Chicago Max
by Gary Inbinder
1906. It’s a frigid Chicago New Year, and detective Max Niemand has a hot new case. A meeting between a high society playboy and an underworld denizen at the notorious First Ward Ball catches Max’s attention.
The chance encounter draws Max into a tangled web of murder, deceit, racketeering and corruption. He follows the clues and leads from Chicago’s most dangerous slums to the Gold Coast mansions of the Windy City’s social elite.
His investigation involves a variety of characters, both male and female, from all walks of life. They are playing a dangerous game for high stakes, and Max doesn’t know if he can trust any of the players. He’ll need all his detective skills to solve this case, and a mistake could cost him his reputation or even his life.
Chicago ain't no sissy town. — Michael "Hinky Dink" Kenna,
First Ward Alderman, 1897-1923
Chapter 8: Lincoln Park After Dark
Twilight glowed with the brilliance of electric lights. In Lincoln Park, on the lakefront, dozens of bundled-up skaters glided over the frozen pond, their sharp blades slicing figures on the ice. Snow-dusted tree-branches rustled in the breeze. Colored lanterns shimmered on the perimeter; pushcart vendors hawked roasted chestnuts. A small band played “The Skaters” and “Waves of the Danube.”
Max watched and waited in the shadows beneath a stand of wintry elms, not far from the gingerbread pavilion where the swan boats docked in summer. He had chosen a spot fronting a fenced-off area where workers were digging a ditch. From this vantage point, he could observe a broad expanse without drawing attention, and he was in little danger of assault from behind.
His eyes focused on a narrow path that led down from the main concourse to the landing. A few minutes after the appointed time, he noticed a small figure approaching along the secluded dirt trail. The collar of the individual’s overcoat was turned up, his hat brim pulled low over his forehead, and his face concealed behind a muffler.
Weasel spotted Max. He stopped and glanced round before exiting the path and proceeding up the dock to the meeting place.
Max greeted him: “Evening, Alf. You sure you haven’t been tailed?
“Of course I’m sure,” the small man rasped from behind his muffler. “If I wasn’t, it’d be my neck, not yours. What’s the deal?”
“I need information about the visit two South Side gentlemen paid on your boss last week. Can you deliver?”
“I heard you’re paying fifty smackers. I should get more for risking my life.”
“Yeah, but you’re here anyway. Are you in or out?”
“Don’t be stingy. How ’bout seventy-five?”
“Not a chance. If it helps you out, I’ll go for sixty.”
Weasel took a deep breath and sighed before nodding in the affirmative. “Done. When do you need the information?”
“As soon as possible.”
“I’ll do what I can. You’ll pay on delivery?”
“Right, but no tricks, and it had better be the genuine article, or I’ll come looking for you.”
Weasel ignored the threat; his greed was greater than his fear. “How about half now, the rest when I deliver the goods?”
Max reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill. “Here’s a sawbuck. Don’t take advantage of my generosity.”
Weasel scooped up the bill. “OK, Max. We’ll meet here and I’ll contact you the usual way. Now, I’d better blow before the cops spot us and mistake us for a couple of pansies.”
“All right, Alf. I’ll expect to hear from you soon.”
Weasel muttered, “Right,” turned his back on Max and disappeared into the darkness to the sounds of “The Skaters” waltz.
* * *
Max decided to pay a call on Vi. After some reflection, he thought he wanted a clean break, even at the cost of an ugly scene. He walked up the familiar back stairway and rapped softly on her door. No answer. He knocked harder and noticed the curtains stirring in the neighbor’s upstairs window. He waited a minute. Still no answer. At least I tried, he thought.
He walked down the block in the direction of his apartment. As he neared the corner, he heard faint laughter, male and female. He slowed and glanced back over his shoulder. Max recognized Vi, her face and figure revealed in lamplight. He did not get a good enough look at her companion to identify him. She didn’t waste time.
Max turned his head and walked on, slowly. He heard the gate creak, the sound of footsteps crunching snow on the pathway and stairs, the closing of a door. Max walked around the block and headed back in the direction of Otto’s tavern.
* * *
“You look down in the dumps, pal,” Otto said as he served Max his second beer.
Max shook his head and smiled sadly. “Not really. Just thinking, that’s all.” He took a swig of his beer before saying, “You know everything that goes on in this neighborhood. Did you know that Vi Novak was stepping out with some guy?”
Otto hesitated before answering. “I suppose I did. As a matter of fact, everyone around here knew, except you.”
“When will you make an honest woman of me, Max?” She played me for a chump. “I see. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Sorry, Max. I guess we were all afraid you’d get sore.”
“Who’s the guy, Otto?”
Otto leaned over the bar and lowered his voice. “Ed Mahoney.” Mahoney was a hoodlum who worked for Ike Burns. He and Max had been friends as kids, but their friendship soured when Max joined the police.
“How long has this been going on?”
“A while, I guess. Best forget her, Max.”
Max muttered, “She’s already forgotten,” and he returned to his beer.
Otto kept silent for a moment before saying, “I hope you don’t mind some advice from an old friend. Why don’t you find a nice girl and settle down?”
Max looked up and grinned. “Maybe I’ve found that nice girl.”
Otto’s eyes widened with surprise. “You don’t say. Who is she?”
“I don’t know, for sure. She’s more like a dream than something real.”
Otto’s face wrinkled in bewilderment. “Sorry, Max. I don’t follow you.”
Max drained his glass before answering. “Sorry, Otto. Sometimes I talk bunk. How about another beer?”
“Sure. I’ll make this one on the house.”
“Thanks. By the way, have you seen Dolan lately?”
“You just missed him. Do you have a message for Jimmy?”
Max shook his head. “No, I’ll catch up with him later. Why don’t you give me a shot with that beer?”
“OK, Max. One boilermaker, coming right up.”
* * *
Max lived on the top floor of a new brick three-flat on Wolcott Street just south of Division. He kept the place clean and orderly, as though in reaction to the squalor of his childhood and youth. He would not be ashamed to show the place to Miss Wells or Olga Boyer.
By the time he left Otto’s, Max was stinking, but he never let his guard down, even when drunk. A year earlier, around Christmas, a couple of punks who were new to the neighborhood made the mistake of trying to mug Max on his way home from the tavern. Max beat the hoodlums senseless, collared them and dragged them back to Otto’s where he turned them over to Jimmy Dolan. One of the muggers had a cracked skull. They took care of him in County hospital where he acquired a new nickname: Goofy.
As Max walked down the dark, snowy streets, a tune with a sentimental lyric kept bugging him: M’apparì from Flotow’s Martha. Max knew the original German, Ach! so fromm, ach! so traut, and he translated the final stanza in his head:
Martha, Martha, I am sighing,
I am weeping still for thee...
“Horseshit,” he muttered, but he could not shake the words or the music.
Back in his apartment, Max poured another shot of rye and put Caruso’s new recording of M’appari on the talking machine. He eased back in an armchair and gazed out a window at the snow swirling round a street lamp. This music ain’t Vi, he thought. She’s Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay. Max laughed bitterly and finished his drink. The phone rang.
“Damn! Who’s calling at this hour?” He got up gingerly, staggered to the phonograph and lifted the arm from the spinning record. Max picked up the telephone and answered with an irritated, “Yeah?”
“It’s Manny. I have bad news. We’re off the Levy case.”
A moment of silence. Then: “Whaddya mean, we’re off the case?”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Yeah, Manny, I’m plastered. Now tell me what happened.”
“Old man Levy stepped in and fired me. He’s hired a fancy downtown law firm.”
“Is the kid OK with this?”
“He’s broke. He ain’t got much to say about it.”
“What about Harry?”
“He won’t go against the old man. Sorry, Max.”
“I’m gonna talk to the son-of-a-bitch. I got good leads; I got expenses.”
“How much are you out?”
Max almost said a C-note to stick it to Levy, but he decided to play it straight. “Sixty bucks. And I don’t want to give up the case. The kid’s innocent, and I can prove it.”
“Re-think the situation when you’re sober. I’m sure Levy will pay the sixty. Anything beyond that and you’ll be working pro bono.”
Max thought a moment. This was his big case. He would not give it up. He forgot about Manny.
“Max.. Max, are you still there?”
“I’m here. I wanna talk to you about this. Not on the phone. In your office... tomorrow.”
“I’m in court all morning. How about the afternoon, around three?”
“OK... at three.”
Max hung up. He walked to the phonograph and started replaying the record. Then he poured another shot and returned to his chair. He eased back, sipped some whiskey and tried to relax.
Caruso cast a spell. Max gazed out the window at the swirling snowflakes. Then his eyes narrowed and his face screwed up in an ugly frown. “Hell!” he muttered before downing the rest of his shot.
Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder
