by PJ Eiden
By the end of the day, Hank was sitting on the front bench outside the Hubert Landing store. Tom was prepared to close for the day when he spotted the visitor. “Hi, Hank. You’re cutting it close. Can I help you before I finish up?”
“I’m looking for some clothes to wear here while I’m at the lake.”
“Sure, come on in here. We have a good selection for you to consider. You can try things on for size if you like. There’s an inventory room in the back. Take a couple of pairs of pants and some summer shirts to try. We also have some sharp looking shoes. If you find some things that work, you can wear them right out of here.”
Hank was paying for the new clothes when he saw the pile of newspapers on the floor next to the counter. “You have the St. Paul newspaper?”
“Yes, the train delivers it to us every other day. These are a day old, but you can have one if you like.”
Hank stared at the headlines: Federal Prosecutor Sent to Chicago to Put Away Gangsters, Lobbyists Push To Repeal Prohibition Amendment, Temperance Society Planning Protests! He collected a copy on the way out the front door.
Tom shouted after him, “I appreciate your business, Hank. Have a nice evening!”
Hank walked the wooded roads back to the lodge. About halfway into the journey, the delivery truck for Three Brothers Farms roared past in a cloud of dust. Sometime later, the truck returned on the same road. Hank waived the driver down. The big truck slowed to the side of the road. The driver rolled his window down and apologized for the cloud.
Hank coughed a bit. “That’s all right. I want to talk to you about business.”
“OK.”
“You see, I’m from Chicago and I want to know what you deliver.”
“It depends on what you’re buying, mister. Since I really don’t know you, it would be hard to say.”
“Maybe I could visit your operation some time to look things over.”
“How do I know you aren’t a revenuer or a cop? What do you want with an old honey and milk parlor anyway?”
“I’ve seen your loads when you stop by the lodge. The honey and cream business looks like a front to me. No one delivers those goods at night. There are a lot of wooden crates on your truck. I bet they’re filled with brown glass bottles of giggle water. We pay a high premium for quality in Chicago. Is your stuff distilled twice and aged in wood barrels?”
The driver did a slow nod. “I have to be careful here. My two brothers have a say in these decisions, too. Sorry to cut this off, but I really have to keep moving. I’ve got a long night ahead of me.”
“Before you go, what’s your name?”
“Oh, I’m Walt.”
“Hi, Walt. I’m Hank Macklan. One last thing I want to tell you. I take care of all the freight so you wouldn’t have to drive anymore.”
The driver turned and looked Hank straight in the eyes. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, but I need to come and see how you and your brothers do things. There’s a lot of people making poor quality mash.”
Walt took a scrap invoice and drew on it.
Hank watched him sketching. “What’s that?”
Walt tossed the wrinkled sheet to Hank as he let out the clutch and pulled the truck away. He shouted out the truck’s window, “Come see for yourself sometime. We make the good stuff from Minnesota 13!”
Hank watched the truck bounce out of sight over the washboard in a cloud of dust. As it disappeared over the hill, he stared into the floating brown haze and considered Walt’s last comment. He pictured Minnesota 13 as a sort of secret recipe the locals knew about. With long winters, people in the north country could be pretty resourceful and might know a thing or two about making grain alcohol.
In the low evening light, Warren spotted Hank walking along the drive. “There you are! It’s getting pretty dark. I thought maybe you got lost taking your hike. Can you stop by for a minute?”
Hank followed Warren into the lodge.
“Hey, it looks like you picked up some new clothes today.” He thumped Hank on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Now, you look the part.”
“They certainly feel cooler than my suit.”
Warren sifted through the papers on the registration desk. “Oh, here it is. Harriet showed me this curious post from the mail today. I assume it’s supposed to be for you.”
Hank studied the small white envelope. The addressee was listed, To: Hank care of Clark Lake Lodge. The return address was left blank. He studied the postmark.
Hank left without a word. He tapped the curious envelope with his hand all the way back to cabin number ten.
Hank took a seat at the table and turned up the gas lantern. He unfolded a pocketknife and slit the envelope flap loose. He drew a piece of parchment out and unfolded it to study the message written in black ink. It read: Luke 15:24. He stared into the flickering yellow lantern light.
Hank returned the card to the envelope, slipped it in his coat pocket, and headed back to lodge.
Warren was tipping the chairs up on the tables for the night. There was a broom perched against the counter. He stopped with a chair in his hands. “Back so soon?”
Hank realized the strange nature of the request he was about to make. “Warren, I have a question for you. Do you keep a Bible around here?”
Warren set the chair down and looked at Hank in disbelief. He wondered if Hank was overcome with regret for things he’d done. For a moment, he considered teasing him, but based on the look on his face, opted not to. “Awe, sure. Harriet keeps one up in our room. I’ll get it for you.”
Hank took the Bible and post back to the privacy of his cabin.
Sitting in the glow of the table lamp, Hank thumbed through the New Testament. He found the verse. “For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.”
Hank studied the envelope one more time. It was time for him to return to Chicago. He couldn’t get past the fact he told no one where he was staying. How many of these posts were sent out to find me?
“Hank, please take a seat over there by the windows. Do you want coffee with your breakfast?”
“Sure. Thank you for the use of your Bible last night.”
Harriet smiled at the thought. Her curiosity was killing her, but she thought it best not to ask.
“Can you tell me when I can catch the train back to St. Paul?”
“Hank, the train leaves at 10:00 a.m. Are you going to be checking out?”
“Yes, I will catch the morning train then.”
Hank made a point of arriving at the Hubert Landing store fairly early.
Tom welcomed him in. “Hank, how are you today? How did the new clothes work out? Do you need anything else?”
“The clothes fit fine. I will need a train ticket to get back to St. Paul.”
“Sure, I can help you. Just so you know, I got a telephone call this morning. The train is running a little late. Give me a minute for the ticket.”
“Tom, while you’re working on the ticket, I have a question for you about local lodging. Can you tell me how many resort camps there are in this area?”
“Well, Hank, you’ve asked an interesting question. Today, the number is small. Including Clark Lake Lodge where you’ve been staying, there are four resorts near here.”
Hank got the sense the mystery post may not have been such a miraculous thing after all.
Tom continued, “Things are likely to change soon. The state has announced big plans to build a superhighway from St. Paul and Minneapolis all the way up here to lake country. Right now, the roads to drive here are built through some wet marsh areas, and it takes a truck to make the slow trip even during dry weather. When the new paved highway is built and electricity arrives, there is a big city investor group planning to develop a camp over at White Pine Cove on Gull Lake into a grand affair with a golf cou
rse and a high-class restaurant.
“We worry they might steal most of the business we get from train travelers like yourself. Warren and Harriet are in a tight spot, too. The main highway won’t be close enough for us if people prefer to drive cars up here.”
Chapter 18
Plan Of Attack
It was late June when the train steamed along out of the forest headed back across open field country toward the city. Hank thought about the vicious war he was helping wage. The Genna family hated his alliance with the North Side Gang. They had put the Murder Twins of Scalise and Anselmi on his trail. If he could put an end to this pair of barbarians once and for all, he could focus on the river of cheap liquor flowing through the streets of north Chicago.
Hank stared across the horizon at the distant city skyline coming into view. He wondered, Is the whole country at war over the booze business?
He hired a taxi at the Chicago train station to deliver him to 738 North State Street. As they got close, the cabbie asked, “Hey isn’t this the place where the mobster O’Banion was taken out last year?”
It bothered Hank that their headquarters was still located above Schofield’s Floral Shop. Every time he went there, he was reminded of Dean’s brutal execution.
“Drop me in the alley behind the shop, would ya, pal?”
“Sure thing, mack. No trouble at all.”
Hank took the back stairs up to the office. He rapped on the door and made his way inside. The shades were drawn, and the room was dark. Hank could make out the silhouettes of two men pointing pistols at him. “Stop right there!”
“Hold on a minute! George, are you here? It’s Hank, put your guns down!”
One of the men stepped to the window and raised the blind. Hank was standing face-to-face with George Moran and Hymie Weiss.
“You can’t be too careful around here you know.” George dismissed the awkward standoff.
Hank nodded. As he flipped the light switch on, he thought about the modern convenience of electric lights compared to the oil lamps back at the lake. “I feel bad every time I come here. Someday soon, we gotta get out of this joint. There are just too many memories of Dean in the building.”
George introduced Hank. “Hymie, you remember Hank. They call him The Hammer. He runs a small clean-up crew for us and provides security for liquor transports.”
Hymie put his hand out. “Good to meet you again, Hank. I haven’t seen you in a while. What’s with the ice cream duds anyway? Were you at a picnic or something?”
Hank looked down at his clothes and smirked. “I call these my funeral prevention clothes.”
He looked around the room. The door to the large safe was standing open. His gaze ran across the wide shelves loaded with fat bundles of cash strapped by rubber bands. The money was heaped in piles like it had been loaded with a coal shovel. On the table, a city map was stretched open next to a large ledger book.
George wanted to explain. “Hank here is being hunted by the Murder Twins. The Gennas sent those goons after him about a month ago, so I put Hank on a train to God’s country for a couple of weeks.”
Hymie’s eyebrows rose. “God’s country?”
“I sent Hank to northern Minnesota until things cooled off.”
“Weren’t you raised up there somewhere?”
George nodded. “Anyway, this might be a good time to read Hank in on our plans.”
Hymie pointed across the room. “Hank, do you want bourbon or something? The crates on the desk over there are loaded with stock.”
Hank took notice of the pistol holsters George and Hymie wore openly on display. There was an absence of suit coats on the hot Chicago afternoon. The ceiling fan made slow turns through the warm air. “Yes, I’ll have one. It was pretty dry during my stay up north.”
Hymie rubbed the two-day stubble on his chin. He rose from his chair and walked around the room as he spoke. “We have to pull our allies together and go after Capone’s gangs in his own backyard. If we don’t wage war across this city, he’ll keep picking on us like sitting targets in a carnival shooting gallery. We’ve tried to get to him three times this year, and somehow, he’s slithered away every time. We’ve got to cut the legs off his business instead.”
Hank let the words sink in. “If you don’t mind, I have a question.”
Hymie studied the expression and seriousness apparent on Hank’s face. “Sure, what’s on your mind?”
Hank looked toward the open window. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but how did we get into this mess? When I was a teenager, my father fought similar battles in this city, but no one really won. A lot of people were killed in the process, but the war never ended. It appears to me it’s still going on today.”
George felt the heat building on the back of his neck. He could have almost spit. “Hank, you of all people know exactly how we got into this. While I loved O’Banion like a brother, his determination to get one over on Torrio with a deceitful brewery sale tied him and all of us to a whipping post! Once the brewery was raided and Torrio went to prison, I knew there would be hell to pay.”
Hymie added, “I was there for those discussions. Dean just couldn’t come up with another buyer for his share of the brewery on short notice. He was willing to do anything to stay out of prison, so he turned against Torrio.”
George stared at the floor and collected his thoughts. “The thing is these thugs are now out to kill us. Each one of us could die. They are barbarians, and they showed it when they murdered Dean in this very building when he was unarmed. They don’t have souls. We can’t let them get away with what they did here. We have to honor Dean’s memory. His widow deserves justice at least.”
Hank was trying to sort things out. “I know, down deep, O’Banion was a good man. My father liked him. And he wouldn’t have been working all hours in his floral shop to help a grieving family if he wasn’t a good man. So how do we honor Dean without putting more of our people in the ground, too?”
Hymie nodded. “We’ll go after his gangs on the street. They are much more vulnerable. We’ve got a defector on our side now who used to be a runner for Capone. He stopped being loyal to them when Capone killed his brother. He knows the Capone liquor delivery plans and sources. We’ll cut off his supply routes and take a chunk of his business. Capone will stop selling in our backyard in a heartbeat if he can’t keep his regular accounts happy.”
Hank looked over the street map. It was covered with small circles and some X’s. A large leather-bound accountant’s ledger was sprawled across the end of the table. He tapped on the binding’s edge. “What’s in the book?”
Weiss leaned over the green pages covered with handwritten entries in black ink. “You see this list of names?”
“Sure, I’ve got good eyes.”
Hymie pointed at the last column on the right. “Well, Hank, those joints pour our whiskey and beer here on the North Side.” He ran his finger down the sheet. “If you look at these figures, you can see how many cases we sell them each week.”
Hank studied the dates and the figures entered in the book. “Yes, but why are there several of these sales getting smaller in recent months? I see some drop off completely. Is this right? Have people stopped drinking all of a sudden?”
Moran launched a gob of tobacco into the spittoon sitting on the floor next to the table. He pounded his fist on the table. “They’re falling off because some mangy dogs have moved in on us!”
Hymie moved from the ledger book to leaning over the map. “This shows a clear pattern where the border customers are being stolen. Look here.” He placed the gap between his forefinger and thumb over the area at the intersection of Halsted and Chicago Ave.
Hank stood up straight and looked at Weiss. “You’re talking about the Genna brothers. They’re the ones who were coming after me before I left town. They spend a lot of time in our area. We should clean
out their rat’s nest and shut down their booze running operations altogether.”
Hymie took a seat away from the table. “It’s true. I know Capone conspires with the Sicilians on Taylor Street. I could use a good clean-up crew in Little Italy, but it’s a bloody neighborhood. It’s the worst in all Chicago.”
Hank took his hat off and ran his fingers around the inside lining. As he rotated the hat, he thought about some of his younger crew members and their lack of experience. Before he’d send them into this kind of neighborhood, he would need to work on their skills.
Hymie cautioned, “There are several things you need to know Hank. First, the Gennas have real itchy trigger fingers when it comes to threats. They’ll shoot at the first sign of trouble. The whole Sicilian community is their eyes and ears. They set up the poor people living in their neighborhoods with home stills. So, they’re all in on the action. Last, is the police. The cops get weekly payments from the Gennas. If you start a gun battle over there, the police are likely to join in against you. Don’t ever let them arrest you. They won’t bother with handcuffs because they’ll deliver your sentence right on the spot.” He paused to let the information sink in. “Can your guys handle this kind of battle?”
Hank was not a typical mob leader. Most of his family had died in this miserable business. Those painful memories left him with permanent scars. His first thoughts obsessed over the risks and preparation of his men. Half were young and had been with him only a year or two.
“Some of my guys are too new. They’re not ready for this yet, but I have two who are experienced at detail work. They both have new Tommy guns. We’ll be better at hitting smaller specific targets rather than a large battlefield.” Hank didn’t know if his new boss wanted honesty, but he wasn’t about to run his crew into a meat grinder they weren’t prepared for.
George chimed in, “It’s time we deliver some lead poison to those cannoli pigeons!”
Hank didn’t know what other resources Hymie might have to chase these clowns down. “Let’s face it. This will be more than a single battle. I’ve been told the Genna brothers avoid being in public together. Even if we get Angelo Genna with a surprise assault, we’ll have to be snipers after that to pick away at the rest of them. This will take some time, but we’ll get them.”