Chicago Boogie Woogie

by Gregory C. Randall

  He walked up Dearborn Street, stretching his stiff legs. At Berghoff’s restaurant he ordered a bag of food; while he waited for his order, he had a beer. With no coaxing, the bartender, an old friend, tucked a bottle of Canadian Club next to the schnitzel and potato salad. Alfano splurged and took a taxi home.

  At the landing outside his apartment, he heard the radio from Teddy and Alice Kowalski’s apartment. He would have to talk to Alice sometime, but tonight was not the night. She collected his mail while he was gone; he’d retrieve it the next day. She would also want to know everything about Los Angeles and California. For Alice Kowalski, the idea of LA was as exotic as visiting the Taj Mahal in India. She had been trying for years in every conceivable way to entice Alfano into her boudoir, a place that Alfano knew would not be the right place to land. She was lonely; Teddy worked at the steel mill on the far southside, and his schedule was erratic. Why they hadn’t moved nearer to the plant, he never learned. She had family locally. He’d assumed that was the reason.

  He quietly unlocked his door and stepped into his apartment. It was unbelievably comfortable; the heat of summer, the stifling air, the smells drifting up from the alley—gone. He turned on WMAQ. The news was on; it was all about the Lang trial and conviction. He felt sorry for Lang. The son of a bitch made one mistake: he missed. Alfano poured himself two fingers of the Canadian Club, lit a cigarette, and sat down. Sitting alone on the threadbare couch, at that moment, Los Angeles looked a whole lot better than the life he had in Chicago—everything from the past two weeks rolled over him like that surf at the beach. He rose and fell with the swells of his life, alone, waiting for the next big wave to lift him up and propel him forward. “Go to Hollywood, Tony,” the mayor said. It had been a trip to the moon and back.

  Alfano said, “Good morning, Sergeant,” from his desk in the back of the detective’s room.

  Sergeant McDunnah stood in the middle of the room looking more shocked than surprised.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Detective? I wasn’t expecting you ’til Monday. You’ve more earned days off than Methuselah. So’s I’m thinking Monday.”

  “I missed you, too, Sergeant. I’ve traveled maybe four thousand miles, I’ve been up in the air, solved the murders of four people, had some outstanding food, walked in the Pacific Ocean, saw something called surfing, and discovered that the enticing temptress that is California is just a sham—a hooker with great makeup.”

  Sergeant McDunnah stood there looking at Alfano and shook his head. “That is the biggest pile of bullshit I have ever heard you sputter. Gil sent me an airmail letter. I got it yesterday; he told me everything. You are a fucking hero in Los Angeles, a real hero. The Beverly Hills Police want to pin a medal on you.”

  “Now that is bullshit. They are glad I’m gone. All I got was a sunburn, and I’m peeling.”

  “Always modest. I like that about you. Someday, when the glow of your success dims, you need to tell me all about it.”

  “I will, someday. Anything more about Kitty Hill?”

  “It has been revelation after revelation; the key was the ballistics on the bullets from that Colt Police Positive. From there it all tumbles down through at least a dozen assassinations and executions, maybe more. The crime lab is still looking. They are now like dogs on a hunt. Once they’ve got the scent, they go down deep.”

  “Good, and the gun itself?”

  “There’s a better than even chance it was stolen after the shooting of a Chicago police officer in ’22.”

  Alfano let out a low whistle. “That long ago. Wow.”

  McDunnah nodded. “A Corporal Dugan, patrolman, was responding to a brawl in an alley at a closed bar on South Wabash. Two men were shot and killed; Dugan may have been caught in the crossfire.”

  “It wasn’t Mooney and O’Neal?”

  “No, they were killed about a year later. But the same gun was used to kill them.”

  “I remember that corporal getting gunned down. I was a sergeant then. When we arrived, there were three dead; Dugan was one of them. The others had connections to Capone.”

  “Right, and someone took Dugan’s revolver. We now know that it’s been a killer for the last eleven years.”

  “And has retired to sunny California. Hot damn.”

  “Who’s been doing this?” McDunnah asked. “Capone and Nitti are done. One’s in a Georgia prison, and Frank Nitti has more press following him than a bitch in heat. The rumor is the man has gone paranoid, hides in his office, guards at the door. You think this killer is still active?”

  “I’ve a good idea that he is, and tomorrow we are going to make an arrest for the killing of Kitty Hill. You willing to work a little Sunday overtime, Sergeant?”

  “Moira is teaching church school tomorrow; all I was going to do was listen to football. The Bears are playing the Giants. You know, they haven’t lost.”

  “I will try to get you back before the game.”

  “So, yes, damn straight.”

  “Good. Here is a list of things I want you to chase down today. And get an arrest warrant as well.”

  “Who’s the lucky winner?”

  Alfano handed the sergeant a sheet of paper and a smaller piece of paper. McDunnah looked at the list and the name.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  CHAPTER 29

  The name Alfano had given to McDunnah was none other than the head doorman at the Palmer House, Henry Bucci. Alfano had known Bucci for about four years. Back then, Alfano believed that Bucci was trying his best to keep himself out of jail due to his history with Al Capone. It was in January 1929—two weeks before the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre where seven men were gunned down at a warehouse in Lincoln Park—when Bucci turned over solid evidence that got a few of the local gangsters arrested and sent away. After the massacre, there was a housecleaning in the Chicago Police Department. There were rumors that cops had done the shooting, but four years later, no one had been arrested for the killings. Until the Kitty Hill murder, there’d been nothing concrete about the shooters or even the motive. When Capone was convicted for tax evasion, in October 1931, Alfano had believed that the city, with the help of US federal agents, was on the right path. Now, he was certain it had all been a stunt—not the killings but the city’s follow-up. As a bonus for Bucci’s evidence, Alfano had helped him get the doorman’s job at the newly rebuilt Palmer House. Now, he was sure that he’d not done a good thing, and in fact he had been played like a cheap trumpet.

  Early Sunday morning, Alfano met Sergeant McDunnah at a coffee shop on West Monroe Street, about eight blocks from the Palmer House Hotel. He parked the Packard out front.

  “Are you sure about this?” McDunnah said. “How the hell did you, more than two thousand miles away, figure out who killed Katherine Mooney, sweet Kitty Hill?”

  “Sweet she wasn’t, that I found out. She is proof that a leopard won’t change its spots,” Alfano said. “Was I right about the ballistics?”

  “Yes, spot on. I was stunned. No one’s been arrested for the Valentine killings in the four and a half years since the shooting, and yet you find one of the murder weapons in California. That Colt Police Positive, stolen from the body of that murdered patrolman, was later used in the massacre. It’s been confirmed by two laboratories that five bullets removed from two of the dead men in that garage match the striations on the bullets from the killing of that director in Los Angeles and those found in the chest of Kitty Hill. So, it’s Henry Bucci?”

  “Yes, I believe Bucci was freelance, a gun for hire.”

  “And what brought this all together? Divine inspiration?”

  “Brilliant detective work and a framed photograph on a shelf behind Hines Melnik’s desk,” Alfano said. “It was of two boys, about fifteen years old or so. One was Melnik, the other was Henry Bucci, or that’s what he’s calling himself these days. Bucci was a friend of Melnik’s. Maybe they grew up together in LA. Did you find his fingerprints?”

  “Yes, and
they match the unidentified print you brought back—the one they found on the inside of the gun’s grip panel.”

  “I want Bucci in jail, and it’s a lot of circumstantial evidence,” Alfano said, sipping his coffee. “Even the fingerprint—that’s another matter. Did someone claim Katherine Mooney’s body?”

  “Yes, but it was anonymous. The Evergreen Mortuary called the coroner, claiming the body. Since there were no objections, they picked it up. I called them; the burial is Tuesday at ten o’clock at Mount Olivet.”

  “I’m thinking there’s a connection to Katherine Mooney through her dead brother and husband,” Alfano said. “Bucci knew them—hell, maybe he was sweet on Mooney. Did anyone else call the funeral home?”

  “The funeral home collected the body at the morgue; it was transported and prepared. The woman at the funeral home I spoke with asked someone in the office if there was any other information, while I waited. She said that two one-hundred-dollar bills had been mailed to them, with typed instructions, that led to claiming the body. It was more than enough for the funeral. Katherine Mooney would be buried next to her brother and husband; they are also in Olivet,” McDunnah said as he crunched on a ribbon of bacon. “Simple service, a priest to say a few words, that’s about it. How we going to take Bucci?”

  “Head-on; he’s not expecting us,” Alfano said. “Why should he? It’s been almost three weeks since she was killed, and he hasn’t even been questioned. He probably thinks he’s safe. I want you to go in from the hotel’s State Street side, then head to the Monroe Street entry. He usually works there. I’ll park in front and engage him. You be ready in case he bolts inside.”

  “That works,” McDunnah agreed.

  “I want no guns. There’s people around, even on a Sunday morning. Let’s keep this nice and quiet.”

  Ten minutes later, McDunnah walked out the East Monroe Street entry of the Palmer House. Alfano was leaning against the Packard smoking a cigarette.

  “What happened?” McDunnah asked.

  Alfano signaled to a tall black man in a uniform standing near the door; the man nodded and walked over to the pair.

  “Sergeant McDunnah,” Alfano said. “This is Mr. Albert Duke. He is the doorman here at the Palmer House.”

  “Mr. Duke,” McDunnah said.

  “Mr. Duke, please tell Sergeant McDunnah what you just told me.”

  “This Tuesday last, I was just getting off my night shift when the hotel manager walks up and asks if I could do a double. Now I was truly beat. American Legionnaires have been coming in all week for their convention. It had been a long night, and I wanted nothing better than to go home and crash. I asked the manager why. ‘Where’s Bucci?’ I’s ask. Bucci called in and quit, he says. Just like that, no warning, nothing. Sergeant McDunnah, Henry Bucci hasn’t been here since Monday. Well, I did his shift, and the manager found a temporary replacement for my night slot. He knows I always wanted the day; he gave it to me.”

  “Have you had any contact with Bucci since he took off?” Alfano asked.

  “No. I never warmed to the guy. He made me a little nervous. We overlapped a lot during the past four years—that was cool, no big deal. Even swapped a few shifts—again, no big deal. But he was as friendly. Always good to the guests, never socialized with us.”

  “I want you to think back to the night that the woman was found dead in the twenty-fourth-floor suite,” Alfano said.

  “The woman that was murdered?” Duke asked.

  “Yes, that night. Were you working that night?”

  “No, sir, it was my wife Imelda’s birthday. I was home that night.” Duke smiled. “I switched with Bucci. He worked that night and part of the next morning. I came in during the afternoon and put in eighteen, then he came back the next morning. Weren’t unusual; we’d done it lots of times before. I like this day shift now . . . and so does Imelda.”

  “The manager, did he know about your switch?”

  “I don’t know, Detective. He lets us work out our schedules. As long as there’s someone at the doors, it’s jake with him.”

  “You don’t know why Bucci quit? Did he say anything?”

  “Not a clue. I thought he liked it here. We can make good money; the tips make it all work. And for a guy like me, that’s a Godsend . . . and Imelda likes it, too.”

  “A guy like you?” McDunnah said.

  “A colored man, Sergeant. It’s damn hard to get a good-paying job anywhere, and that’s the Lord’s truth. Especially these tough days. With the fair and conventions coming, I’ll do anything to keep this job. So why’d Henry quit? I just don’t know.”

  “Mr. Duke, if you hear from Bucci, or anything about him, give me or Sergeant McDunnah a call.” Alfano handed him a card. “All the information is here.”

  “Thanks. Is Henry in a lot of trouble?”

  “Not sure, Albert. We just want to ask him a few questions about that night. You’ve been a big help. By the way, if he does stop by or you see him, don’t let him know we are looking. It wouldn’t be . . . jake.”

  Duke smiled. “Anything I can do to help.”

  Five minutes later, as Alfano drove along Michigan Avenue back to the Racine Street station, Sergeant McDunnah voiced the question to which they both knew the answer: “Do you think somebody tipped him off?”

  “Yes. Somebody called him from California; had to have. And there’s only one man who knew enough about what was happening here in Chicago to call Bucci and clue him in.”

  “Gil Tuttle.”

  “Bingo.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Alfano cooled his heels in the sparsely decorated office on the fifth floor of the office building at 221 N. LaSalle Street. He added his cigarette butt to the nearly filled ashtray on the small table. He was keeping company with two men who stood in the room with him: one at the office door and the other at the door that led to an inner office. There was a third man sitting in a chair outside; he had a clear view of everyone who came and went. The gunzel at the inner door had done a body search that barely stopped short of being a cavity search, though to no avail as Alfano had arrived unarmed. He knew they all carried guns. Why there wasn’t one more gangster with a tommy gun sitting in the corner, he didn’t know. Or maybe there was; he still didn’t want to know.

  The rest of the fifth floor was empty. After the freshly convicted Harry Lang tried to assassinate Frank Nitti, most of the tenants on the floor had moved out.

  “Mr. Nitti will be with you shortly,” the woman at the desk said. “You should have made an appointment.”

  “Thank you, it’s a spur-of-the-moment thing,” Alfano answered.

  “What thing?” she answered. “What spur?”

  The gunzel at the front door laughed. Alfano shot him a sour look.

  The box on the desk buzzed. “Tell Detective Alfano that he can come in,” said a voice.

  Gunzel two, at the inner office door, seized the door’s round brass handle with the delicate hands of a boxer, twisted it like he was breaking the neck of a chicken, and opened it. Alfano turned sideways and stepped past him. The man’s breath smelled of garlic and spaghetti mixed with cigars.

  Frank Nitti sat at a large mahogany desk. A green glass brass lamp sat on the right side of the desk, a wire tray full of papers sat to the left, and a large semiautomatic pistol, that Alfano recognized as similar to the one he normally carried in his shoulder holster, rested in the center of the desk. It was a particularly strange paperweight. He regarded its owner. Nitti had a round head, a pronounced, flattened nose, curious small eyes, and a cleft chin. His black hair was perfectly in place and parted on his right. For a man now forty-seven years old, it was slightly greying at the temples.

  Alfano had joined the Chicago police force in 1913. Nitti arrived in Chicago with his wife five years later and set up his liquor smuggling operation in the Italian neighborhood near Taylor Street soon after the start of Prohibition. The two, cop and gangster, grew up together, professionally speaking. Soon after
arriving, Nitti joined with his cousin Al Capone, and for fifteen years they were the gangster face of the city of Chicago.

  Nitti pointed to the chair directly across from him. Alfano sat.

  “Detective Anthony Alfano, what has it been, six years?”

  “Good memory, Frank. Six years next January. I stood outside the ship in Cicero when they rousted the joint. This whole time, I’ve wondered why you weren’t charged with running the joint. Then again, I did watch you slide into the comfortable back seat of the Cicero captain’s police cruiser. How nothing sticks to you still amazes me. And now, after last December’s little incident, you are apparently invincible. Astonishing. How you feeling? You look good. You must be celebrating Lang’s conviction.”

  Nitti glared at him. “Look, Alfano, what the fuck are you doing here all nice and pretty? Does Mayor Kelly have something special planned for me, like his predecessor?”

  Nitti’s fingers gravitated to the gun on the desk.

  “No. In fact, the mayor doesn’t know I’m here. This is my gig, as we say on South State Street.”

  “The hell you say. Look, you are a straight shooter,” Nitti said. “Lord knows and the rumor goes if anyone knocked you down, their world would go black. You’re as clean as the backside of a baby. I know Al tried; you were his one regret.”