Chicago Max
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 12: Reunion in Little Hell
part 2
The midnight sky over Little Hell resembled a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. Flames belched upward from the towering gasworks chimneys, igniting the purple horizon with streaks of yellow, red and orange. The ice-clogged river might have been the Styx on the day hell froze over.
Max approached the iron and timber swing bridge from the island side docks, having crossed the North Branch on the Division Street car. As he neared his destination, Max discerned the outlines of the Potawatomi’s masts and funnels rising up from the shadows on the other side of the lattice-work bridge. Despite the biting cold, he kept his coat open. His revolver was holstered for a fast, well-rehearsed butt-forward cross-draw. He hoped he would not have to use it.
The Department assigned patrolmen to Little Hell as punishment; a cop’s survival depended on avoiding certain places on Goose Island, especially after dark. This was such a place, which was one of the reasons Ed had chosen it. The dockside appeared deserted. Max sharpened his eyes and his ears as he walked slowly up the wooden pier.
The rumbling of freight trains near and far and the haunting shrieks of their steam whistles pierced the night, while a pervasive din shook the immediate area. The resounding noise came from the gas house furnaces where coal was fed into ovens and mixed with river water, making gas that lit numerous streets, houses and apartments, providing warmth in winter and cooking thousands of meals. Massive tanks stored the surplus.
During the Great Fire, neighborhood residents fled to the island to escape the encroaching flames; many dropped to their knees and prayed that the conflagration would not reach the storage tanks and gas house. Fortunately, the fire missed the gas works altogether, sparing Goose Island’s refugees and inhabitants, including Max and his family.
As he passed underneath the bridge, Max spotted an entrance to the nearby warehouse. The door was set back a couple of feet from the pier, his view of the doorway blocked by the red brick wall. The tips of a pair of shiny black Oxfords protruded from the entryway. A puff of vapor escaped from the recessed shelter; it hung in the air like a tiny cloud in the midnight sky.
Max walked toward the mooring hawser and stanchions at the Potawatomie’s rusty stern to reconnoiter the entrance from a better perspective. From this vantage point, shoes, trousers, overcoat and a dark Homburg appeared in his line of sight. His right hand reached under his coat; his fingertips caressed the butt-end of the Smith & Wesson.
Ed Mahoney came out into a beam of light cast by an electric lamp on the bridge. He took a cigarette from his mouth and rolled it between his fingers. “It’s me, Max. Don’t worry; we’re alone. Come on over.”
Max removed his hand from beneath his overcoat and walked a few paces toward his former friend. Ed looked spruce; the velvet-collared chesterfield coat was an especially nice touch. They were the same age, but Ed’s pale, clean-shaven face and bright blue eyes made him seem boyish compared to his old pal. However, there was an ugly scar on Ed’s right cheek, a memento of a back-alley brawl Max remembered well. Max had saved Ed’s life that day, a debt that could never be fully repaid and something the ambitious gangster had always resented.
Max walked a few paces toward Ed before returning the greeting. “Hello, Ed. It’s been a while. How’s business?”
Ed grinned, the scar lending a sinister aspect to his smile. “Couldn’t be better, Max.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the doorway. “Let’s go back there where it’s not so out in the open.”
Max followed Ed to the arched entrance. They stepped up onto a concrete stoop where there was enough room for two. Max declined the offer of a cigarette and got down to business. “Vi told me you had something for me. I assume it’s important. What’ve you got?”
Ed looked down at his shoes. He was either embarrassed or faking it well. He took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled and looked back at Max. “Vi’s a swell girl. I hope you ain’t sore. I mean you won’t hold it against me, will you?”
Max shrugged. “It was already over between me and Vi. I was looking for a way out. You gave it to me. Does that answer your question?”
Ed nodded and smiled with relief. “Thanks. I’m glad we got that out of the way.” He looked around before turning back to Max. “This place brings back memories, don’t it? Our first big job. We were real close back then, like brothers.”
Max shook his head and frowned. “Yeah, brothers. Just like Cain and Abel. What gives, Ed? I’m cold, and it’s been a long day.”
“OK, I’ll give it to you straight. You’re still investigating Moe Weinberg’s death. Most people want the case closed. I say most; that don’t mean everyone.”
“OK, Ed. I’m listening.”
“Who do you think killed Weinberg?”
“I’m not sure, but Bugsy Battaglia and Vito Capucci are high on my list.”
Ed took one more drag on his smoke before dropping it on the concrete stoop. “You may be on the right track. Let’s assume they iced Moe. Do you know why?”
Max shook his head. “I have an idea or two. Come on, Ed. Let’s not play games. You got me here for a reason. Out with it.”
“All right, Max. Ike hired the wops to do a job he didn’t want his own boys involved with. I figure they rubbed out Moe and got lucky with the Levy kid being there. It wasn’t a planned frame-up. He was at the wrong place at the wrong time with a convenient murder weapon. Then Vito and Bugsy iced Weasel when they learned he was poking his nose in their business. I guess Weasel was working for you. Am I wrong?”
Max did not answer. Instead, he asked, “Who tipped off Vito and Bugsy about Weasel?”
“Sorry, Max. I couldn’t say.”
Max stared at Ed for a moment before continuing. “Why did Ike go after Weinberg?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you find out?”
“I could try, but then I might wind up like Weasel. What’s it worth to you?”
“It’s worth something, Ed. But I’m on a budget. I’m afraid I couldn’t pay your price.”
“I might do it as a favor to an old pal. Of course, I’d want something in return: favor for favor.”
Max grinned and raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What sort of favor, old pal?”
“I don’t give a damn about the Jew Levy, but Battaglia and Capucci are with the enemy. If you can take them down for killing Moe and Weasel, that’s fine with me. And there’s another thing: Ike’s getting old; the North Side’s ripe for a change. If Ike were to go down with the dagos... Well, you see how it is.”
“I see. If Ike falls, you’ll be there to pick up the crown.”
“You got a nice way of putting things, sort of poetic. I guess you picked it up from them books that settlement house dame gave you.”
Max glared at Ed. “Keep her out of this.”
Ed had touched a nerve. Everyone from the old neighborhood knew about Max and the judge’s daughter, but no one dared say anything about it to his face. He tried to laugh it off. “No offense, Max. I was just paying you a compliment, is all. You improved yourself. I admire that. I believe in getting some class and climbing the ladder of success, just like you.”
“Not like me, Ed. Years ago I got on the right side of the law. You went a different way.”
“Come on, Max. This is Chicago. There’s no right and wrong, just winners and losers. Me, I like to win.”
Max calmed down and did some thinking. He could use Ed for the time being, and lose him later on. In that regard, he and Ed were very much alike. “All right, Ed. What can you do for me, and what do you want in return?”
“I already confirmed your suspicions about Bugsy, Vito and Ike. I make no promises, but I may be able to find out why Ike hired them to kill Weinberg. As for what I want in return...” He paused a moment and stroked his scar as if in deep thought. The wound reminded him of the debt he owed Max. “I told you about my plans for the future. You’re an up-and-comer, too. There’ll be times when it’s to our mutual advantage to work together. In other words, let’s renew our friendship. Will you shake on it?” Ed removed a glove and held out his hand.
Max looked down and noticed an enormous sparkler on Ed’s ring finger. Just like Big Jim, he thought. He took off his glove, and shook hands flesh to flesh.
As they put on their gloves, Ed muttered, “Damn, it’s cold. How about something to warm us up?”
“OK, Ed.” Max watched Ed unbutton his coat and reach into a pocket. In these close quarters, Max doubted Ed would risk pulling a weapon, but he always remained alert for the unexpected.
Ed pulled out a silver flask. He offered it to Max. “This is something special. A toast to our renewed friendship.”
Max smiled wryly. “You first, pal.”
“Me first? All right, Max.” Ed opened the cap, lifted the flask and said, “To us.” He took a snort, then wiped his lips on his sleeve and handed the flask to Max.
Max said “To us,” swallowed a shot and handed the whiskey back. “That’s good stuff. I don’t think I’ve tasted anything like it.”
Ed returned the flask to his pocket and buttoned up his overcoat. “That’s twenty-year old barrel-aged whiskey imported from Scotland. That’s what the lords and gents drink. Nothing’s too good for us, right?”
“Yeah, right. I guess it’s time we break this up. How will we keep in touch?”
“We can pass messages through Vi. She’s reliable.”
“OK, we’ll use Vi. But for the love of God, Ed, not at four-thirty in the morning.”
Ed laughed. “Sure, pal. Not at four-thirty.”
They split up: Ed went up the pier in the direction of the North Avenue bridge, while Max went the other way toward Division Street. On his way back to the cars Max thought, Was this a smart move or a blunder? After a few minutes’ consideration, he gave up. The question could only be answered over time.
Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder
