A Harsh and Private Beauty

by Kate Kelly

  Vincent’s attitude, the sickening smell, the physical contact—all this, Daniel takes in, observing from a distance, watching the scene unfold as if he is suspended somewhere above the narrow alleyway. It is all too immediate, too real, like the scenes that fill his mind from time to time, transporting him the thousands of miles back to the mud and insanity of France. He wants to cry, to laugh, to forget why he is rolling around against the hard ground, the desperation of another man pulling him into a place he doesn’t want to be.

  There is a grunt, a broken half laugh below him, then the sound of a gun, loud and hard against the concrete, and then nothing. Daniel watches Cherry’s eyes drain of life, his features almost unrecognizable. His jaw has been partially blown away, and his mouth gapes grotesquely up at Daniel, who feels the other man’s body surrendering into death. Then Vincent is moving them apart, calling his name, and finally shaking Daniel back to the present moment.

  “Danny, what the hell…?”

  Daniel, wiping the blood and bone from his face, points at Cherry’s dead form. His voice will not come.

  “Come on, help me get him into the car. We gotta get him outa here.” Vincent crouches over the body, lifting Cherry up under the arms. “Grab his feet.”

  Daniel stares, trying to find his voice. “I … I….” But his mouth is too dry to form words, his mind unable to find them. Again, he wipes at his face, damp and sticky.

  “I know, kid.” Vincent looks up. His eyes, barely visible beneath his fedora, are locked on Daniel’s, forcing contact.

  Daniel, averting his eyes from Cherry’s face with morbid reluctance, looks at Vincent.

  “I know, kid.” Vincent repeats. He continues only when he has Daniel’s full attention. “Grab his feet and move him to the back of the car. I got a tarp in the boot, and I don’t want this waster messing up my car. Danny?” Vincent nudges Daniel to get his attention. “Danny! Hey!” He grabs Daniel’s arm with a rough pull, letting Cherry’s dead body slump to the ground. “Hey, snap outta it. We gotta move this guy and get the hell outa here.” Taking the cigarette that has been firmly clamped in his mouth, Vincent hands it to Daniel. “Take a drag on this; you need it more than I do.”

  In a daze, Daniel takes the cigarette, inhaling deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs; the effort helps.

  “Let’s lay this down and roll him into it.” Vincent returns with the tarp. “We’ll dump him on the South Side and they’ll think Torrio’s men did it.” Vincent nods and then continues, “He took the shot to the head—that’s good.”

  Daniel takes one more pull and then flicks the butt into the alley. In minutes they have Cherry’s body in the tarp and in the trunk of the car.

  “Okay, let’s move.” Vincent’s voice is edged with excitement as he slides in behind the wheel. Daniel feels dizzy, either from the cigarette or the whole experience, and pauses at the passenger door. Sweat rolls down his face as the world begins to spin around him. Leaning forward, hands on his knees, he vomits, his stomach convulsing upward with a force he is unable to control.

  Vinny has started the car, evidently impatient. “Come on, kid. Get in the car.” Vinny calls out, leaning over and opening the passenger door.

  Wiping the sweat and spit with the back of his hand, Daniel climbs in. His body is slick with perspiration and he is beginning to feel cold and damp.

  “You okay?” Vincent backs up, glancing quickly at Daniel’s face, which is still white with shock.

  “Yeah, I’ll live. But…”

  “But, what?”

  “What are we going to tell Cherry’s family?”

  “Nothing. What the fuck are you talking about, Danny?” Vincent’s face is dark as he glances at Daniel. “This ain’t the goddamn army. Besides, Cherry don’t have no family. Whatever he had, you’re looking at it.” Vincent laughs and fishes out a smoke from his pocket.

  “I’m sorry, Vincent.”

  “For what? For this?” Vincent indicates the back of the car with his thumb, his cigarette lit and clamped firmly in his mouth.

  “Yeah.”

  “Cherry was a waster, Danny. He woulda bought it one way or another. Just too bad it was on your watch.” He pauses. “And this may work out well with what Hymie is planning.”

  “Glad I could be of use,” Daniel answers with sad sarcasm. His eyes dart toward Vincent, who is staring over the wheel, nodding in the smoke circling around his head, his mind racing forward.

  They are driving, but Daniel has a hard time remembering where they are going or why. No, he remembers why. His breath is coming quickly, his heart beating hard in his chest.

  “Here.” Vincent nudges Daniel’s arm, nodding to the cigarette pack he is holding. “Have another smoke.”

  Daniel, hands still shaking, finally lights the cigarette and takes a deep pull, feeling the smoke burn his throat, his lungs. Holding it in, he finally releases it, watching the smoke stream from his mouth, steadying his heart beat and pulling his emotions out with it. He takes another drag, his hand trembling only slightly as he lifts the cigarette to his lips. “Vinny?”

  “Yeah?” Vincent turns. The smoke curling around Daniel’s profile catches the light, forming a halo and illuminating the perspiration still on his face. “What, kid?”

  Without turning Daniel continues, “I should tell you. I took the money, Vinny.”

  A beat of silence echoes between them. “Yeah, I know,” Vincent answers, his eyes fixed on the road in front of him, negotiating a turn.

  “How … when…?” Daniel leaves his sentence fragmented and unfinished.

  “How did I know or when did I know? Is that the question?” Vincent quickly looks at Daniel, his profile moving from shadow to light in the moving car. “I didn’t know until I saw the satchel. You know, it’s something I seen for years. Seen it so much I never saw it no more. You know what I mean?” He nods to Daniel. “Then I seen it in your house, and, well, the penny dropped, as they say.”

  “We should go get it, Vinny. Let’s go get it.” Daniel’s voice is edged with hysteria.

  “No, Danny.” Vincent laughs, his heavy features creasing with the effort. “We’re not gonna go get it. Shit is gonna be coming down. Hymie is on the war path, out for revenge. They killed Dean, they killed Mick, they took the money. Leave it at that. It won’t make no difference. Hymie and Moran have already set the wheels in motion. There will be payback like you ain’t never seen, kid. In fact, you ain’t gonna see it. Take the money and get the hell outa here. Mick never wanted you mixed up in any of this anyways. And the Cherry thing, nobody’s gotta know the truth about that. Let them find the body and draw their own conclusion—that’s what people like to do. They’ll build a story around one of O’Banion’s men found murdered on the South Side. It’ll have nothing to do with you, and nobody needs to know the truth. This is the best thing.” Vincent looks over at Daniel who is watching the smoke rising from the cigarette in his hand. “You hearing me, kid? Danny?” Vincent places his hand on Daniel’s shoulder and shakes him gently as if waking him from a dream. “Danny, forget it now. It was an unfortunate accident. Shit like this happens, whatcha gonna do? Cherry is a no account waster and he shouldn’t a’ been waving that gun around. He was asking for it. It might work out good for us, but it was an accident, plain and simple and don’t nobody need to know about it.”

  Daniel nods, repeating Vincent’s words in his head. It was an accident. Wasn’t it? He could tell right away, with the first bit of physical contact, that Cherry was no match for him. Daniel had been in hand-to-hand combat, and his reflexes were still sharp, his training lying dormant just under the surface. When Cherry moved in behind him, the gun hard against his neck, it was as if he lost all conscious thought. Forced to play a part he knew well, he did just what he had been trained to do.

  Bringing Cherry to the ground was hardly an effort; with his elbow pushed against Cherry
’s windpipe, Daniel easily wrestled the gun from his hand, and, before he could stop himself, he had blown the other man’s head off.

  He didn’t have to do it. As soon as Daniel’s instincts took hold, his body and mind no longer his own, he felt the other man’s submission, felt the slackening of muscles against his body. He felt Cherry’s hand tapping his arm, almost pleadingly, as if giving in. If Daniel had released his arm from across Cherry’s windpipe, he may have heard the man beg for his life.

  “Where are we taking him?” Daniel asks, dragging his thoughts back into the present.

  “I was thinking ’bout dumping him on the South Side, but I got a better idea. We’ll take him to the Green Mill on North Broadway. It’s our territory, but the club is owned by Capone.

  “That’s right, the Green Mill Jazz Club is owned by Capone. I think Michael may have told me that.”

  “Yeah,” Vincent spits out a laugh. “What kind a balls is that? I’ll tell ya’, Capone is a new breed. Mike Merlo and Torrio and Dean, they’re old school. All of us is kids from the neighbourhood just taking what we can from our own territory, but Capone wants it all and he don’t care about spilling blood. We dump Cherry behind the Green Mill and it’ll look like one of Capone’s outfit did him in. Yeah, it’s perfect.”

  “Doesn’t Jack McGurn run the Green Mill?” Daniel asks, still sorting out the information.

  “Who do you think McGurn works for?”

  “I didn’t know Capone had any Irish in his outfit.”

  “Are you shittin’ me, Danny?” Vincent looking quickly over at Daniel, a half smile on his face. “Have you ever seen McGurn?”

  “No. I haven’t been in the Green Mill for a while. Why?”

  “McGurn ain’t Irish, Danny. His name is Vincenzo Antonio Gebaldi. He changed his name when he was trying to make it as a boxer in Brooklyn. Irish boxers get more fights, so he goes under the name Battling Jack McGurn. He weren’t even in no gang until his old man bought it in a mistaken identity by some White Hand gang members.”

  “What?”

  Vincent takes a drag of his cigarette and settles into his story like a bear into a winter’s nap. “Yeah, I guess they mistook his old man for Willie Altierri, one of Frankie Yale’s men. You know Frankie Yale—he’s one of the big bosses in Brooklyn and Capone’s mentor. Story goes, Vincenzo soaked his hands in the blood of his dead father and swore revenge on the men who did it. He was good to his word too; he’s killed most of the guys responsible and he ain’t even twenty-one. Now instead of calling him Battling McGurn, they’re calling him Machine-gun McGurn. Capone brought him to Chicago to use as muscle in his outfit.”

  “Wow, you’re just a fountain of information, Vinny.” Daniel, with a low half laugh, tries to keep his mind on the conversation and in the present moment.

  “Yeah, well it pays to know who you’re up against. Anyways, that’s how the story goes; that’s what they say about him.” Rubbing his hands along his pant legs, Vincent continues, “I wonder what they’ll say about me after all this is said and done.”

  They are quiet. Vincent thinks about posterity, and Daniel about Michael and Cherry, and the act just committed. He doesn’t want anyone saying anything about his actions, about his part in all this. He needs to move on as if none of this has ever happened and get the hell out of Chicago as quickly as possible. He needs to put all this behind him, in the past, locked away from thought with conscious effort, like the images of France. He needs to escape … or go mad.

  “I’m going to have to bury Michael. Then I’m going to get out of here, Vincent.”

  “Yeah, that’s best, Danny. Nobody’s playing by the rules no more. You gotta be committed or you gotta get out. Dean’s funeral will be the big one. We can bury Mick quick and quiet, and you and Jeanie and the kid can hightail it.” He looks over at Daniel. “Where do you think you’ll go? No, don’t even tell me. It’s best you just disappear without no forwarding address.”

  The next few hours and days are a blur to Daniel. His mind feels numb, and grief and guilt seesaw back and forth in his gut, making him physically sick. Images return to him, mostly in dreams that seem interminable: two men dying, one in his arms, the other by his hand, their faces and bodies morphing from one to the other, begging and pleading as they die; a tarp, heavy as lead and oozing blood. He watches himself pull at the weight, his arms aching with fatigue, the shadow of dread—as real and imminent as the sound of his pounding heart—always pushing him on, relentless.

  A body buried—dust to dust—beside an Irish mother, the last of an unknown country. A body left, splayed on the dirty ground like so much forgotten garbage.

  11.

  I’M DREAMING. I KNOW I AM because you are here with me. I can’t see you, but I can feel your presence beside me, around me. But it is not only you that I feel…. John Grace is here and even Jack. Yes, I can feel their presence, sliding around from one to the other. Dreams are like that; there is never a face, only an impression vague and transient but strong enough for recognition. But mostly it is you that I feel, your presence, Leland—comforting, familiar. I have missed that.

  We are somewhere, but I’m not sure where. It is noisy, confusing. Ah, I see now. We are at the side of a busy road and trying to cross it. We must cross it for some reason that evades me, but it is there, the need to push on. Cars are passing by so close, so quickly. I can feel the air they displace moving across me, blowing back my hair, flapping our clothes, a whirlwind. It is dangerous, but we are moving into the centre of the highway—for now I see it is a highway. It’s like wading into a deep and swiftly flowing stream, isn’t it? It’s dark now. There are streetlights and headlights all around while we make our way to the other side. Funny that I’m not frightened. Have I done this before? Do I already know that we will make it across? I have no fear. Perhaps I am favoured by God? Yes, I must be. I feel the confident in this. We are almost there, and I am smiling. I can feel the smile. I can almost see it on my face, as if I am above and looking down. Look back at how far across we have come! Ha! I can see the other side, recognize the other side. Others are there now. I’m not sure who it is, but they are there looking out. Now they’re stepping into the traffic. One of the children? Oh, they are so young—maybe five or six—still small enough to lift into my arms, if I could bear the weight. Clearly it’s a child, but I’m not sure who. I just know it’s one of mine. I feel it now. I’m anxious, fearful for their safety. Oh, Leland, the child! It’s Gary who is following us, but who is with him? Who is holding his hand? He is too young to be attempting this. Where is his father? Why is no one with him? I move to the edge of the highway, across from him, arms open wide, waiting, waiting, waiting. I ache for him to make it to me, to hold his small body against my own. I can feel his warmth, his sparrow-like arms around me, his head beneath my own. I’m dreaming I know—my actions and emotions so separate from each other. I feel no recrimination, no overwhelming responsibility, only hope that he will make it to my arms. Suddenly there is movement. My eyes open; I’m awake. I can’t move. I push against something hard. My face is cold.

  “NAN, ARE YOU AWAKE? We’re almost there. We’ll be pulling into the station in a few minutes.” Lisa leans over, smiling into Ruby’s open eyes. “You okay, Nan?” Ruby remains still, slumped against the window pane. “Nan?” Lisa tries again, touching Ruby’s left arm lying along the armrest.

  I can’t move, Ruby thinks. My arms, my legs, my mouth. I can’t move.

  Lisa gently pulls her grandmother to an upright position. “Nan, can you hear me?” Her voice is full of alarm. “Oh my God, Nan. Nan.” She looks about and raises herself from her chair, her hand still on Ruby’s arm. She calls out, “Someone, I need some help here! Please, I need some help!”

  “What is it?” A young man from a seat a few rows back moves to Lisa’s side, a concerned look on his face.

  “I don’t know, but something is wrong with
my grandmother. She isn’t moving. She’s not talking. I don’t know what to do. I think she’s had a stroke or something.” Lisa’s voice is tight with panic.

  “I’ll go find someone, tell someone. We’ll need an ambulance. Try to stay calm, and I’ll be right back.” The words are barely out before he is gone; in his wake, a rush of air swirls around the occupants of the car, leaving them anxious and alert.

  “Can you push her chair back?” asks a woman in a nearby seat. “My name is Sherry—I’m a nurse. Can you push her chair back and straighten out her legs? I think you’re right; I think she’s had a stroke. Let’s make her as comfortable as possible. We’re almost at the station; hopefully they will have an ambulance waiting by the time we get there.”

  “Thank you,” Lisa answers, looking quickly from Ruby to Sherry. “She’s my grandmother. She’s eighty-nine. We were talking together the whole way here. I don’t understand….” She shakes her head in disbelief.

  “These things happen. Especially to the elderly. Don’t worry, we’ll get her help as soon as possible.”

  Holding Ruby’s trembling hand, Lisa comforts her grandmother. “It’s all right, Nan. It’s all right.”

  Ruby understands the tone but not the words. She tries to respond, but her language, along with her ability to form the words, is gone. All familiarity is gone. There is pain, sharp and localized behind her left eye, and only a vague awareness of her surroundings. Words form in her head with an urgency she does not understand, but her speech comes out in a croaking, choked sounds that frighten her.

  In a state of suspended shock, the women wait for the train to pull into the station, for the paramedics and the stretcher to arrive, for the difficult transfer from the chair to the stretcher, from the train to the platform, from the platform to the waiting ambulance. Lisa, fearful the whole time, holds herself together with a calmness that belies the chaos churning beneath the surface. The anxiety and worry cannot be good for the baby, she thinks, holding on to this thought in order to sooth her own emotions.