by B C Bell
Mac picked the wiry black man up in the air and hugged him. “Crank, you’re a genius. You don’t know what this means to me.”
“Means you better put me down and never touch me again, or I’ll rig that alcohol tank to explode.”
Mac put him down.
“Don’t ever do that again,” Crankshaft said, and then muttered an oath under his breath.
“I can hardly wait. When can we take her out?”
“My suggestion? Only at night. And only when you’re going to put that bag on your head.”
“Agreed. Let me buy you a beer, partner.”
Crankshaft started to disagree with the partner part, but he liked the idea of a free beer.
Fifteen minutes later the two of them were seated upstairs at Barney’s Grill, the local speakeasy. Barney’s had once been “Barney’s Bar and Grill,” but after prohibition somebody had painted over the words “Bar” and “and.” Now the sign out front said simply “Barney’s” on the far left side and “Grill” on the far right, with five feet of open space in between.
Other than that, it was as nondescript as a speakeasy could be. You walked by a dirty grill, and a cook who looked suspiciously like a bouncer, up some dark stairs to the second floor, where the ambiance—or lack of it—was provided by a bar made out of unfinished two-by-fours, some curtains permanently drawn shut, and a scattering of wooden chairs and tables. The drink menu consisted of “beer,” “whiskey,” and “Get the hell out of my bar,” if you wanted anything else.
Crankshaft lowered the newspaper as Mac returned to the table with two mugs. “Well, at least you made page three.”
“Really?” Mac said, setting down the beers and sitting down at the table.
Crankshaft held up the paper so Mac could see. The headline read: ‘Bagman’ Performs Death Defying Feat for Lunchtime Crowd.
“Oh, come on now!” Mac slammed a hand down on the table, and jumped up without having ever truly sat down. Then he stopped, aware he was making a scene. He smiled at the two other patrons, waved his hand, and mildly sat back down. “They can’t do that. Only I can do that,” he whispered. “Cripes, I’m fighting for my life out there, and they’re turning me into a circus show.” He held up the paper and started reading aloud under his breath. That’s when Crankshaft noticed the headline on the other side.
“You might want to forget about your publicity campaign and take a look at this.” He grabbed the paper out of Mac’s hands and threw it on the table with the backside up. Mac had to glance around the page for a second before his eyes finally fell on the words: Alleged Racketeer Anthony Carbano Poisoned.
Mac’s first thought was to realize that his ex-associate Tony’s last name had been Carbano. His second thought was, that when journalists use the word “alleged” they’re only trying to protect themselves from a libel lawsuit. Calling Tony an “alleged racketeer” was like calling the sun an alleged source of heat. Mac took a sip of his beer and skimmed the story underneath.
Alleged racketeer Anthony Carbano was the victim of wood alcohol poisoning according to a report released today by the office of the Cook County Coroner. Carbano’s body was discovered in the trunk of a beige Chrysler on the 4400 block of Western Avenue four days ago. Carbano, an alleged North Side loan shark, was thought to have been the victim of drowning. However, the Chicago Police Department, suspecting foul play, ordered an autopsy on the unclaimed body. Autopsy revealed that even though the body had ingested a substantial amount of water, the blood contained a lethal amount of methanol…
Next to the article was a picture of Carbano’s face, taken most probably at the coroner’s. Tony’s eyes had been closed, but his lips appeared to be dark black, and his hair was messed up—more so than it had ever been during his life.
“Imagine that,” Mac said. “The cops find a gangster in a car trunk and ‘suspect foul play.’” He raised his brows in a sarcastic imitation of surprise. “I tell ya, those guys down at the precinct are geniuses! I certainly wouldn’t want to have to deal with that kind of in-depth investigation—”
“You can kid around all you want. But I know you’re not that stupid,” Crankshaft said.
“Yeah, you’re right.” Mac paused, looked down at his hands. “I’ve been trying not to think about it, y’know? Trackin’ down Sammy the Scar was a pretty good diversion but…”
What Mac had been trying not to think about was the fact that he had no idea what his standing was with Chicago’s criminal Outfit. His last official act as a criminal had been to knock Tony out and steal the mob’s car so he could hide their intended victim, Mac’s own Uncle Ray.
At least that had been his last official criminal act. Since then, The Bagman had taken over the local protection racket and stolen thousands of dollars from local mob boss, Slots Lurie. Mac’s original intent had been to get Slots run out of town—but if Tony was dead?
“If Tony’s dead, that means Slots is still in business,” Mac said. “Unless the Outfit knocked off both of ‘em. Meanwhile, I don’t even know if Slots knew I was in on Tony’s little loan shark collection. It’s not exactly like these guys have an employee manual, y’know. I mean, I never signed some form that says ‘You are officially a member of Organized Crime, Inc.’ Tony just asked me if I’d help him out. I don’t know if the Outfit even knows I exist.”
“So the first thing you have to do is find out if Slots is still boss,” Crankshaft said. “If not, then you’re OK. If Slots is still in, then you have to find out if you were ever ‘officially’ part of the mob, right?”
“Yeah, I guess so. It’s just… Slots should be gone. The guy never did manage his business affairs too well. Hell, he’s a slob and everybody knows it—not exactly the kind of guy the made Mafia types have any respect for—a low level manager at best. When I called Uncle Ray, he said he’d made the last payment and everything was all right on that front. So, that just leaves that one last question: Was I in or was I out?”
“If I know anything at all about you,” Crankshaft said. “I know you know a guy, who knows a guy, who probably knows. Am I right?”
“I’ll call Hunts Helms down at the city’s public relations office to find out about Slots. That should be simple enough; Hunts has ties to every newspaper in town.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Crankshaft said.
“As far as my own status...?” Mac’s eyes seemed to look back in his head for an answer. “Dammit! Wheezy Waldheim would’ve been the best guy to rat that out. Guess I’ll have to think of something else. Of course we’re both ignoring the biggest question of all here.”
“What’s that?”
“What am I gonna do if Slots knew I was in on it?”
“One thing at a time, kid. One thing at a time.”
Mac and Hunts Helms had first met while working a long con in the midst of the roaring twenties—back when people still had enough money to fall for a good con. After that, the two of them had partnered up to work with each other. Mac had still been young enough to be a perfect mule, the kid next door all grown up. And Hunts already knew every staple con from “the pigeon drop” to the “man on the wire.” Unfortunately for them—after a series of substantial deals on not-so-substantial real estate—they became victims of their own success. And a well-known con man is not a con man for long.
So Hunts became a reporter, originally as a cover, and now as a paid Public Relations man for the City of Chicago. He still claimed he’d never conned anybody that wasn’t asking for it. “They was deceived by their own greed,” he proudly boasted.
A half hour after Crankshaft headed home, Mac called Hunts’s office and got no answer. It was still early. Hunts kept odd hours, and he certainly wouldn’t be at home till midnight. Mac started to head toward his apartment and, realizing he wasn’t going to be able to fall back asleep, decided to go look for a
nother stool pigeon. His search took him to where the information he needed was, The Lincoln Taproom.
Slots Lurie ran The Lincoln Taproom; at least that’s what it had been called before prohibition. Now it was named the Lincoln Men’s Club, but half its customers still called it The Tap. Much like Barney’s Bar and Grill, it was a dive bar they’d changed the name of, not exactly the kind of place a guy wanted to take his girl. Unless of course the guy was a lowlife or the girl was a gun moll. Then it was perfect. “Gats and dames” as Mr. Stephano put it so eloquently.
Mac hung around in the general vicinity of the Lincoln Men’s Club wondering if anybody else in the neighborhood was curious as to why certain women seemed to live there. He walked the perimeter, sometimes in the alleys behind buildings across the street, lurking in the corners, sticking to the shadows—always keeping a safe distance, so no one coming or going would spot him. By two in the morning he was about to give up. He was leaning against the brick wall of a three-story brownstone, about to light up a smoke when he felt the billy club tapping him on the shoulder from behind.
“Hookay, buddy, what’s your business?” An Irish accent bellowed in the background. Mac had been so focused on Lurie’s hideout he had momentarily forgotten his surroundings. And that Irish brogue was standard issue on only one creature of the night in these parts: a Chicago cop. Cops or criminals, it was all the same.
Turn around and play innocent? Or take off running? The answer of course was neither. Mac stepped away from the wall as if he were about to turn around. He stuck his left leg out behind him and, whirling clockwise, cracked the policeman in the head with his right elbow. The man’s head pounded into the brick wall before he even had a chance to see Mac’s face. Mac came up with a hard right to the jaw—the jaw of his brand new friend, Officer Dan McCreedy, Hero of the Day.
Of course, Mac thought, McCreedy had been working the bank messenger job off-duty. There was no way the City of Chicago would shell out its own hard earned tax dollars to nursemaid Melvin Milquetoast when it barely made enough to pay for its own graft. So the messenger job must have been a part-time gig. And when a cop has to work two jobs to make ends meet, pretty soon he begins to wonder why lady justice doesn’t pay so well. Ends up asking, what’s in it for me? Next thing you know the hero of the day is stepping sideways to make room for the bad guys.
Of course, being The Bagman, Mac possessed a certain moral flexibility of his own, enough to knock out a cop even. But not enough to completely step aside. This was a cop who had completely abandoned everything he was sworn to protect. He hadn’t just flexed his morals, he’d completely stepped out of the way. Mac wanted to know why.
He dragged McCreedy back into the alley, took his service revolver off him and propped him up in the corner. Then he emptied a garbage can and put the cop inside, slamming the lid down tight. McCreedy came to in complete darkness.
“Hey, hey now, where ‘m I?” his voice muttered inside the trash can.
“Daniel McCree-eedy” Mac wailed in his spookiest banshee voice. “This is the ghost of milquetoast messe-engers.” He kicked the side of the drum. “The spe-e-ecter of cops on the take. The harrower of heroes turned heel!” Mac shook the can by the handles on its sides.
McCreedy tried to push open the lid, and Mac slammed it back down on his head.
“You-ou’ve been a ba-ad boy, Danny!” He slammed the lid down hard a half-dozen times as McCreedy cringed inside. “Now yo-o-ou have to pay!” Mac slung the can by the handle with both hands and sent it rolling down the alley, where it crashed off the wall.
McCreedy’s head lolled outside the can, rocking back and forth along with it. A clanging sound still filled the air as the lid rolled to an uneven stop like a flipped coin on the pavement. Dazed, the policeman slowly opened his eyes and looked up into the eyes of a devil with a bag on his head.
“Who you working for?” The Bagman said, resting one foot on top of the trash can’s side.
“The City of Chicago…” the cop said, weakly. Mac kicked the can into the wall.
“Cut the crap, McCreedy! Who’s paying you?” Mac pulled out his revolver, aimed between the man’s eyes, and slowly cocked the hammer back.
“Honest, honest to God, I’m an honest cop.” McCreedys hands were banging off the inside of the garbage can struggling to raise them over his head in surrender.
“You are so going straight to hell for lying like that.” Mac kicked the can into the wall again. “The next kick is your head. Then I’m gonna start shooting holes in the can just to see what happens! Who’s payroll are you on?”
“Nobody’s!”
Mac shook his head, holstered his gun and stepped back with his hands in the air at his side, as if he were about to punt.
McCreedy started shaking the can like a trapped animal. “I mean I’m on nobody’s payroll. Nothing more than anybody else on the beat! You don’t know what it’s like. If I take it, I’m bad. If I don’t take it, I’m dead.” There were tears in his eyes.
But Mac still needed to know. “Who paid you, or who was going to pay you? Who told you to stand down so they could rob the bank courier?”
“I think his name was Donlan… or Dunnan. Something like that.”
“Spider Donlan?” Mac said. Spider was from a long line of hustlers, lower on the food chain than even Mac had been. Then again, Mac was practically a citizen. Spider was a lowlife.
“Spider! Yeah, that’s it! He was one of Lurie’s guys! I don’t know his real name, I swear!” McCreedy was shaking, his head turned to the side, waiting to get hit, not wanting to see it coming.
The Bagman stood back on two feet, his shoulders overshadowing everything but the fear in the beat cop’s eyes. He clenched his jaw and held it with one elbow resting in the palm of his other hand. “So Slots is still the big man on the North Side?”
“He’s getting meaner, too,” the cop said, “trying to keep control.”
Mac thought about that saying—the one about a man who holds onto life so tightly he squeezes it out between his fingers. Slots would crush the golden egg before he’d let anybody else have it. “You need to get out of town,” he said.
“What?” McCreedy said, still blubbering.
“You need to get out of town. Pack your bags, and leave. OK?”
McCreedy hesitated. Then he said, “OK. OK, I’ll leave town.”
“Good.” Mac gave the can one last shove with his foot, and ran toward the end of the alley, taking off his mask. He tore it into little pieces and threw it in a trashcan on the corner, which normally would have been a good idea…
Except a block away from his apartment he ran into Spider Donlan.
When Mac first saw the sedan he didn’t flinch, didn’t even think about it, really. Hey, Spider Donlan just drove by, imagine that. At the time, Mac hadn’t been working on solving the bank courier job; he had been trying to find out if Slots was gunning for him. Then he heard the tires squeal behind him as the car fishtailed in a U-turn around the intersection.
The engine revved into third gear, and the sedan veered up on the sidewalk, aimed right at Mac. He spun around. The art-deco, Mercury hood-ornament was rocketing for his gut.
Chapter III
Brand New Suit
Too much, too fast. Mac had been mulling over his situation with Slots and not what was going on. Looking at the big picture, the little picture was about to kill him.
Continuing to turn around as metal death hurtled toward him, Mac vaulted toward the wall next to him, rebounding off of it with his good leg and higher into the air, almost clearing the hood of the car. The fender caught him on top of the foot, somersaulting him across the front of the car.
He flipped over and almost landed on his back on the hood of the speeding car. But the car was coming too fast.
He wound up sitting in the w
indshield, cracks spider-webbing across the glass, even as he rebounded off, spinning through the air like a rag doll. The chrome bumper ripped through the bricks where he’d been standing.
Mac almost landed on his feet—which would have been a good thing except for the momentum. His gumshoes gripped the pavement, spilling him backward and rolling him down the street. He came up in a sitting position; his hands limp at his sides, palms up on the concrete, his head hanging over his chest as if unconscious. It was instinct more than his mind that heard the squealing tires of the car swerving back around.
He tried to stand up and lurched toward a blind alley, falling and forcing himself to roll into the darkness. The car squealed to a stop on the deserted street, blocking the alley’s exit.
“Jeez, Spider, what’re you trying to do? You crazy or something?” the gunman seated on the passenger side said.
“Don’t ever call me crazy!” Spider yelled from behind the wheel. “That was McCullough! I know it! And he needs to be dead!”
Two men jumped out of the back of car.
The first man out looked like a dock worker. Weathered, brown leather jacket with a cap that looked like he kept it folded in his back pocket. The second was strictly mob—or at least wanted to look that way. He wore yet another flashy suit with pinstripes two times too wide. The one in leather already had an automatic in his hand when he reached down to pick up Officer McCreedy’s service revolver.
“Lighten up, Spider. If he ain’t dead already, he’s bleeding to death in the alley. Besides, you hit him so hard you knocked his gat off, see.” He held up the .38 that had fallen out of Mac’s belt.
Mac sat curled up in the darkest corner of the alley, hoping they’d leave him for dead behind the ash cans and scrap. His mind kept telling him how easy it would be just to lay down. His back felt like spaghetti, his head felt like mortar. Every muscle in his body ached, and the ones that weren’t bruised were scraped. He couldn’t muster the strength to move.