The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 6: Following the Leads
Max entered O’Toole’s around seven p.m.. He burst through the batwing doors and headed straight for the long, polished oak bar. Sam, the bartender, gave Max a wide-eyed look; the detective’s sudden appearance was definitely unwelcome.
The regulars knew Max, most by reputation, some by acquaintance. His entrance got their attention. A few glanced at him, looked away quickly and lowered their voices. A pool hustler looked up and missed his shot. Many of the saloon’s denizens thought about decamping to a safer venue.
At the bar, a couple of guys stepped aside to make way for The Hawk. Max set his foot on the brass rail and called to Sam. “Whiskey and a beer chaser.”
“Sure, Mr. Niemand. Coming right up.” The bartender’s hand shook visibly as he poured the shot and drew a glass of beer from the pump. The atmosphere crackled with electric tension, like the first flash of lightning before a storm. Sam brought Max his boilermaker.
“That’ll be four bits, Mr. Niemand.”
Max reached into his pocket and pulled out a five-spot. “You know a guy named Luke McCoy, skipper of the Lady of the Lake?”
Sam palmed the bill with his right hand and used his eyes and a surreptitious left-hand gesture to indicate three men seated at a corner table on the other side of the barroom; Max glanced where Sam indicated and recognized the mate he had spoken to that morning seated with two men he did not recognize. He assumed one of them was Luke McCoy.
Max smiled at Sam and then downed his shot. He took a swig of beer and wiped foam from his mustache before leaving the bar. The nickelodeon rang out a peppy version of By the Light of the Silvery Moon.
Max crossed the barroom like a powerful lake steamer cutting through a fog of tobacco smoke; Tom Powell, the mate, recognized him. He turned to his companion on the right and whispered something in his ear. The companion stared at Max with a narrow-eyed expression that could have been interpreted as hostile or curious. Max guessed it was McCoy.
“Evening Powell,” Max said to the mate. “You guys mind if I join you? I’m buying.”
“If you’re looking for O’Neill, Mister,” answered McCoy, “we already told the cops all we know.”
“My name’s Max Niemand. And you are?”
“Luke McCoy, master of the Lady of the Lake.”
“Pleased to meet you, Captain McCoy. I promise this won’t take long; just a few questions. And, like I said, I’m buying.”
“All right, Mr. Niemand. I guess we can spare a few minutes.”
Max grabbed a chair from an empty table and joined McCoy, Powell, and Ed Jorgensen, the freighter’s engineer. He signaled to the bar for a round of drinks.
“So, Captain,” Max asked, “do you know what happened to O’Neill?”
McCoy was a wiry little man with silver-streaked hair and steel-blue eyes. He fixed those gimlet eyes on Max before saying, “I’ll tell you what I told the cops. O’Neill said he was going to stay at the Majestic hotel until he could ship on another freighter. Do you know the Majestic?”
“Yeah,” Max said. “It’s a flop house on Madison Street.”
“That’s the place,” the captain said with a grin. “Does that help you out?”
“It’s something to go on,” Max said. He turned toward the bar and looked back at McCoy. “Our drinks are coming. You have anything more for me?”
McCoy scratched his stubbly chin and though a moment before saying, “No, Mister, that’s all. But if you don’t mind, I do have a question for you.”
The waiter came with the round of drinks before Max could answer McCoy. After the waiter left the table, Max said to McCoy, “What’s your question?”
“Did you know the girl? Did she mean something to you?”
“That’s two questions. Let’s just say I knew her and leave it at that.”
McCoy nodded his understanding. They finished their drinks without saying much. Max paid up and left O’Toole’s
* * *
The Majestic was anything but. The street door opened onto a dimly lit corridor that reeked of cheap tobacco, boiled cabbage, unwashed bodies and defective plumbing. A threadbare, stain-splotched runner covered buckling floorboards leading to a fire-door exit in the rear. A stairway to the first-floor landing was about as inviting as the thirteen steps to the gallows. From one of the rooms above came the painful hacking of a consumptive.
The front desk appeared on the shadowy left side of the corridor across from the stairway. Behind the desk, a fat, bald-headed man in his fifties, his backside firmly planted in a swivel chair, was puffing on a stogie while perusing a dope sheet. Max approached the desk; the fat man put down his racing form and looked up.
“How’s tricks, Levitsky?” Max said.
“Not bad, Mr. Niemand. Long time, no see.” Levitsky got up, placed his stubby hands on the counter and smiled, displaying a row of crooked, yellow teeth.
“I see you’re still playing the ponies. By wire, I assume?” Max said as he glanced at the dope sheet and then looked back at Levitsky. “You know, it’s illegal in this state nowadays.”
“Aw, you won’t hold it against me, will you Mr. Niemand?” Levitsky said with a sheepish grin. “After all, it’s not like you was still a cop.”
“Of course not. Hope you pick a winner.”
“Thanks. I got a hot tip. Maybe I’ll get lucky. You want in on the action?”
“No, thanks. But you can help me out with some information.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a guy named Bob O’Neill. I heard he checked in here this morning.”
Levitsky shook his head. “Name don’t sound familiar. But then,” he added with a sly grin, “guys who check into this joint sometimes go by more than one name.”
“This guy’s a sailor, worked as a deckhand on the Lady of the Lake.” Max gave Levitsky the description he got from the mate.
“Oh, him. Yeah, I remember. Room Number 3. He was in and out like that.” Levitsky snapped his fingers for emphasis.
“You don’t say. Has anyone else been here asking about him?”
“Nope. Nobody but you.”
What about Mueller and Mike? Is Levitsky on the level? Max thought. “OK,” Max said. “Was he with anyone while he was here?”
“What do you mean ’with anyone’?”
“I mean: did he come here, hang out with or leave with anyone?”
Levitsky squinted at Max and looked stupid without saying anything. Max pulled out a sawbuck and waved it in Levitsky’s face.
“Oh, wait... yeah, now it comes back to me. There was two guys. O’Neill, or whatever his name is, left with them.”
“Can you describe them?”
“Well, I wasn’t paying that much attention, but I do recall something. They was well dressed, like swells. Not the sort that hangs around places like this.”
“Anything else you can tell me about them?”
“Nope, afraid not.” Levitsky gave Max the stupid look for a moment before adding, “Wait a minute. They came and went in an automobile. Big, fancy car.”
“I see. You know what make of car? Any details?”
“Nope. Sorry.” Again, the stupid gaze, this time accompanied by a shake of the head.
“OK. Now, you said no one else has been here asking about O’Neill?” Max gave Levitsky a steel drill-bit stare that bored deep into the recipient’s beady eyes.
“Nope. Nobody but you,” Levitsky answered with all the conviction he could muster.
“All right, pal.” Max reached into his pocket and pulled out a card and handed it to Levitsky. “If anyone comes here asking about O’Neill, you call me, understand? If it’s good information, you’ll get another sawbuck. But if it’s bullshit...” Max paused, lowered his voice and hardened the drill-bit stare, “don’t even think of crossing me.”
Little beads of sweat appeared on Levitsky’s forehead and bluish upper-lip; the stubby hands trembled. “No, I swear I’d never do that. You know I’ve always been on the level with you, Mr. Niemand.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
Max left the Majestic and headed in the direction of the car stop.
* * *
Max rode as a strap-hanger on the crowded street car. The trolley bumped along in fits and starts as it proceeded through a welter of motorized and horse-drawn traffic. An amazing transformation had taken place during the first decade of the twentieth century; the battle for urban transport dominance between horse and auto had been won by the machine. Max had recently acquired his first automobile, a Buick Model 10 runabout, but it remained safely parked in a carriage house converted to a garage in the alley behind his near North Side apartment.
For the most part, Max moved about as he always had, using streetcars, elevated lines, cabs and shoe-leather, the Buick being too conspicuous for most jobs. On the other hand, the auto impressed females and was the ideal mode of transportation for fair-weather picnic dates in the suburbs.
He used the slow ride to the Elevated station to ponder the situation. O’Neill’s sudden disappearance raised several questions: Why didn’t he go directly to the Union Hall? Why did he check into the Majestic and check out the same day? Why did Mueller and Mike not follow the lead to the Majestic? Who were the two well-dressed gents who picked up O’Neill at the flophouse?
The answer to the first question could be simple: O’Neill wanted to find a place to flop before he started looking for another job. The answers to the other questions were complicated, and much depended on the reliability of Levitsky’s information.
Max had a friend in the coroner’s office. How much could Max glean from his contact prior to the inquest? While mulling over these matters, he kept his eyes alert, actively scanning for possible shadows. One individual in particular, who caught the trolley near the Majestic, held his attention.
She was a young woman dressed well, but not too well. She had fair hair and skin; regular features. He could not see the color of her eyes, but he guessed blue or green based on the complexion. A middle-aged man had given up his seat to her and she was trying, awkwardly, to avoid his attempts at conversation. This action was going on toward the back of the car; Max was riding near the front.
Nevertheless, Max was able to observe the woman and, without jumping to conclusions, gain first impressions. She did not belong on Skid Row. Moreover, prior to being occupied with a masher, she had eyed Max furtively, and he assumed it was not for love of his pretty face.
Did I see her walking up the street toward the car stop when I entered the flop house? Did she double back when she spotted me? Is she tailing me? While these thoughts were running through Max’s mind, the masher gave up and turned away from the woman. She glanced up at Max and then quickly looked down to avoid his gaze.
Interesting. We’ll see if she gets off at my stop.
* * *
Madison and Wabash. Max exited from the front of the car; the young woman got off at the rear. She followed him to the elevated station, where they both transferred to the Lake Street El. They rode to the Clark and Lake stop, exited the car and walked downstairs to Lake Street. She followed Max to his nearby office block. He knew she was on his tail; the thought amused him. He entered the elevator and heard her heels clicking on the lobby tiles as she hustled to catch up with him. The elevator operator waited for her to enter, then closed the gate.
“Evening, Mr. Niemand,” the operator said. “Working late?
“Seems like I am, Charlie,” Max replied.
The operator turned to the young woman. “What floor, Miss?”
She glanced at a directory on the wall near the elevator, flushed and hesitated before saying, “Fifth, please.”
Max smiled at her and removed his hat but said nothing.
Charlie gave Max a wry smile before pulling the lever and taking them up to the fifth floor. He opened the gate and said, “Watch your step. Have a nice evening.”
The young woman exited, followed by Max.
“Excuse me, Miss. We seem to be headed in the same direction.”
The young woman stopped and turned back to face Max. She hesitated a moment before saying, “You’ve been looking for my brother, Robert, haven’t you?”
“Robert O’Neill?”
“Yes. I’m his sister, Mary.”
Max smiled. “And you’ve been following me, haven’t you?”
She flushed and stuttered, “I uh, well—”
“That’s all right, Miss O’Neill,” Max broke in. “It’s after hours, and I don’t conduct business in the hallway. Let’s go into my office, OK?”
She nodded her agreement and followed Max.
Proceed to Chapter 7
Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder
