The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 19: Lights Out

“So, the title holder to the house in Forest Park and the registered owner of the Chalmers Detroit is some joker named Regis Goonan with an address on South Peoria?”

“That’s right, Max. Here are the details.” Rosie handed over her notes.

He gave the paperwork the once-over. Then he turned to Joe, who occupied the chair next to Rosie. “I got a job for you. Check up on Goonan. I’m skeptical about a guy in that neighborhood owning a sporting house and a swanky new automobile.” Max handed Rosie’s notes to Joe.

“You think he’s a straw purchaser?” Joe asked.

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Max answered with a grin. “Anyways, you get right on it. This case is heating up.”

“Right, boss.”

“Max. That’s the new office policy.”

“OK, boss... I mean, Max. It’ll take some getting used to.”

“Yeah, well, things change, Joe. By the way, do you still plan on seeing Conrad at Otto’s?”

“That is the plan, unless you got another job for me.”

“No other job, but while you’re out hustling the guy for his rent money, don’t forget to pick his brains as well as his pocket. I need more dope on Miss O’Neill.”

Joe’s face flushed at the mention of “hustling.” “Con’s my pal. I don’t hustle my pals. He shoots a good game of pool, and I always play him fair and square.”

“I’m sure you do, Joe. After all these years, don’t you know when I’m kidding?”

“Not always, boss... I mean, Max.”

“It’s a tactic, kid. Keeps people off balance. A good lesson for both of you. Anyways, don’t forget to ask Con about Mary O’Neill.” Then to Rosie: “Speaking of Miss O’Neill, I’m expecting a call from her. It’s important. If I’m not in the office when she phones, you get a hold of me as soon as possible.”

“You plan on going somewhere?” she asked.

“Maybe,” Max said with a shrug. “I’m juggling a lot of balls. Right now, they’re all up in the air. It depends on which one comes down first.”

* * *

A bright sun in a cloudless sky and not a breath of wind coming off the lake. The Lady of the Lake was in the Port of Milwaukee loading machinery packaged in crates. The ship was moored to a dock furnished with a hydraulic crane. The crane was being used to load the ship, along with one of the ship’s cranes.

Two stevedores worked in the cargo hold, unloading the sling and securing the cargo with dunnage. They were bare-chested, nut-brown from the sun, and streaked with sweat and grime. Their workplace on such a day was like a forge built in a Turkish bath. A hatch boss supervised the loading operation from the relative comfort of the ship’s deck.

A blast from a steam whistle signaled a break. The stevedores came up on deck to eat their lunch in the fresh air. They found a shady spot next to a bulwark, opened their lunch pails and dug in.

“Damn hot work,” one said as he wiped a stream of sweat from his forehead. “That hold’s about as close to hell as I ever want to get.”

“You can say that again, pal,” said the other as he finished chewing a mouthful of ham on rye.

“I sure wouldn’t do this job if I didn’t need the dough,” said the first one as he started on his liverwurst.

“At least you know your job and can take the gaff from that boss, but I ain’t seen you around. You new on these docks?”

“It’s a second job for me. I’m a blacksmith by trade.” He took another bite before adding, “A smith with a lot of mouths to feed, and fewer customers with all these automobiles on the road. But I’m learnin’ how to fix ’em. I figure they’re here to stay.”

“Good for you, pal. With all them new machines breakin’ down, you won’t need to bust your ass workin’ a second job.”

“That’s for sure.” He put down his sandwich, lowered his voice and drew closer to his companion. “But it’s still damn hard work. Some guys go for the easy money.”

“Oh, like what?” the stevedore said with some interest.

“Like a racket I heard of workin’ hereabouts. Shipping girls up north to slave in the lumber camps. Except they don’t go as cooks or cleaning women. They ply an easier trade.”

“Yeah, I heard that, too” said the other with a sly grin. “As a matter of fact,” he said in a lower voice, “I heard the racket’s run offa this here boat.”

“You don’t say? You know that for a fact?”

“Uh-huh. I seen some of them gals come on board after the end of the late shift. The pimps lure the girls with promises of easy work and good pay. Those guys hang out at a saloon on Jones Island, but they don’t run the racket.”

“Do you know who does?”

“Well — and you better keep this to yourself — I heard the racket’s run outa Chicago.”

“Hey, you guys,” yelled the hatch boss. “Quit gabbing and get down the hold. There’s plenty cargo left to load, and we ain’t got all day.”

“Keep your shirt on!” shouted the first stevedore. “We get fifteen minutes.”

The steam whistle sounded.

“Hear that whistle, wise guy?” the hatch boss said. “Your fifteen minutes is up. Let’s get cracking.”

“Mister, you got a fast clock,” said the “wise guy.” That crack got a laugh from his companion and an expletive from the boss. The stevedores grabbed their lunch pails, got up and headed for the hatch.

The “wise guy” was Ace Gorman, a skilled blacksmith and longshoreman. He was also one of Walt Wagner’s best operatives; the information he was gathering on the Milwaukee docks would be useful to Max’s case.

* * *

A cab pulled up to the Grand Pacific’s main entrance. Mary tipped the doorman. He opened the rear passenger door, helped her up onto the running board and waited until she was seated. Then he closed the door and signaled the cabbie to drive on to make way for the next taxi. As the cab pulled into traffic, the cabbie asked: “Where to, miss?”

“Max?” She recognized the voice immediately.

He glanced back while keeping one eye on the traffic. “That’s right, Mary.” Then he faced forward, shifted gears, and honked his bulb horn in frustration at the typical Loop snarl.

“It’s a good dodge. How did you arrange it?”

“No need for details. Let’s just say I got a deal with the cab company, and the big downtown hotels, too. Now, where are we going? Is it Garfield Park again?”

“Yes, the Conservatory. Same woman, same driver, same car. And I told Dan Buford what I thought about being drugged and dumped in a doorway. He gave me an excuse and apologized, for what it’s worth.”

“If you weren’t a lady and a client, I could tell you what his excuses are worth and what he can do with them. Anyways, you don’t need to know how I’m going to keep track of you, just know I’ll be around.”

“Have you considered confronting the kidnappers?”

“You mean storming the bad guys’ lair with six-guns blazing like in a dime novel? No, I haven’t. That would be extremely dangerous for you and me and might get your brother killed to boot. Besides, I have reason to believe your brother is being held at a different location. For the time being, the plan is to begin negotiations, to play for time. Are you OK with that?”

“Agreed. We’ll do it your way.”

“Good. Now just relax and enjoy the ride. As soon as we get out of this downtown mess, we should make good time.”

Traffic slowed to a crawl as they crossed the old Jackson Boulevard bridge and then picked up speed as they continued west. They remained quiet through most of the ride, each absorbed in his or her own thoughts. As they neared their destination, Max broke the silence with a Biblical reference:

“Do you recall what happened to Lot’s wife?”

The question surprised her, but she didn’t hesitate to answer. “She turned into a pillar of salt. Why do you ask?”

“She was warned not to turn back toward Sodom, but she didn’t heed the warning. Think of this cab as the doomed city. When we stop, I’ll open the door for you. You’ll pretend to pay me, and I’ll tip my hat in return. Then you act like I’m on another planet. I’ll be watching your back but don’t do or say anything that might tip off someone as to my presence. Got that?”

“Got it. Do you have more sage advice?” she said with just a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

“Yeah, play your cards close to your vest and behave like you’re holding a winning hand.”

“All right, Max. I’m committed to playing it your way.”

A vast expanse of urban greenery overtopped by the iron and glass conservatory came into view. Max turned the cab around, drove to the entrance, parked and played his role. Mary followed his lead and headed toward the conservatory without looking back.

He put up his off-duty sign, then reached under the seat and retrieved a brown bag and Thermos. The bag contained pastrami on rye and dill pickle wrapped in wax paper; the Thermos was filled with hot coffee. He unwrapped the sandwich, poured a cup of coffee and started eating his lunch. A present concern was the possible appearance of a cop who might order him to move on, in which case he would circle the block until he spotted Mary and her underworld contact.

The cop didn’t show up. Instead, a rather large woman dressed in the latest fashion, including an enormous hat for which several endangered species of birds had given their lives, made an appearance. Ignoring both Max’s sign and his half-finished lunch, she insisted on being driven downtown. Max replied by pointing to his off-duty sign and saying, “Sister, either you need glasses or reading lessons.” He then returned to his sandwich and half-eaten pickle.

The woman, who was not used to being spoken to in such a manner by a member of the working class, became livid. She informed Max, her voice quavering with anger, that she would report him to the cab company. He turned to her, smiled and replied with a loud pastrami and garlic pickle flavored belch. The woman raised a perfumed handkerchief to her upturned nose and fled the scene, leaving Max to finish his lunch in peace.

Less than ten minutes after Max dropped off Mary, she emerged from the park with the young woman limping alongside. They proceeded up Lake Street toward the side street where, according to Mary’s narrative of her previous encounter with the kidnappers, a car was waiting to take them to her meeting with Dan Buford. Max made a U-turn and waited until they were well up the block before following them. He drove slowly in light traffic; the elevated trains rumbled and screeched overhead.

The women turned the corner at the intersection; Max pulled the cab over to the curb, watched and waited. He could see a car parked less than halfway up the block. A man sat on the running board, smoking a cigar. He turned toward the women, got up and dusted off his backside.

Max shaded his eyes and stared at the man; from this distance he could not be sure but, based on the man’s height and build, he looked like Milt Ritter. The man greeted the women, opened the doors and helped them in. Then he walked to the front of the car and began cranking the engine. The engine caught after two tries. He got behind the wheel, pulled away from the curb and started down the street. Max waited for a couple of vehicles to pass by, then turned at the intersection.

By the time he’d crossed over onto the side street, the car he was following was out of sight. He assumed they had gone around the block back toward Lake Street; he did the same. When he reached the intersection, he looked both ways and spotted the car travelling west. He turned left and followed. So far, they seemed to be on the same route Mary had described in her narrative. They passed the point where the elevated tracks came down to street level and drove on to the next major intersection where they stopped, turned right and crossed the tracks.

They proceeded north past a local landmark, a red brick Georgian revival building with a distinctive copper cupola, the Austin Town Hall, built before the suburb was incorporated into the city of Chicago. A block south of Chicago Avenue, the car pulled over to the curb and parked. Max turned right onto a side street, then left, and entered a paved alley running behind a row of houses.

He parked the cab and crossed the alley to a carriage house where he stopped and peered around a corner. Ahead he could see a fenced garden and the rear of a two-story brownstone. The vegetable patch was planted with rhubarb and lilac bushes lined a narrow path leading to the back stairway.

Mary and her female escort appeared, walking up the path from the street. Mary wore dark glasses; the limping woman held her arm and guided her down a short flight of stairs to a basement apartment. He heard a knock on a door; the door opened. Mary and her escort entered.

Max glanced back over his shoulder. No one in sight. This was a quiet neighborhood. He heard the clanging bell and rumbling of a streetcar in the near distance; cawing crows perched on the wires of telephone poles lining the alley; bees buzzed among the lilacs; a dog barked in a back yard a few houses up.

Should I risk it? Max thought. The risk was sneaking through the garden in broad daylight with no cover until he reached the relative safety of the back stairway. He could not see anyone in the alley or the back yard. No dog, either. He came out from his hiding place behind the carriage house and approached the gate. There was a chain link fence, but he could climb over it, if necessary.

He checked the gate; it opened. He scanned the area quickly, then dashed up the path to the stairway where he hid in the dark space below the first landing. He crept along the brick wall and peered around the corner. All clear. There was a boarded-up window near the basement apartment’s doorway. If he could get his ear up next to that window, he might hear what was going on inside.

He looked up the path toward the street and then turned back to the alley. Still clear. He crawled over to the edge of the concrete-lined areaway surrounding the basement entrance and went over the side quietly. He came down softly, remained in a crouch, then rose slowly and put his ear to the boarded window. He heard voices, male and female, but the words were muffled, indistinct. He pressed his ear closer and concentrated. Laughter? he thought. What the hell is there to laugh about?

A rush of air on the back of his neck was followed by a hard thump to the head. Max groaned and started to get up. A second thump put his lights out.

Proceed to Chapter 20...

Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder

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