Chicago Max
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 16: Max’s Demons
part 2
This was a rare mid-winter day when the mercury rose above freezing. A cold drizzle poured down from an overcast sky. The splattering drops mixed with melting slush and snow, turning the sidewalks and streets into rivulets of gray slop. Max rang the doorbell at the Pine Avenue house. He could see Mrs. Johnson spying on him from behind a curtain in a second-floor window next door.
A peephole in the thick oak door slid open. A sweet, soprano voice asked cautiously, “What do you want?”
Max looked through the peephole. All he could see was a pair of wide, blue eyes. He smiled and lifted his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Iverson. I’m a friend of Oliver Parr. I have a business proposition, something lucrative and to your advantage. May I come in and explain?”
“Business? What kind of business?”
“I represent a select group of collectors of fine art photography and the new medium of cinematography, too. I’ve heard you deal in that sort of thing. My clients are prepared to pay quite handsomely for your services.”
“You say you know Ollie?”
“Oh yes, Miss. We’re old chums.”
“Just a minute.” Locks clicked and two heavy bolts slid. The door opened halfway. Max got a whiff of fine French perfume and a look its wearer.
Nora Iverson was a blonde, blue-eyed porcelain doll wrapped in a red silk kimono, standing just a tad over five-feet two inches tall in her high-heeled mules. Her painted rosebud lips parted, revealing rows of even pearly whites. She was sugar and spice laced with prussic acid. One of her soft white hands held a semi-automatic pistol pointed straight at Max’s head.
“So you’re one of Ollie’s pals, and you want to do business? Well, I don’t know you from Adam. So, until we are better acquainted, I hope you don’t mind if I keep this gat pointed in your direction. I’ll do business, if you’re on the level. But a girl’s got to protect herself from all the grifters and degenerate cockroaches crawling round this town.”
Max smiled and respectfully removed his hat. “A nice little weapon, Miss Iverson. A Colt 1903 Pocket Hammerless. Quite effective at close range, although they do have a tendency to jam if you don’t handle them right.”
Nora grinned slyly. “Do you deal in guns, too, Mister... I don’t think I caught your last name?”
“Just Max will do for now, Miss Iverson. Some folks call me ‘Chicago Max.’ I’ve dealt in many things in the course of my career, guns included. But I’m here to talk about art, not weapons. Would you mind not pointing that thing at me? It makes me nervous. Of course, you may hold on to it, if it helps you feel secure.”
She lowered the pistol but kept it ready at hand. “All right, Max. But no funny stuff, or I won’t hesitate to plug you.”
“Understood, Miss Iverson.”
“You can call me Nora.”
“Thanks, Nora. Are you ready to talk business?”
She lifted the pistol and motioned toward a room halfway down the entrance hall. “We’ll be more comfortable in the parlor. But take off your galoshes first. I don’t want you tracking crap on my clean carpets.”
Max left his galoshes, overcoat and hat in the vestibule and followed Nora to the back parlor. Fresh cut greenhouse flowers in Chinese porcelain vases perfumed the air in the windowless room. A cut-velvet upholstered sofa and matching chairs surrounded a coffee table. A pair of canaries twittered in a gilt cage. An Edison talking machine and several cylinders in cardboard tubes rested on a chintz-covered table next to the birdcage. An upright piano occupied a corner on the opposite side of the parlor.
“I see you’re a music lover, Nora. I admire your taste.”
She glanced at the phonograph and the piano and smiled. “A girl’s got to amuse herself on these long, lonely winter evenings.” She pointed her pistol at a chair next to the coffee table. “Take a load off, Max.”
He sat down, crossed his legs and made eye contact with an ingratiating smile. Nora sat on the sofa across from Max. She placed the Colt on the seat cushion next to her and crossed her legs in unconscious imitation of her visitor.
The kimono parted and hiked up, revealing a pair of petite but shapely legs in sheer silk stockings, frilly garters, and the bottom of her lace-trimmed panties. She noticed the spark of interest in his eyes, frowned in response and covered up with an ostentatious display of false modesty.
She pointed to a decanter and glasses on the table. “Care for a drink?”
“No, thank you. It’s a bit early for me.”
“How about a smoke?”
Max shook his head. “No thanks.”
“Well, I suppose you won’t mind if I indulge?”
“Please do.”
She poured a double and took a cigarette out of a silver case. Max said, “Allow me,” leaned over the table and gave her a light.
Nora held his hand to steady the match, and released her grip with a teasing brush of her fingers. She relaxed with her smoke and drink. After a moment, she asked, “All right, Max; what’s the deal?”
“My clients would like to hire a pair of attractive young ladies to pose for artistic photographs. They’re prepared to pay handsomely.”
“How handsomely?”
“What would you say to five hundred dollars for a two-hour session?”
The calculating wheels turned behind the wide blue eyes. “That depends on what your artistic gents have in mind. For example, do they want the girls to pose in their underwear or raw?”
“Both, I should think.”
“I see. Do they want them to act lovey-dovey?”
“I believe they would. Tastefully, of course.”
Nora took a puff on her cigarette and grinned like an evil Persian kitty. “But of course. Anything else?”
Max thought of Prescott Fielding. “One of the gentleman is interested in discipline.”
Nora took a deep drag and exhaled a cloud in Max’s direction. “Discipline, huh. You mean whipping, spanking, bondage, that sort of thing?”
Max nodded in the affirmative.
Nora eyed him curiously for a moment before saying, “Simulated or real?”
“I believe this particular gentleman would like to photograph the real thing.”
She paused an instant before saying, “That’ll cost plenty, Max.”
“Do you mean more than five hundred?”
“Double.”
“One thousand dollars?”
“That’s the price for what your particular gent wants.”
Max frowned and rubbed his chin thoughtfully before saying, “That’s a great deal of money.”
“Yes, it is, but that’s what it’ll cost. After all, we’re taking the risk of damage to our goods. Does your client have the jack?”
“Oh, he has it, all right. But...” He paused for effect before continuing. “See here, Nora, could we cut Oliver out of this deal? I mean just make it between us. That way there’ll be more in it for you and me.”
“That’d be awfully risky. If Oliver found out, we’d both be up shit’s creek. And it ain’t just Oliver who’s involved.”
“Oh, I see. Who else gets a share?”
“There’s his boss lady, Countess Brumstone, and Ike Burns. I suppose you’ve heard of him?”
“Yes, I have. The North Side boss. I didn’t know his arm stretched all the way out here.”
“He owns this place, but someone’s fronting for him. Anyways, I don’t ask questions. It ain’t healthy.”
“I see. But why should anyone know about our little arrangement? After all, I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Her calculating wheels kept spinning. “It’ll be harder for me to find the girls. I won’t be going through the usual suppliers. It’ll cost your client more than a grand.”
“How much?”
“Fifteen hundred.”
Max made a show of registering shock before saying, “I think I can manage it, provided you can assure my clients that the girls will do anything they want.”
“For fifteen hundred, I’ll guarantee it. Anything short of murder, that is.”
He again thought of Fielding. He wanted to ask her about the rich man’s relationship with Nan Evans, the incidents at the Everleigh Club and The Gardenia. Did she know anything about Battaglia and Capucci? Weinberg and Weasel’s murders? If she clammed up, he could grab the Colt and point it at her cute little nose. He could beat the truth out of her. Instead, he decided to play it cagey. “OK, I’ll try to get fifteen hundred. And remember, not a word of this to anyone.”
“My lips are sealed. If this gets out, we’re both dead.”
Max grinned. Greed trumps fear. “Don’t worry, baby. I believe this could be the beginning of a mutually beneficial friendship. Now, I’ll need a telephone number where I can reach you.”
She got up and walked over to a secretary, wrote a number on a piece of paper, came back and handed it to him. “Here’s mine, Max. Can I have yours?”
“I’m afraid not. I move around too much. Don’t worry; I’ll call you within the next few days.” He got up as though he were about to leave.
“Must you go so soon? It’s crappy outside.” She pushed her soft body against his, reached up and stroked his cheek. “How about one for the road to seal our bargain? It’s good stuff; imported. Oliver’s crazy about it.”
He looked down at the artfully painted and powdered face and grinned. I could use another shot of the Earl’s Scotch with a taste of this doll for a chaser. He toyed with a blonde curl hanging down over her forehead. “All right, baby. I guess I can spare a half hour, more or less.”
Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder
