by PJ Eiden
In the back storage room, the pair stared up at the open floor hatch. This too matched the state of the barn door. Its red paint was mostly gone, leaving the wood covered in a layer of dust.
The morning light streamed from a pair of small windows located in the loft above. The priest held on to Harriet’s basket of coffee and mugs as she began to climb the stairs. Through the hatch, Harriet heard a distinct scuff of a crate being moved. With care, she made her way up, pushed the hatch open, and emerged into the loft.
Hank froze with a wooden crate in his hands.
“Hank, what are you doing up here so early? We missed you at break—” Harriet stopped mid-speech as the presence of the place hit her.
The office, cloaked in a haze of morning light filtering through the dust-laden air, was orderly, carefully constructed, and had a solid reinforced floor built atop the original barn planks. Ceiling beams had been constructed above the windows on the back wall, allowing natural daylight to filter in.
A desk, much too large to have been brought up the narrow stairs, stood ready. Side drawers flanked both sides, and an armchair on rolling wheels sat ready for use. The wood-paneled walls of the office were plastered with maps, drawings, and yellowed newspaper clippings. A lantern, perched atop a vertical open-sided bookcase, posted as a remaining sentry over the former nighttime operations. The desk was topped with a typewriter, a clock frozen in time, receipts, stacks of ledgers, an empty glass, and a tall bottle with a portion of amber liquid still in wait, all organized with purpose.
On a side table, a step lower than the desk, rested three open crates like the one Hank held in his hands.
“How is this possible? When did Warren do all this?” Harriet’s eyes drew to a curious phone mounted on the wall. “What is this?”
Hank remained still. “It looks like a telephone.”
“I know. But how long has it been here?
Hank stammered, “I’m not sure. I’ve never seen any of this before.”
“We went years without a phone in the lodge. Warren said we couldn’t get a phone line here in the woods.”
Father Whelan emerged from the floor hatch and, hearing the question, stepped to the phone. “But what sort of phone has no ringer?”
Harriet looked a second time and made a closer inspection. She examined a pair of empty brass pegs protruding from the front of the phone box above the mouthpiece and void of the standard ringer bells. She picked up the cone-shaped earpiece from its rest and listened to the crackle on the line.
A switchboard operator barked a greeting, “How may I connect you?”
Harriet spoke into the mouthpiece, “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m not making a call. I was testing the phone to see if it still works.” She hung up the earpiece immediately. “This is a working phone! Why would Warren need this out here?”
Father Whelan moved to a busy wall covered in clutter. Newspaper clippings of gangland news were tacked in place in layers. Prominent among them were the reports of Al Capone’s war with the Chicago Northsiders over the illegal liquor business and black-and-white pictures showing bodies lying on the street, littering sidewalks, or slumped in cars after being gunned down. Warren’s handwriting on the clippings recorded the names of unidentified victims and dates of the attacks. It almost looked like he was keeping some sort of score.
Harriet looked over the priest’s shoulder. Her hands covered her mouth and tears formed at the corners of her eyes. Reading the headlines, she wondered aloud, “Why would he still track all this hatred? He was out of the crime business.”
When she moved to the next wall, a large map of Canada was placed right above one for the United States with Warren’s handwritten label—Northern Supply Routes. Tacks were pressed into Windsor, Ontario, Regina, Toronto, Winnipeg, as well as a curious one in Central Minnesota. Strings were tied to each tack, then strung around various tacks in Minneapolis, Detroit, and Milwaukee. Each continued to three tacks placed in an overlaid detail map of Chicago.
The third wall contained long lists of musical groups, singers, dancers, and other entertainment, along with their city locations, phone numbers, and notes. There were clippings from newspapers, magazines, and fliers about the musical and entertainment performers. A racy photo of some dancing girls caught Harriet’s discerning eye. What sorts of sinful businesses was Warren tangled up in?
Harriet grew angry. She took hold of Hank by the collar, and he set the crate he was holding on the table next to the others. She pulled him to the wall of maps. “What was he doing? Tell me right now. What was Warren up to?”
Hank remained silent and looked at the desk. He didn’t see a reason to ruin Harriet’s memories of her husband.
She raised her voice. “After all this time, Hank, what the hell did Warren have to do with the bootlegging business?”
Father Whelan stepped in and pulled Harriet’s hand away from Henry’s shirt. “Harriet, remember Henry isn’t the one responsible. I don’t think he knew about this office until now. Henry, am I right?”
Hank turned around. “I had no idea Warren kept this place.” He stopped short of saying more.
Father Whelan sensed it. “Henry, what aren’t you telling Harriet about Warren. He’s gone now. She deserves to know everything.”
Hank paced the room. “I’d rather not say.”
Harriet was crying. “Why not? Why can’t anyone tell me what Warren was really up to?”
Hank couldn’t stand it. His mind flooded with the pain of losing his family and the personal misery about not knowing what happened to his mother. He looked at Father Whelan.
The priest raised his hands. “Henry, I don’t know this part of Warren’s life.”
Hank sighed. “Harriet, you better sit down for this.”
Harriet perched on the edge of the desk. She refused to touch the chair Warren used.
“My uncle told you he worked in the Chicago breweries many years ago. The truth is the breweries were only how he got started in the crime business.”
Harriet paled. “Are you telling me he was still a mobster when we were married?”
Hank wanted her to know the whole story. “My uncle wanted out of the crime business, but the business wouldn’t leave him alone up here.”
Harriet tested a loose string on her skirt. She stared at the wall covered in local maps and property plots including Clark Lake Lodge.
“Warren came here to get away from crime. That was the truth,” Hank said.
“Yes, he told me that much.”
“There is more to that truth.” Hank stopped to rub his sleep-deprived eyes. “The truth is Chicago crime wouldn’t leave him alone. At first, he was an advisor to Dean O’Banion for finding booze and entertainment, like bands and dancing girls. Before long, Dean was killed, and Warren’s role grew.”
Harriet began sobbing, but she waved her hands for Hank to continue.
“As more North Side leaders died, he eventually ran the whole show. I mean he made the decisions but kept his name and face out of Chicago.”
Harriet decided to take Warren’s chair after all. She plopped down and uncorked the bottle on the desk. She smelled the contents before pouring herself a glass.
Father Whelan stepped in and took the booze away. “Now, now, Harriet, this is difficult news. I’m here to listen if you want to talk about things. This liquor won’t help the situation.”
She pointed at the wall. “Why did he have a phone without a ringer up here? Was he using it to conduct his horrid business affairs?”
Hank nodded. “Warren likely used the phone for arranging booze shipments and entertainment. If one of the guys wanted to talk with Warren, they had to speak to him in person.”
Harriet stood up in shock. “What exactly are you saying?”
Hank danced around the answer. “Warren’s men in charge met with him from time to time.”
“Yes, Harriet. It is time you know.” Hank cleared his throat and moved in close and took the spot on the edge of the desk. “Those gangsters weren’t coming here to cool off and hide out from rival gunmen. They were coming here to speak to Warren, the patriarch himself.”
Harriet twisted uncomfortably in the chair.
“They came here to talk about threats to the booze and gambling business and ask the boss about what their next strategy should be.”
A chill ran the length of Harriet’s spine. Nausea stabbed into her midsection. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and slumped forward. Her eyes had the steely look of a caged animal. “Hank, how can you ever live with yourself? You knew this about Warren all along! Why would you keep this from me all these times you came up here?”
Hank looked away from Harriet. “Because, I was not only Warren’s nephew, I became one of them.”
Harriet turned toward Father Whelan. “This place must burn before Albert see’s any of this. He doesn’t need to know about the horrible monster his father was.”
She made her way to the floor hatch and descended without saying more. Father Whelan kept an eye on her as she left.
Hank looked down at the trail of dark spatters on the floorboards where Harriet’s teardrops had fallen. He shook his head.
“Father, we need to sort out Warren’s business affairs now. But I don’t think we’ll have much time.”
Hank walked to the table where Harriet had left the coffee jar along with some mugs. He untwisted the jar’s cap and poured two mugs of creamed coffee. He added the amber liquor Harriet had poured from the bottle to each. Handing one to Father Whelan, Hank asked, “So, where do you want to dig in?”
Late the next day, the desk was piled with ledgers. “Father, these are records of gambling debts. This pile over here is records of liquor shipments. These are records of balances speakeasies owed, and the green books have lists of entertainers hired. Warren kept lists of policemen, attorneys, and elected officials partial to the cause,” Hank said.
Father Whelan looked at a green book in disgust. “Henry, over here on the table, I collected the records Warren kept on Capone’s crew, contract hires, friends, allies in government and the courts, Capone’s distilleries, and other known suppliers. Warren was meticulous. He did this with the Genna family and other gangs, too.”
Hank was exhausted.
“Henry, what is wrong?”
Hank raised his arms in the air and turned in a half-circle. “In all of this, I can’t see where Warren kept any of his own money.”
Father Whelan walked among the piles and scratched his head.
As Hank watched the priest wander around the room, he began to focus on the outer walls once again.
“You know something odd about this room, Father?”
The priest stopped moving. “No, what is it, Henry?”
“It’s the wall with maps of the lakes area. Why would Warren keep this stuff up here? He could have pinned this information up in the lodge rather than in his secret mobster office where he was cramped for space.”
“Do you suppose he took the same approach to this lodge business? I mean keeping close tabs on his competition and their employees?”
Hank studied the wall. “Wait a minute. On these plots of land around Gull Lake, there are several handwritten notes. See here, there are also outlines for some cabins along the lake, a golf course, a pier for boats, and more. How was Warren getting this information about them in advance? Did he have someone on their payroll? That’s how we do things in Chicago.”
Harriet fumed. “I don’t ever want to go back up to the office again. When I go back over there, I’m bringing my box of matches and some kindling wood.” She took a step back from Hank.
“Wait, Harriet. We need to show you Warren’s records before you destroy everything,” Hank pressed.
Dark rings showed beneath her swollen eyes. “No, you won’t.”
Father Whelan sighed. He understood the sick feeling Harriet must have had with this discovery. He stepped in. “Harriet, please listen to me. There was more to Warren than you knew about, and it must feel incredibly deceitful. To close this chapter for you and the children, we need to show you the records we found before you erase them with fire.”
Harriet stood motionless, looking down. “The whole thing makes me so sick. I trusted him with my life, and I was in danger the whole time. He lied to me!” Her legs began to quiver. “I’ll give you ten minutes up there and no more. I can’t stomach the thought of the place.”
She dreaded the very sight of the barn now. While once she thought of it as a happy place where the children learned to ride their bicycles, now the red barn paint reminded her of the bloodshed Warren had on his hands. The hurt was deeper than his crimes. The whole foundation of their marriage was a swamp of deceit. It was apparent he didn’t care for her or the kids. Warren was another bloodthirsty gangster who came here to start the family he needed to cover his tracks.
Harriet stood with her arms crossed at the foot of the desk. She was repulsed by the piles of crime records.
Father Whelan and Hank brought her various items to look at.
Hank brought one particular plain-looking brown leather document pouch to Harriet. “It took us a while to find this. It was tucked in the bottom drawer on the right side of the desk.” He unzipped the pouch and withdrew a blue ledger book.
“There is an entry in this one I want to show you.” He turned the pages to a paper marker poking out of the top of the ledger. He ran his finger down the page halfway and tapped the book. “Here it is.” He turned the book, so she could read the entry titled, Legal fees for LLOC Holding Company.
Harriet was unphased by this detail. “So, what does this mean?”
“It didn’t mean anything to either of us. It looked like another of Warren’s endless business dealings. I thought maybe this was a front for making silent donations to political campaigns or other such activities,” Father Whelan said.
“You mean making bribes? Is this what you wanted to show me?” Harriet’s voice rose with each word.
Hank broke in before she could get too worked up. “We assumed the same thing at first. I read this entry and kept on moving along because there is a lot to look at in these books. Later in the day, Father and I were studying the property plot maps on the wall over there, and I noticed something familiar.”
“Yes, and what did you see?” Harriet was anxious to get this over with.
Hank pointed to the drawing of the Clark Lodge property. “Here in the corner of this property plot, see how the title shows LLOC Holdings?”
Harriet’s face turned a deep shade of red. “So now the mob owns our lodge and the property? Was Warren still working for them because he owed money for the land we live on?”
Hank wanted to stop her from spiraling out of control. “Whoa, Harriet—You have this all wrong.” He needed to reset her thinking. “Harriet, LLOC is a personal family business that the mob has nothing to do with. With Warren gone, you’ve become the owner.”
“What? No, I’m not! I don’t know anything about this.”
“We didn’t think you did. No one did. It looks like Warren created a couple of these holding companies. He was investing rainy-day money for Hank, too. It’s in a separate one,” Father Whelan said.
Harriet’s face had a look of disbelief.
Hank wanted her to understand. “We found the Minneapolis attorney who set these companies up and called him. Yes, we confirmed this is real. I wrote down his phone number for you. He wants you to call him when you’re ready.”
Harriet was quiet. She stepped to the plot map of
Clark Lodge and ran her finger back and forth over the words for LLOC Holdings. After a few minutes, she took a step back and looked over the rest of the wall.
Hank and Father Whelan gave her all the time she needed.
“What does this mean?” she finally asked.
“Harriet, what are you asking?” Father Whelan asked.
“What does LLOC mean?”
Hank chimed in, “I asked the attorney. It was pretty simple—Lake Lodge On Clark, or LLOC for short.”
It hit her. “What is this?” Harriet spun around to face Hank and Father Whelan. She turned part of the way back toward the wall to point at a large property plot surrounding Gull Lake. “What is this?”
She swooped in close to the wall and tapped her fingers on a LLOG Holdings symbol. “What is this right here? Are you telling me LLOG has something to do with us, too?”
Hank nodded twice at Harriet, who turned to look at Father Whelan. The priest was impressed with how quickly she had connected the dots.
Hank confirmed her assumption. “Warren didn’t owe the mob any money, Harriet. We found out Warren was investing money into the property over on Gull Lake. You know that big modern resort you feared might run you out of business someday? Well, guess what?
“You own it!”
Harriet was biting her fingernails.
Hank repeated the statement. “Yes, you own the majority of it, and I own the rest.”
Harriet couldn’t comprehend the notion.
“We are debt free, I might add,” Hank said.
Harriet sat in a chair. She covered her face with her hands. She was caught in a swirl of emotions. Was Warren the kindest man she’d ever known or a monster who killed people for money? In her mind, he couldn’t be both.
Hank added more confusion. “The attorney stated, if we prefer, no one has to know we are the owners. We could pay the manager to keep making the daily decisions for the business. The other detail the attorney mentioned is that Warren set up a trust account in my sister’s name.”