by Sikes, AJ
“If you were in those trees, you’ll know what I did when it was over.”
“Yeah, I would. That’s true.”
“So what about it?”
The tramp hesitated and his eyes flashed crimson behind the fence. He looked away, over Brand’s shoulder. Brand turned around and saw a copper heading his way. He turned back and saw the tramp backing away from the fence. He lifted his feet to the pedals on his bicycle and the air around him shook and fluttered like cloth. “Got a story you’ll want to hear, Brand. But it’ll have to wait,” the tramp said. Then he reached behind him and lifted the air aside like a curtain, revealing a city skyline glittering in the night. He ducked under the drape and vanished leaving only dust and snowmelt in his wake.
Brand reeled from the fence and spun on his heel. He got a few steps and drew up short when a man stepped out from the crowd. Brand was face to face with Detective Tom Wynes, a tall, thick-built guy in a dark suit and hat. Wynes was one of Chicago City’s finest if you only rated coppers by the hands they shook in the daylight. “You okay, Brand? Looks like you saw something you wish you hadn’t.” Brand swallowed hard, tasting bile and the burning remains of the meal he’d found in a bottle the night before.
“Yeah, Wynes. I’m fine. Just had a pink elephant show up to say good morning.”
Wynes pushed his lips out and gave Brand a bent grin that quickly turned into a frown. The way the copper worked his face, it was never easy to read his next play. One minute he’d be on your side and the next he’d be feeding you to the wolves. “I know how that is, Brand. Probably your luck the G-men showed up when they did. The word is no pictures on this one. You got any film in that thing that I should worry about confiscating?” Wynes stabbed a finger at the photo viewer hanging against Brand’s stomach. Brand put a hand over the viewscreen and shook his head.
“Didn’t get any pictures yet. The boys who showed up first told me to step off, so I did. I’m halfway through with a pouch, and you mean to tell me I can’t even get a photo for my trouble? There goes my tobacco money.”
“Good thing the boys waved you off, Brand. Way I hear it from the G-men, you don’t need to be seeing what’s inside. Nobody does. But hey, at least you had time to work up that little speech for me. I’m awful sorry about your tobacco. Now how about you move along.” Wynes jerked a thumb in the air and smiled his thin-lipped copper’s grin that told Brand the story was a bust. Brand shook his head and waved a hand at Wynes. The copper turned away and went back to helping with the crowd. Brand darted a glance around the street. He didn’t see any of the coppers from earlier, but he saw a lot more G-men roaming the area, stopping to talk to groups of citizens and going into every storefront along Clark Street. Brand shuffled away from the scene and headed for the nearest cab stop. Along the way he bought a new pencil from a vet on a wheeled board. The one he’d had earlier was lying on the sidewalk by the fence, snapped into three pieces by his nervous hands.
Chapter 2
Later that afternoon, Brand sat in the cabin of his flying newsroom, the Airship Vigilance, while it bobbed on the mooring deck outside the Daily Record. He scratched a few notes about the Brauerschift hit onto the paper in front of him. He read his notes, watching his thoughts dance in confused circles, and ripped the page out of his steno pad. It disappeared into the waste chute beside his desk and he tried again. Scribble, rip, repeat. After the fourth page went down the chute he gave up and let his eyes roam the skyline out the cabin window. He couldn’t shake the image of the tramp and his rusted bicycle. Had he seen the guy before? Over there? Brand kept a bottle on board and thought about washing away the memory with a glass or two. He reached for the drawer and then remembered the three glasses he’d used to tuck himself into bed.
He had to feed three more pages into the chute before he got his head back on straight enough to write a bulletin about the hit. He flicked his eyes at the picture on his desk as he wrote, taking in all the bloody details and trying to imagine what could have happened in that garage. Seven men torn to pieces inside of two minutes, and not without a fight. Brand heard the telltale chatter of Tommy guns and the heavy reports of shotguns in his memory. He remembered the screams, too. Whatever had happened, Brand had the proof on the desk before him. Chicago City had a lot more to fear than Al Capone’s triggermen.
Just his luck it was Wynes who told him no pictures. The G-men wouldn’t have thought twice about snagging the photo viewer, and that’d be the end of Brand’s hot story. He took a drag off his cigarette and looked at the photo once more before flipping it face down. A more poisoned prize he couldn’t imagine. After another lungful he stabbed out the cigarette and switched on the mic.
Ladies and Gentlemen of Chicago City, this is Mitchell Brand aboard the Airship Vigilance with a special bulletin. Today, the fourteenth of February, our city was witness to one of the grisliest crimes in history. Seven men, slaughtered in the Brauerschift garage on Clark Street. It looks like Al Capone has upped the ante, and this reporter wonders what the next play will be.
A special afternoon edition of the Daily Record will have a full report on the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. Stay tuned, Chicago. And stay in touch.
Brand shut off the mic and went to the cabin door. The Record’s loader automatons moved stacks of the special edition out of the press room. Their little two cycle engines chuffed and rumbled as they carried the wrapped bundles across the mooring deck. Brand waited until the gearboxes were finished and then called to his three newsboys. They waited by their airbikes that hung off the deck like rowboats on a pier.
The newsboys played a game of knuckles. After the required three rounds, a tall boy named Ross Jenkins held up a hand with only his index finger extended. He let his chin fall and then laughed before running over. A dozen years ago, Brand had watched kids as old as his newsboys fall face down in the mud after playing knuckles. Most of them would stay where they fell, just a few feet from the trench where Brand was hiding with his camera and steno pad, looking at the notes he’d made during their interview. Some of the fallen boys would squirm a bit before going still. And a few he’d never forget had screamed until their blood ran out. Brand felt his face tighten from the memory and he made a quick adjustment before Jenkins got too close.
“Yessir, Mr. Brand, sir!” the boy said with a smile. His big eyes brightened as he looked up at Brand. Like the whole crew of newsboys, Jenkins admired Brand and was ready to do anything he asked. They gave him the respect a soldier gives his sergeant. For Brand, it was like having a trio of sons he would never have to watch die, and that suited him just fine. His mouth curled up in a grin as he looked at the other two newsboys. An Irish kid named Aiden Conroy, bright of eyes and ready as anything to try his hand tinkering with the Record’s equipment. The kid liked to follow the gearboxes around the deck sometimes, just watching them move. The third newsboy was a kid from the streets named Pete “Digs” Gordon. They called him Digs because he followed his mother’s work around the city and so never had the same house week to week. Jenkins stood waiting for his orders; Conroy and Digs went back to throwing dice. Brand greeted Jenkins with his eyes and the grin still on his face.
“Is it my day to try the mic, Mr. Brand, sir?”
“Slow down, Jenkins. Looks like you win, but it’s still not the mic.”
The kid’s face fell into his shoes. Brand would have given them all a shot at airtime, but his boss, Chief, had put the kibosh on that idea. That didn’t stop the newsboys from pulling Brand’s ear every chance they got. He had fun with it and did his best to keep their spirits up about the possibility. It made him guilty, knowing Chief wouldn’t cave anytime soon. But there was plenty of time to get his old war buddy to let the kids try the air.
“It’s Thursday, Jenkins. So that’d put your beat. . .”
“I’m doing La Salle today, up to Old Town and then down Division.”
&nb
sp; “What say we give you another beat instead. Where’s Conroy today?” Brand knew their beats like he knew his own shoe size, and the kid knew it, too. He played along though. The corners of his mouth made a grab for his big ears.
“Aiden? He’s on Riverfront. Wacker between Lake and Adams, sir.”
“Nice work if you can get it. And now you’ve got it. See that stack of papers? Grab a bundle and pave the streets.”
“Yessir!” Jenkins said as he snapped to and threw Brand a clumsy salute. “Will do, Mr. Brand, sir.”
Brand gave him one last order, his face going grim as he spoke. “Jenkins, don’t open those papers until you hit the Street. When you see the front page, you won’t take another step. Tell your pals, too.”
“Yessir,” the kid replied, pinching his face up like he was going to ask a question, but then skipping it and turning around. He nearly tripped over his own legs as he ran down the deck.
Brand grimaced when he saw his pilot, Archie Falco, coming up the deck then.
“Hey boss,” Archie said as he scurried his wiry frame up the ladder. Brand noted that Archie’s face was coated in stubble and his jacket was stained with coffee. It wasn’t the worst he’d looked since he got out of the cooler and picked up this job at the Record. But it was a damn sight worse than he should look. If Chief hadn’t held a soft spot for every Ob-Corps veteran in Chicago City, Archie would still be looking for work.
More likely back in the clink. Brand thought to himself.
“Take her up, Archie,” he said as he climbed in. Brand sat at the broadcast desk and punched the radio set over to play back. Then he inserted an ad card from one of the outfits that helped pay the Record’s coffee bill. His own voice crackled into the cabin while Archie warmed up the motors and radioed for the mooring lines to be let go. As the ad played, Brand slipped out of his coat, feeling the warmth of the heater spread through the cabin.
Hello, Chicago City. This is Mitchell Brand. Say, it’s been a cold winter, and I know one thing that’s helped me stay warm. My new suit and coat from Sibley’s Emporium. They’ve got everything a fella needs to look good and feel better. So do yourself a favor, and get dressed at Sibley’s.
The speaker crackled with the Sibley’s recording, and Brand sat at his desk to roll up a cigarette.
Gentlemen of Chicago City, are you wearing last year’s suit to the Mayor’s Gala tonight? Suspenders sagging? And what about casual wear? Is your eight panel looking like a six panel these days? Well, look no further. You’ve found the answer to all your wardrobe woes in Sibley’s Emporium.
We carry a full line of gentleman’s wear. From hats to spats and spit-shined shoes. In a Sibley’s suit, they’ll know you’re a man who means business. Do you want to be the man to see on the street? Then find your fabric, and find your fit. Find them both at Sibley’s Emporium!
Brand let the next ad run while he smoked and looked out the window at the automatons on the deck. They’d released the mooring lines and stood back from the edge like sentinels. A few paces from where the machines stood, the newsboys mounted their air bikes. Brand watched them drop from the trapeze and glide down to street level in the cold midday flurries. Their coats, scarves, and gloves kept them from shivering off the seats as they carried the special edition down to the people.
He called to Archie while looking at the photo on his desk. “We finally got the story that’s gonna blow this city open.”
“That tramp? Pretty grim, boss, but I don’t know if it’s the big knockover.” Archie laughed while he maneuvered the Vigilance into the sky.
“Tramp? What’re you talking about?”
“Thought that’s where you were. Coppers found him this morning. Most of him anyway. Guy called himself Gandy Jack, was always hanging around outside the hash house a few blocks over. You know, where I get my eggs and a little slice of Eve? I used to see the bum all the time. Couldn’t miss him. He had these red leather boots he was always wearing, like something you’d see at a circus.”
“You say they found most of him. What’s that about? He get chewed up by the street cleaners or something?”
“Maybe. Who knows? Coppers found his legs sticking out of a storm drain, boots were still on him but all this way and that. He’d been skinned down to the bone from hip to ankle. They’re still looking for the top half.”
“So how’d they know it was him?”
“Found his head a few blocks over. Followed the blood.”
Brand slumped in his chair. The details rang a little too close for Brand’s comfort. He looked at the photo in his hands again. The photo that was on its way to the people of Chicago City. He finished his cigarette in two quick drags. He put the photo down, rolled himself a new one, and lit up.
“You said we got something big, hey boss? What’s the story?”
“Huh?” Brand startled. “Yeah, we got a story all right. Seven men. . .killed over—”
“Yeah?”
“Over on Clark Street. I was at the Bird getting my joe.”
“Bet you spilled it when you heard the shots, eh?” Archie said, turning to look over his shoulder.
Brand sniffed. “Didn’t hear any shots. Not at first anyway.” He remembered the terrified shouts that preceded bursts from Tommy guns. Brand knew how much those pea shooters could put out. Whatever had killed the men in that garage had to catch a lot of lead in the process, but the photograph—
“So when’d you spill?” Archie joked, jabbing a thumb across the cabin and aiming it at Brand’s slacks.
“You’re a riot, Arch. Should try that act down at the Mayor’s Gala tonight.”
Brand got up and walked to the cockpit. “G-men showed up before I could get the scoop from the coppers, but I got this from the crabs.”
Brand lifted up the photograph. Archie turned to look at it and then turned away so fast Brand thought his head might spin off his neck.
“Sorry, Archie. I should have warned you.”
Brand looked at the photo again. At first sight, on the street, he’d been too terrified to examine it. Just now, before showing it to Archie, his nerves still felt like high tension cables running through his limbs and down his spine. But with Archie’s reaction, Brand knew he wasn’t alone anymore. Someone else had seen it and wished they hadn’t. Someone he could talk to.
Brand sat at his desk and stared at the image until he had every piece of it memorized. Every jaunty angle of every severed limb. Every ripple in every dark puddle and spattered stain that spread around the floor and walls. Every grimace of agony and death on the heads lying around the space. He’d pulled in crime scene photos before, and some of them had been bloody, too. But nobody had seen anything like this unless they’d been in the Great War. Brand shook his head as he thought that even the war had been kinder to its victims.
“This’ll get the city talking, Archie. The Mayor will have to come clean, and—” Something in Archie’s silence worried Brand.
“Say, you okay, Arch?”
“Me? Oh, yeah, boss. Little shook up is all. That’s some bloodbath.”
“Not the first time Capone’s spilled blood in this town. Ask me, The Outfit’s looking at numbered days.”
Archie whistled high and sharp. “That’s high-stakes, boss. I didn’t think you played up there.”
“Like I said, this is going to break the city wide open. Everything’s going to be different now.”
Archie flew them across the city while Brand got his viewing glass set up and began scanning the streets. They circled the major commercial districts, high end neighborhoods, and the World’s Fair site. Patrol boats sailed beneath their altitude, monitoring the same districts for the same reasons but with a different aim. After two hours of not much happening, Brand called it a wash and resigned himself to the stack of pages on his desk.
“What’s next, boss?” Archie called back to him.
Brand flipped through his notes, skipping the pages about births, marriages, and funerals among Chicago City’s elite. His unholy trinity of worthless information. Dropping the stack of notes down the waste chute, he gave his attention to an envelope full of photos.
“Maybe some of these pictures’ll give us a story,” he said, not really meaning to start a conversation with Archie.
“Thought you hated talking about those society folks.”
“I do. The only people who care to listen were there already.”
“So?”
“So why tell them a story about what they did last night? They know better than me who kissed whom and when.”
“Ain’t Chief gonna give you the business about this one today? You might give him a little of the stuff he likes, hey?”
“People in charge always go for the sure thing, Archie, even if they know it’s the wrong thing. Chief’ll chew my ear maybe. Won’t be the first time.”
“What if the man on the street starts asking for a piece? Like when we was over there?”
During the Great War, the brass said people complained about Brand’s reports from the trenches. But those reports were cited by the commission that finally ended the war, and he hoped reporting on Chicago City’s crime scene would have a similar effect.
“Maybe the man on the street will change his tune when he sees what his fellow men are doing to each other.”
Archie made like he wanted to keep the conversation going, but Brand spun his chair and waved a hand to call it quits.
Maybe Archie was right though. Now and then, Brand would do a story on the society folks, just to remind them that Chicago City cared about their tribe even if he didn’t. The only thing celebrity ever did for anyone was build a glass wall around them for other people to throw stones at. Flipping the photos in his hand, he stopped halfway through the stack and gave a grunt of surprise. He pulled out a photo and put it next to the crime scene shot from that morning. Then he went back through to double-check and pulled out two more pictures. The rest went into the waste chute beside his desk.