Twin Cities Noir

by Julie Schaper

  “You shouldn’t listen to rumors, Frank.”

  “Kid, I think the world of you and Tommy; I know how you guys kept Frank Jr. alive after he got gassed in France. I’ll never forget it. They called you the Three Musketeers back at Mechanic Arts High.”

  I nodded. “Lot of water under the bridge since then. And by the way, how is Frankie? I got a letter from him in the can. He says he’s a new papa and living in Arizona.”

  “Yeah, the climate out there is good for his lungs. He’s in the radio business, there’s a big future in radio. Owns two stores in Tucson.” Frank pulled out his wallet and showed me a Kodak of a baby. “That’s the grandkid. Francis X. O’Hara III. Handsome kid, huh?”

  “Looks like his mother, not one of you ugly micks,” I laughed, remembering Frank Jr.’s pretty wife, Beth.

  “You got that right, boyo.” But he became serious again. “Listen, Jake, this town’s changing. The kidnappings of William Hamm and Edward Bremer brought that on. The rules have been broken. Dutch Sawyer’s on the run, they nabbed his old lady in Cleveland.”

  Harry “Dutch” Sawyer had been the number-one fixer in town. He, his predecessors, and the cops kept the O’Connor system going for more than thirty years. John O’Connor had been police chief at the turn of the century. With the city fathers’ tacit approval, he created an arrangement where criminals could seek haven in St. Paul as long as they checked in with the police and kept their noses clean when in town. There were fewer bank robberies and for the most part “honest” citizens were left alone and safe. That didn’t stop us homegrown boys from running our own rackets. Hell, Prohibition made us fortunes.

  “Jake,” Frank said, “since Repeal, things have changed. The papers are getting religion, going after corruption. The G-Men are all over the place. Hoover is going to shut this town down.”

  “Hoover’s an asshole, Frank,” I said, taking a drag off my smoke. I hadn’t had a tailor-made cigarette since 1929. “Look how his agents shot up Little Bohemia over in Wisconsin going after Dillinger. They shot three innocent bystanders and killed one. They’re the laughingstock of the whole country.”

  “Don’t underestimate the Bureau, Jake. Dillinger’s dead, Pretty Boy Floyd is dead, Machine Gun Kelly’s in stir. Hoover’s hot to recover his reputation. I tell you, he’s coming after this town. I’m getting out myself. By New Year’s Day I’ll be retired and living down in Arizona.”

  “That’s good, Frank. You been on the force, what, thirty-four years?”

  “Yeah. I came in with the O’Connor system and I’m going out with its demise.” He rubbed the back of his neck and I could see how tired he was. Then he looked up. “But I ain’t done yet, and if you go after Tommy Macintyre I’ll have to come after you.”

  “I wouldn’t expect any less from you, Frank.”

  “I love you boys like my own sons. I don’t want to see either of you die.”

  “It will work out, Frank.”

  “Jesus, I hope so. Come on—I’ll buy you dinner.”

  We took the escalator up to the busy concourse, its high ceiling decorated with carvings of stagecoaches and trains. I noticed the women were wearing their dresses ankle length. The flapper look went out with the crash.

  Our footsteps echoed on the stone tile floor of the great lobby as we walked toward the depot restaurant. I glanced at the big clock above the baggage claim; it was 6 o’clock on the dot.

  We sat in a booth and a world-weary waitress took our order.

  “Tell me,” Frank asked. “How was it? Was they tough on ya?”

  “It was okay, once I got off hard labor. First a job in the furniture shop and finally one in the library. I think I have you to thank for that.”

  Frank shrugged. “Kid, I still don’t know why you didn’t stay in Cuba until things cooled down.”

  “Maybe I don’t like rum,” I said, digging into my steak when it came.

  Frank snorted. “If you was coming back to deal with Tommy, he had already disappeared. Lot of people thought he was dead,” Frank told me between bites.

  “Look, Frank,” I said, pointing with my knife. “This is my country. I shed blood for it in France. I have the medals to prove it. That’s why I came back. It was unfortunate that someone tipped off the marshals when I landed in Tampa, but that’s all behind me.”

  “You know, kid, they wouldn’t have been so hard on you if you hadn’t killed that Prohibition agent.”

  I put down my knife and fork. “That son of a bitch was on the take. He was supposed to let us run the booze down from Canada. Instead, he opened fire on us, no warning, no nothing. It was the dark of night and I shot back. I ain’t sorry he’s dead. I hate double-crossers.”

  My lawyer had made the same argument. He went over my war record and the fact that we were ambushed. He was able to get my charge knocked down from murder to manslaughter. Of course, in court I showed remorse, but that bastard had it coming.

  Frank put his hand on my arm. “You got a tough break, kid.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But it could have been worse. Now, since you’re buying, how about some pie?”

  Frank ordered the pie—it was apple and damn good. “Looks like you’re going to fill out that suit of yours just fine,” he said.

  I just nodded, my mouth full of pie.

  “You set up? Got a place to flop?”

  I took a swallow of coffee and answered. “Yeah. I’ll be staying with my Uncle Izzy. He has a room for me in back of the pawn shop.”

  “That’s good.” He picked up the check, flirted with the cashier, and turned to me.

  “C’mon, kid. I’ll give you a ride up to Izzy’s. It’s raining and that linen suit ain’t gonna keep you dry.”

  He drove out of the garage and up 3rd Street. “It’s all torn up,” I said.

  “Yeah, they’re going to widen it, make a boulevard out of it. Named after that guy from St. Paul who outlawed war. Ain’t that a laugh? You know—Frank Kellogg. Your uncle will have to move his shop over to East 7th with the rest of the pawns.”

  Frank pulled up in front of Izzy’s shop and shook my hand. “Remember, Jake, don’t go after Tommy.”

  “Thanks for the lift, Frank,” I said, and I got out of the car and went into the pawn shop.

  Isadore Goldberg stepped out from the cage when I entered. He looked older but still had the robust body of the wrestler he had been back in Russia. “Nu, Jakey, you lost weight.” He came over and hugged me, his arms like iron bands.

  “Hi, Uncle Izzy,” I said, hugging him back. “You look good.”

  “Ess hat mir oisegegangen die kayach. My strength’s left me, Jakey.”

  “You’re still a shtarker,” I said, rubbing my sore ribs.

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. They’re going to tear down the building soon and I’m going to California to live with your cousin Rebecca.”

  We talked into the wee hours of the morning getting caught up. Finally, I began to yawn. In the pen, you go to bed a lot earlier.

  Izzy had a couple of rooms in the back of the shop, where a bed was made up for me. As soon as I hit the pillow, I fell asleep.

  I took a good look at myself in the shaving mirror. My hair had turned gray at the temples and there were deep lines around my eyes. I stropped my razor, soaped my face, and scraped off two days’ growth.

  Izzy had laid out some clothes. Old but clean work pants and shirt, along with fresh underwear, socks, and sturdy brogans. I dressed and went into the shop. Izzy had a customer. I waited while the man pawned his watch. He was well-dressed, but he looked defeated.

  When he left, my uncle turned to me. “That fellow used to be a bank clerk, but with the Depression he lost his job. You know, I’m getting out just in time. How many more watches, radios, jewelry can I take in?” He spread his arms, pointing around the shop. “Who’s going to buy?”

  I shrugged. “Listen, Uncle Izzy, I’m going up to see Pinsky the tailor. Then I’m going to walk around for a while. I’ll see y
ou later.”

  “Okay, Jakey.” He went to his safe, opened it, and handed me a stack of twenties. “You need more? It’s your money.”

  “Not now, but thanks for taking care of it for me.”

  He spread his hands in a broad gesture as if to say, I’m your uncle, what did you expect?

  Before I left, he handed me a leather jacket and a fedora.

  I walked up to Pinsky’s on Wabasha and bought new duds—everything from suits to evening clothes. Men’s fashions had changed. The jackets were fitted with wide shoulders; the trousers were straight with wide cuffs turned up. Shirts had attached collars. In the old days, I would have had clothes tailor-made, but Pinsky had some good off-the-rack items and promised he’d have them altered by late in the day.

  I ate breakfast at the St. Francis Cafeteria, and then caught the matinee of The Thin Man at the Paramount. It had been known as the Capitol Theater when I went away, but whatever its name, it still retained its elaborate façade of terra-cotta molding and Spanish grillwork. Sound had just come in when I was last at a picture show. Now I was fascinated by the dialogue between William Powell and Myrna Loy. I had read the book in prison, but I still enjoyed the picture. Myrna Loy was the kind of gal any guy in his right mind would want.

  I took a streetcar up to the old neighborhood just for old times. I climbed Mount Airy Street to look over the city. Like Rome, St. Paul sits on seven hills. The town had changed despite the Depression. Along with the First National Bank building, the new city hall–courthouse had been built. And the old Victorian buildings along the river bluffs were coming down. I remembered what Frank O’Hara had told me about change. St. Paul was going to eliminate the criminal element. But what hadn’t changed was my unfinished business.

  I walked down the hill to the wooden stairway that led me to Canada Street. I stood in front of my old house. My folks had died of the influenza when I was in France. I said a little prayer, then walked to the corner grocery at Grove and Canada.

  The lady behind the counter recognized me and asked if I had been away. I smiled and nodded and bought a pack of Sweet Caporals, a Coca-Cola, and a Hershey’s bar. I walked over to the Franklin Grammar School where I first met Tom Macintyre and Frank O’Hara Jr. Not much had changed.

  There was a Russian bath over on Mississippi Street near the rail yards. I paid my dime and steamed for an hour, trying to get four years of Leavenworth stink off me.

  It was about 4 when I hailed a cab and had him take me to Pinsky’s to pick up my clothes. By the time the cabbie dropped me at Izzy’s shop, it had started to rain—not hard, but steady.

  I put my parcels in my room. Back in the shop, Izzy was dickering with a man trying to hock a tuba. I stepped outside to stand in the entrance and watch the rain.

  I had been locked up so long I wanted lots of fresh air, even if it meant a little rain. I took out a cigarette and had just struck a match when someone bumped into me with an umbrella and knocked the smoke from my hand. “Watch where the hell you’re going, fella,” I said, bending to pick up my snipe.

  “I’m sorry,” she replied. I stood up and looked into blue eyes so dark they were almost black. I checked out the rest of the package. She had a beautiful face, oval, with dimples and a sweet mouth. Blond hair peeked out from her wide-brim hat; its feather sadly drooped in the rain. Her fur coat hid her figure, but I was certain it was a swell one.

  “Sure your eyes can handle it?” she asked, not smiling. She was struggling to fix her umbrella, which the wind had turned inside out.

  “I’ll take a chance I won’t go blind,” I answered, giving her the once-over again. “Can I give you a hand with your umbrella?”

  “I have it,” she said, closing it.

  “You know,” I said, “this neighborhood isn’t exactly safe for a pretty girl like you, dressed to the nines.”

  “I can take care of myself.” She glared, clutching her handbag.

  “I’ll bet you can, but don’t worry, I’m not interested in your belongings. I never was a purse snatcher.”

  She looked into my face. “Wait a minute. You’re Jake Kane, aren’t you?” Her voice mellowed, “I’ve come to see you.”

  “I’m Kane. How do you know who I am? And how did you know I was here?”

  “The whole town knows you’re here. Someone with your reputation doesn’t come into St. Paul unnoticed.” She took a copy of the Pioneer Press from under her arm. There was my picture plastered on the front page. The headline read, Former T-Man Killer Freed After Four Years. The photo wasn’t very flattering. It was the mug shot they took when I was arrested in Tampa.

  I shrugged. “What do you want to see me about?”

  “We can’t talk here.” She looked in the window where Izzy was still bargaining with the tuba player. She thought a second. “I have an apartment at the Commodore. Meet me in the bar in an hour, and try to look more presentable.” I guess my work clothes bothered her.

  She turned on her heels, put up her collar, and opened her umbrella, which immediately turned inside out again. I heard her curse under her breath.

  I watched her walk to her car. I liked the walk and I liked the car—a brand new, fire-engine-red Duesenberg convertible sedan.

  Whoever this blonde was, she had dough, living at the Commodore and driving a new Duesy.

  The tuba player came out, minus his horn, and I walked in.

  I told Izzy about my encounter with the dame and described her to him. “Do you know her?”

  “Where would an alter kocker like me meet such a hotsy-totsy woman like you give a picture of? Listen,” his voice shifted. “You have to be careful. Whatever this maydel wants could mean tsuris. Big trouble.”

  I nodded and went in the back to change into something “more presentable.”

  “You look like a mench,” Izzy said when I returned. “But you ain’t dressed yet.” He handed me a Luger. “It’s loaded. I’m sure you remember how to use one.”

  “Thanks, Uncle.”

  I took off my jacket, slipped on the shoulder holster he gave me, checked the action on the Luger, nodded, and set it in the holster.

  “You ain’t going to catch a cab in this weather,” Izzy said, pointing to the rain-snow mix. “I’ve got an Overland coupe out back. It’s ten years old, but it runs.” He tossed me the keys.

  The Commodore was a chic apartment hotel up on Western and Holly in the exclusive Summit neighborhood. Over the years the hotel hosted famous and infamous clientele—Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda, Al Capone, the Barker gang, and a gaggle of other celebrities.

  I walked up the steps, through the courtyard, and into the lobby. The bar was to my left. It was a grand-looking place, decorated in the Moderne style. Glass mirrors and chrome sparkled throughout. A bartender in a white shirt and black bow tie stood behind the small but luxurious bar mixing a cocktail in a shaker. Off to the side a group of happy drunks were gathering around a small piano, giving out with a dirty version of the song, “If I Could Be with You One Hour Tonight.”

  The place was intimate enough for me to spot the blonde at a small glass table at the back of the room. She was dressed in a blue silk dinner number, ankle length, cut high in the front and low in the back. It did nothing to hide her lush figure. I had been right when I guessed it had to be swell under her fur wrap.

  I said hello and started to sit, but she pointed to the singers and said, “It’s too noisy here. Come up to my apartment in ten minutes—number 402.” She stood and left.

  I stopped at the bar and ordered a scotch, my first drink since I left Leavenworth. The singers had switched to “Let’s Do It.” It was kind of nice just watching people have fun.

  I finished my drink and went up to her apartment. She opened the door at my first knock. I pushed past her, Luger in hand, in case this was a setup. I checked the place over. When I was satisfied we were alone, I turned to her. “Okay, baby, spill. Start with who you are and what this is all about.”

  She blinked her d
ark blue lamps and said, “My name is Claire Blake, Mr. Kane, and I need your help.” And tears began to flow.

  I handed her my handkerchief, led her to a settee, and sat beside her. “Tell me about it.” What guy isn’t a sucker for a beautiful dame with tears in her eyes?

  She wiped the tears away and looked at me. “I heard you’ve come back to town to settle a score with Tom Macintyre.”

  I didn’t answer her, so she continued. “Macintyre is a dangerous man. You could get killed.”

  “Why should you care what happens to me?” I asked.

  “Because I know what Tommy Macintyre did to you. The whole town knows. What they don’t know is what he did to me.”

  Through sobs she revealed her story.

  Just a small-town girl, she had come to the big city to be a singer. Not much different than others with the same dream. She ended up working for Macintyre as a hostess in his club. When Tommy found out she could sing, he gave her a break.

  “But there were strings,” she said. “I don’t love him; I don’t want to be known as Tommy’s bim. But…”

  “But what? Are you telling me that Macintyre wouldn’t let you sing unless you slept with him?”

  “Yes, he made it clear that it was part of the deal.” She lowered her eyes as if she were ashamed.

  I raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “It’s true—I swear.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You don’t believe me.” More tears. “Look, Mr. Kane. I may not be a virgin, and I might be ambitious, but Tommy Macintyre owns me. I am so afraid of him. I’ve an offer for a radio contract in New York, but he won’t let me go. He told me he’d kill me if I ever left him.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Everyone knows you’re gunning for him. But he’s dangerous. I can distract him and maybe you can take care of him. It’s to both of our advantage.”

  “What if he kills me first?”

  “I have a friend to back the play.” The tears were gone and she was all business. “He wouldn’t dare go up against Tommy alone, but with you…”