The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 25: Blood at the Mandelbaums’

part 1

“You guys have fun feeding the fish?” On the way back to the dock, Max cracked a joke.

Slim and a soldier seated next to him glanced at each other. Then Slim turned to Max with the facsimile of a smile: “You’re a card, Mr. Niemand.”

“So says your boss. I guess I’m one of the few guys who can still get a laugh out of him.”

“Yeah,” Slim said, “the boss don’t laugh much nowadays,”

“’Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,’” Max observed.

“The boss don’t wear no crown. At least not as far as I know,” Slim said with a perplexed frown.

“Slim, that’s a quote from Shakespeare in reference to a specific king. But it can be taken to apply to all kings. Your boss is like a king, with plenty of troubles. For instance, he’s gotta worry about guys muscling in on his territory and looking to bump him off. And that includes guys close to him; guys he trusts.”

Slim nodded. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. It ain’t easy bein’ the boss.”

Max smiled and turned his face toward the shore. The fog had lifted, but the sky was cloudy, gray, ominous. The launch slowed as they approached the dock. Short bursts from the motor growled and churned up prop wash as they turned into the mooring. A deckhand jumped onto the dock and tied the bow line to the dock cleat. As soon as the hand secured the lines, Max, Slim and the soldier exited the boat.

“The boss said we’re to drive you wherever you want to go.” Slim pointed to a dark red Pierce Arrow parked beside a weather-beaten boathouse near the pier.

“How about Los Angeles?”

Slim laughed. “That’s a good one, Mr. Niemand,” he replied. “I’d go for it, but I’m afraid the boss would miss his car.”

“All right, Slim. Just take me downtown and drop me off by an El station.”

“No problem. Follow me.”

Max sat with Slim in the spacious rear passenger’s compartment. A black leather bag containing one of Ed’s Lugers, Schmidt’s Mauser pistol and the disarmed time-bomb rested on Max’s lap.

The soldier drove west, then south into heavy traffic flowing slowly toward the Rush Street bridge. On the way, Slim said: “I seen you fight Bugsy Battaglia. Never seen anything like it. If you don’t mind my askin’, where did you learn that style of knife fighting?”

“Most of it’s instinct and experience that kept me alive on the streets. But for a while I studied with a Japanese master.”

“A Jap? No kiddin’. I guess the Nips know a thing or two about fighting. After all, they sure kicked the Tsar’s ass back in ’05. Who is the guy? Does he still teach?”

“I believe he does.”

“Where’s his gym? I might like to take some lessons.”

“His dojo is on Cottage Grove, or least it was the last time I was there. I don’t know if he still takes pupils, and if he does, he probably wouldn’t take you. At least, not right away.”

Slim frowned. “Whaddya mean he probably wouldn’t take me? Ain’t my dough good enough for the little Nip?”

“It’s not a matter of money, Slim, it’s a matter of your sincerity and commitment to the art of combat. I had to prove myself before he agreed to teach me.”

“No kidding? What did you have to do?”

“Mostly little things like clean up the dojo, pick up trash, cut the grass—”

“Are you serious?” Slim broke in. “Excuse me, Mr. Niemand. It all sounds bughouse to me.”

Max nodded. “I thought it might.”

He turned away from Slim and looked to his right. Light rain beat against the raised top and isinglass side curtains. They were entering the crowded bridge, not far from where Peg Rooney died.

The case had grown beyond her; her death did not mean much in the great scheme of things. But Peg’s memory meant something to Max. For a moment, he had been happy with her. He might have loved her, but it was not love of the “for better or worse” variety. He was a fair-weather lover. He believed he had given her his best, but his best was not good enough. His love could not withstand the storm when it came.

What about her love? Neither of them was of “the marrying kind.” Better for him to forget her and move on. Max tried to reduce Peg to just another piece in the puzzle he was trying to solve. But try as he might, she persisted in his memory; like an insufficiently weighted corpse she would not stay at the bottom of the river, but stubbornly rose to the surface.

“Is Lake Street OK?” The driver broke in on Max’s thoughts.

“Yeah, sure.” Max replied. “Lake Street’s fine.”

They turned onto Lake. The car pulled up to the curb near the newsstand and elevated station stairway. The rain was coming down harder. Max opened the door and, bag in hand, he stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“Thanks for the ride,” Max said.

“Don’t mention it,” Slim replied. Then he closed the door. The car pulled away from the curb.

Max sought shelter under the stairway canopy. As he climbed the stairs, he watched the car as it merged with the slow-moving traffic. He could not help thinking that such rides often ended badly for the passengers. Then he walked up to the cashier’s cage.

* * *

Max’s destination was a safe house he had dubbed “The Hawk’s Eyrie”; he traveled there by a circuitous route calculated to shake a possible tail. He boarded the North Side line, re-crossed the river and continued a short distance to the Chicago Avenue station where he detrained and headed directly to the stairway exit.

He proceeded downstairs to the street-level vestibule where he paused at the newsstand to chat with Mischa, the old vendor — Max knew every vendor on the line — while keeping his eyes open for a shadow. Convinced he had not been followed, Max purchased a paper and five Havana Coronas, said goodbye to Mischa and exited the station.

He hailed a taxi parked near the station entrance and told the driver to take him to the intersection of Milwaukee and North Avenue. The rain was letting up; by the time they arrived, it had diminished to a drizzle. Max paid the fare. Then he crossed the busy diagonal street and continued southwest a short distance to North Hoyne Avenue. He walked a half-block south then stopped at a two-story red brick townhouse set off from the sidewalk by a well-tended lawn overspread by a tall honey-locust shading the property. A wrought iron fence surrounded the frontage.

Max opened the gate and proceeded up the damp brick pathway that led to the stoop. He pressed the electric bell. Within a matter of seconds, he heard footsteps in the front hall. A peephole opened in the heavy oak door. A wary blue eye examined the visitor. Upon recognition, locks clicked, two heavy bolts slid, and the door opened.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Greene.” A deep, slightly accented female voice greeted Max by the code name he used at this location.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Gulbrandsen. I trust all’s well?”

“Very well, sir. Everything’s ready for you, as always. Will you be staying long?”

“As always, that depends.” Max answered with a smile. He entered the vestibule. Mrs. Gulbrandsen locked and bolted the door. Then she followed Max into the living room.

The Hawk’s Eyrie was the subject of an arrangement between Max and August Bode, a millionaire brewer. A few years earlier, Max had rescued the beer baron’s daughter from kidnappers. Since then, the professional relationship between detective and client developed into a close friendship.

Max had always wanted a safe house, a place he could operate from in secrecy when he was working on an especially dangerous case. During a conversation with his pal “Auggie,” Max mentioned his need for a secure hideout; the brewery mogul suggested his then vacant property on North Hoyne as suitable for his friend’s purpose.

The arrangement was simple and very advantageous for Max: Bode leased the property to “Mr. Greene” for a nominal sum. In return, Max got a well-furnished, well-maintained town house in an ideal location. Moreover, he received the expert housekeeping services of Hedda Gulbrandsen free of charge.

Mrs. Gulbrandsen was a tall, rawboned widow from Minnesota. She was about forty, dressed plainly, spoke little and always to the point. Her gray-streaked blonde hair was done up in an old-fashioned bun; her white skin, toughened by life on the harsh northern plains, had never been touched by cosmetics. She was scrupulously efficient; Bode trusted her implicitly, and her loyalty to her employer extended to Max. Nevertheless, Max ran a thorough background check on the woman before agreeing to her management of the safe house.

The housekeeper noticed Max’s black bag. “Would you like me to take that bag up to your room?”

“No, thanks. It’s just some tools I’ll be working with later.”

“I see. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Sure is,” he said with a smile. “I’m hungry. How about fixing me a sandwich? And please bring me a cold bottle of beer to go with it.”

“Of course, Mr. Greene. Corned beef on rye, German potato salad, a dill pickle and your favorite lager.”

“That’d be swell. Thanks.”

The housekeeper headed for the kitchen. Max set his bag down next to an armchair and then crossed the room to a telephone niche. He grabbed a pencil and paper and wrote out a message in code. Then he placed a call on a novelty: a dial telephone designed to get around nosy switchboard operators.

He dialed the unlisted number to his special twenty-four-hour answering service, another novelty. Max employed a few young women who answered this number on eight-hour shifts. Only Max, Joe, Rosie, Otto, Jimmy Dolan and a select group of his best clients, like August Bode, had access to the service.

A young woman answered. She received a message for Joe and Rosie. He expected them to call in later that evening.

The housekeeper returned with food and drink on a tray.

“That was quick,” Max said.

“I know what you like, sir. It doesn’t take much time to prepare.”

“Yeah,” he replied with a grin, “simple food for a simple guy. Just set it down over there.” Max pointed to a coffee table facing his favorite chair.

She set the tray on the table, then turned to Max. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, thanks. I’ll eat and rest up a bit. Then I’ll ring so you can come back for the tray. I’ll be working in the basement. Then I expect to be out all night. I’ll probably return tomorrow, or the following day. Don’t worry; I’ll let myself in.”

The housekeeper nodded her understanding. Then without another word, she exited the living room through a pair of sliding doors, which she closed behind her.

Max left the desk and headed for his Stickley adjustable-back armchair. Seated on the edge of the chair, he attacked the sandwich and potato salad voraciously while nursing his beer. The food soon disappeared from its plate. Satisfied, he eased back and sipped the remainder of his cold brew while contemplating the recently redecorated room.

The original Victorian clutter had been cleared away and replaced by the furnishings and accessories of the popular arts and crafts style. The beer baron had spared no expense in the refurbishment. There was an assortment of hand-crafted items made of natural materials and earthy organic colors, including a fine collection of Rookwood pottery and Otto Heintz metalwork lamps and vases.

The furniture was all Stickley, made almost exclusively of oak, with clean, simple lines, dark wood stains, and leather upholstery.

Contemporary American paintings were tastefully integrated into the decorative scheme, including Max’s favorite, a Jonas Lie oil of fishing boats in a harbor. The Stickley chair was set up facing the wall on which the painting was hung, allowing Max to contemplate Lie’s oil at his leisure.

Max studied the painting, the sky, the boats, the light reflected in the tranquil waters. Was it dusk or dawn? He could not tell. Time mattered to the fishermen, who were absent from the painting. Were they about to set out on their daily struggle with the sea, or had they returned to the shelter of the harbor and to their homes? Were the boats filled with a fine catch, or did they return empty?

Max looked from the painting to his black bag and back to the painting. The fishermen had their nets, hooks and lines, he had his semi-automatic pistols and dynamite: the tools of their respective trades. The fishermen had their refuge, their safe harbor, and Max had his, the beer baron’s house. Max smiled at the analogy. Was he “a fisher of men’s souls?” Perhaps, in an ironic sense. He was a killer of bad men. If there was a final judgment, Max expedited the delivery of souls to their ultimate judge.

He had focused on the painting to make up a story, a story that meant something to him personally. But modern art was not supposed to tell stories. James Whistler had famously said: “Art should be independent of all clap-trap, should stand alone, and appeal to the artistic sense of eye or ear without confounding this with emotions entirely foreign to it, as devotion, pity, love, patriotism and the like. All these have no kind of concern with it; and that is why I insist on calling my works ‘arrangements’ and ‘harmonies.’”

Max was a frequent visitor to the Art Institute on Michigan Avenue. He could appreciate “Art for Art’s sake” including Whistler’s “arrangements” and “harmonies,” but he liked the older forms too, even the ones that appealed to sentiment.

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder