The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 28: Hellfire

The docks at four a.m. A misting rain fell from a cloudy sky, rendering the wharf slick and the Lady of the Lake’s steep gangway slippery. Three husky men, the chandler, Zoltan and Max wearing a false beard, carried large wicker baskets filled with foodstuffs for the boat’s pantry.

Max’s basket contained a brown paper package concealed beneath a pile of apples. The trio climbed up to the boat’s deck cautiously to avoid tripping and spilling their comestibles. Max was especially careful, since his basket contained a “surprise.”

Ritter had bribed Chet and Tony. The underlings did not know Max’s plan and they did not care. All they cared about were the C-notes. But they were not stupid; they could guess something big was about to happen, and Lewis would get the short end of the stick.

Ritter told the gunsels to leave the boat and the docks when Max returned for his next meeting. The skeleton crew also had orders from Ritter to go ashore prior to their boss’s upcoming appointment with Max.

Chet greeted the chandler and his helpers and passed them on without the usual search. Max followed the chandler and Zoltan aft to a door that connected to an inner passageway. Once in the passageway, they continued until they reached another bulkhead doorway. As prearranged, Max set down his basket, removed the parcel, opened the door, entered and proceeded down an iron ladder and through an open hatch that led to the engine and boiler rooms. Zoltan and the chandler continued to the galley.

The engineer was supposed to be on watch below but, according to plan, he was topside with Tony, smoking and shooting the breeze. Lewis and Irene were asleep in their cabin.

Max descended into the belly of the boat, the spar deck level in the after portion of the vessel. The area was filled with the sounds of chugging from the generator that provided the boat’s electricity and the whirring fans that sucked air down through the ventilator shafts. Despite the ventilation, the air was thick with the sharp odor of hot oil and coal dust.

He dashed along a catwalk through the engine room, past the boilers and into the fire room that connected to the coal bunker. He ran up to an opening in the bulkhead that separated the fire room from the bunker, hunkered down and unwrapped the package containing Schmidt’s time bomb. After setting the timer, he scooped up some coal, placed the bomb in the depression and covered it over. The bunker was low on fuel and filled with highly combustible coal dust that would make for a powerful explosion. He was about to leave when he heard footsteps clomping on the iron catwalk. He jumped through the bulkhead opening and hid in the bunker.

Max had to cover his mouth with a handkerchief to keep from choking on the dust. Damn, it must be the engineer, he thought. This unexpected appearance could ruin his plan. If discovered, Max could knock the man out, but then what? He did not want to think that far ahead.

The engineer walked up to the bunker opening and stopped, just inches from where Max was hiding. Max froze, held his breath and waited. The engineer aimed his flashlight into the bunker, checking the level of the coal. A moment later, he switched off the light, mumbled something to himself and headed back up the catwalk.

Max peered around the corner of the opening. He watched and waited till he saw the engineer climb a ladder and then disappear through a hatch that led to the upper decks. He left his hiding place, sprinted up the catwalk and climbed the ladder that led to the passageway door where he had left the basket of apples. The basket was gone. For a moment, Max wondered if he had climbed the wrong ladder. Then, to his relief, he saw Zoltan and the chandler walking toward him. When Zoltan saw Max, he grinned and cracked wise: “You look like a black cat in a coal bin at midnight.”

“Or a vaudeville minstrel,” the chandler added.

Max wiped his sweaty forehead with his handkerchief and examined the result. The white linen was covered with a thick coal-dust slime. “I’ll need to wash up before I change clothes for my meeting later this morning.”

“No problem,” Zoltan said. “You can take a bath at my place.”

“Thanks,” Max replied.

“Mission accomplished?” the chandler asked.

“About fifty percent accomplished,” Max said. “Are the cook and the engineer off the boat?”

“Yeah,” the chandler said. “Only ones left on board are Chet, Tony and those two oversized cockroaches sleeping in their cabin.”

“Good. Anyways, the hard part comes later. Now, my appointment’s for eight, so let’s get out of here.”

* * *

At eight a.m. Max returned to the boat, all cleaned up and ready for his meeting with Ritter and Lewis. The greeting he received from Chet was very different from the one he got the last time he came on board.

“Good morning, Mr. Niemand,” the gunman said with a broad smile. He glanced up at the sunny, blue almost cloudless sky before adding, “Beautiful day, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, swell. Are you, Tony and the rest of the crew all squared away?”

“Yes, sir. Tony and the crew are already off the boat. I’m leaving as soon as I take you to the cabin. And” — he added with a sly wink — “there won’t be no search this time.”

“OK, pal. Let’s go. Don’t want to keep them waiting.”

“Uh, before we go, Tony and me wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot, but be quick about it.”

“Well, now that this caper’s done, we was thinking of trying our luck in Chicago. Could you put in a good word for us with Mr. Mahoney?”

“Sure. You don’t wanna hang around here too long. Just let me know when you guys are in town, and I’ll have a word with Ed. What’s more, I might have some work for a couple of bright lads like you and your pal.”

“Gee, thanks Mr. Niemand. Now, I guess we better get going. Follow me.”

Chet led Max to the cabin. This time Max was carrying his .38 in a shoulder holster, his jacket unbuttoned for a quick draw. Lewis would assume Max was unarmed. If the volatile young gunman went for his weapon as he did in their last encounter, there would be no time for judo.

Max entered the cabin; Chet closed the door and headed for the dock.

Ritter was taking no chances. He was standing to one side of Lewis with his jacket open and drawn back, his free right hand close to his belt-holstered revolver, ready for a quick draw.

The young hood from Detroit looked like he’d had a bad night. He slouched in a chair beside a small table upon which rested a fifth of whiskey and an empty glass. His cheeks had an unhealthy pallor and were covered with stubble; his red-rimmed eyes glared at Max. The usually natty gunman left his jacket draped over the back of his chair; he greeted his visitor in a sweat-stained shirt without collar or tie. He had the look of a cornered animal, his fangs hidden behind the lips of a shoulder holster.

“You know our demands, Niemand,” Lewis snarled. “Will your client meet them?”

“Fifty grand and the boat? That was a junkie’s dream.” Max frowned and shook his head for emphasis. “Game’s over, son. You lost. The O’Neills are already off the ship. Here’s my offer, and it’s generous. You and your girl may live on condition you go someplace far away and never again set foot in Chicago. Death’s the only alternative, and you’d better choose quick.”

Lewis’s hands twitched. He glanced at Ritter; the .38 was already out of its holster and aimed at Lewis’s head.

“You sold me out, you rat,” Lewis said. He tried to sound tough, like a dime-novel gangster, but it came out whiny, pathetic and trite.

“I did the smart thing, kid,” Ritter said. “Now, you be smart, too. Take out the heater slow and lay it on the table. Then get up with your hands clasped behind your head.”

Lewis did as he was told.

“Search him, Milt,” Max said as he drew his revolver and trained it on Lewis. He walked to the table, scooped up Lewis’s gun and stuck it in his belt.

Ritter patted Lewis down. “He’s clean, Max.”

“OK,” Max said. Then to Lewis: “Listen, kid. There’s a ticking bomb down below. This boat is about to go off like a giant firecracker on the Fourth of July. Grab your girl and run, and I suggest you keep running all the way to Canada. Don’t ever show your face in Chicago again, or I promise you’ll have no face left to show.”

Max turned to Ritter: “Come on, Milt. Let’s blow before the boat does.”

Max and Ritter dashed out of the cabin, leaving Lewis to his fate.

Lewis stood still like his feet were planted in concrete, paralyzed by a combination of rage and fear. Then he grabbed the fifth on the table and downed the remaining contents. He dropped the empty bottle and ran out to the deck, then through a door and down one level to the cabin he shared with Irene. When he got there, he fumbled with the handle; the door was locked. He pounded and shouted: “Open up, Irene! We gotta get out of here! The boat’s gonna blow!”

Irene was in a bunk, sweaty and half-naked, her glazed-over eyes staring into a void. A fresh, red needle-prick appeared on a vein in her left arm; an empty syringe and a bottle of morphine rested on a nearby table.

Lewis kept pounding on the iron door till he almost broke his hand. “Oh, God, Irene, please. If we don’t get out, we’ll die! Open the—”

The shockwave from the blast knocked Lewis down to the deck. Fed by the coal dust and kerosene in the hold, a fireball belched up from the bowels of the ship, streaking through the ventilation shafts, open hatches and passageways, sucking all the oxygen from the atmosphere and incinerating everything in its path including Hal Lewis.

Lost in a junkie’s dream, Irene roasted alive in her cabin. Lucky for her, she was so loaded with dope she hardly noticed.

* * *

Max sped away from the docks with Ritter in the front passenger seat and the O’Neills in the rear. They were on a main drag heading west toward the outskirts of the city when the explosion rocked the wharf.

Mary leaned forward and said, “What was that?”

“An accident, I suppose,” Max said. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Just relax and enjoy the ride.”

They had to pull over as clanging fire trucks sped by on their way to the dock. The air was filled with the acrid stench of smoke from the burning wreck. Max waited patiently until the street cleared, then pulled away from the curb and continued without comment. He stayed within the legal speed limit until they passed the city limits. Then he opened her up to fifty.

They raced down the macadamized road past steel mills, refineries, empty lots and reedy marshlands. Max blew past a few vehicles, both motorized and horse-drawn. As they neared the state line, the speeding Chadwick caught the attention of one of a new breed of law enforcement officers, a motorcycle cop. Hidden from view behind a billboard, the eager cop, mounted on a new Harley-Davidson Model Six Single, decided to give chase. He emerged from his hiding place, pushed the bike onto the road and started testing the limits of the single-cylinder motor.

The Harley was good for forty-five miles per hour on a level, paved highway, fast enough to catch a Model T. But the Chadwick was no Tin Lizzie. Mary was the first to notice the pursuing officer. She leaned toward Max and shouted loud enough to be heard above the rushing wind and roaring engine: “There’s a motorcycle following us, and he’s coming on fast,” she said.

“Oh, yeah. We’ll see about that.” Then: “Hold on tight, folks!” he shouted. After giving the warning, Max opened the throttle. The supercharged six roared like a pissed-off lion: sixty, seventy, eighty miles per hour. They streaked away from the straining motorcycle, leaving it behind in a choking dust cloud. The poor cop hacked, coughed, wheezed and wiped his goggles.

About a mile from the state line, Max spotted the rear end of a horse-drawn farm wagon loaded with hay bales and taking up more than half the roadway. Now well ahead of the motorcycle cop, he slowed and swerved around the plodding farmer without going off the shoulder. The horses whinnied and reared; the angry farmer shook his fist and cursed all motorists.

Meanwhile, the cop was distracted by an overheating motor and dropping oil pressure. He was losing speed rapidly, which was fortunate, because he looked up from the faltering motor just in time to see the wagon looming dead ahead. At the last moment, he cut the throttle and applied the coaster brake. Tires squealing, the motorcycle skidded, avoiding the wagon but landing itself and its rider in a drainage ditch.

The bruised and frustrated officer got out from under his fallen bike. He stared up the road through grimy goggles, first at the plodding farm wagon and then at a cloud of dust that was all he could see of the Chadwick, which was now safely across the state line and outside his jurisdiction. The cop muttered imprecations against the driver, the farmer, and life in general. Then he dusted himself off, lifted his battered bike and walked it back to the road.

Proceed to Chapter 29...

Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder