by PJ Eiden
“So, he doesn’t approve of your life’s work?”
“No, he wouldn’t approve if he knew about it.”
“So, how did you end up in this business?”
Nick plopped down in his chair. “Poor choices. For a while, I worked for a lumberyard on the southside. A couple of guys I knew there began doing some jobs on the side to make extra money. Before long, they didn’t need to work in the hot, dusty lumberyard anymore. The last time I saw them, they wore expensive suits with neckties and hung out with pretty girls.”
Hank nodded. “New question: If you worked for us, what would you do with the money?”
Nick pushed his chair back. “What I would do with my money is none of your business.”
Hank noticed the fire in his young associate’s face. “You’re right, but I want to know how long you plan to work?”
Nick thought this was out of line. It showed on his face. “At this age, I guess I don’t know. I assume it would be for a long time. This isn’t the type of regular job my dad has so it’s hard to say.
“How many more of these questions like this do you have?” Nick took his seat again.
“Just a few more.” Hank carried on, “So, who are your enemies?”
Nick stroked his forehead. “I don’t have any major enemies. The cops have been after me a few times, but I keep moving around so they won’t catch up with me.”
Hank studied Nick’s face. He appeared to be telling the truth. “Here’s the last question: How do you want to die?”
Nick bolted from the chair and it tipped over backward with a clatter. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
Hank wasn’t fazed by the drama. “Everyone thinks about it in this business. So how do you want to die?”
“I don’t! I’m not even thirty years old!”
Hank crossed his arms and pushed back in his chair. “This is a dangerous business, Nick. Men get killed on the Chicago streets every day now. If you join the crew, at some point, people will shoot at you. Are you going to shoot back or run off?”
“Look, I don’t have a bad temper, but if someone takes a shot at me, I’m pretty sure I will return the favor.” Nick stared at the creases in Hank’s face. “I mean if it’s the best option and all.”
He continued, “Now if you ask me to walk into a room filled with armed thugs who want to kill me, I’ll have second thoughts about your sanity.”
“Fair enough. It would be true for any of us. How well do you handle a gun?”
At this question, Nick’s face picked up some color. “While I wasn’t in the army, I’ve shot plenty of pistols and a rifle a few times.”
“I assumed you were too young to have served in Europe. I want you to practice shooting with the guys. You’ve got to be able to hold your own in a gun battle. I hope it doesn’t come down to this, but it is better to be prepared.”
Nick’s smile soon faded when Hank asked the next question. “Have you ever killed a man?”
Nick expected this to be part of the interview. “I’ve never felt the need.”
“But would the thought of taking lives bother your conscience?”
Nick stood up and stepped toward the sink. He paced back and forth a couple of times, staring out the window at the street. This was a deeper question. He rejoined Hank at the table. “I grew up going to church on Sundays and I felt the sting of the belt on my behind, so I know the Ten Commandments.”
“It appears you know right from wrong. Well, we don’t hire out as killers, but we do defend our part of the city and the business we’ve earned over the years. We don’t relish in taking lives, but it happens. If it bothers you, this isn’t your line of work.”
Hank wasn’t finished yet. “I don’t have a problem with men who have strong beliefs and may look down on this miserable business. You must be completely in on this if you work with me. Otherwise, you’ll be timid in a gun battle and others will exploit it. I’ve seen it happen before.
“Here’s an extra question, what terrible secrets do you have?”
Nick had a blank expression now. “Nothing, really. I had a girl back home I was sweet on. We were going to marry after school. Once we graduated, she picked someone else. I have a notion to go back there and make his life miserable somehow.”
“You sound pretty normal to me.” Hank laughed. “Why don’t you take your seat again, please. I want to tell you a few things about how I operate this gang.”
Nick took his place and pulled his chair in close to the table.
Hank led with the most popular topic. “First, I want everyone to share in the success of the business. For example, when we sell a load of liquor, I cut everyone in on a slice of the profit.”
Nick smiled.
Hank pushed on. “Don’t get too excited yet. When you’re new, this won’t be much, just some extra spending money. The more you contribute over time, the more your share of the pie grows.”
“It seems like a fair way to operate. I’ll work hard to earn my keep.”
“Great, Nick. We understand each other. There are a few more things. I like each guy to have his own plan. If you stay in the business long enough, there’s a fair chance you could die. So, if you join the crew, you need to put some money away for life after being a mobster. In other words, you need an exit plan. It works the best if there is someone you trust to give money to as you go. It has to be out of sight, waiting for you, if you need to retire on the spur of the moment.”
Nick looked bewildered. “I don’t know who I would trust completely. Maybe my folks, but they would ask too many questions. It might sound crazy, but I’ve always trusted my older sister.”
Hank nodded. “Would you still trust her even if she didn’t approve of how you earned the money?”
Nick scratched the back of his scalp. “Yes, she can keep secrets better than anyone I know.”
Hank added some notes in his notebook. “That might work.”
“We’re not saints, but we won’t sell women or drugs.”
Nick nodded.
“OK, I don’t want your answer now. I want you to think overnight about your stance on your willingness to take lives. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Nick had never had a deep conversation like this in his life, but he understood why, and he respected Hank for grilling him.
“You should head home now.”
Nick felt he had at least a fair chance of making the crew. He was curious about working for Hank. “Thanks, I appreciate the brutal honesty about what I might be getting into. You’re an unusual patriarch.”
“Hold on now!” Hank waived a finger in the air. “We don’t use those expressions around here.”
Nick was confused. “Why not? Aren’t you in charge of this mob crew?”
Hank nodded. “Most days, I feel like more of a circus master. But I’m just one of the guys, Nick. Yes, I make the decisions, but I’m certainly no better than any of them.”
The two shared a laugh.
Nick got up and turned for the door. “All right, I’ll speak with you tomorrow.”
It was quiet at the Clark Street rental when the morning sun brightened the window blinds. Rem was sitting up in the bed talking to the recruit. “So Nick, did Hank talk to you about his crime academy?”
Nick nodded. “I think so. Do you mean training with each of you guys on guns, driving, and other stuff?”
“Hank is as serious as a courtroom judge about training recruits. If you don’t have the skills, you won’t ride with us. Better pay attention, too. When you’re finished, he’ll put you through the wringer on everything you learned. If he doesn’t think you’ve got what it takes, he’ll send you packing. He’d rather see you find another job than to put lives at risk.”
“OK, OK, I get it. Man, he seems like a hard-nosed boss.” Nick tossed his hands in the air.
“There’s another side to Hank, too.”
“What do you mean, Rem?”
“He’s quite the musician. It may sound odd, but he looks at this gang like an orchestra. Each of us has a role to play, but he wants everyone to know how to play all the instruments in case someone has to leave the band.”
Nick was curious. “Why do you call him a musician?”
Rem tried to smile through the pain. “Oh, if you’re around here long enough, you’ll hear him on the brass horn.”
“The trumpet?”
“Oh, no. For Hank, it’s the saxophone—his true love.”
“Really? I never took him for the type with those thick fingers and all.”
Rem smirked. “None of us did. But don’t be fooled by thinking he’s an amateur. The man knows his way around swing music. Sometimes, he plays in little joints around this side of town. You should hear him.”
Chapter 7
The Academy
In an expanse of unused rural land twenty miles outside Chicago, the remnants of the overgrown drive were hard to discern from where it departed the dirt road. The broken-down fences, obscured by layers of vines, were clues leading to a farm site from the past. As Hank swung the car off the road and began to push through tall grass, underbrush scoured the sides of the car. He pointed toward the abandoned farmhouse and silo becoming visible through the trees. “We’re headed to those buildings back there.”
Hank turned toward Nick, smiled, and thumped his new man on the shoulder. “We’ve got the whole day here to work on skills. Are you ready for the crime academy?”
Nick had a concerned look on his face.
The weeds were knee-high around the house and the front door was hanging from a single top hinge. The breeze swung the door around like a lighthouse spotlight. The dull red paint on the barn appeared to be a final sunset on a pioneer’s dream. The horses and livestock were long gone, but an old plow remained parked in the tall grass next to the barn. The leathers on the plow were withered away and rust consumed the metal.
This place held a long-forgotten story of a family who toiled during the hard decades before the value of crops rose enough to make farming a viable business. In the late nineteenth century, people struggled to raise enough cattle to support a family. It was honest work, but it was filled with countless unforeseen losses, livestock disease, and financial disasters. The structural remains of a wooden windmill stood adjacent to the barn and the chicken coop looked like it had been the victim of an air raid. The missing wooden roof shakes were strewn about on the ground.
Nick was puzzled. He raised his upturned hands waiting for someone to tell him this was a joke. “What do you mean this is it? There is nothing here but some crappy old farm buildings.”
Hank took the challenge. “You’re right, Nick. This old farm is in shambles. But the beauty of an old place, this far off the beaten path, is no one cares if we make a little noise today.”
Nick was tempted to bail out of the car and walk the road back alone, but the whole crew had made the trip and he hated to disappoint them. Hank seemed so cheery about the prospect of training. “You mean to shoot guns?”
“Yes, we will shoot a few guns, Nick, and learn about the whole business.”
Nick’s apprehension soon faded away. He was curious about their plans. The other two cars pulled into the farmyard and parked in the overgrown weeds.
As the crew piled out, Hank didn’t waste any time. “OK, before you guys get too far away, listen here for a minute. It’s been a while since we’ve done this, so I want to remind you of a few things. First, remember no one ever goes inside or walks behind the old chicken coop. The coop is our shooting gallery. If you walk behind the building, you’re likely to get popped. Are we clear on this?”
While everyone nodded their agreement, Nick noticed the splintered bullet holes in the walls of the chicken coop. It looked like a giant woodpecker had been at work.
“Next, I want each guy to load and fire all the guns. Willy will run through each one with you on how to pull them apart in case someday you get jammed up. You must be able to do this even with your eyes closed. I mean it. We don’t leave here until everyone runs through them again.”
Willy nodded his agreement.
“With Allen back on his feet, he’ll open up the brewing school. Allen, there is old equipment stored in the barn, and you’ll find some grain samples in there, too. Set up your stuff inside, and we’ll cycle through. With your bad wing, you may need a little help with the heavy items.”
Allen raised his good arm as a gesture of willingness. His other, still bound in a sling, remained at his side.
“I’m going to talk about our customers, what they want, and about planning your exit from this group someday. The exit I’m talking about means a plan for how much money to save and finding someone trustworthy to keep an eye on it.
“Bernie will cover the need to switch liquor shipment routes frequently, back-up plans when stuff happens, and using our doctor when someone gets hurt. Vinnie is going to go over knife fights, how people die of stab wounds, and how to defend yourself.”
Vinnie swung his left arm behind his back, while he motioned with his right extended ahead of him as if he were in a sword fight.
“Before we begin, here’s what I believe about trust. I handpicked each of you guys because I thought you had the guts and brains to be in this business and you appeared to be a fit for this group. I trust you and expect you to trust me. As you know, we all share in the profits when things go well. At the same time, we have a code of honor. If you ever abandon this team in some way or steal from us, there are no second chances.”
Nick swallowed hard when he reflected on his urge to run off when they had first arrived.
Hank set the wheels in motion. “Hey, Tony, do you mind going into the house and grabbing a pile of targets from the kitchen?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
“Willy and Carlo, would you guys pull the guns from the trunk and set up a table or something?” Willy went around to the trunk, and Carlo headed towards the barn.
When Hank finished speaking, Nick walked past a well pump and over to a scraggly apple tree growing next to the house. He stood on his tiptoes to pull a green and red apple loose from a low branch. On one side, the piece of fruit was marred with a couple of wormholes, so he turned it around before he took a bite from the safe side. The tart flavor made him pucker and reminded him of the apples he grew up with.
Hank came over and spoke to Nick. “Let’s get you firing a few pistols.”
Nick smiled as he tossed the apple core into the weeds and wiped the sticky juice from his hands on his pant legs. “I’m ready.” The pair walked to a small workbench table Carlo had retrieved from the barn.
Willy balanced four of the tin plates he brought from the house on the pairs of nails protruding from the wood siding on the chicken coop. The plates were arranged over a section of wall riddled with holes like the tin lid on a pepper shaker.
Nick marveled, “If a guy misses the plates, it will be tough to tell where your shots went.”
Willy joined him at the table. “We’ve all taken our turn at the wall. There’s no shame around here. Sometimes it takes a while to get used to these short guns.”
Nick ran his hand along the side of the sawed-off shotgun.
Willy reached past it and picked up a Smith & Wesson revolver. “The 12 gauge is deadly at close range, but we build up from the basics. This pistol is a thirty-eight caliber. See how you press this release right here on the side to open the cylinder? Now hold it with your left hand and spin the cylinder to load each chamber with ammo.”
Nick picked a few shells out of a box and dropped them into the cylinder holes. He swung the cylinder back into the gun and held it with his right arm extended toward the target.
“To be accurate, you’re going to need
a good firm grip using both hands. Hold your arms out straight and sight down the barrel. Before you shoot, I want to warn you, a thirty-eight will sting a little when you fire it. But again, a tight grip is the best way to limit the pain. You can’t be afraid of it. Step up here, draw the hammer back, and take your best shot.”
Nick emptied the weapon in a wild pattern of firing.
“Good! Now get rid of those empties. First, turn it over with the cylinder rolled out and knock the brass loose. Do it again. This time, focus your aim on the centers of the plates.”
The barn was all set. Dust-laden light filtered through the windows on the crock of malted barley resting on a high bench next to several blue-glass jars of hops, a small drum of dried yeast, a pail of water drawn from the hand pump, and a row of steins to drink from. On the floor, a copper tub filled with cool water held several drowning brown bottles.
Allen, not quite limber with his arm bound, offered an animated lesson on the finer points of brewing lagers. By design, the water in the copper tub liberated the labels from the brown bottles. Nick helped to open each one for the class to sample which led to a lively debate on how to influence flavor.
With their rivalry unleashed by the beer, Vinnie seized the moment for an all-hands knife fight in the middle of the yard using wooden daggers wrapped with rags bound by string. There was no debate. With skillful footwork, Willy, bearing the mustache of a swordsman, made quick work of several opponents before most of them had realized the fight was on.
Balanced on top of an overturned orange crate in front of the parked cars, Hank addressed his men spread around him in a half-circle. He looked a bit like an armed college professor standing there in his box-toed shoes, brown twill pants, summer hat, and suspenders draped over his white shirt with a slung holster for his thirty-eight. No one dared to look away.
The message was brief, a few statements really, connecting each man to the mission they longed to understand.
Hank studied the group. “You may have wondered from time to time, what business are we really in?