Chicago Max

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 6: What Crow Tastes Like

part 1

The Detectives Division at Police Headquarters was busy, as usual. Telephones rang, typewriters clacked, detectives questioned complainants and witnesses, many of whom spoke broken English or no English at all. Some of the complaining witnesses were, to a greater or lesser extent injured, the victims of strong-arm robbery. Almost all were scared, some angry, some half-drunk, some on the verge of hysteria. The whole place reeked of stale tobacco and the unwashed bodies of prisoners brought up from the detention cells for identification and questioning.

When Max entered the Division office, he was greeted by several smiles and nods of silent recognition. He still had many friends on the force, though few, if any, were above the rank of Lieutenant. To the politically connected brass, he was an unwelcome presence.

Max sat facing Mueller across a desk piled high with files, bulletins and reports. They were in a dimly lit, partitioned cubbyhole that used to be Max’s office. The Lieutenant’s teeth worked on the unlit stub of one of his cheap stogies as he examined the Gardenia Club matchbox. After a while, he set down the matches, turned his head and spat the remains of his cigar into a nearby cuspidor.

He turned back to Max with a porcine grin. “You done right to bring this in. Of course, you know I already got one just like it in evidence.”

“I know. Rosen told me all about it. He’s hired me to investigate the kid’s story about the hidden cigar smoker.”

Mueller gave out a derisive snort that might have been mistaken for laughter. “Oh, yeah, the real killer. The fairy godmother done it. Your investigation’s a waste of time and the client’s money. If the kid’s wise, he’ll cop to manslaughter. The DA’s sympathetic; Moe was a cockroach and, while the kid ain’t squeaky clean, he’s not a hardened criminal. He might get off with a few years in Joliet. Sure beats getting your neck stretched.”

“So, you don’t believe Levy at all?”

“Come on, Niemand. What would you do if you were in my shoes? He admits to being at Weinberg’s around the time of the homicide. He brought in the candleholders he lifted from his parents; his prints are all over them. He also admits to having a heated argument with Moe, and he has an arrest for fighting in a public place.”

The “fighting in a public place” was a nice touch. Max almost made a crack about Battaglia and Capucci, but thought better of it. “You have no witnesses, except for Benny Levy. All your evidence is circumstantial. And what’s the kid’s motive? He was pissed off at Moe. So was everyone who ever owed Weinberg a dime. Regardless, the kid knew his big brother would bail him out. He’d done it plenty of times before. And one arrest for fighting doesn’t make Levy a homicidal maniac.”

“Well, maybe the kid was in a bad mood that day. Anyways, it’s strong circumstantial evidence, good enough for Peterson. As for witnesses, we’re still looking.”

“Well, I’ll be looking, too. And whatever I turn up, you’ll be the first to know.”

Mueller eyed Max with a skeptical squint. “OK, Niemand. If your client wants you to investigate, there’s nothing I can do to stop you, as long as you don’t break any laws, that is.”

Max tried an ingratiating smile. “Fair enough, Lieutenant.” He reached into his pocket and produced a cigar. “As I recall, you like these coronas. Care for another?”

Mueller grinned and held out his hand. “Yeah, thanks.” He stuck the cigar in his mouth and contemplated Max for a moment, as though trying to penetrate his thoughts. “You know, pal,” he said with the cigar still clenched between his yellow teeth, “if you do turn up something, I don’t suppose you’ll mind sharing the credit?”

Max, still smiling, looked back at Mueller. “No, I don’t mind. After all, it’s your case, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, that’s right. It is my case, and don’t you forget it.”

So now I’ve eaten crow, Max thought. Tastes like shit, or one of Mueller’s stogies.

* * *

Max plied Jimmy Dolan with rounds of beer beyond the patrolman’s customary “one on the house.” “Now, Max,” Dolan said, “you know I’m still on duty. But, God bless you, I’ll take one more for the road.”

They were standing at Otto’s bar in a quiet corner where they were not likely to be disturbed. Max glanced around the mostly empty taproom and restaurant. Gus wouldn’t arrive for another two hours, along with the regular crowd.

“Not to worry, Jimmy. We’re among friends, and besides there’s hardly a soul in the house.”

Dolan smiled and lifted the glass to his lips. “Right you are. So here’s to me pension and a comfortable old age.”

Max raised his beer. “To health and wealth.” He knew that in Jimmy’s case most of that “wealth” would come from twenty years conscientious service as the precinct’s bagman. Following another minute or two of drinking and small talk, Max decided to put the question to Dolan. “I’m working on a big case, and I’d like your help. I need to find out more about Battaglia and Capucci’s dealings with the Burns mob. Can you put me in touch with Weasel?”

Alf Hogg, aka Weasel, was a low-level hood in the Burns gang who had miraculously survived for several years as a police snitch. Max had worked with him in the past, but it would now be too dangerous to approach him directly.

Dolan lowered his voice and glanced around to make sure they could not be overheard. “Weasel don’t work cheap. After all, a little slip-up and we’d be finding pieces of him floating round the Goose Island docks.”

“What’s his price?”

“For something like that, a C-note for sure.”

One hundred dollars was twice what Max had charged Levy for his retainer. In Chicago, a skilled laborer made about ten dollars a week, maybe a little more when the demand for labor was high and the supply low. An unskilled worker made less than half that amount and nothing at all when the market was tight.

Max reckoned Harry Levy could afford to pay if he thought it would produce results. If he balked, Max would push Rosen for the money and, if Manny didn’t come up with the cash, Max would be stuck with it, at least for the time being. Such an expenditure could seriously impact his cash flow and interfere with his “Big Plans.”

He thought a moment before saying, “A C-note, my ass. I’ll pay fifty and not a cent of it until he produces information I can use. Will you get a message to Weasel?”

Dolan narrowed his eyes and considered the proposition. Max was a friend, but business was business. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully before saying, “What’s in it for me, bucko?”

Jesus, Jimmy, ain’t two beers enough? Max thought. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Here’s a five-spot, and not a penny more.”

Dolan smiled, scooped up the bill and pocketed it smoothly with a well-practiced hand. If Max had agreed to a C-note, Dolan would have kept at least ten percent for himself. “I would have said ten, but seeing as how we’re old pals, I’ll take five. Now I suppose you’ll want to set up a meeting in a safe place?”

“That’s the idea, and time is of the essence.”

Dolan laughed. “Of the essence, is it? You sound like one of them fancy downtown mouthpieces. All right. Tomorrow’s Saturday. I’ll get things set up with the Weasel tonight. Meet me here tomorrow, same time.”

“Done. Now, how about a short one before you finish your rounds?”

“Ah, you’re a real sport. Don’t mind if I do.”

* * *

The lights brightened and the bar filled with a haze of tobacco smoke from the pipes, cigars and cigarettes of working men cutting loose at the end of a long day. Time out for liquid refreshment and comradely banter before returning to the wife and kids. In the back of the adjacent restaurant area, Max and Gus Merkel sat across from one another at a red and white checkered oilcloth covered table in an oak booth. They enjoyed Otto’s specialty: Sauerbraten, red cabbage and potato dumplings accompanied by a strong lager beer. They had devoured a half-loaf of sliced pumpernickel bread, and the waiter had gone to the kitchen for more.

Old-country scenes of the hunt, shooting matches, and the glassy-eyed heads and antlers of dead animals decorated the surrounding walls. The meal was on Max; he included it in his expenses, anticipating that Harry Levy would pony up the cash.

Gus Merkel was a handsome young man, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and somewhat smaller than Max but tough enough to handle himself in the brawls that were common in his profession. Fittingly, he began their conversation with reference to the upcoming Heavyweight title fight. “My editor, God bless him, is sending me out to Los Angeles to cover the match between the champ and Tommy Burns.” He took a swig of beer before adding, “I sure won’t miss Chicago in February.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about Los Angeles winters. Sunshine, beaches, balmy breezes and pretty girls in white dresses. You ought to have a grand time.”

“Oh, I intend to all right. By the way, who do you like for the title?”

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder