Chicago Max
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 9: This Case Stinks
“This case stinks like rotten fish.” At a little past three in the afternoon, Max made this observation while glaring at Manny Rosen with bloodshot eyes.
He had regained consciousness a few hours earlier. His eyes blinked open to light streaming through the frost-crusted windowpane. At first, Max thought he had emerged from a tunnel in which a gang of workmen was breaking rocks with jackhammers. He soon realized the tunnel was his head.
Max groaned. Stumbling out of bed, he grabbed his clothes, dressed shakily, staggered downstairs to the street and clomped four blocks through ankle-deep snowdrifts to a small restaurant on Division Street. There, he revived somewhat with four cups of black coffee, bacon, eggs, hash browns and toast. He paid his bill, walked halfway up the block, turned the corner into an alley and tossed most of his breakfast.
For a moment, he contemplated the colorful patterns made by warm vomit splattered on snow, which resembled a modern art masterpiece. Then he returned to his flat and flopped face down on the bed. Shortly after two, he walked to the elevated station and took the train to the stop near Rosen’s office.
Max sat facing Rosen who contemplated his hung-over friend from the opposite side of a file-littered desk. Manny noticed how Max twitched at the sound of the streetcar bells, the ringing telephones, and the clattering of Miss Mandelbaum’s typewriter in the outer office.
“How’s about I ask Sadie to fix us some coffee?”
Max nodded in the affirmative.
Rosen rang for Miss Mandelbaum. The typewriter stopped clacking; the door opened a crack. A bespectacled face peeped around the partly opened door. She took the order and returned to the outer office, making as little noise as possible in consideration of Max’s condition.
As soon as the secretary was out of earshot, Rosen said, “It stinks all right, but there’s nothing we can do about it. The fix is in. I believe they’re going to get Benny declared legally incompetent. Peterson and Judge Moran are on board. Once he’s been committed to the asylum, they can keep him there indefinitely.”
Max rubbed his temples and shook his head before saying, “I know Moran. He’s one of the best judges money can buy. Why are they doing this?”
“The kid’s an embarrassment to the family. This way they get him locked up in the county loony bin without a public trial and Peterson, Mueller, and Moran effectively close the Moe Weinberg murder case. Justice is served, Chicago style. Everybody’s happy; end of story.”
“The kid ain’t loony. He stood up to our grilling, all right. What’s more, I’m almost certain he didn’t ice Moe.”
“You know he isn’t screwy, and so do I. But if Levy pays doctors to say Benny’s nuts, and Moran agrees: the kid’s nuts, and that’s that. It’s Chicago, Max. Give it up and go on to something else. Don’t worry; I’ll get your sixty bucks from the Levys’ lawyers.”
Miss Mandelbaum entered with the coffee pot and two mugs on a tray. The strong, hot java revived Max and distracted him enough to notice that Rosen’s secretary was a bit mousey, but not bad. He appreciated the way she moved her hips. She served them and gave Max a shy smile before wiggling back to her desk.
Max blew on the steaming brew before taking another sip. "That’s good, Manny," he said before adding another compliment: "And your Sadie’s a nice girl. Where did you find her?”
Rosen smiled. "She’s a cousin. Might as well keep it in the family.”
“A good policy. Anyway, I’m not giving up on Benny Levy, at least not yet. I’m going over to Maxwell Street to talk to Harry. I can’t believe he’d let his sane kid brother rot in an asylum for a crime he didn’t commit.”
Rosen shook his head. "I’m speaking as both a lawyer and a friend. The deck’s stacked against you. You’d be wasting time and money, not to mention the damage to your reputation. Of course, if you want to pursue it, that’s your business. As for me, I’m out.”
“Understood," Max said. He finished his coffee and set the mug on the tray. "Excellent coffee. My compliments to Miss Mandelbaum. And thanks for the advice.”
“It’s good advice, but I’ll lay odds you won’t take it.”
Max got up, took a deep breath and grinned. "Ah, my headache’s gone. See you around, Manny.”
Rosen got up and shook hands. "Take care of yourself, Max. You may be stepping into a puddle of crap up to your neck.”
Max felt well enough to laugh. "Stepping into deep shit is how I make my living. Getting out of it is how I stay alive.”
* * *
Levy’s white-tiled cutting room was cool, clean and well ventilated. This workplace scrupulousness was largely due to the rabbis and the kosher butchers who, for the most part, were less bribable than the government inspectors who worked at the yards. Sides of beef hung in rows on hooks suspended from overhead rails. Cutters toiled at wooden tables amid the dangling carcasses, producing a variety of steaks, roasts, and chops. The sausage-makers labored in an adjacent room where they turned out the famous Chicago red-hots.
A couple of cutters looked up, eyed Max suspiciously, and murmured some choice imprecations in Yiddish. Harry Levy entered the room and confronted Max, looking like a young doctor in his spotless white coat.
“Why... why are you here, Mr. Niemand? Didn’t... didn’t Mr. Rosen inform you of the... of the change in representation?” His nervous stutter appeared to have worsened.
“Yes, I spoke to Rosen.” Max glanced at the muttering cutters who immediately shut their mouths, averted their eyes and got back to work. "Can we go somewhere private?”
Levy frowned, nodded and said, “Follow me.”
Levy led Max to a small office located between the shop area and the cutting room. He closed the door but remained on his feet indicating he did not wish to engage in a long conversation. "I’ll ask again, Mr. Niemand. Why... why are you here?”
“OK, I’ll give it to you straight. You came to me looking for help. Your kid brother’s in serious trouble. I referred you to the best criminal lawyer in town and began an investigation. I’ve already got leads, Mr. Levy. With a little time and some money I believe I can clear your brother.”
Levy smiled wryly and adopted a sarcastic tone. "I see, Mr. Niemand. You need time and... and money. Please submit all... all your legitimate expenses incurred thus far to Mr. Rosen. Our lawyers will see to it that you are reimbursed in due course.”
Max noticed the emphasis on "legitimate.” "That’s damned nice of you, Levy. You bet they’ll reimburse me and in a timely fashion. In the meantime, what about Benny? Are you going to let your brother take the fall for a crime he didn’t commit?”
Levy’s hands shook. He stuck them in his coat pockets so Max would not notice. "I... I think you had better go, Mr. Niemand.”
Max stared hard at Levy. He could see beads of perspiration forming on the young man’s forehead and quivering upper lip. To hell with you, Harry. To hell with you and your whole damned family, he thought. "Very well, Mr. Levy. Goodbye and good luck.”
Max turned his back on Harry Levy and walked out the door.
* * *
The "L" car was almost empty. Max had a seat to himself. He travelled northwest toward the Robey Street station. He intended to stop at Otto’s to see if Dolan had a message from Weasel. Should he call off Weasel, dump the case and cut his losses? That might be the smart thing to do. On the other hand, the dope his informer turned up on Battaglia and Capucci could be worth considerably more than sixty bucks, aside from its usefulness in the Levy case.
Max pondered these matters as he stared out the window at the snow-covered rooftops, third and fourth story windows and black iron fire escapes flashing by. As they neared the Paulina Street station, Max noticed a reflection in the windowpane. A man seated a couple of rows back on the other side of the aisle glanced at him from behind a newspaper. He got on the Halsted street car near Levy’s shop, transferred to the Lake Street "L" and transferred again to the Northwest line.
Max decided to get off at Paulina rather than ride on to Robey Street. He walked to the vestibule at the back of the car and waited near the exit door. The man closed his newspaper and followed at a discreet distance. He’s tailing me, all right, Max thought. Max grabbed a brass handrail to steady himself.
The car lurched into the station with squealing brakes and flickering lights, causing the man behind him to stumble and catch hold of a strap. The pneumatic door slid open with a loud hiss. Max stepped out of the car and dashed up the platform to the exit turnstile; he could hear footsteps beating on the weathered planks behind him. He raced down the stairs, two steps at a time, ran to the newsstand and ducked behind the counter. From a crouch, he looked up at old Ivan the vendor. Max smiled and put a finger to his lips. Ivan winked and nodded.
The man turned a corner on the first landing, ran down the last short flight of stairs, stopped suddenly and glanced in all directions. Puffing with exertion, he ran to the newsstand.
He took a moment to catch his breath before saying, “Did you see a man come through here a moment ago?” The pursuer added a quick description of Max.
Ivan answered, “Yeah, sure. I see man.” He pointed toward the station entrance. "He ran out to street like bat from hell.”
The man turned and sprinted out onto Paulina Street. A moment later, Ivan said. "OK, Max. All clear. You get up, now.”
Max thanked Ivan and got a good description of his shadow: about six feet tall, medium build, fair, light brown mustache, smooth face, no scars, about thirty. Well dressed in brown derby, silk scarf and tan, camel hair overcoat. A toffee-nosed voice Max would remember.
Max handed Ivan four bits, walked upstairs to the cashier, and took the next train to Robey Street.
* * *
Max and Jimmy Dolan met at their usual spot in a quiet corner of Otto’s bar.
“So, there’s some bird on your tail, and from the description you say he’s too well-dressed and obvious to be a dick?”
Max shook his head and frowned. "He’s an amateur, Jimmy. Why such a guy would be shadowing me, I couldn’t say. At least, he ought to have enough sense to back off now that I’m wise to his game. If he doesn’t, I’ll have to talk to him.”
Jimmy nodded in the affirmative and sipped his beer. He wiped a fleck of foam from his mustache with the back of his hand. After a moment he said, “All right, Max. I’ll keep an eye out for him, and so will Otto.”
“Thanks, Jimmy. Now what’s the word from Weasel?”
“He’ll meet you, same time same place tomorrow night. From what I gather, it’ll be worth your while. But what about that guy tailing you? Do you want to change the meeting place?”
Max thought a moment before saying, “If he’s dumb enough to follow me after tonight, I’ll spot him, collar him and make him wish he hadn’t.”
“OK, Max. You’ll be on Riley’s beat. The old fella’s less than a year from his pension. Don’t make trouble for him. The shock of it might take him before his time.”
Max laughed. "Good old Riley. Let’s drink to him.” He signaled to Otto for another round of beers. After they were served, Max added, “As long as Weasel keeps up his end, Riley ought to have nothing to worry about.”
Jimmy pushed up his helmet and thoughtfully scratched his forehead. Then he took a swig of beer before saying, “I suppose you’re right, Lieutenant. But then, being the worrier has kept me alive on the streets since you was in knee pants.”
Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder
