by Holly Baxter
He was assigned a car, and sat in the back seat between two of Moran’s men. When he offered his flask, they shook their heads.
“After,” the one on the right said.
Neither he, his companion, nor the two men in the front seat spoke again.
Drew could smell their sweat, but knew it was not from fear but excitement, as soldiers sweat before battle. He knew its bitter edge was caused by adrenalin. Adrenalin stimulated the nerves and the production of insulin and other endocrines. That was one of the bits of information he had accumulated from books. All his life he had only read about things, never experienced them. Now knowing such esoteric facts did him no good whatsoever.
The cars drove on. Above the lake, on their left, the sky lightened almost imperceptibly. The streets of the Loop were strangely empty, the streetlights shining down onto gleaming streetcar tracks, shop windows, parked cars, occasional walkers shuffling to or from the job, head down, thoughts elsewhere. If they noticed the brief parade of cars and black limousines passing through, they ignored them. Wisely.
The people of Chicago knew when to look away.
***
It was very quiet when the men had left the house.
Ellie sat in one chair, Mrs. Logie in another, both lost in their own thoughts. Five minutes passed. Ten. They heard the engines of the cars as Moran’s men arrived. Then they heard them leave, going away down the drive, one by one.
Suddenly Mrs. Logie stood up and went to the desk. She opened a drawer and looked down into it silently. Then she took a deep breath. “Can you drive?” she asked Ellie.
“Um…sort of.” Hugh had given her exactly two lessons the previous summer.
Mrs. Logie reached into the drawer and drew out a gun. “That street they’re going to can’t be very long. We can find that warehouse.”
Ellie was dumfounded. “Are you serious?”
“Never more so. Chang wants Harry to live. I don’t.” Her words were bitter.
“But he’s your son.”
“He’s a stranger. My son died a long time ago.”
“Mr. Lee—”
“I know. I know.” She closed the drawer, and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, there was resignation behind the glitter of tears. “A good housekeeper can always find work, even in these days.”
“But he’s your husband.”
A faint flicker of a smile passed over the older woman’s thin mouth. “That died a long time ago, too. Perhaps one day you’ll understand.”
Ellie didn’t think she ever would understand. How could a woman want to kill her own child? Even one as evil as Harry Lee? “Can’t you drive?”
“No. I was never allowed to learn. If there was shopping to be done, I was driven, waited for, returned home. There have been many chauffeurs, but the rules never changed. Lately, Helen would drive me.”
Ellie understood. Helen Chou had taken Mrs. Logie’s place as mistress. And Helen Chou had betrayed Mr. Lee as Mrs. Logie never had. Mrs. Logie saw the realization in Ellie’s face.
“In China, only sons count. Women are useful bystanders.”
“But he must still love you.”
“I love him. That’s enough. Now—” She paused, then rushed on. “Don’t you see? The other sons, the sons he had with the wife he did love, are good men. Harry is—” She paused again, and her mouth twisted. “—misbegotten. The runt of the litter. Every evil that Lee and I deny in ourselves came out in him.”
“You’re not evil.” Ellie wanted to weep for this woman, and yet the resolve that was now so apparent in her was frightening, unnatural.
“Everyone is evil and good. Yin and Yang. Cold and hot. Hard and soft. The Chinese understand that. Sometimes, in a child, in a person, evil triumphs. And when it does, it’s strong and it spreads. You have to cut it at the root. Lee sees only a son. I see a cancer.”
“I won’t drive you to kill your son.”
Mrs. Logie raised the gun. “I think you will. I wouldn’t kill you, you know. But I would cripple you, make you spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair.”
“You’re that determined?” Elodie was appalled.
Mrs. Logie nodded. “I am.”
***
There were three cars in Mr. Lee’s garage. The big black limousine, a more modest sedan, and a small black delivery truck, probably used for transporting large art objects such as the red and gold altar Ellie had seen in the treasure house. She saw that the guard had returned to his post there and was sitting peacefully on his chair. She wondered what he thought about, if he had ever seen what he guarded. Nobody had said anything to him. Moran’s men had arrived at the front of the house, so he hadn’t seen them. She wondered if he fell asleep out there, or whether the lights in the passage kept him awake. She wondered if he expected to be relieved, soon. When he would begin to realize something was wrong. She wanted to think about anything except what she was being forced to do.
Mrs. Logie didn’t hesitate. “The delivery truck,” she pointed.
Ellie got behind the wheel. Mrs. Logie produced the keys she had taken from a board in the kitchen and handed them to Ellie. “Hurry up. We have to get there first.”
“They’re way ahead of us.”
“Even so—”
Ellie stalled the engine twice before jerkily backing the truck out of the garage. She had never driven anything but Hugh’s little sedan, and then only on country roads. She couldn’t see very well going backward, but managed not to hit anything.
“You can go faster than they can if you put your foot down.” Mrs. Logie was calm, now, but still held the gun. Ellie briefly considered trying to take it from her, but decided it would be easier when they got out. Meanwhile she could take wrong turns, go slow, even run the van into something on the way. Or when they got there, perhaps she could alert the others.
By driving Mrs. Logie to confront her son, she was going to be an accessory to a killing. Everything she had been brought up to believe and live by said that was wrong. Killing was wrong.
And yet, and yet—
She thought of Harry Lee. His sneering face, his vile beliefs, his willingness to commit any sin to advance those beliefs, and his craven desire to shame his father.
She wondered if Mrs. Logie was right.
She turned onto Lake Shore Drive.
She put her foot down.
The van jerked, balked, then moved forward.
***
Hugh Murphy was in the back of a limo with four of Moran’s men and Archie Deacon. Mr. Lee was in front with the driver. The limo moved smoothly, occasionally turning, bumping over unseen streetcar tracks, once bumping a curb. Hugh felt sick with fear and excitement. He had always arrived after a crime. Saw the scene when everything was over. He had seen corpses, he had seen destruction, he had interviewed terrified witnesses and stoic policemen.
He had heard gunshots in the movies but he had never heard a shot fired in real life until Archie had let off his gun in Manotta’s office. He hadn’t realized that it would be so loud, so stunning. He looked around.
Four guns were visible. Archie had one somewhere. And Hugh had been given one himself. He took it out and looked at it. So heavy in his hand. What was it that Ellie had said? Point and pull? Where had she learned that? He supposed it was common sense. How complicated could it be?
Each of Moran’s four men had machine guns. They held them as they would hold a baby, cradled in their arms. Dull black, the smell of the oil on them was strong and reminded him of the smell of the garage at 2122 North Clark Street, two years back, on St. Valentine’s Day. Oil and gasoline fumes overlaid with the smell of blood and the stink of bodies fouled by the betrayal of their bowels as they screamed and died or bled to death. It had been quiet when he got there. It was always quiet when he got there.
It wasn’t going to be quiet this time.
***
As Ellie drove down the street lined with wa
rehouses, they saw Moran’s cars drawn up in front of one of them. Men were getting out.
“Drive past,” Mrs. Logie hissed in her ear. “To the alley.”
“They’ve seen us.” Ellie was sure they had. She was tempted to blow the horn.
Mrs. Logie twisted around to look out of the small windows in the rear doors. “No. They took no notice. Go around the corner and turn into the alley.”
“They’ll be covering the alley.”
“In a minute, in a minute. Do you recognize the door you went through?”
Ellie bent down and peered through the windshield at the silhouettes of buildings against the skyline, then looked along the alley itself. “Yes. But it will be guarded.”
“Go to the far end of the alley and stop the car.” Ellie did as she was told. “Turn off the engine. Now, get out.”
Ellie did, hoping for a moment when she could perhaps tackle Mrs. Logie and take the gun from her. But Mrs. Logie gave her no opportunity, coming around the van and staying behind her. “We’ll go along and hide as close to the door as we can. When Moran’s men go in, we’ll follow them.”
“But—”
“Most of the noise will be at the front, the men at the back are just going to be there to stop anyone escaping. Here—duck down behind that pile of crates.”
Again, Ellie did as she was told, and felt Mrs. Logie crouch down behind her. She still had the gun—Ellie could feel its hard little snout pressing into her back. I should have run away when I got out, she thought. She wouldn’t shoot me. The others would have heard…
But she hadn’t run away, and she knew why. Somewhere on the long drive she had felt her anger start to grow. Her fault? She’d started “all this”? Well, if she’d started it then she should help finish it. Leave her behind, would he? Damn Hugh. Damn Archie Deacon. Damn them all.
***
Archie sent three men to the rear of the warehouse, to watch both the entry and the loading doors. In front there was just a single door, presumably leading to an office where business would normally be conducted. One of Moran’s men easily picked the lock, and they went in silently. It was dark and empty, even of furniture. Moran’s men piled in behind them and waited silently.
Archie sniffed. Ellie had been right. Ether and pickles and something of the barnyard. So they were not only processing opium into heroin, but still turning out cocaine.
It was a big place. Ellie had only seen a small part of it, and the priest and Cohen could have been moved from where they had been to anywhere in the building.
If they were still alive.
When he inched open the rear door of the office, light flooded in. The space beyond was well-lit and huge. In it he could see at least six men, but there could easily be more out of his line of sight. Four of the men were playing cards at a small table. The other two were lounging against the far wall. All but one were Chinese. The odd one out looked Italian, swarthy and scowling. He sat apart from the rest, and looked very bored. He had a gun in a shoulder holster, but none of the Chinese looked armed. At least, not with guns.
There was almost no cover in the room. What packing cases and boxes were there were scattered, few and low. When they went in through the narrow door, it could be only one at a time, so they would have to move fast. They had one moment when the element of surprise would help them. After that all hell would break loose.
Archie turned back to the group of men behind him and gestured one forward. He stepped back so Moran’s man could get a look at the situation beyond.
“You see who to go for first?” he whispered.
Moran’s man nodded.
The moment had arrived.
***
The three men in the alley stiffened as the sound of machine gun fire came from within the building.
“They’re in.” The man who had spoken went forward and tried the entry door beside the loading dock. It was locked. “Our turn,” he said, and kicked the door in with one hefty thud. The men piled through the door and disappeared.
“Count to ten, then we go in.” Mrs. Logie’s whisper was tense, and Ellie knew she, too, was frightened by the noise of firing and shouting, but still determined. “They won’t expect anyone to be behind them.”
Ellie hesitated. Being angry and wanting to take part in all this was one thing, actually doing it quite another. All that noise was from real guns, real bullets hitting home. Moran’s men didn’t expect anyone to be behind them, so if they were detected they would undoubtedly shoot automatically. Suddenly she thought of her family sitting at home, unaware of where she was and what she was doing. Archie had pointed out that Harry’s threats to them were sham because he had no idea where the Browne house was, nor who Ellie really was. So she didn’t have to worry about them anymore.
But if she was hurt, or killed…
“Now!” Mrs. Logie pushed at her, took her by the upper arm, forced her up and forward. Stiff and resisting, Ellie was propelled toward the open door and the sound of mayhem beyond. They stepped into the light from the hallway beyond.
Could they be seen?
Would they be seen?
***
Hugh Murphy was throwing up in a corner of the big open space. The Chinese men and what was obviously one of Capone’s men lay dead on the concrete floor. He had thought, he had assumed, they would simply round up the people in the warehouse, not kill them. He wondered whether Archie had thought the same thing. But the Italian guy had fired, and then there was no stopping Moran’s men. To them, killing was just an efficient way of dealing with opposition, no moral questions involved. Now they were swarming up the two staircases that led up to the next floor, Archie was behind them, gun out, shield out, but white-faced with shock. Hugh knew then that Moran’s men meant to go on killing because as far as they were concerned it was all part of the vendetta against Capone. Shining Sword meant nothing to them. He retched again, and went down on his knees. What was the saying—he who rides the tiger cannot dismount? They had certainly loosed a tiger in here.
Drew stood still, undecided. Stay here? Help Hugh? Go up the stairs—left? Right? Get the hell out of it?
Archie looked back down at him. Their eyes met briefly. The message was clear—they were part of the horror, whether they wanted it or not. All they could do was hope they found the general and the priest before they got caught in the crossfire.
Drew went for the caged elevator he had just spotted in one corner. It had to lead somewhere. As he moved, he took out his flask one more time.
Hugh stood up and avoided looking at the dead men. He had seen dead men before. But he had not seen men stand up suddenly, terrified, seen blood spurt from chests and heads, seen them fall, twitching. He had not fired his gun. He knew that. He hadn’t needed to.
Moran’s men had done it all.
He didn’t feel any better for it. He had been there. If there was ever a trial, he would be a witness. Would have to admit that he was part of it. Shaking, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth and forehead.
Then he heard a woman scream.
***
Moran’s men had kicked open doors as they went along the back hall, up the stairs, down the corridors. As Ellie and Mrs. Logie followed them, they passed the door behind which Ellie had last seen Father Anselm and General Two-Gun Cohen.
There was one dead Chinese man on the floor, almost under the table.
Nobody else.
“They were in there. Maybe Moran’s men have them.” Ellie was still resisting Mrs. Logie every step of the way. She had lost her anger, lost her bravado, lost her self-control. When she had seen the dead man she had screamed and would have gone on screaming if Mrs. Logie hadn’t shaken her, hard. That was a real man, lying there. A real, dead man. Blood seeped from beneath his head, part of his face was torn away. Hideous, horrible. She retched, but her stomach was empty. Only sour bile rose in her throat.
“I don’t care about them. You know wha
t I want.” Mrs. Logie pushed and finally pulled Ellie along the hall toward the stairs at the end. “I want it over with. I want him dead. I want all this to stop, now.” It ocurred to Ellie that the woman was hysterical, impelled by something she could not, chose not to control.
There was shouting and shooting from everywhere, it seemed. The noise was tremendous, echoing, re-echoing through the building. Ellie imagined Moran’s men moving like a scythe, cutting down everything in their path. “Cleaning up.”
Mrs. Logie pulled her up the stairs. Another corridor, more open doors. “He’s here, he must be here.” She was panting, grunting with the effort of keeping Ellie with her. How can she do this? Ellie wondered as she was dragged along.
How can she possibly do this?
***
Drew stared as the elevator came to a halt. Beneath him was the noise. Here was silence. No, not silence. Whispers and the sound of dripping, liquid flowing, a hissing, a bubbling, a stink so strong it almost made his eyes water.
The top floor of the warehouse was filled with laboratory apparatus. Nobody was there. He stepped out of the elevator and looked around. Where had they gone, the men who worked here? He recognized a Bunsen burner, still alight. Overhead lights were reflected in large vats of water, in glass tubes and vessels of all sorts that twinkled and shone.
He was fascinated.
They must have heard the shooting, he decided. They must have always had a plan for escape. His shoes crunched on some broken glass on the floor between the long tables. They had left in a hurry, that was clear. Were they hired hands, or dedicated members of ming dao? Had they fled for their lives or joined the fight downstairs?
He felt for his flask and held it to his lips, head thrown back to catch the last few drops. He staggered, lurched to one side, grabbed for the top of the table, dislodged the flaming Bunsen burner. Fire licked along some spilled fluid, ran away from him like a child, fleeing, leapt to an overturned flask that hissed and exploded with a small pop. The fire leapt higher.