by PJ Eiden
His mind flashed back to Halsted Street. How many of his men were down back there?
With the accelerator pressed to the floor, Hank focused on the rearview mirror. The headlamps behind him faded, but the searing heat in his abdomen wasn’t going away. Hank slapped the gun down on the seat beside him. How are these thugs still getting our delivery routes? We change them every week!
Easing his grip on the gun, Hank reached across to work his shirt loose from his trousers. The pain came from his left side with blood bubbling out just above his belt line.
As the car forged ahead, the motor began to ping and clatter. Steam erupted from the sides of the engine compartment leaving an unnatural haze in the car’s wake. Inside, the fetid smell of hot oil and overheated metal began to turn the air toxic. Hank coughed and choked but was even more concerned about a sudden drop in his speed. Something was wrong under the hood.
Despite the burning in his left side, Hank trained his eyes on the roadway while he kept himself propped up against the interior of the door. His hand trembled as he reached to twist the mirror in his favor. He took a corner at Willow Street and drove the messed-up Lincoln into a dated neighborhood. He cut the motor and rolled the sedan into the shadows near a large tree. Thankfully, Chicago had never been good at street lighting. The radiator kept on steaming from an assortment of bullet holes.
The street was as still as midnight. Hank stared beyond the windshield at the pale glow coming through stained-glass windows. As he opened the car door, empty brass shell casings rolled off the running boards and scattered on the ground.
Hank limped across the sidewalk and labored up the stone steps to make his way inside the old church.
Two elderly widows dressed in black were leaving the sanctuary. They paused near the granite holy water font to wait for Hank who was leaning over it. He muttered an apology and dipped his right hand in the cool water. A crimson stain radiated out from his thick fingers. One of the widows cinched her grip on her friend’s arm and pulled her friend away. Hank took a seat among the empty pews.
Father Whelan, a middle-aged Irish priest with wavy chestnut hair and graying sideburns, made his way from the confessional booth to the dark figure seated alone in the back of the church. As he approached, there was a sense of urgency in his native brogue. “I’m taking confessions tonight and I can hear yours if you like before I close up.” Hank lifted his head from the seat back of the pew in front of him. The priest recognized the familiar face, but his smile soon faded. Hank rose, turned away from the holy man, and headed back toward the entrance.
Hank paused at the door, easing it open a crack. A police car passing on the street slowed alongside the wounded sedan, shining a spotlight. Brake lights came on and both doors of the police car flew open. An officer emerged from the car, a gun in hand. Parked over a puddle of brass, the Lincoln was peppered with bullet holes. He twisted the driver’s door handle and pulled it open. He holstered his sidearm and reached inside. From the car’s seat, he took the submachine gun by the front grip and backed out with it raised in the air like a trophy.
Inside the church, a voice came from the shadows. “You know Henry, your father used to talk to me about things when he was alive. We could talk, too, if you like.”
Hank slid his hand inside his suit jacket, reaching for a holstered thirty-eight caliber pistol. Drawing the revolver, he turned toward the priest, thrusting it into his stomach.
Father Whelan winced and grabbed at the gun with both hands. “Why Henry? What have I done to you?”
Hank froze and stared at the white collar of the priest’s shirt. His hand began to tremble. He eased his grip on the revolver and moaned, “I can’t do it!”
Father Whelan exhaled a deep breath. His heart was pounding as he held the pistol that could have taken his life.
“My name is Hank! People now call me Hank.”
A doubting look came over the holy man’s face, and he shook his head. “Are you sure your name isn’t The Hammer as in triggerman? I’ve been told it’s your nickname now.” Father Whelan looked down at the gun. He noticed the thick blood on his hands.
Hank groaned.
“Henry, you’ve been shot!” The priest took a small step back and noticed a dark stain showing inside Henry’s suitcoat. “Where are you hit? Maybe, I can help.”
Hank reached over and took the pistol back before he slumped against the wall.
The priest stepped to the door, locked the heavy bolt, and turned the lights off inside the church. He hugged Henry beneath his arms and helped him walk. In the dim light of the church candles, they made their way toward the priest’s study off one side of the altar area. “Henry, you may not know this, but when I served as a chaplain during the war in Europe, I was also a stretcher-bearer. I patched up many gunshot wounds back in those days. I keep an old bag with medical supplies here at the church.”
Hank turned his head to consider the man laboring to help him.
As they limped into the complete darkness of the study room, Father Whelan supported Henry with one arm and swept his other over the top of a wooden table, knocking various books and papers off. He helped Henry take a seat on the table’s edge. “Stay here now. I’ll be right back.” Hank rested while the priest retrieved a burning candle and a pile of white worship cloths from the sanctuary. He stepped to a set of wall cabinets and collected a kerosene lantern along with a tattered leather postal bag. The priest set them down next to Henry. He lit the old oil lamp and moved it around next to the wound.
“Let’s get you out of your coat and shirt, so I can see the damage.”
Hank struggled to slip his coat off.
“The pistol holster will have to go too.”
Hank stared at the priest. He wondered whether the holy man was merely attending to injuries or trying to take his weapon.
The priest used one of the linens to dab away the thickening blood around a pair of bullet wounds. White cotton cloths turned red as he worked his way into the torn flesh. The holy man strained to examine the wounds. “Based on what I can see, Henry, everything down there looks like blood. Are you packing a four-leaf clover? It doesn’t look like you have serious internal damage.”
The stoic look on Hank’s face didn’t change.
“I’m not a surgeon, but I can stitch things shut to stop the bleeding. I’ll pray for healing. Within a day, you’ll need some bromine to fight wound fever. The fever is what got most soldiers who died on the battlefields in Europe.”
The priest opened a locked cabinet with bottles of dark-colored wine. Each had a special prohibition permit label for sacramental-use-only pasted over the corked end. He placed a full bottle on the table. “Sorry, I don’t have anything stronger. Drink plenty because this is going to hurt!”
Hank watched the priest sigh as he pulled the postal bag closer. “Just get on with it. I can take it.” Hank broke the sealed label on the bottle and pulled the stop loose with his teeth before taking a deep draw.
Father Whelan opened the leather case and took out a roll of gauze, a can of powder, a half-filled glass vial, needles, scissors, and some surgeon’s thread. He arranged them out near the end of the table and began to sterilize a needle with a lit match. “Henry, please lie down.”
Hank handed the wine bottle back to the priest and rolled on his side. The priest helped him swing his legs up on the table.
“While I work, why don’t you spill it? Tell me how this happened.”
Hank took his time responding. “Why? Are you trying to distract me, or stealing a confession?”
The holy man pulled a chair close to the table’s edge.
“The Chicago pouring business isn’t exclusive for that Italian, Torrio, and his underling Capone.” The gangster was eager to point out the moral differences between the rival gangs. “North of the river, we play the same game, but we do it with integrity. Earning our l
iving the old-fashioned way, we won’t sell coffin varnish from polluted bathtub stills or flavored industrial alcohol. We only sell genuine quality products made to drink. We don’t poison people as you read in the newspaper headlines.”
Father Whelan nodded. The story was a good diversion for the lack of morphine.
“We respect boundaries. Torrio’s hoodlums parade on the southside without interference.” Hank took several deep breaths. “Father, but they’ve turned their streets into sewers of sin. Nothing is sacred or off limits! They even use women for a money-making business.”
Hank paused to catch his breath. “They own over a hundred brothels. To them, humans aren’t worth anything. No more value than a racehorse or a dog. They use them up and kidnap more immigrants coming off the boats next week. Those women are vulnerable.”
Henry gasped at the pain. His instincts made him reach for the wounds.
“Hold on now.” Father Whelan took Henry by the wrists and pulled his hands back. “Sorry, but you must stay out of the way. Try gripping the table’s edge.”
Father Whelan slid his wire-framed glasses back up through perspiration beads forming on his nose. His forehead wrinkled as he peered at the details of the damaged flesh.
Hank took in a slow deep breath. “The hatred grew with prohibition. Today, Chicago knows the crime bosses share mutual loathing.
“This is far more than bickering over neighborhoods and taverns. The venom between Johnny Torrio, the brains of the southside, and my boss, Dean O’Banion, runs deep. They go back and forth from war to peace. Like schoolyard children, the two will play nice for a while and later get in a shoving match over something trivial like who gets the best seats at the ball game. Egos can be a powerful invisible force. Behind the scenes, we’re always scheming on how to get rid of Torrio.”
The priest almost couldn’t contain himself. He wanted to lecture Henry on the sin of taking lives and the virtues of forgiveness. He hesitated, thinking it more important to keep the mobster talking.
“The southside crew operates out of pure gluttony and madness. The Torrio mob right now has more money and power than the Roman Empire, but they still want what’s on everyone else’s plates too! The rats have barged in up here, trying to take our Gold Coast. You know where the rich folks live. They want the whole city.”
The priest’s gaze was fixed on Hank’s face now.
Hank continued, “They will learn. We don’t tolerate trespassers. We’ll send their mothers some nice flowers if you know what I mean. If we can keep a lid on it, they make nice luggage for an evening drive to the woodlands.”
Father Whelan closed his eyes for a few moments. He shuddered at the thought of the hellish violence so common in Henry’s business.
It was time to stretch the skin back together and stitch things shut. “Henry, this last step will be punishing pain. Hang with me, this is going to feel like I’m pouring salt in your wounds.”
Hank moaned. “Shittttt! You aren’t kidding! Is that needle actually a big rusty nail?” He took a few shallow breaths and propped himself up enough to drink hard from the wine bottle. Then he settled back on the table.
The suturing resumed. Hank’s face distorted, and he clenched his teeth together. He mumbled while trying to keep his mouth closed, “I need to tell you about my threats from John Scalise and Alberto Anselmi.” Hank’s words trailed off into groans.
The priest prepared another length of surgeon’s thread. He took no pleasure in this punishment, even for a mobster. “Sorry, I tried to warn you this would hurt.” Father Whelan paused when it hit him. “Oh, my Lord, did you say Scalise and Anselmi? Aren’t they the pair of assassins they call the Murder Twins?”
Hank studied the figure of Christ on the wooden cross hanging on the wall. Next to it was a frame with a tattered photo of a youth rugby team. He closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled a long breath while he considered his response.
“Yes, they’re the notorious murderers.”
The priest set the needle down and stared into Henry’s swollen eyes. “How in the world did you get tangled up with such dangerous men?”
Until now, Hank had been in denial about the threat. He was a man with a brave exterior, a solid rock for his underlings, and struggled to share with anyone the terror he felt. Hank couldn’t keep it to himself anymore. He had to tell the story. “It just happened, Father. I don’t deserve to be a marked man, but I am.”
The priest was wary about alarming Henry, but he wanted him to understand the gravity of the situation. “Henry, you’re not just marked. You’re being hunted by the worst of Satan’s demons!”
Hank swallowed hard.
“Hide here a few days until they forget about you.”
Hank shook his head. “No. No, they will never forget what I did to them.”
The priest shook his head and tried to understand. “Why not? What do they think you’ve done?”
Hank looked away.
A couple of long minutes passed and neither man spoke. Hank took several slow breaths. He opened his eyes and watched the flickering light patterns on the ceiling. “This started the last time I tried a legitimate gig. A friend of mine told me about the Oliver Sharpe Company on west Thirty-Fifth Street. You might know the area. They are part of the big manufacturing complex. They have almost a thousand employees working there doing printing work like bookbinding.”
Hank continued, “Some months ago, thieves broke in during the night and blew the safe open in the payroll clerk’s office. They made off with twenty-thousand dollars!”
Father Whelan considered his words before he began. “Henry, you know in the book of Psalms, it says, ‘Surely men of low degree are vanity, and men of high degree are a lie: to be laid in the balance, they are altogether lighter than vanity. Trust not in oppression, and become not vain in robbery: if riches increase, set not your heart upon them.’ Henry, did you have something to do with this robbery?”
Hank glared at Father Whelan. “Thank you, but no, it’s quite the opposite.”
The priest finished stitching the wounds.
“Henry, do you hear something?” The pounding on the rectory door was faint at first.
The pounding became louder and more urgent. Father Whelan wiped the last of the blood from his hands with an altar cloth and rolled his sleeves down. “I’d better go to the door.”
Shielding the flame of the candle he carried, he made haste through the hallway to the residential entry. The pounding grew more intense. “Just a minute, I’m on my way!”
Chapter 4
The Office
Two weeks prior in an upscale neighborhood, well-polished shoes trod the sidewalks of Huron Street after 5:00 p.m. as men in tailored suits and women in sensible heels pushed their way into The Office. The gin joint was a modest midtown affair with ample tables, service over a spotless bar, a long wall of unread books parked on shelves, a display case of White Owl cigars, and a small stage for entertainment. The low chandeliers seemed to coax after-work crowds to settle the unfinished business of the day from a plush lounge chair. The watering hole had become a haven for working women to express their independence by purchasing an after-work drink.
Rachel Hilson paraded in past a throng of admiring men who ogled her with glossy eyes. She took a seat at a table in the back next to her coworker, Evelyn Smith. “Evie, why do you always do this?”
Evelyn smiled with satisfaction, knowing exactly what she’d been accused of. “What do you mean, dear friend? Didn’t I agree to meet you here to grab a drink after work?”
Rachel grinned at her sophisticated pal. “You did. But you always slip into one of the back tables so you can listen to jazz.”
Evelyn paused while the saxophone player on stage finished a long wavering tone. She gestured toward the performer. “You see? What could be better? Doesn’t this guy sound amazing? I get lost in the way
he improvises. You never hear the same thing twice.”
Rachel shook her head. “There’s no problem with his music. It’s quite fine. But we could be hanging out with some of those rich-looking guys standing at the bar and listening from over there!”
Evelyn’s brow furrowed. “No, they would be a distraction, and we don’t know them, do we? They might be criminals looking to kidnap us.”
Rachel smirked. “Would it be so bad if a rich guy were to steal you away to his castle on a hill somewhere?”
Evelyn smiled. “Rachel, remember, we are in Chicago. There aren’t many castles or even hills around here. Most of these guys are probably hourly wage workers, just like you and me.”
“Oh, you know what I mean, Evie. Let’s have a cocktail before we head for home.”
The musician finished with his set, tidied his music case, and stepped off the stage to pack it for the door. On his way out, he passed near the table. Evelyn reached out and touched his coat sleeve. “Hello, I have to tell you how much I enjoyed your session. You have an amazing way with a brass horn.”
The musician paused for a moment. “Why thank you, it’s very kind of you to say.”
He noticed the curious lack of drinks on their table. “I should probably tell you, I don’t play as a profession or anything. I sneak up there in the afternoon sometimes before the real performers arrive.”
Evelyn couldn’t contain herself. “Really? You don’t play as a professional? You’re one of the best jazz players I’ve ever heard. I’m sure, you would make a fine living doing this.”
He smiled. “No, I don’t use sheet music or anything. I play whatever comes to me.”
“Wow! When will you be back? I’d like to hear you play again sometime.”
Rachel butted in, “Evelyn you’re certainly being bold today.”
Hank smiled and stared into Evelyn’s infectious blue eyes. “I would like that.”