The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 22: Gunfight on The Potawatomie

part 1

Twilight at noon. Fog hung over the lake like a wet blanket, blocking the sun. A launch motored out past the three-mile crib and the city’s jurisdiction. The crib’s light swept the area; its steam-driven horn moaned a warning at regular intervals. The boat’s hull rose and fell as it cut through the choppy water; spray shot up and over the gunwales, wetting the deck and three passengers seated sideways on a wooden bench. Their destination was Ed Mahoney’s boat, The Potawatomie, anchored almost four miles off the near north shore. Two of the passengers were Ed’s soldiers; Max was the third.

Ed’s men knew Max; some personally, all by reputation. They respected him enough to lay off the banter when he was in a silent mood. He had a lot on his mind. Was the corpse in the West Side flat Bob O’Neill? What happened to Mary? Were the O’Neills innocent bystanders caught up in a nascent gang war or were they players? Could Rosie and Joey handle Tim O’Neill and the cops? He shook his head and muttered, “Shit.”

“You say something, Mr. Niemand?” a good looking, smartly dressed young gunman inquired.

Max turned to the gangster. “It’s nothing, pal. Just an observation about life in general.”

The young man stared in bewilderment for a moment before saying, “We’re almost there.” Then he clammed up and turned his head toward the launch’s bow.

Max looked in the same direction as his companion. He could make out the ship’s lights glowing dimly through the fog; green on the starboard bulwark, white on the masthead. The launch’s motor growled and the prop churned as it slowly approached the anchored steamer. The Potawatomie’s black hull appeared half-shrouded in mist. The launch turned to starboard, its engine groaned and sputtered as the boat edged its port side up against the accommodation ladder platform. One of the soldiers escorted Max up the ladder to the gangway; the other remained on board the launch as it returned to the dock.

They were met in the gangway by Slim Gilroy, one of Ed Mahoney’s top lieutenants. Gilroy was a short, wiry Black Irishman who wore pricey Dobbs hats, custom-tailored suits and a perpetual scowl. A proficient enforcer, his underworld enemies called him The Moor or Dago Slim, but never to his face. He and Max knew each other well.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Niemand,” Slim said with a squinty-eyed grimace that passed for a smile.

“Hello, Slim. I didn’t know you and Ed had become yachtsmen.”

“Swell boat, ain’t she?” Slim wasn’t quite sure how to take the remark, but he decided to consider it a compliment to the refurbished lake steamer.

Max glanced around. “Yeah, you guys fixed her up all right. I remember when she was a rusty old tub moored to the Goose Island dock.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’yet. Wait till you get a look at what’s inside.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Slim stationed the soldier in the gangway; then he led Max aft to a cabin where Ed Mahoney was waiting. Slim knocked on the door and announced himself; Ed replied. They entered.

The cabin resembled the sitting-room in a swanky hotel suite; it extended over almost the full width of the ship. In nighttime and on foggy days, the space was brightly lit with Tiffany lamps. On sunny days, natural illumination streamed in from the portholes and a grating in the deck above.

The flooring was teak covered with Persian carpets. There were paintings and lithographs on the white painted bulkheads; electric fans and ventilators to keep cool in summer and gas heaters for warmth in winter. Ed appeared behind a large mahogany desk at the far end of the cabin. His working area was furnished with leather chairs, coffee tables and a cut velvet upholstered sofa.

Ed looked at Max, smiled and walked over to greet his guest. The Northside Boss had changed little in the last decade. Dark, lean and handsome with a mean scar on his right cheek, a reminder of the old days when he and Max had fought side by side, like brothers. “Glad to see you, pal,” the boss said as they shook hands. “It’s been too long.”

“Likewise,” Max replied. He glanced around before adding, “I’m impressed. You’ve turned the old rust bucket into a floating palace.”

“Thanks, Max,” Ed replied, obviously pleased with the compliment. “There’s a lot more to see. I’ll show it to you, later.” Then he turned to Slim. “You can go now.”

Slim left the cabin. Ed turned his attention back to Max. He sized up his sometime pal and partner in crime with a knowing eye. He placed a firm but friendly hand on Max’s shoulder. “You look like you could use a drink.”

“Thanks. I wouldn’t object.”

Ed led Max to an elaborately carved Chinese teak cabinet where he stashed his best booze. “As I recall, you’ve acquired a taste for fine old Scotch?”

“Your memory hasn’t failed you, Ed.”

Ed grinned. He took out a bottle and two glasses and placed them on a sterling silver tray. “Two fingers neat?”

Max nodded in the affirmative. Ed poured; he handed a glass to Max. Then Ed led Max to a pair of comfortable armchairs. They eased back in the chairs, enjoying their whiskey, keeping their thoughts to themselves, until Ed broke the silence: “It’s good to see you, pal, but I assume this ain’t just a social call. What’s on your mind?”

“I want to know who killed Peg Rooney, and why she was killed. I also want to know who kidnapped Bob O’Neill, the only known witness to Peg’s death. Finally, I want to know what happened to O’Neill’s sister Mary, who happens to be my client.”

Ed nodded, looked down and fiddled with his watch chain before looking back at Max and answering: “Sorry about Peg, but I heard her death was an accident. You got evidence to the contrary?”

“The Coroner ruled Peg’s death was an accident. It was a cover-up. That’s because Peg knew something she wasn’t supposed to know, and someone with clout wanted her shut up permanently. No one in this town gave a damn about Peg, including you. But, Ed, you owe me.” Max frowned. He was in no mood for playing games.

“Sometimes you forget who I am, Max. People don’t talk to me like that.” The boss’s face reddened; there was a slight tremor in the hand that held his whiskey.

“That’s right. You’re boss of the North Side, and more power to you. But I’m not just ‘people.’”

Ed took a swig of Scotch. When they were kids, Max had saved Ed’s life, a debt of honor that could never be fully repaid. The boss acknowledged the debt, but he did not like being reminded. “OK, Max. Peg was hit, but you gotta understand I had nothing to do with it.”

“But you know who did it and why?”

Ed looked at his glass and answered evasively without looking up. “I need a refill. How about you?”

“OK.” Max had pushed Ed hard. He would not push harder, at least not unless it was absolutely necessary.

Ed walked over to the cabinet and returned with the bottle. He poured two more doubles. They drank. After a minute or two of silence, Ed spoke: “There’s an election coming up, as you well know. Peg had dirt on Davies, the reform candidate. So—”

Two loud bangs, like the sound of an auto backfiring or exploding firecrackers, rang out. The sharp echoing sounds were followed by angry shouts on the upper deck and below, followed by more bangs and the sound of shoes pounding down the passageway and along the catwalk above.

“What in hell?!” Ed cried. He put down his whiskey, ran to his desk, opened the drawer, took out two Lugers and handed one to Max. “Are you with me, Max?” he said.

Max released the safety and cocked the semi-automatic pistol. “You bet. Just like old times.”

They ran up to the iron bulkhead door that opened onto a passageway. Ed stationed himself on the right of the doorjamb, Max on the left. They heard a rapid series of Pop! Pop! Pop! bursts interspersed with curses and yells.

Ed grinned. “My boys are armed with the new Winchester semi-automatics. Ready for some action?”

Max nodded. “Why not?”

Both crouched, pistols raised at the ready. Ed opened the door a crack and peered out into the passageway. The popping grew louder; their nostrils filled with the acrid stench of smokeless powder. He looked up the passageway and saw one of his men firing his Winchester from behind the cover of a doorjamb. “Let’s make a run for it.”

Max and Ed dashed up the passageway; each took shelter behind a jamb. “What’s up, Slim?” Ed barked.

Slim stopped firing but kept his eyes front. “Some loogan stowed-away in the hold. He’s got a Mauser pistol with extra clips. He took out Whitey and Jake and he’s got the captain and crew locked up in the forward cabin.”

A couple of bullets whizzed by and ricocheted off the bulkheads with a loud ping.

“Screw this,” Ed muttered. “You got enough shells to hold him?”

“Yeah, plenty. I figure he’ll run out before I do.”

“Good. We’re gonna get behind him.” Ed turned to Max. “Come with me.”

Max and Ed ran back to the cabin. Ed pulled down a ladder from the overhead that led to a hatch. They climbed the ladder, pushed up on the hatch, propped it open, pulled up and over and then scampered along the upper deck catwalk. They raced to a hatchway behind the shooter.

“I’m the guest. I go first. I want this son-of-a-bitch alive,” Max said.

“Fine with me, pal,” Ed replied with a grin.

Max waited for the gunman to empty the clip and stop firing to reload. Max swung down from the hatchway. His feet hit the deck with a hard thump that startled the gunman; the gunman spun around, with an empty pistol in his right hand and a clip in his left. Harry Schmidt’s eyes popped with fear and surprise.

Max aimed the Luger at Schmidt’s gut and shouted, “Drop it!”

Schmidt dropped the empty Mauser pistol and the clip and raised his trembling hands.

Ed came down behind Max. “Schmidt, you bastard! I’ll rip your balls off and stuff ’em up your ass!”

“Cool down, Ed,” Max said. “Turn around, Harry,” he ordered.

Schmidt did as he was told. Max slammed him against the bulkhead and patted him down. Ed picked up the Mauser and the clip. Then Max turned to Ed: “He’s clean.”

Slim ran up through the passageway. “You got him, boss?”

“Yeah, we got him,” Ed replied.

Slim stared at the gunman. “Let me at him, boss. I’ll pay him back for Whitey and Jake,” Slim snarled. His face, reddened with anger, twisted into a grim mask.

“Jesus, Mr. Mahoney,” Schmidt whined. He cowered next to Max. “Please don’t let him. I’ll talk. I swear I’ll tell you everything I know.”

“Hold it, Slim,” Ed said with a frosty grin. “Max and me is gonna have a nice, friendly chat with Mr. Schmidt.”

“All right, boss. You want me to go forward and free the crew?”

“Yeah, we’ll follow. Then me, Max and our ‘guest’ can use the forward cabin for our confab.”

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder