The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 27: The Lady of the Lake

part 1

Max, under the alias Mr. Greene, checked into a small hotel on the outskirts of Hammond and left the car in a nearby public garage. The hotel was one among a row of two- and three-story brick buildings, mostly shops and office blocks, located on a newly paved street. Utility poles ran along the opposite side of the thoroughfare; streetcars traveled up and down a track in the middle.

Max immediately made friends with the bellhop, a dark, husky Hungarian named Gabor, also known as Gabby. Max got on Gabby’s good side by ordering a bottle of whiskey and a bucket of ice from a nearby saloon owned by one of the bellhop’s pals.

Max rewarded good service with a five-dollar tip, which prompted a wide gold-toothed smile and an offer of any number of useful services, some of them less respectable. The offer hardly surprised Max: he anticipated it. Many bellhops were well-connected and could be good sources of “special” services and information for a price. Moreover, when generously compensated, the entrepreneurial types could be relied upon to keep their mouths shut.

“Gabby, I got some business in Hammond, and you might be able to help me out. Do you know anyone who works on the docks?”

“Sure do, boss. My brother-in-law, Big Zoltan, works for a ship chandler.”

“That’s swell. Now this business I got is strictly on the q.t. and it might be dangerous too, but if you and Zoltan are interested, you can make some real jack.”

“What you mean by ‘real jack’?” The dark eyes squinted skeptically.

“How about a C-note each?” Max reached into his pocket, removed a couple of bills, held them up and crinkled them between his fingers to display their crisp green freshness.

“Who do we have to kill?” The skeptical squint immediately transformed into a broad smile.

Max laughed. “It may not go that far, pal. There’s a boat docked in the harbor, the Lady of the Lake. You know it?”

Gabby nodded; the smile was replaced by a serious frown. “You a friend of the owners?” he asked cautiously.

“No, I’m not.” He told the truth, plainly and simply. He had a fifty-fifty chance of getting the answer he wanted.

“Good,” Gabby said with relief. “They’re gangsters. The chandler has a contract with that boat. They demand provisions without paying and make threats when Zoltan’s boss tries to collect. The chandler hates their guts. Me and Zoltan will help you, if we can.”

“Swell. Now here’s the deal. I need to get on and off that boat without being noticed. You guys don’t need to know why. If you can help me, you get a hundred each, fifty now and the rest when the job’s done. And I don’t have much time, so I need your answer quick.”

“I got to get hold of Zoltan. You’ll have your answer within the hour.”

“Swell.” Max rubbed his chin and took a quick look at himself in a nearby mirror. “I need a shave and some business clothes. Is there a barber and a haberdashery hereabouts that you recommend?”

“You bet I do, boss. Scotti’s barbershop is just up the street and Rosendale’s haberdashery the next block up. Tell them Gabby sent you.”

“Thanks, pal. I’ll do that.”

Max followed the bellhop down to the lobby and then exited the hotel. There was a slight breeze coming in from the lake; a gray sky overhead; it felt like rain again. He headed up the street on his way to the barber and the haberdasher. He wanted to look sharp for an upcoming meeting with Ritter and Lewis.

* * *

Max looked spruced as he stepped up the Lady of the Lake’s gangway. He wore a gray ready-made three-piece suit. He’d provided a generous tip for a rush job on the tailoring. It was complemented by a matching Dobbs fedora and highly polished black wing-tip oxfords. The somber tone of his sartorial ensemble matched that of the overcast sky. His freshly shaven face exuded a slight hint of lilac vegetal.

A surly goon guarding the gangway greeted him: “Whaddya want, mister?”

“Name’s Max Niemand from Chicago. I’m here to see Ritter and Lewis on business.” Max met the goon’s ugly frown with a pleasant smile.

Upon hearing the name, the goon’s unfriendly attitude turned to one of respect. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you. Just a moment, Mr. Niemand.” The goon whistled and waved to another thug patrolling the catwalk up forward near the bridge. “Hey, Tony, go tell the boss Mr. Niemand from Chicago’s here to see him.”

“Right away,” Tony replied.

“Say, pal, you don’t need to make a public announcement,” Max said, still maintaining his friendly expression.

“Uh... sorry, Mr. Niemand,” the shamefaced goon replied.

Max savored the effect his name had on the underlings. Moreover, he guessed that the reference to “boss” in the singular indicated Milt Ritter was the one in charge.

Max killed time watching the activity on the busy docks: cranes swinging over the holds, raising and lowering their burdens; longshoremen loading and unloading cargo; wagons rumbling up and down the wharf.

“Tony won’t be long, Mr. Niemand.” The solicitous thug tried to compensate for his earlier rudeness.

Max just nodded and kept his eyes focused on the docks. Shortly thereafter, Tony returned. “They’ll see you now, Mr. Niemand.”

“Swell,” Max replied.

“Sorry,” Tony said, “but I gotta search you first.”

“No problem, pal.”

Max waited patiently while Tony patted him down. Max was not carrying.

“OK, Mr. Niemand. Follow me.”

Tony led Max aft to a cabin door. He knocked and Ritter’s familiar gravelly voice answered, “Come in.”

Max followed Tony into a modestly sized cabin, neat but sparsely furnished. Despite open portholes and a rattling ventilator fan, the air was filled with the odor of tobacco smoke and the cheap perfume of the one female on board.

Ritter got up from his chair on the opposite side of the cabin and came forward to greet his former colleague. Lewis remained seated; his dark green eyes examined Max with a glassy stare. Irene stood next to Lewis; one arm draped protectively over his shoulder. Her dark eyes glared at the visitor.

“Hello, Max. Long time no see.” Ritter extended his hand for a friendly shake.

“Yeah, Milt,” Max replied as they shook hands, “it’s been a while. You seem to be keeping different company these days.”

Ritter let go of Max’s hand and turned to Tony. “You can go now.”

The underling exited the cabin, closing the door behind him.

“Pull up a chair, and I’ll introduce you to my associates,” Ritter said.

Max grabbed a small wooden chair and followed Ritter. He noticed Ritter’s sarcastic tone in his reference to “associates,” a good sign there was dissension in the ranks. Max would play on the apparent tension between Ritter and Lewis to drive a wedge between his adversaries.

Max placed his chair a comfortable distance from his hosts. Ritter made the introductions. “Max Niemand, meet Hal Lewis from Detroit.”

“Hello, Lewis,” Max said. “I’ve heard of you.”

The gunman remained seated. “Nothin’ good, I hope?” he replied with a frosty grin.

Max nodded. “That’s right, son. Nothin’ good.” He glanced at Irene, then turned to Ritter. “Who’s the broad?”

“Watch your mouth, Niemand. She’s my girl,” Lewis said.

“I wasn’t talkin’ to you, sonny,” Max said, still looking at Ritter.

Lewis’s face flushed beet red. He broke away from Irene and got up from his chair suddenly, knocking it over. His right hand went for the gun in his shoulder holster.

Max was on the gunsel like a hungry panther pouncing on a goat. He put the kid in a vice-like wrist lock, turned the gun on him before ripping it away, and then slammed him into the bulkhead. Lewis crumpled to the deck like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Irene screamed and went for Max with her long, sharp nails. He grabbed her by the arm, then backslapped her face so hard he split her lip and knocked her out cold. Max let her drop; she lay still as a corpse. He flicked off the safety on the pistol and pointed it at Lewis, who was just coming to.

“Get ’em outa here, Milt, before I do something I’ll regret,” Max growled.

Milt called out the porthole for Tony and Chet, the guards who met Max at the gangway. The underlings entered the cabin. Their eyes popped when they saw Lewis trying to get on his feet, Irene down for the count and Max with a gun in his hand.

“It’s all right, guys,” Ritter said. “The conversation just got a little heated. Help Mr. Lewis and the lady out of the cabin. Mr. Niemand and I will discuss our business, one on one.”

“But, boss, he’s got a heater,” Tony said.

“Yeah,” Ritter said. “Mr. Lewis was a little careless with his pistol. Mr. Niemand will hold onto it for safekeeping. Then he’ll hand it over to you when he leaves the boat.” He turned to Max. “Ain’t that right, Max?”

“Sure,” Max replied. “I’ll hand the gat back to Tony or Chet at the gangway when I get off the boat.” Then he reached down and picked up his hat, which had fallen on the deck during the scuffle, brushed it off, smoothed the brim and placed it back on his head.

“OK, Max.” Then to Tony and Chet. “Get those two outa here.”

Chet went to Irene. He picked her up off the deck. She groaned, mumbled and dribbled blood as he carried her out of the cabin. Tony went over to Lewis. The gunman was leaning for support against the bulkhead, rubbing his forehead, still dazed and confused. Tony tried to help him, but Lewis shoved him aside.

“Where’s Irene?” he asked. Lewis’s bleary eyes scanned the room.

“She came at me like a feral cat, so I had to de-claw her,” Max said. “Don’t worry, kid. Just douse her with a bucket of water, and she’ll be as good as new.”

“I’ll remember this,” Lewis answered feebly.

“I bet you will,” Max said.

Lewis staggered out of the cabin followed by Tony.

After they left, Max tucked the pistol into his belt and said, “How did you ever get mixed up with that two-bit punk?”

Ritter shook his head and sighed. “It’s a long, sad story Max. How about a drink?”

“Thanks, Milt. I can use a stiff one.”

Ritter fetched a bottle and two glasses, poured doubles and handed one to Max.

Max sniffed the whiskey and swirled it in his glass before looking Ritter in the eye and saying, “You mentioned a long, sad story. I think I know most of it. Before we get down to business, how’s Grace doing?”

“Thanks for asking. She’s doing well, but she can’t come back to Chicago. The bad weather and dirty air would kill her.” Max’s question didn’t surprise Ritter, in fact he appreciated it coming from a man he had once valued as a fellow police officer and a friend.

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder