Chicago Max

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 18: So Long, Vito

You’re safe on the North Side. Jimmy Dolan’s words ran through Max’s mind as he walked from Otto’s to his Wolcott Street apartment. You’re safe. What did that mean? The cops supported Ed’s planned takeover of Ike Burns’ territory. Did that include the West Side white slavery racket? Max did not think so. The winds of change are blowing out on the street, and the precinct’s behind it, from the cops on the beat up to the captain. Even a corrupt precinct drew the line somewhere.

Numbers, loan sharking, things like that could be squared. White slavery was out of bounds. But he guessed Ed knew. Moreover, if Ed had squared his planned coup with the cops, he must have gained the backing of at least one alderman. Time for another meeting with Ed.

The snow was still falling; white flakes swirled around the street lamps when he turned the corner onto Wolcott. As he walked down the block, he noticed something odd; the gas lamps near his apartment were out. He slowed his pace; his eyes scanned the area around the apartment building. About twenty feet ahead of him, an unlit passageway connected the street to the back alley. A dark figure emerged from the shadows.

It could be a neighbor or a visitor, but Max was not taking chances. No time to open his overcoat and draw his .38. He flicked the Derringer out of the sleeve holster into his palm. The dark figure drew something from his coat pocket and aimed.

Two shots broke the silence, like a couple of cherry bombs going off simultaneously at a Fourth of July picnic. A bullet ripped through the right side of Max’s overcoat, missing his flesh by a fraction of an inch. Max cocked the hammer for his second shot; he could not tell if the first shot hit or missed. His opponent tried to get off his second, but his gun jammed. Max did not hesitate; instead of firing his second barrel, he rushed the assassin. Unable to clear the jam, the man panicked, turned tail and fled up the passageway.

Max gained ground on the shooter as they streaked down the passage to the back alley. Dogs barked and lights went on in the second and third story windows as residents peered nervously through drawn-back curtains, blinds and shutters. The two runners pounded their boots through slush and snow. I’ve got him, Max thought. The alley came to a dead end before it reached Division Street.

Seeing the way forward blocked, the shooter veered to the right and dashed through another passage. When Max reached the passageway, he saw the man scrambling up a fire escape. He continued the pursuit four flights to the rooftop. The shooter scampered across the roof, with Max behind him. Max raised the derringer, but he did not want to risk another shot until he closed the distance. The man ran to the cornice and made a circus leap over the airshaft to the next building. Max kept after him and made the jump with room to spare.

The shooter panted and sucked air; he was running out of gas. Max was still fresh; he closed the distance and shouted, “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

The shooter kept going. With his last bit of strength, he made the leap off the roof toward the next building. Max saw the man disappear into the darkness; he held his fire. He heard a thud and a metallic creaking. When Max reached the cornice, he saw the man clinging to the gutter of the next building. The guttering was about to give way under the man’s weight.

The man turned his head and looked back over his shoulder. Frightened eyes stared at Max. “For Christ’s sake help me,” he cried. “I’m gonna fall.”

Max recognized Vito Capucci. “Who told you to kill me, Vito? Was it Bugsy’s idea?”

“Yeah, yeah. It was Bugsy. He put me up to it.”

“What about Weinberg, Weasel and Hills up in Milwaukee?”

“Bugsy did them all, I swear it.” The guttering creaked, groaned and began to give way. “Jesus! Oh, Mother of God! Can’t you do something?”

“Sorry Vito. I’ll say a prayer for you on your way down.”

The gutter fractured with the sound of snapping metal. Vito plunged screaming and flailing all the way to the concrete. Max looked down at the airshaft and saw the hoodlum’s broken body resting peacefully on the pavement.

* * *

Max sat facing Mueller on the other side of the Lieutenant’s file-strewn desk. Mike Sugrue leaned back against the corner of a wall partition in the cramped, tobacco smoke-filled office. He glanced back and forth between Max and Mueller while puffing on a stogie.

Outside, in the detectives’ room, some guy kept shouting “Long live anarchy!” and “Join the revolution, brothers!” Mueller grew irritated at the agitator’s ranting. Finally, he ordered: “Someone shut up that bum and get him out of here!”

The anarchist was seated in a chair with his hands cuffed behind his back. A burly detective walked over and sapped him. Two detectives dragged the unconscious man to the holding cells to the applause and whistles of both cops and common criminals.

“OK, Niemand,” Mueller said, “let’s go over your story one more time. You left Otto’s tavern around eight p.m. and headed straight for your apartment. Witnesses corroborate that. When you get near your building, you notice the streetlights out front are dark. You’re cautious and suspicious; you slow down and observe an individual coming out of a dark passageway adjacent to your apartment building that connects the street to the back alley.

“This raises your suspicions, so you whip out your back-up pistol, a sleeve-holstered double derringer, just in case. You see the guy go for his gun. You both fire and miss. His gun, an automatic, jams and you rush him. We can confirm both guns were only fired once. He flees and you pursue him intending to make a citizen’s arrest. So far, so good?”

“Right,” Max replied.

“The individual proceeds through the passage to the alley and turns right, north toward Division Street. But the alley dead-ends before it reaches Division. He veers right into a passageway and climbs a fire escape to the roof. You continue pursuit. He jumps across an airshaft to the roof of the adjacent building, and you follow. He slows down, like he’s tired, so you tell him to stop, or you’ll shoot, or words to that effect.” Mueller paused and waited for Max to comment.

“Correct.”

“All right, so he ignores the warning and tries to jump to the next building. You run over to the cornice and see him hanging by his hands from the gutter. It looks like the gutter is about to give way. The guy looks back at you and asks for help. You identify him as Vito Capucci. I’m with you up to this point.” He paused again as if waiting for another response.

“What do you mean by ‘up to this point’?”

Mueller squinted and scratched his stubbly chin. “I have no problem with your story except for what you call Vito’s ‘Dying Declaration.’ Run it by me again.”

Max sighed impatiently. “This is the third time, Mueller, but here goes. Vito was scared. He knew he was going to die. He begged me to help him, but he knew I couldn’t. I asked him if his pal, Bugsy Battaglia, had told him to kill me and he answered in the affirmative. Then I asked him about Moe Weinberg, Weasel and Bob Hills and he said Bugsy had killed them all. It was like a deathbed confession, and I’d testify as to what I heard him say. Actually, if you think about it, Vito wasn’t confessing to me.”

“Oh yeah?” Mueller said sarcastically. “Then who was he talking to? Only you and him were there.”

“He was talking to God.”

Mueller laughed. He turned to Mike Sugrue. “Did you hear that, Mike? Vito was talking to God. Ain’t that rich?”

Big Mike shrugged and kept puffing on his stogie.

Mueller turned his attention back to Max. “Listen, Niemand, I’m letting you go. As far as I’m concerned, you acted reasonably under the circumstances. As for Vito’s ‘Dying Declaration,’ deathbed confession, or whatever, I ain’t buying it. Unless you can produce God as your witness.”

Max smiled wryly. “Very funny, Mueller. So, you aren’t going to re-open the Weinberg investigation and pick up Battaglia for questioning?”

“Nope. Not on what you’ve given me.”

“I see. And what was Vito’s motive for killing me, if it wasn’t connected to my ongoing investigation?”

“There are lots of people in this town who want you dead. When you were in the department, you put the screws on plenty of guys in the South Side mob. Now that you’re off the force, I’ll bet some of them would like to take a shot at you.”

“So that’s how it is?”

“That’s how it is. You’re free to go.”

Max got up from his chair. “I’ll be back with more evidence,” he said.

“Any time, pal. My door’s always open to you.”

Max turned to Sugrue. “I’ll be seeing you, Mike.”

Sugrue took the stogie out of his mouth and said, “Take it easy, Max.”

“I’ll take it as it comes, Big Mike.” Max grabbed his hat and coat and walked out the door.

* * *

Vi stepped into Max’s office looking like a fashion mannequin in a State Street department store display. Here’s what the best-dressed young woman is wearing this season. The stale atmosphere freshened with an infusion of her pricey perfume. She struck a pose in front of his desk, like an advertisement for Ed Mahoney’s patronage. “I’ve a message from Ed,” she said with deadpan flatness.

Max got up, smiled warmly and said, “You look swell, Vi. Take a seat. Would you like some coffee? It’s fresh and hot.”

“No thanks. I’m in a hurry.”

“Suit yourself.” He sat and paused to light a cigar, as if to say: You may be in a hurry, but I’m not. He blew smoke at her before continuing, “OK, Vi. What does he want?”

“He’ll meet you at midnight tonight, same place as last time.”

“That’s it? Nothing more?”

“What more do you want?”

Max puffed on his cigar, looked down at his desktop and shuffled some papers before answering. “OK.”

Vi didn’t move. She stared at him. After a tense moment, Max looked up at her and said, “You’re still here? I thought you were in a hurry?”

The deadpan transformed into a worried frown. “You and Ed are playing a dangerous game.”

Max dropped the cigar in an ashtray and leaned back in his chair. He hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets and said, “What’s it to you if we are?”

“I’m worried about Ed.”

Max grinned slyly as his eyes scanned her elegant outfit. “I’ll bet you are. I can see he takes good care of you.”

“He knows how to treat a lady,” she snapped. “Not like some other guys of my acquaintance.”

“Some other guys, huh? There must have been quite a few.”

Her face reddened and her painted lips trembled. “Go to hell, Max.”

Max looked at her calmly before saying, “Guys like Ed and me live one day at a time. If you want security, marry a bookkeeper.”

She did not answer. Vi turned around and clomped out of the office in her expensive high-heeled boots.

Max shrugged and took another puff on his cigar. Then he marked his calendar to meet Ed Mahoney on Goose Island at midnight.

To be continued...

Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder