by PJ Eiden
“I can see why your men like you.” George kicked at the base of the masonry wall. “Hank, you are an interesting guy. You’re a combination of part parent, part teacher, and at the same time, one of the most lethal mobsters I’ve ever seen. I’m glad you are on my side. I don’t know exactly how I’d fare if the two of us ever got turned against each other. We could have been great partners, but I’m all right if you just keep running your crew for me.”
The gray winter sky obscured the sun once more, and the wind spirited around the observation deck, leaving a funnel of light snow taking refuge in the corners. “George, let’s step inside for a minute.”
George followed Hank through the framed glass door and into the building. Warm air pouring from the cast iron radiators greeted them with welcome comfort. “Yes, it’s much better in here.”
Hank removed his hat. “George, I have the same questions for you.”
“Oh, what is it you want to know?”
Hank circled around two chairs set near a large, framed oil painting hanging on the wall. George settled in and studied the battlefield portrait of Ulysses S. Grant depicted on horseback during the Civil War.
“You’ve been at this a while and seen many good men fall in the booze battle.”
George nodded.
“So, you’ve asked me what I want, and I’d like to hear your response to the same question. So, how much is enough for George Moran?”
George shook his head side to side. “Hank, I don’t think like you. You’ve gotta understand some things. I grew up hundreds of miles from here with a father I didn’t agree with or like much at all. He was a real hard nose. He didn’t understand me or my way of thinking. My mother, on the other hand, was always quiet and spent her time in church praying for my father and me to stop fighting. Maybe her prayers were answered when I became a teenager because I got out on my own and got free from my dad.
“Once I made it to Chicago, I learned about crime as a business. I got my education from the school of hard knocks. Sometimes, I spent more time behind bars than on the outside of jail, but I learned. Today, I keep friends on the payroll in the courtroom, police department, and city hall. I see it as business insurance.
“As far as how much is enough for me?” His mouth pursed together like he was about to spit. The anger began to show on his forehead in the form of bulges and valleys. “Dean and Hymie were my closest friends. Capone deserves to die for them! He deserves to die, period. I won’t rest until I inflict all kinds of bad on Capone. If I can’t get him, I will take his business, I will get the men important to him, and I will ruin his reputation bit by bit. He struts around Chicago like the sole rooster in a chicken coop. He needs to learn he doesn’t own this town!”
Even though the plan was soaked with danger, Hank knew better than to question the sanity of George Moran for getting even with Capone. To Hank, George was mired in pride, envy, and handing down judgment on a dangerous enemy. “George, what’s your life worth?”
The other man studied Hank’s face. “Blood doesn’t scare me anymore. I got over it a long time ago. People don’t recognize this as a war, because many of them die before they get the chance. As far as I’m concerned, hell’s gates opened on January 1, 1920. Some people rushed in to be the first ones. Others, like me, stood back and watched for a while. Now is a much better time to clean up.”
George paced back and forth. “I won’t be a poor man. No, I will get my share and then some. We’ve never seen anything like this before. The mayor and the cops are willing to look the other way for few bucks while we do this business in broad daylight. The profit on booze is turning some regular men into Rockefellers.
“If we can’t make a fortune now, when will we? Hank, I’m determined to make a pile of money before this is over. They talk about repealing the amendment in a few years. Not because gangsters are getting rich, but because the government is missing out on taxes from the whole liquor industry. But they’re no better than us! They want their greedy hands in the booze business. What does liquor have to do with running a country?”
Later that afternoon, Hank walked the narrow alley and kicked aside a couple of empty glass bottles. He admired the new electric power lines webbing back and forth between the buildings like a giant spider was at work. At the second building, he stopped at a gray windowless metal door and knocked three times. He stood in silence and checked his pocket watch. He was sure they were here and rapped on the door again with more intensity. After a long pause, the bolt mechanism behind the door clicked back. Without fanfare, the door opened enough for a dark-haired bartender sporting a waxed mustache to poke his head out. “Sorry, we don’t take deliveries until 4:00 p.m. You’ll have to come back later.”
As the door was swinging shut, Hank hurried his response. “Hey, wait a minute, Sully! It’s me.”
The door reopened, and a surprised J.T. O’Sullivan emerged. “Hank, I didn’t recognize you. Sorry about that.”
“No problem, Sully. It’s been a long time. I’m glad to see you, old pal. Would you mind if I practice a while this afternoon?”
Sully smiled, causing the ends of his mustache to curl up on both sides. “Sure, Hank, of course. We’re cleaning up now and doing some bookkeeping in the office. The place is yours.”
The two men stepped inside. Sully secured the door and turned to his guest. “So Hank, when are you going to play for our patrons again? You know people love to hear your smooth turns and rhythms. You can show off solo or appear with the band we have lined up.”
Hank rubbed his chin. “Yeah, I might think about performing again. Right now, my nights are a little busy. But sometime soon. I promise.” He made his way to the familiar stage.
Hank eased the saxophone case open. He removed the instrument and buffed it with a cloth. He inserted a new reed and adjusted the strap. After lowering the case cover, he snapped the brass buckles down and put it aside. Hank took his place on the wooden stool set near the front of the stage.
He wrapped his lips around the mouthpiece, closed his eyes, and blew a long, slow, wavering tone. With the place empty of customers, the sound reverberated off the walls like an echo in a canyon. His mind kept mulling over the question George had posed. “How much do you want?” He took in another long deep breath and began to blow through the instrument while his fingers toggled the bell keys. His head twisted side to side as he lost himself in another world.
The bartender nudged the waitress, who was busy cleaning glasses for the expected evening crowd. He nodded toward the solo performer on the stage. “I’ve missed his sound. He’s one of the best!”
She looked up from her work. “Yes, but I think it sounds sort of sad. What do you suppose he’s thinking about?”
Sully stopped to watch Hank. “Sometimes he plays like someone who lost people dear to him. “
The barmaid nodded. “Haven’t we all? This guy doesn’t play music. It sounds like he’s pouring out his emotions.”
“Some people can’t get enough of him. They come for his smooth music but find themselves swept away in their feelings.”
The woman’s face changed when she recognized him. Her mouth fell open slightly. “Hey, isn’t he one of the notorious ones from our side of town?”
The bar owner turned and faced her straight away. “Yes. It’s the reason he’s reluctant to ever sign on for a regular gig.”
Chapter 26
Matches
“Hello, George.”
“Who is this?”
“You don’t know me yet and for now I’d prefer to keep it that way. I’m a friend of Hank.”
“Ok, what do you want?”
“Hank asked me to call you about the growing concern you have on the west side of town with Capone’s dog track.”
George mumbled, “Yes, that place drives me mad.”
“I can help with that sort of thing. Think of me
as a spook who can slip in and get things done quietly.”
George took a moment to collect his thoughts. “I don’t like this arrangement, but if you know Hank, I may be interested.”
“I owe Hank a favor or two, so I did some digging. I found out your wished-he-was-dead enemy, Capone, has a nasty fight going on over in Kane County with that stickler state attorney, Mr. Carbury. It turns out Carbury is a real pickle. Did you know, he fooled the public and got elected even though he never actually went to law school?”
“Oh, really? So, the state attorney is a crook.”
“Maybe. First thing when he got in office, he began raiding speakeasies in the city of Elgin and across the county. He says he ran for state attorney to reform and clean up the garbage. Now, he’s arrested hundreds of owners and patrons.”
George shook his head while talking on the phone. “If he’s a crook, chances are he can be bought.”
“No, that’s the weird thing. He’s made it clear he can’t be bought. He refused a meeting with Capone last week and fired the sheriff’s deputy who proposed it. Now, he has lawmen hanging all over the Elgin dog track that Capone runs. No one can bet a thing on the greyhounds.”
George gasped. “I’m glad our track is in Cook County! We haven’t seen anything like that. I’m surprised Mr. Carbury hasn’t had an unfortunate accident or something. He must keep himself surrounded by police guards at all times.”
“You guessed it. It’s killing Capone’s business right now.”
George wanted to put this race track out of business. “Maybe we can join forces with Carbury because, more than once, Capone has brought this racetrack back from things like this. I want to be sure they stay closed this time. This is a perfect opportunity to light a fuse if you know what I mean.”
There was a pause on the line with only the crackle of static.
“Friend, are you still there?”
“Yes George, my advice would be to be careful with that. I don’t think you should blow up the place. While it would be quick and easy, in the end, it would look like an attack. That could come back on you.”
George tapped his fingers on the phone box. “Can you make it look like Capone is trying to do an insurance swindle with a fire of convenience?
“If you could pull that off, it would destroy the track and put the fire marshal on his heels. He’ll wriggle around the claim eventually because half of the local governments are on his payroll. George laughed. “But it will tie him up a while and cost him some dough.”
“I like this idea better. I’ve got a couple of guys who are good at using matches and covering their own tracks.”
George gave the approval, “Go ahead. Let’s turn up the heat.”
Just after 1:00 a.m. on the otherwise quiet night, the oval racetrack and grandstands stood in hibernation. The greyhounds were secured in the kennel while patrons and staff were home for the evening. The clouds parted, showing the thin sliver of the moon over two men, each carrying a burlap bag and an oil can. With no resistance from the sleeping night watchman, they picked their way around to the staff entrance. With a simple separation of the door latch, they made their way inside Capone’s 102 Ranch. Like the wind, they swirled through the belly of the great building’s structure setting their incriminating arson time bombs, each with a fuse long enough to allow safe exit. When the stage was set, they made a final pass through the building with a box of matches.
They had safely cleared the perimeter fence before the first flames burst into the night sky. The watchman, stirred from his slumber by the crack of fire and sudden light, raced to the kennel building, screaming to wake the dog owners and release their stables of prized hounds.
Over in Cicero at the Capone headquarters, the phone rang. “Hello, this is Jack McGurn. Who’s calling?”
Jack nodded in agreement to what was said on the line. “Yes, Al is certain they are responsible for what happened at Elgin. Our job is to take an eye for an eye. If we lost our dog track, so should they!”
“No, we can’t take the train tonight, there could be witnesses.” Jack paced with the phone receiver like a dog tied on a leash. “No, I don’t want to take a cab either. You know, I’ve heard the latest rage is mobsters tossing lit dynamite into your cab when you get stopped in traffic. What a nasty trick!”
“No, we need a car. Besides, it will take several cans of gasoline to do this right.” Jack twisted the end of the cigar in his upper coat pocket. “Moran’s dogs don’t run races after 9:00 p.m. If we go out around midnight, we’ll have the place to ourselves. I’ll stop by to pick you and the others up about 11:30.” Click.
As if in anticipation of what was about to occur, the Fairview Kennel Club stood silent on that April night. Gone were the money-wielding patrons, bookies, jazz bands, liquor, and greyhounds. Gone also was the excitement, the thrill, and the speed of the chase.
Four men, uninvited and armed with fuel and flame, moved with a hush through the property, drenching the bones of the wood buildings before incinerating the dreams of the future.
Chapter 27
The Trap
Father Whelan just finished Wednesday evening confession. As he locked up the doors for the night and turned off the sanctuary lights, he noticed the light coming from the clergy study room. He couldn’t remember leaving the light on.
He worked his way through the church and eased the door open to the room. Hank sat at the desk working with a pencil and paper. The priest’s heart pounded. He exhaled at the sight of the familiar face. “Henry, it’s you. It’s been a while. I’ve been worried about you with all the violence going on in the city.”
Hank nodded.
“Are you here for confession?”
He stopped scribbling on the page and turned and gave Father Whelan a stare of disbelief. “No, I didn’t come to use the confessional.”
“OK, maybe we could talk for a while.” The priest turned a chair around and slid it in alongside the desk. “Let’s see what you are drawing today. That looks like a cemetery with people mourning at a gravesite. Are you thinking about your father or possibly Hymie Weiss?”
Hank placed the pencil down on the table.
“Henry, your sketch intrigues me, but before we discuss it, have you heard the increasing talk they might repeal prohibition?”
“Sure, Father. They’ve been yapping about this the whole time. Like an old dog who can’t get off the porch anymore, they keep barking.” Hank lifted a hand in the air. “No, I’ll believe it when I see it. The government has lost control. Bootleggers are making piles of cash. It would take a war with the Feds to make them stop now because most cops around here are lining their pockets, too.”
Father Whelan didn’t agree, but he respected Henry’s strong opinions.
Hank twisted in his chair and tidied the wrinkles in the tablecloth until he felt the courage to speak. “Father, the reason I came here today is I believe I’m seeing ghosts.”
The holy man removed his smudge-laden glasses and used a corner of the tablecloth to buff the lenses. He squinted at his guest. With a serious tone, he probed, “Do you mean the spiritual kind, like angels or maybe those who have died before us?”
“No, I mean I think I might be imagining things that don’t happen at all. It’s like every crime I witness or am a part of, I see those demon twins showing up to murder people. Yet, I can never catch them. They seem to vanish! Am I going crazy?”
Father Whelan closed his eyes and raked his fingers back through his wavy hair. “Henry, are you the single witness to these crimes?”
Hank considered his plight. After thinking, he shook his head. “No, I guess there have been a few times when I wasn’t the only one who saw them. Like after the Mike Genna murder, the Murder Twins were even arrested, so I know they were real.”
Father Whelan poured two glasses of wine. He handed one to Henry. “Are these mon
sters trying to beat you at the same games or still trying to get revenge for you helping to send them to jail?”
Hank began to speak and then stopped abruptly. He took a moment to think. “Uh, both, I guess.”
Once a commercial hub for barge shipments, the massive gray warehouse complex stood abandoned on the industrial grounds along the river. Weeds had reclaimed the land, and the building lacked several windows lost in storms past. Pigeons had become the rightful owners, roosting freely among the open rafters.
There were rumors freight trucks were once again using the long-dormant buildings. Capone’s crew began to watch the place. Suspicions were right that the Northsiders had made it an impromptu transfer hub for liquor.
Hank, a nervous hawk, insisted a man be posted at each end of the building when convoys were offloaded for the runners.
He pulled his sedan inside the west end and parked next to a stack of wooden crates. He opened the trunk of his car and retrieved two fat oatmeal-colored bags of cash for the payment. He and Nick met the two truck drivers to verify their loads parked inside the building.
Gunshots rang out at the east end of the warehouse. “Oh, crap! That’s Willy.” Hank swung the cash bags back into the trunk and slammed the lid. In the field beyond the warehouse, three distant shots rang out. The drivers looked panicked. Keeping his voice low, Hank started giving orders. “Someone is trying to poison our well. Throw the tarps back over the loads and move these trucks out the west end right now. There’s no time to unload. We’ve gotta move while we still can.”