bright side. Exercise is good for your health.”

* * *

Charles parked the car by a streetlamp in front of a cigar store on Ashland Avenue. Max and Willie walked past a wooden Indian and down a short flight of stairs to the door of a basement apartment beneath the store. A black cat resting near the entrance yowled at them before scampering for cover behind an ash can.

Willie knocked twice and said, “It’s me, Alma. Open up.”

They heard footsteps followed by the clicking of a lock. The door creaked open the length of a short chain. Two wary brown eyes peered into the darkness.

“Who’s the guy with you? Where’s Petey?” Alma asked.

Max tipped his hat and answered. “My name’s Max Niemand, Miss James. Willie and I go way back, don’t we, pal?”

“Yeah, that’s right, Mr. Niemand.” Then to Alma. “He’s on the level and he’s got a swell deal for us. Let us in and we’ll explain.”

“What’s to explain? And what happened to Petey?” she asked.

Max smiled and said, “Petey came to Jesus, sudden-like. He left town to walk the straight and narrow. I doubt you’ll see him again. Now will you please let us in? It’s cold out here, and Charlie’s waiting by the car.”

She hesitated a moment before unlatching the chain and letting them enter. Alma carried a kerosene lamp. She placed it on a round deal-topped table in the center of the room. The basement apartment was stark as a cell except for a few sticks of furniture, a threadbare Brussels carpet and a calendar advertising Coca-Cola tacked to the mold-splotched lath and plaster wall. A coal stove was going, radiating just enough warmth to make the place habitable.

They sat at the table, and Max got a quick impression of the young woman. She appeared to be no more than twenty and might have been pretty except for her pallor and unhealthy thinness. Straggly, unwashed black hair hung loosely over bony shoulders covered by a frayed and discolored bathrobe. She lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and then held the butt between nicotine-stained fingers with nails chewed to the quick. Alma stared at Max with suspicious eyes rimmed by dark circles and waited for him to speak.

“Let’s not waste time, Miss James. I’m a private investigator working for your former employer, Countess Brumstone. You and Willie have committed a felony that could land you both in state prison for a long stretch at hard labor. However, the countess is willing to be generous and forgiving.” He pulled out the brown envelope. “I’ve brought three-thousand dollars in unmarked hundred-dollar bills.”

“Three thousand? What happened to ten?” She glared at Willie. “Who is this joker? What’s he trying to pull on us?”

“Calm down, Alma. This is Max Niemand, the Hawk. He means business, and he’s offering us a good deal under the circumstances. When Petey saw him, he got so scared he ran off and left me in the lurch. And you know how tough Petey was... er, is. But Mr. Niemand’s playing fair with us. He coulda walked off with the swag and the dough and left us nothing. At least hear him out.”

Alma shook visibly; her throat constricted with pent-up rage; she could barely spit out the words. “So that’s the deal, huh? Well, get a load of this, Mr. Hawk.”

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder