The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: On the Bridge, at Night

Closing time at Sharkey’s saloon. Bulbs glowed yellow through a thick haze of tobacco smoke. A pair of tapped-out Irish teamsters grumbled as the bouncer hustled them through bat-wing doors. “I ain’t comin’ here no more, yah lousy palooka!” one cried, while his pal spat tobacco juice where there was no spittoon to receive it.

The ruckus drew the attention of a pair of pool-shooters. The last billiard ball clacked as it dropped into a pocket; the register rang twice; the nickelodeon cut off half-way through a chorus of Red Wing.

Sharkey’s was empty and quiet as a morgue, except for the bartender, one woman and one man.

Peg Rooney plied her trade in the shadows at a back-corner table, across from a soused truck farmer. The big Dutchman had sold his produce for a good price, filling his pockets with greenbacks at the nearby South Water Street market.

Peg scammed the rubes who swarmed the Chicago market; she had done a swell job picking him clean. The Dutchman groaned as his booze-addled brain visualized wife and kids anxiously waiting for his return to their suburban homestead with a bundle of much-needed cash.

“What happened to my dough?” The Dutchman mumbled as his trembling hands rummaged through empty pockets.

“Don’t worry, honey. You gave me a hundred to hold for safekeeping. Remember? Everything’s jake.” Peg eyed her mark as she puffed on a cigarette. A wry grin curled her painted lips. She called to the bartender, “Hey, Frankie! One for the road for the big fella, on me.”

“Comin’ right up,” the bartender replied as he mixed the drink.

“Huh... you say I gave you a hundred bucks?” The Dutchman rubbed his temples to ease the alcoholic ache.

“Sure thing, darling. It’s safe with me. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about.” Her garishly painted face resembled a mischievous porcelain doll. She took another puff before stubbing out the butt on the burn-marred table-top.

“Lemme see the dough,” the Dutchman mumbled as he shook his head to clear the cobwebs.

Peg signaled Frank to make it snappy and then fussed with her purse as though she were about to comply with her companion’s request.

Frank hustled over with the drink and set it on the table. “Here you go, bub. Like the lady said, one more for the road. Drink it down, then blow. We’re closed.” He gave a sly wink to Peg, then returned to the bar.

“C’mon, honey, drink up,” Peg said. “Then we’ll blow this joint. I got a nice, cozy flat nearby. You’ll sleep it off at my place, then you can head back home.”

“But my team, my wagon. I gotta—”

“Don’t you remember?” she broke in. “A kid’s watching them. Don’t worry. I’ll tip him extra. Like I said, everything’s jake.”

The Dutchman downed his drink, then placed his big, calloused hands on the table and pushed up on wobbly legs. The chair tipped sideways and crashed onto the floor; the big Dutchman lunged forward, staggered to his left and stumbled into the wall. “Damn!” He stood in place, glaring at the wall as though it were his adversary in a back-alley brawl.

Peg pulled her thin wrap around her bare shoulders, picked up her purse, and walked over to her companion. “Put your arm ’round my waist, honey,” she said. “We’re goin’ out the back way.”

Frank switched off the lights and gave Peg the high sign. She and the Dutchman passed through a dark corridor leading out to the alley behind the bar. They exited; Frank followed them and locked up.

An early morning fog rolled in from Lake Michigan; the glow from a single electric light on a utility pole barely penetrated the swirling, gray soup. Peg guided the staggering farmer around puddles and horse droppings. A cat yowled, leaped from a garbage can and streaked in front of them, in hot pursuit of a scampering rat.

Peg and the Dutchman stopped suddenly. A thud broke the silence; the farmer grunted. Then he dropped to his knees and rolled sideways into the muck.

“A nice, fat pigeon,” said a grinning thug as he tapped his sap against a grubby palm.

“Yeah, Harry. I just hope you didn’t bust his skull,” Peg replied.

“Aw, he’ll live.” Harry lifted the peak of his flat cap and glanced down at the farmer. Then he shifted the sap to his left hand and held out his right. “Now, fork it over.”

Peg reached into her purse and handed the greenbacks to Harry.

“You done good, kid.” The gap-toothed grin widened as he riffled the bills.

“When do I get my cut?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get what’s comin’ to you. We’ll meet up later. Usual time; usual place.”

“What are you gonna do with him?” Peg looked down at the farmer. He twitched spasmodically and moaned.

“Matt’s got a car parked around the corner. We’ll ditch the sucker. That’s all you need to know. Now get your ass outa here.”

“OK.” No use arguing. She would take what Harry gave her and like it, or else. Peg walked up the alley, out to River Street and turned left in the direction of the Rush Street bridge.

Sharkey had a sweet deal with Harry and his gang. Peg was the bait; she lured suckers into the bar, suburban hicks mostly from the nearby market, or other gullible out-of-towners with cash burning holes in their pockets. The object was to con the mugs into a rigged poker game. But if they did not fall for Plan A, as almost all of them did, there was occasional jackrolling as Plan B.

The local cops, an alderman and a judge provided protection; they all got a slice of the pie, and there was plenty for all. Peg got a few crumbs from the crust, enough to keep her alive. But was it worth it?

She turned off the sidewalk and passed onto the bridge’s planked walkway. At most times the bridge bustled with traffic: automobiles, horse-drawn vehicles of all kinds, and pedestrians. But now, a few hours before dawn, the ironwork structure linking the south side to the north seemed to be sleeping, covered under a blanket of fog.

Peg clung to her wrap for warmth against the damp, April chill as she progressed over the river. Halfway across, she stopped to light a cigarette. She took a couple of puffs, then leaned against the railing to think for a moment while taking in the view. She did not fear the cops or the local hoodlums; if any were about, they knew her and would leave her alone. For extra protection, she packed an Iver Johnson .32 in her purse, the same model that nine years earlier had been used to assassinate President McKinley.

She scanned the vista of dun-colored warehouses cloaked in murky gray; steamers, half-hidden in mist like ghost ships, moored to the docks lining both sides of the channel. Out in the lake, foghorns bellowed; a lonely, mournful sound. She inhaled her last puff, then pitched the dimly glowing butt over the railing, and watched as it disappeared in the darkness.

What was it like to drown? She thought of following the cigarette over the railing and down into the river. Panic, a painful struggle in the cold, filthy waters, but only for a minute or two. Then peace; eternal rest. No; that’s a lousy way to die. Quicker and easier to take out the Iver Johnson and put a bullet in her brain, or her broken heart.

“Goddamn you, Max. I loved you.”

She thought of Max Niemand, former Detective Lieutenant, Chicago Police, now owner of a small, but prospering detective agency. Guys like Sharkey and Harry feared Max. Max had taken care of her, protected her. She believed he loved her, especially three years earlier, after he returned from a big job in California. He was kind, gentle and understanding, and fun, too. Not at all like his hard-boiled reputation. It was swell for almost two years, the best years of her life. She had thought, any day, he would propose marriage. Then it all blew up, and over what? Jealousy? Suspicion? Her drinking? Her old “friends”?

I don’t want to die. I’m young, it’s not too late to kick the habit, go straight, turn things around. Max will help me. He said he’d take me back if I tried. I can do it. I know I can.

Peg scanned the fog-shrouded outline of a black-hulled freighter docked near the bridge: The Lady of the Lake. The sight of the steamer gave her an idea, something to grab and hold onto like a drowning sailor who grasps the nearest piece of floating wreckage. A faint smile played on her rouged lips, a glimmer of hope. What if Max won’t help me? I got an ace in the hole. Risky, but maybe it’s time I played it?

She was so lost in thought that she failed to hear footsteps, not until a shadowy figure emerging from the fog came close enough to tap her shoulder. Startled, she turned to her right, in the direction of the tap. Her eyes widened in fear. “No!” she cried. She fumbled with the catch on her purse. A powerful hand gripped her throat, stifling a scream.

The purse containing the revolver dropped onto the walkway.

Proceed to Chapter 2...

Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder

Max Niemand appears in the novel Phantom Point, which begins in issue 979.