Tales of the Bagman

by B C Bell

  “Fat Lou Cabrisio? The New York Mobster?” Mac pushed his hat back on his head. Even a low level thug like Mac used to be knew who Lou Cabrisio was.

  “Yeah, yeah. Fat Lou. I called him. I called him, begging for my life—”

  “And?”

  “He put a contract out on me.”

  Mac turned around, looking confused, pushed his hat back on tight again, looked out the window. He poured himself another shot. “And they’ve already got the word out? There’s already somebody trying to gun you down on a New York contract signed—what, last night?”

  “Yeah, Cabrisio told me on the phone last night—this morning. Some old hit man. Been locked up almost fifteen years. Just got out of Joliet.” Blake drank, and stared into space. He seemed distant now, resigned to his fate. “Cabrisio said the hitman’d already been to the club. Knew where to look for me. Hell, he was so confident he even told me the mug’s name.”

  “What was it?” Mac made it imperative. He didn’t know why.

  “Sammy Lladdono”

  “Lladdono, huh? Never heard of him. Probably before my time.” Mac pulled his mouth up on one side until the eye above it closed, looking up into his head for answers. “Where’s Coco Blue?”

  “I dunnoooo…” Blake said, collapsing to one side on the bed. He was losing his patience, starting to get even whinier.

  Mac grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him upright again. “The police think she disappeared with you.”

  “No, it wasn’t like that at all.” Blake said quickly, shaking his head in a defensive gesture. “I went back to her room, to ask her to come out and talk to the cops, and she wasn’t there. She didn’t even hang around to collect her pay—which was good because I’d spent the door money and I woulda’ hadda pay her outta what’astolen—” His words were starting to slur, and he was nodding out.

  Mac grabbed him by the collar again, shaking him. “Wake up, you’re coming with me.”

  “Wha?”

  “I said, pack your bags! You’re coming with me.” Mac shook him again.

  Blake grinned, his head bobbing. He said, “OK,” cheerfully.

  Mac didn’t know what he was going to do with him, but he if he could find Blake, so could Sam Lladdono. The drugs certainly weren’t helping, that was for sure. Mac pulled Blake to his feet. Blake smiled and wobbled. Mac grabbed him by the collar and slapped him across the face. Blake shook his head and woke up. The left side of his face turned red.

  “Pack. Your. Bags.”

  Blake arranged his little heroin rig into a kit, latched it closed, and put on his jacket—he was packed. Mac pushed him out the door, down the hall, and out the back fire exit. This time, he had to wait for the counterweight to lower the steps to ground level. The racket announced their departure. Mac picked Blake up by the back of his belt and bounced him down the street.

  ***

  Coco listened at the closet door before she bothered to try to pull the blindfold off this time. She knew if he heard her, she’d only get another beating. She could take it, but she didn’t want to have to. Same thing with telling her kidnapper about Crankshaft’s whereabouts—she could, but she wouldn’t.

  She waited for the silence to break; it didn’t. It hurt her stomach muscles chinning herself up to the curtain rod, and reminded her of how hungry she was, but she had to get the blindfold off. It came off in one tug. She couldn’t pull herself up high enough to get the gag off, and she didn’t want to start yelling just yet anyway. Giving her eyes time to adjust to what little light there was, she decided to try shoving the curtain rod lose. She slammed it hard with the heels of her palms. Then yanked back. Slammed it one more time. The rod popped out of the wall.

  She fell into the door, her feet still bound and tied to a hook screwed into the back wall. She stood that way—keeping her back straight, so she wouldn’t collapse to the floor and hurt herself worse—for a good five minutes, making sure no one had heard her. Then she fell against the back of the closet and slid down to the floor.

  Coco could see just enough to pull Crankshaft’s business card out of her brassiere and slide it behind the molding panel at the bottom of the wall where the man with the scar-face wouldn’t find it. She twisted her back untying the rope around her ankles and was forced to stop repeatedly so she could face forward to relieve the pain in her back. It seemed to take hours. She was working on the bonds around her wrists when she heard someone come back in the room.

  The despair of a lifetime of blues tunes welled up in her eyes. She had been so close. She had lost all hope of the maid finding her. In the time she’d been held prisoner she had only heard the mutterings of the scar-faced man as he talked to himself—about how he always “finished the job,” repeating “You’re dead, Jones, you’re mine,” as he paced the room, punching the bed and strangling the air with his hands. At least that’s what it sounded like he was doing. He was doing it again.

  When she tried to look through the keyhole, the view was obstructed. Standing upright, one of her knees bounced off the wall. She could feel his smile from the other side of the door—like a cat about to play with a dying bird. The key rattled in the lock and the door flew open.

  “Hey there, li’l chocolate, ya gotta—”

  The clothing rod slammed down on top of his head. Coco hit him as hard as she could, but she couldn’t get a good grip on the wooden hanging rod with her hands still bound. The doorway had obstructed her swing. Her kidnapper just stood there looking dumb for a second, like the message about the pain of being hit was still being sent up to his brain. She swung again.

  The scar-faced man caught the wooden pole in the air, used it shove her back into the closet. Then he punched her in the stomach again. She folded on her knees, face to the floor. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Stupid,” he muttered. “You’re going back in.” He was pulling her up by the shoulder and stopped. He said something else. She must have blacked out for a second.

  She struggled, trying to breathe through the gag; short, shallow breaths. Still gasping, she looked up. The man was holding Crankshaft’s card in his hand. Somehow it had been knocked loose.

  He read, whispering: “Antoine Jones. Crankshaft’s Car Repair.” His eyes went from blank to malevolent. His lips curled up slowly at the ends.

  He grabbed Coco by the hair and forced her back into the closet.

  Chapter VI

  Sammy “The Scar”

  Mac took the junkie to his apartment house. He had considered taking him to the car lot and chaining him inside one of the cars, but if Blake made a mess, Crankshaft would kill them both. Mac handcuffed him to the radiator and managed another four hours sleep.

  Mac woke up to the junkie screaming.

  “Help! Heeeelp! I’m being held prisoneeer! Heelp me! Somebody! Anybod—” Mac kicked him in the rear end. “Ow. Stop it.”

  “Look, you’re a junkie and there’s a contract out on your life. Which means—you don’t wanna make any noise, you don’t want to summon the cops, or anybody else. You have to disappear into the woodwork, buddy.”

  “Oh, like you got mobsters living next door,” Blake said.

  “This is Chicago, you moron. What do you think?”

  “Ain’t everybody in Chi a gangster.”

  “You know who Lefty O’Doul is?” O’Doul was a pitcher who had just been traded to the Dodgers; it was the first gangster-sounding name Mac could think of.

  “No.”

  “Well, he’s one of Capone’s old enforcers. A hitman. Lives upstairs. Blow your head off, just as well as look at you.”

  Blake shut up and Mac headed for the door figuring junkies must root for the Yankees.

  “Hey, you can’t just leave me chained up here,” Blake said, sitting on the floor.

  “Yeah, I can.”


  Mac had seen Blake pack his kit and guessed he had enough drugs to knock himself out for another day or two. He’d put it out of his reach, but he’d have to take his chances for a little while. If Blake somehow managed to get loose and stole Mac’s new Philco radio… Well, he’d just have to come back and kill him himself. Even the idea of having to miss “The Lone Ranger” brought on anxiety as Mac walked down the street to a Walgreen’s Drugs on the corner, glad he didn’t have a telephone to worry about yet.

  “Mac kicked him in the rear end.”

  “’Lo, Hunts?”

  “Mac! If it ain’t the alderman’s nightmare civics student. What’s up?”

  “What can you tell me about a convict named Sammy Lladdono.”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Hunts said. “He a local?”

  “Just got out of Joliet after about fifteen years. May be tied to Fat Lou Cabrisio’s mob.”

  “Hmmm. This got anything to do with last night’s little fracas over at The Mill?”

  “I don’t know yet. It might,” Mac said.

  “Well, if it was a New York guy messing with Chicago’s outfit, Nitti’s gonna raise all hell.”

  “One can only hope. Hey Hunts, can you call me back here at—” Mac looked down at the payphone’s number, “Northside-6935, as soon you can. It’s important.”

  “See what I can do.”

  “Thanks.” Mac put the earpiece back on the hanger before Hunts could mention he owed him again. He went to the lunch counter and ordered an egg sandwich and coffee. He was working on his second cup when the pay phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Mac. Hunts. How did you know about this guy?”

  “I didn’t, that’s why I called you. What have you got?”

  “Samuel ‘The Scar’ Lladdono. Career criminal, and not too bright a one at that. Got a record longer than your arm. Assault and Battery, Breaking and Entering, Graft, Armed Robbery and—rumor has it—he worked his way up to hired gun for Cabrisio, before he went down for a manslaughter charge here in Illinois.”

  “Manslaughter?”

  “Sort of an armed manslaughter, actually.” There was a rustle of paper. Hunts was reading from a report. “Lladdono, using his car as a weapon, purposely blindsided the automobile of Mr. William Coulter—a thirty-year-old Negro male—before he jumped out with a gun in his hand. Unfortunately for Mr. Lladdono, a local sheriff saw the wreck, and stopped him before he had a chance to pump a slug into the driver of the car he had ‘accidentally’ hit on purpose. Coulter died en-route to the hospital.”

  “So Lladdono got off with manslaughter?”

  “Jury of his peers thought he was getting ready to fight about the car wreck. Oh, and get this—he’s missing the upper part of his left ear.”

  “You mention any of this to the cops?”

  “Nah, I got it all from a guy at the Sun-Times morgue. Figured I’d play it mum and dumb, till you said different.”

  “Can you keep this under your hat for twenty-four hours, Hunts?”

  There was a moment of silence. “Yeah—but only twenty-four hours. I don’t know what you’re doing, Mac, but this Green Mill stuff is dynamite. You’re not careful, it’ll blow up right in your face.”

  “I owe you one.” Mac figured he say it before Hunts had the chance to. Then he hung up.

  Mac ran back home, worrying about Blake and his radio the whole time. When he unlocked the door the junkie was trying to stretch the handcuffs over to Mac’s desk. His right hand was already turning blue from the lack of circulation.

  “Hey buddy, ya left me here without any matches,” Blake said, sitting back down.

  “Yeah, and I left your little chemistry set out of reach on the desk, too.” Mac offered him a pack of cigarettes. Blake took one. “Listen, I might just be able to save your life, but I’m going to need you to stay clean for a few more hours.”

  “Few hours is about all I can hold out. I need it, man,” Blake said, trying to comb his hair with shaky fingers. Mac lit his cigarette.

  “Listen, Blake, don’t you ever get tired of this stuff? I mean, having to have it all the time? Not being able to function without it?”

  “’Course. It’s just—listen, when I first started using the junk, I didn’t have to have it. It was fun. It helped me, y’know.”

  “Don’t you wanna quit, though? I mean, it doesn’t look like a lot of fun from over here.”

  “Yeah, kinda stopped being fun a long time ago. I’d quit if I could. Hell, I’ve tried. Only thing left is to go to some sanitarium.” He took a doctor’s business card out of his pocket and handed it to Mac. “But that costs money. And if you hadn’t noticed, I kinda’ got some other problems right now...”

  “Tell you what, let’s deal with ‘em one at a time.” Mac absentmindedly tucked the card in his pants. “I may be able to help.”

  “Why you trying to help me, buddy? What’s in it for you?”

  “I don’t know. Good question. Getting into this, I just wanted to know why somebody shot a drummer…” Mac paced for a minute. “You still remember Fat Lou’s Cabrisio’s phone number?”

  “It’s etched on my brain.”

  “You hungry at all?”

  Eight minutes later they were back at Walgreen’s. Grilled cheese and two coffees.

  “Be right back. We need to use the phone.” Mac handed Blake a handful of nickels. “Just get Cabrisio on the phone any way you can—tell him you can get him his drugs and money. Lie your butt off if you have to—just get him on the phone. Then hand it to me.”

  Blake stepped into the phone booth, aimed the mouthpiece down and filled the machine with nickels. He mumbled to the operator. Then he mumbled to somebody else. He pleadingly mumbled at two more people before he stepped out of the booth. Mac grabbed the earpiece and squeezed in.

  “Fat Lou? I’ve got your drugs—and your money. Want ‘em back?”

  “Who the hell is this? You ain’t Blake,” the voice on the line said.

  “No, I’m the man with your drugs and money, Fat Lou. Now is that one of those sarcastic nicknames, Lou? Like when somebody has a big, giant Great Dane or something, they name it ‘Tiny’? Or are you like one really big, fat, Italian meatball, y’know? Like three-hundred-and-fifty pounds of just pure pork?”

  “I’ll kill you! I don’t know who you are—” Mac had to hold the earpiece away from his head the cursing was so loud. “—you’re dead, big mouth. I’m gonna have you sliced so thin—”

  “You’re gonna make sandwiches! Guess that answers that question, Fat Lou. Now, I’m the one that stole your drugs and money. You want ‘em back?”

  Cabrisio ran out of breath. There was a long silence. Mac put three more nickels in the phone.

  “Yes, I would like to have my possessions back,” Cabrisio finally said.

  “OK, see? That was easy. Of course there’s the matter of a little contract negotiation we need to deal with first: I give you back your entire inventory if—if—you call off the contract on Gary Blake.”

  There was a long pause. “Only if I get my stuff back. All of it.”

  “No need to worry, Lou. This is normally the part where I’d say something incredibly witty and then make a comment about honor among thieves, but I know you Cosa Nostra guys are as good as your word. Now, you have your man here in Chicago, Mr. Sammy Lladano, call me at Northside-6953. You got one hour.” Mac slammed the earpiece down and smiled. He went back to the booth where Blake was finishing his sandwich. The phone rang ten minutes later. Mac ran back to the booth.

  “Bagman,” he answered the phone.

  “What?”

  “This is The Bagman. I have your bags.”

  “This the guy who has Lou Cabrisio’s stuff?”

  “That would be me, Mr.…?
Scar, is it?”

  “Lladdono, Sammy Lladdono. And the guy who gave me that scar’s dead and buried.”

  “You don’t say. Well, like they say, life goes on. Except maybe for him. And you. Now I’d love to spend some time chatting with you about how you’ve sliced big men into tiny Italian deli meats, but I just got off the phone with a certain Fat Lou Cabrisio. A very unpleasant sort of man, Lou. I think it bothered him that he had to deal with me—and I didn’t call him a ‘slob’ or a ‘wop’ or anything—and yet I get the feeling he’d rather not be forced to do business with me again.”

  “Yeah? Who’re you?”

  “I’m The Bagman, Sammy. I have your bags. Fat Lou has agreed to call off the contract on Blake if I give you back his, uh… ‘stuff.’”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. He called me. If he hadn’t I wouldn’t be calling you.”

  “I appreciate your promptness in this matter, Mr. Lladdono. You probably have no idea just how hard it is to get punctual thugs these days. Are you familiar with the City of Chicago?”

  “Sorta’.”

  “Do you know where Bughouse Square is?”

  “I can find it.”

  “I’ll bet you can, Sammy. You sound like quite the competent ruffian. Three o’clock, under the big oak tree on the east side, right next to the walkway that leads to the fountain. There’s usually a preacher there going on about the evils of drink. My delivery will be in a case on the other side of the tree. Your delivery should be right next to it. There should be enough people hanging around to keep us both honest. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Mac hung the earpiece back on the prongs. He put in another handful of nickels and made a few more calls, then headed back to the table where Blake was finishing his coffee. They had one more cup and walked around the corner, a block-and-a-half to Crankshaft’s.