Chicago Max

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 19: Second Meeting with Ed

part 1

Midnight. Cold, clear, moonlight sparkled on the ice-clogged river. Steam whistles shrieked, freight trains rumbled over trestles, brakes squealed, cars bumped in the switching yards.

Max walked up the Goose Island wharf; he noticed Ed’s men stationed on the bridge and the deck of the moored Potawatomi. As he passed under the bridge and approached the warehouse entrance, one of the gunsels signaled his boss. Max could see the tips of Ed’s polished oxfords protruding from the edge of the concrete door stoop.

Ed greeted his old pal with a smile and a handshake. “Good to see you alive and well. I heard about Vito.”

“I figured you would. Any news about Bugsy?”

“Yeah, good and bad.”

“Give me the good first, bad second.”

“OK, good first. Big Jim knows about Bugsy and Vito’s dealings with Ike, and he don’t like it. As of now, Bugsy’s a man without a country.”

Max smiled. “That’s good, all right. What about the bad?”

“Bugsy wants revenge. He’s looking to kill you at the first opportunity.”

“That’s bad, but it’s hardly news. Do you know why he killed Weinberg?”

“Yeah, I know. This is what Weasel was going to pass on to you. One of my guys overheard the boss talking to Bugsy and Vito. Ike hired them as a favor to the Fielding family. Ike’s been doing business with old man Fielding for years, mostly real estate deals. Norton Real Estate is one of their fronts, a straw purchaser. They’re accumulating a lot of cheap, mostly undeveloped property on the far West Side.

“Weinberg was blackmailing Prescott Fielding. A while back, Moe bought a story from a reporter named Hills, who was down on his luck. Hills had a statement from the doctor who examined and treated the girls at the Everleigh Club. Fielding tortured and mutilated a girl named Nan Evans. The doc patched her up as best he could; Fielding paid to have her taken to a private asylum in Elgin. There was a phony story floating around as part of a cover-up. If the real story got out, it could have brought down Fielding and the whole Chicago sex trade with him.

“Ike didn’t want to use his own men for the job, so he got Bugsy and Vito because he knew they were freelancing. The plan was to scare Moe, stop the blackmailing, and get Hills’ notes, but it didn’t work out as planned.”

“What happened to the papers?”

“Bugsy has them. He’s holding out for more dough.”

Bugsy’s greedy; he wants more dough. That can work to my advantage, Max thought. “What about the doctor?”

“He’s dead. Morphine overdose. Bad conscience, I guess. He confessed to Hills before checking himself out. But nobody would touch the story; it ruined Hills.”

“Hills is dead. He was going to talk to me, but Bugsy got to him in Milwaukee. It looks like someone’s tipping off Bugsy about my investigation. Do you know who?”

Ed shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

Max stared at Ed for a moment. Was he telling the truth? If he wasn’t, there was not much Max could do about it: at least not for the time being. “Is Nan Evans still in the asylum?”

“No, she died within a year, supposedly of natural causes. She’s buried in a cemetery in Elgin under a different name. I can get you the information, including the name and date of death.”

“OK.” Max rubbed his hands together. “It’s cold out here. How about some of that fancy imported whiskey?”

Ed smiled. “Sure, pal.” He reached into his overcoat pocket and pulled out his flask. “This’ll warm you up.”

Max took a swig of the scotch. He handed the flask back to Ed. “Thanks, that’s good stuff. I’ve tasted something like it twice within the last week. Once was at a mansion on Pearson Street, the other time was at a house in Austin.” Max smiled and observed Ed’s expression while waiting for an answer.

Ed’s reply was immediate and matter of fact. “Sounds like you’ve met the countess and Nora Iverson. A couple of hot little numbers from opposite ends of the social scale.”

“Yeah, and I also met their pal, a high-class limey pimp named Oliver.”

“Ollie’s a card, ain’t he? Anyways, you know about the white slavery and pornography racket, and I suppose you want to know how I fit in. Prescott Fielding pulled Ike into the racket, and they cut in the late Earl, one of Fielding’s sleazy high-society chums, for a percentage of the take. Ike sells the photos and moving pictures to a network of whorehouses.”

“Sounds like a big racket. How did you fit in?”

Ed shook his head and grinned. “Me? I was just Ike’s errand boy, a bagman: nothing more. But I did acquire a taste for the Earl’s whiskey. I like the finer things.”

“I see. I plan to take the white slavery racket down, along with Ike and Fielding.”

Ed’s boyish face wrinkled in a worried frown. “You’ll need to be careful how you go about it. Plenty of dough has been spread around to keep the operation safe.”

Max considered the possibilities before asking, “What’s your plan for Ike, I mean the best case?”

“A nice peaceful retirement somewhere far from Chicago, say California or Florida. It’ll be good for his health; mine, too.”

“Do you think he’ll give up the white slavery racket?”

Ed nodded. “He can be persuaded.”

“OK. You take care of Ike. I need to square things with the Southside mob, the cops and the politicians. Bugsy’s a problem for all of them, and we can use that fact to further our aims. He takes the fall for three murders. No one should object provided he doesn’t rat them out.”

“That’ll be tough if he goes to trial. He’ll name names.”

“Then I guess he can’t go to trial.”

Ed nodded. “Agreed. What about Fielding, Oliver, Nora and the countess?”

“That’ll be tricky. Two families with plenty of dough and political pull are involved. Ollie and Nora could be charged with procuring, but they’ll need to keep their mouths shut. I think their silence could be bought with enough dough and a sweet plea deal. If the Fieldings and the Hubers buy in, the cops, prosecutor and a friendly judge will go along.

“As for Prescott Fielding, maybe his family could ship him far away and keep him there as part of the deal. Of course, like with Bugsy, a trial is out of the question. On the other hand, unlike Bugsy, a guy like Fielding can’t be eliminated permanently without serious repercussions.”

Ed shook his head in dismay. “That’s a tall order. Do you think you can pull it off?”

“I can try.”

“Assuming you succeed, what’s in it for you?”

“Let me have another pull on that whisky before I answer.” Max took a swig. “Thanks,” he said, “I could get used to this stuff.” He handed the flask back to Ed before saying, “I get an innocent guy out of jail, bust an ugly racket, and add to my reputation, which is good for business. We each have our ambitions. You want to be boss of the North Side; I want to run the best detective agency in town.”

“All right, Max. Do what you gotta do, and do it quick. Battaglia’s the fly in the ointment. They don’t call him ‘Bugsy’ for nothing. In the meantime, you’re safe on the North Side. Cross the dividing line, and you’re on your own.”

A reassurance coupled with a warning. Ed’s words echoed Jimmy Dolan. If Max stayed on his home turf, both the cops and the gangsters had his back. But to get the job done, he would have to venture into enemy territory.

“OK, Ed. We’ll be in touch.” Max glanced at the flames leaping into the dark sky from the gashouse chimneys. Little hell. How close are we to the eternal fire? He wondered. Then he turned back to Ed. “Vi looks swell. Take good care of her. She’s worth it.”

Ed did not know whether Max was being sincere or sarcastic. Regardless, he took his old friend at his word. “Sure, pal. I’ll do that.”

Ed signaled his sentries on the bridge and the moored boat, indicating the meeting was over. Max and Ed shook hands on the deal and went their separate ways.

* * *

At eight a.m. Max met Joe Vessio in the back room of a candy store not far from the barbershop. The store, owned by one of Joe’s cousins, was another front for Vessio’s numbers racket. The cousin and his wife were busy cleaning up, stocking and arranging displays, getting ready to open. A drawn curtain separated the small room from the business end of the store, providing some privacy for the clandestine meeting.

Max and Joe sat across from each other at a small, square table set in a corner amid stacks of cardboard boxes and dusty display cases. A bare bulb suspended on a cord dangling from the low ceiling, lit the windowless room with a dull, yellow glow. A chained and padlocked metal door led to an alley where horse-drawn delivery wagons rumbled over the slush-covered brick pavement.

Max had called upon Joe for a favor; he wanted a meeting with Big Jim. Max had a proposition to make concerning Battaglia, the substance of which he would discuss only with the South Side boss. Joe and Max conferred for a few minutes, over coffee.

Finally, Joe said, “It can be arranged, Mr. Hawk. How soon do you want the meeting?”

“Thanks, Joe. As soon as possible. Could we make it tonight?”

Vessio put down his coffee cup and rubbed his chin. “That soon, huh? The boss is a busy man, but I guess this is important enough for him to make time. How can I contact you?”

“Telephone me at the office or at home. If you can’t reach me by phone, get a message to Joey the newsy. He’ll pass it on to me.”

“All right, Mr. Hawk. Will do.” Joe finished his coffee before adding, “Vito was no damn good, and Bugsy’s worse. They make trouble for everyone. You know what I mean?”

Max smiled. “Bugsy and Vito are like storm clouds; they make waves and sink our little ships. I want things smooth and sunny, so we can all sail on and go about our business peacefully.”

Joe nodded. “That’s a really nice way of putting it, kind of like poetry. You got my support, and plenty other people on your side, too.” Joe eyed him critically before adding, “If you gonna see the big boss, you better get a shave and a trim. Maybe a shoeshine, too?”

“Sure, Joe. You ready for me?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Hawk. We’re always at your service.”

* * *

The call came late that afternoon. The meeting was set for ten that evening at The Gardenia Club. Max got spruced up to meet the boss; he wore a tuxedo, his best overcoat and bowler hat. He carried all his weapons. Max had a safe conduct, but he would not take any chances on the streets. The gunsels at the club would frisk him. That was to be expected, and they would be surprised, even bewildered, if he came unarmed.

Max also brought a present, a form of tribute, for Big Jim. He thought he knew the boss well enough and figured it would be appropriate and hopefully appreciated. However, any dealings with the South Side mob always contained elements of uncertainty and risk. In this instance Max was willing to gamble; he was playing for high stakes.

Max hired a closed cab for the evening. He paid extra to have the cabbie wait for him by the club. What if I don’t come out alive? He decided it was better not to discuss the possibility and upset the cabbie.

The long drive by horse-drawn taxi gave him time to think, perhaps too much time. Fear: it was always there, even if you tried to push it back into a deep, dark corner of your mind. Either you mastered fear, or it mastered you.

Max remembered his dream about the gallows. He had seen Vito Capucci fall, but it was not through the hangman’s trap door; a noose did not snap Vito’s neck. His head hit the concrete following a four-story drop. Max had seen the fear in Vito’s eyes and heard it in his voice. What was it like going down? The hard-boiled gangster cried out to God the way Max cried out in his dream.

Mueller laughed at Vito’s last words, Max thought. I don’t want anyone to laugh at me. I fear their contempt more than death. Max gazed out the cab window at the bright lights of downtown. They crossed the Rush Street bridge; the horse’s hooves beat steadily, hypnotically, the carriage wheels rumbled on the roadway. Max thought of hearses; funerals; parents, siblings and friends. We all die once, and most of us are forgotten. Memories are like old photos; they fade after a generation or two. I want to be different.

Max had a plan; he was going for the “big thing.” He would triumph or go down like a hero. All or nothing. Either way, as long as there was a Chicago, people would remember The Hawk. And no one would laugh.

* * *

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder