Miserable Business

by PJ Eiden

  George’s voice grew louder. “We also need to hijack the booze coming out of their industrial plant. This will draw them out as they can’t lie low for very long without it.”

  Hymie filled his glass. “You mention Bloody Angelo. I’ve been told he is daring enough to hang his hat each night in our Lakeview neighborhood.”

  “What do you mean?” Hank was baffled.

  “One of our guys swears he saw him coming out of a rental flat at the Hotel Belmont,” Hymie said.

  George plunked his empty glass down on the table. “Why would a paranoid rival mobster take such a risk?”

  Hank was beside himself. “He’s staying right here in our backyard?”

  George’s fuse was lit. His face turned as red as a garden beet. “He’s stealing our booze business and living the high life right in the middle of the North Side! He’s mocking us. I’m telling you, he needs to feel the wrath!”

  Hank looked at Hymie. “I’ll post a couple of our boys down there. We need to know what time he punches the clock and the kind of car he drives.”

  Hymie smiled and picked up his suit coat. “I like the way you think, Hank. Let’s give this a couple of days before we hit him.”

  George looked over at his boss. “Say, are you going somewhere?”

  Hymie slipped his jacket on and collected his hat on the way to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. “Yes, there’s a guy up in Evanston who invited me to stop and look at some cars and guns he brought in from out east. He sells interesting things to Capone and generally has a good idea of what plans are before the Italian goons make a move. He wants to get our business, too. I’ll let you know what I find out.” Hymie swung the door closed as he headed for the back stairs to the alley.

  George shook his head. “I’ll never know how he meets these guys. I don’t trust anyone who works with Capone.”

  Hank shook his head in amazement. “Say, George, do we have any other maps around?”

  George walked over to the closet. “We might have some back here somewhere.” He looked at some rolled documents. “What sort of map do you need? Things might have changed a lot the last few years in the outlying areas.”

  Hank stared at the map on the table. “I could use another one like this or even larger. The older parts of town should be pretty much the same.”

  “What are you looking for on the map?”

  It was a fair question. Hank stared at the ledger book one more time and back at the map. “I’d like to make another map like this, but showing where Capone’s important customers are located. We could add their breweries, distilleries, truck routes, and all their other saloons. Maybe we should include the same spots for the Genna Brothers, too. I’d like to study where they are most vulnerable to attack and make plans to pinch them somewhere along the line.”

  George smiled. This wasn’t anything like how they’d ever done business before. After all, what did they have to lose? As it was, customers were leaving them each day.

  He stepped back from the table. “Hank, it was good for Hymie to get to know you better today. I’m also glad you and I have some time to talk.” George dragged a heavy wooden chair up near the table and took a seat as if he had been planning this conversation. “Hank, I’ve been thinking about things while you were away. Since you’re here again, I must admit, I’ve underestimated you.”

  Hank found the remark intriguing. He stepped to the table and stared at George Moran with his signature slicked-back hair and suspenders draped over his shirt. He considered George most often a man of action who lived in the moment. At times, however, George would surprise him and almost come off as an intellectual. Hank was curious where this was leading.

  “Have a seat here and take a load off.” George grabbed a chair and dragged it into place. Hank took advantage of it.

  George didn’t wait. “Your father was a good man, and it turns out you are, too. Hank, I see you as capable of many things. You’re different from your dad though. You’re more careful. I hear you talking about things in advance and making plans. Hudson was a good soldier. He marched where he was told to go and fixed many problems for us.” George turned his chair to the side to face Hank and collected a cigar from the box on the table. He struck a wood match. George inhaled three or four times in rapid succession drawing the flame into the tobacco until a bright ember glowed at the end of the roll of brown leaves. He waved the match out in the air and tossed it on the table. “As you know, Chicago is at war over who is going to be the future king of the booze and gambling business. There’s a lot of hands in the pie for now, but hands will be slapped soon as a leader emerges who wants everything. There is too much at stake here.”

  Hank tried to read the expression on George’s face. His youthful look often concealed the fierceness Hank witnessed whenever George got angry. “First, I appreciate all you’ve done for me these past years to bring me under your wing. But, my goal is not to become the ruler of Chicago’s mob business. I’m better at being the number two man.”

  George blinked several times, set his cigar aside in an ash tray, and began to pull on his bottom lip where chewing tobacco would normally park. “Hank, I know I can be a hothead when someone pushes my buttons. My kind of anger can get me into trouble if I make a rash decision. But are you saying if something happened and you were the last man standing, you’d walk away from everything we’ve built?”

  Hank could hear disappointment in the response. “Well, let’s say, leading from the shadows may be more powerful than being under constant pressure from all sides. Not to mention, avoiding being the obvious target can prolong one’s life.”

  “In this business, how can anyone lead from the shadows? You gotta act quickly when you get attacked, or it’s all over.”

  “It is true, at times, but behind many well-run organizations are masterminds, who with a cooler head, as they say, can look for opportunities, read situations, and choose the best direction without all the pressure. It might mean someone else acts as a front man.”

  “Hmm. I’ve never looked at things the way you do, Hank. Are you saying Al Capone might be a front man? You know, the guy who does public appearances and knows everyone in government, judges, and police officials, but someone else, like Torrio, is quietly making the calls?”

  Chapter 19

  The Cleansing

  A dark horse was rushing toward the Genna dynasty. They’d crossed the river to steal more business but underestimated the enemy who defended it.

  Hymie, George, and Hank waited for Angelo on the street outside the Belmont. They sat in the car until midmorning. “Either he’s not an early bird or he stayed somewhere else last night,” George speculated.

  Hymie thought it still felt likely. “Let’s sit tight for a while. He’s probably in the restaurant right now having his last cup of coffee.”

  Hank leaned over from the backseat. “You want me to go in there and get him?”

  Hymie pushed back. “Boys, we’ll let him finish. This needs to happen out here to avoid the bystanders and witnesses. Shooting up a busy hotel can land you in Joliet for decades.”

  Hymie spotted a blue Chevy Roadster leaving the outdoor parking area. He pointed as the vehicle headed toward the corner. “There’s the cheat! Let’s catch him! Angelo is oblivious to the hell racing toward him.” He turned south on Sheridan Avenue and shifted the car into second gear. At twenty miles per hour, the Chevy Superior Roadster was purring along past the neighborhood merchants.

  George drove the dark sedan up along the driver’s side of Angelo’s Chevrolet. Angelo saw the front bumper and grill of the intrusive car and turned to see what the commotion was about. The oncoming cars blew their horns as the pair monopolized the roadway.

  Angelo saw a gun barrel poking out the passenger window of the Ford. He floored the accelerator and torqued his head around. He recognized Hymie Weiss. “Shit!” At fift
y miles per hour, Angelo hit third gear and put both hands on the steering wheel. He bounced through the uneven intersection at Diversey Parkway.

  The bigger Ford was built for speed. The executioners took their position alongside the slower coupe. The car bouncing over the rough brick roadway disturbed the first burst of gunshots. Boom, boom, boom. They missed the mark. Weiss was angry. “Hold her steady, George, and get me in there again!”

  As Hymie aimed the rifle at the Chevy’s driver door, Angelo dropped the gear shift into second and punched the car into a daring swerve around the corner on to Deming.

  The bullets from the second volley screamed past the car and shattered windows in the distance. Boom, boom, boom. The Ford sedan overshot the corner, and George stomped on the brakes. Tire smoke clouded the street as he backed up to Deming. The Ford roared ahead again. Hank handed a full clip over the seat to Hymie who reloaded the pistol.

  Angelo adjusted his rearview mirror and took a sharp left onto Clark Street. The Ford was coming up strong. A pair of streetcars offered a brief wedge to keep the guns quiet while Angelo swung in close to the moving trains. He reached for the pistol under his coat. In a blink, the sedan was muscling its way back to pass the coupe. The big car bore down on the Chevy and moved into position.

  Just past Fullerton, George took a swipe at the Chevrolet. Angelo avoided the smack but was forced up close to the curb and a busy street-side market. A woman with a stroller dove to the sidewalk with her baby to avoid being hit by the racing cars. Two street patrol policemen hollered and waved their arms to warn the shopping crowds. One officer blew his whistle as the cars raced within an arm’s length of the innocents. A man tossed his newspapers in the air as the cars sped past.

  The fear of death swept over Angelo. His world moved in slow motion. He had the accelerator pressed to the floor, but it wasn’t enough.

  At Webster Avenue, a freight truck swung out onto Clark Street in a wide turn. Both cars slammed on the brakes to avoid a collision. While lost for a moment in the drifting haze, Angelo heard the gunfire. Boom, boom, boom.

  Angelo feels the bullets rip through him in multiple places and his body erupted in a sea of burning wounds. Shock numbed his mind. From instinct, he put the car into gear once more and swung around next to the curb. At Ogden Avenue, he turned right and accelerated, weaving out of control along to the corner of Hudson. As he passed out, he drove the car into a streetlamp post. He was unconscious when the dark Ford pulled in alongside.

  George wasn’t content. He yelled, “Finish him, Hammer!”

  Hank slid out of the car and pointed the nose of his automatic rifle through the open window directly at the slumped body of Angelo Genna. Hank closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. Boom. The gun rocked in his hands.

  The air was thick, and the overcast summer sky had the look of a storm brewing. Vinnie had the local scoop. “I’m telling you, George, this is the place. All the remaining Genna brothers, Mike the Devil, along with Sam and Peter, all live right here on Taylor Street in this three-story.”

  “Well, how convenient for them. James Genna has the coffee shop three blocks from here next to their liquor warehouse and distillery. I understand their gang headquarters is down at Sam’s Billiards about a mile away. They sure don’t try to hide very well,” George said.

  Hank chimed in, “How can they have a distillery in the middle of Little Italy? George, wouldn’t the cops or the Feds shut them down?”

  George responded, “No, the Gennas have a license for making industrial alcohol. You know the denatured poisonous stuff they use for solvents and fuel. As you’d suspect, this same operation also makes the booze people want to drink. They pay off local police to get advance notifications when the Feds are coming in.”

  “Vinnie, let’s keep the car parked back here out of sight and watch the brick palace for a while. If Mike’s not around, we can go check their headquarters next.” Hank was a patient man.

  He swatted at a pair of flies buzzing around the inside of the windshield. “Why do these guys think they can just buy their way in with law enforcement, steal the business from other mobsters, and all the while live in plain sight without a care? They’ve got to know sooner or later, the grim reaper will come.”

  A dark sedan turned in along the Halstead cross street and came to a stop next to the house. George glared at the black Buick. “Hey, what’s this?”

  Hank put his newspaper aside and studied the car parked around the corner. “Who is it? There are two goons in the front seat, but it’s hard to tell if anyone is in back.”

  The Buick driver gave two quick blasts with the car horn. Hank’s patience was about to pay off. “Sounds like they’re picking someone up.”

  A few moments later, the side house door opened. Mike Genna, the Devil himself, emerged, scanning the street as he walked toward the car. A man stepped from the back of the car and made room for him.

  “Hey, the guy in the back is John Scalise. He’s one of the beasts who drilled me when they attacked our liquor load.” Hank reached for the rifle laying on the floor in the back.

  “Hold on there, a second!” George ordered. “We’re too far off to do this here. Let’s get ahead of them by racing around the block. We’ll whack this crew at the next intersection.”

  “Vinnie, you’re the wheelman for a reason. Now get us up Morgan Street quick before they cross at Polk.”

  The car roared ahead. Hank chambered a shell in his rifle and snapped the action closed. “How you wanna do this, George?” Hank confirmed the magazine clip was full. “I say, if we can beat them to the intersection, cut them off with the car and bail out like bank robbers. They won’t expect it. I’ll focus on the front seat, and you tear into the back. Let’s keep them pinned in the car and go straight at them!”

  George confirmed, “Hank, you ready?”

  “Yes, I am. I want them all gone including Scalise. The whole crew is rotten.” Hank took a firm grip on his rifle. His jaw was set firm.

  Vinnie rounded onto Morgan and buried the accelerator. The former race car driver smiled as the car responded to his demands.

  “Vinnie, if, for some reason, we’re late to the party at Polk Street, you’ll have to cool it down and sneak in behind them to follow. But not too close,” George said.

  “Get your guns ready because we won’t be late!” Vinnie never took his eyes off the street.

  Scavenging pigeons flushed from the street, brushing just past the car’s windshield. Vinnie never flinched.

  As they neared the intersection, Vinnie could see a black sedan approaching from the right. He recognized the car Mike Genna was riding in. “Here they come, boys.”

  Vinnie had the advantage. As the Buick slowed for the intersection, Vinnie pulled the car right in to block their path. The doors flew open. George Moran bailed out on the left. The Hammer took the right. The windows were down on the Buick for the warm day. As Hank swung the rifle around his car door to shoot, a pair of drawn pistols emerged from the side window of the Buick and started to fire. Boom, boom.

  Hank felt a piercing sting in his right leg as a shot hit home. As he dropped to the ground, he kept the trigger pulled on the automatic. He peeled off a round of shots.

  On the other side of the Ford, George was hit, too. The Buick bounced up on the curb and forced its way past the assassins. Vinnie emptied his pistol and turned to help the two men in the back. He was worried about the Buick circling the block and coming back to attack them. He guessed they had one minute before all hell would break loose again.

  Hank saw the bloody shirt sleeve from the corner of his eye. “George, how bad is it?”

  “They got me in the arm. I’ll live.”

  “How about you? You were down.”

  “They hit me in the leg.” Hank pressed his hand over the wound. “It’s bleeding a fair amount. I’ll need to patch this up.”

&
nbsp; Vinnie interrupted, “We’ve gotta go, now! You want me to head straight to the office, or do you need the doctor?”

  “Vinnie, take us to the doc,” George said. “Hank, how many do you think we got?”

  Hank was eyeing the street behind them. How could his worst enemies pass within a stone’s throw, and still be alive? “I don’t know, George. This wasn’t the way we planned it. As I went down, my shots were out of control. I fell behind the car door and couldn’t do much. By the time I got back to my knees, they tore out of there. It was over in seconds.”

  As Vinnie piloted the car out of Little Italy, George used his left hand to twist the cap off a small whiskey bottle he had placed between his knees. He dropped the cap and chugged down some booze. “I blasted into the open car windows a few times before they took out my shooting arm. I had to hit something!” Shaking the bottle in front of Hank. “Here, you want some?”

  Hank took the whiskey and tried to reduce his pain.

  As he listened to the two men, Vinnie lit a cigarette but didn’t say more. He didn’t want to admit, in all the excitement, his pistol shots only tore up the car’s cowling.

  Hank hobbled around the desk when Hymie brought in the evening edition newspapers. “Have you cripples seen this yet?” He held both papers in the air. “Apparently, we weren’t the only ones after Mike Genna. The Devil is dead!”

  Hank stopped and stood upright. “Really? Let me see one of those.” He took a copy of the Daily Tribune and read the headline, “‘Cop’s Bullets Silence The Devil of Little Italy.’” It took a minute to sink in. He read on. “‘A second Genna crime family leader is killed within three weeks during a violent gun battle that claimed the lives of two brave Chicago police officers.’ How could this be?”