by Sikes, AJ
“You don’t need to tell me about it,” she spat back as she slid into the driver’s seat. The newshawk’s shouts followed her and she spotted a few folks staring after her as she drove away.
If the Mayor had big news about Capone, it was even money he’d have a little story about Frank Nitti, too. Emma could pass herself off as a newsie. Or maybe she’d get arrested the minute she stepped inside. But it was the only play she had.
She crossed the river and did a few switch backs to make sure nobody had tailed her from where the newshawk took his tumble. The road behind her looked clear, and she’d only spotted one patrol boat up above as she crossed the river. The Mayor’s Office waited down the street, next to the ballroom where he threw his gala parties. That building had always been an eyesore for Emma, a place to avoid whenever she wasn’t being forced inside with the rest of the duckies.
She looked across the street at the park and noticed a few men and women marching along the sidewalk. They crossed the street to join a crowd gathered at the steps to the Mayor’s Office. Should she get out and join them? How could she hide from their cameras? They’d pick her out in a flash, even with her phony disguise. So that idea was out the window, and now she was sunk.
Disgusted with her failure, Emma pulled in across from the park and watched the snow fall on the car’s bonnet, melting away into wisps of steam that turned to mist in the frosted afternoon air. The Mayor’s Office loomed over the street, all hulking white marble and shimmering glass. Clouds shrouded the building, giving it a haunted look. It stood out from the dark background like a giant’s face, the doorway an enormous mouth open in shock. Or hunger. Soot from the city’s furnaces blackened the bell tower up top.
Emma felt a deep ache in her chest. If her family’s plant had the money to really compete, the air would be cleaner. The whole city would be cleaner. But Capone saw to it that nobody enjoyed clean living except him. Even the Mayor’s digs were tarnished.
“Serves him right,” Emma hissed as she watched the Mayor, flanked by his aides, shift his porcine bulk out of the doorway and down the steps. A microphone waited for him, standing just above street level. The Mayor regarded the crowd before him and raised his hands as if in triumph. Whatever he had to say, it had to be big. The Mayor never made public speeches except after the election results came in. His voice boomed out into the street, too loud for the small speaker boxes off to the sides. Emma saw the megaphones then, two sets of bullhorns high up on the walls of the building that now stood above the steps like some lurking monster belching forth the sounds of its rage.
“Members of Chicago City’s society, citizens, and ladies and gentlemen of the city’s journalism corps, thank you. It is with great pleasure, and not too small an exhalation of relief, that I announce to you the end—,”
The Mayor paused, drawing out the moment with a shit-eating grin on his mug. Emma’s stomach turned watching the spectacle. The Mayor was as guilty as the mob for making Josiah Farnsworth into a desperate drunk. And Nitti’s words after he landed that punch the other night, about Capone thanking the Mayor, for his service. The man was a highbinder if ever there was one; the whole city knew it. But Emma would be the one to act on it.
“The end, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight, the fifteenth of February in the year 1929, tonight marks the end of The Outfit. Just ten minutes ago, at oh-four-forty hours members of my police force, Chicago City’s finest men in uniform, were joined by the Governor’s marshals in a raid on Al Capone’s hideout. In the raid, over five hundred gallons of bootleg liquor were confiscated.”
The Mayor stepped back, reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a slip of paper, then stepped up to the mic again.
“Five hundred gallons, ladies and gentlemen. Also captured were fifteen members of Capone’s gang, including. . .Friends it gives me great pleasure to announce that Alphonse Capone has been arrested by the Governor’s marshals and is—”
A cheer went up at the news of Capone’s arrest and Emma had to admit her heart felt lighter when she heard the words. But a screech of tires came to her ears, making her whip her head around. A long sedan fish-tailed around the corner behind her and roared down the street. The crowd of reporters turned as one to see the car, and they all fell together in a tangle trying to escape its path, stumbling up the steps, some slipping to land face down in the filthy snowmelt.
The car skidded to a halt and the sickeningly familiar figure of Frank Nitti leaned out of the back seat with a Tommy gun that burped fire. The Mayor staggered, caught by the fusillade, his arms whipping up and backwards. Bullets picked at him, punched into his gut and his chest, flung him up the steps. He went over on his backside and jerked under the impact of more and more lead. Emma felt herself screaming for it to stop, but Nitti kept his finger on the trigger until the sound of sirens swelled in the gathering snowstorm. Then he disappeared into the back seat and the sedan roared away, turning at the next corner and heading for the river. Before she knew what she was doing, Emma had pulled away from the curb.
At the intersection, she whipped around the corner and slowed to a crawl. The mobster’s car was out of sight. Had he turned here or up one block? Maybe he’d cut around to cross the river farther down. Was he headed for the waterfront? Traffic moved here and there, wagons and bicycles. Sirens gathered behind her. They were close. Somebody must have seen her leave the scene. They’d think she was in on it.
Not knowing where to go or why, Emma continued and crossed the river, her eyes darting around and up. She nearly slammed into a wagon when she saw the Vigilance hovering overhead, following a course away from the Mayor’s Office. Brand was on the hunt. Fine. She’d follow him to the scoop and write the final chapter in Nitti’s life story.
Chapter 12
Memories of Jenkins’ bloodied face played back through Brand’s mind as he stepped around the piles of slushy snow. When he stopped across the street from an abandoned machine shop, Brand let memories of Frank Nitti take over the playback. Nitti’d used Jenkins to send Brand a message. Nitti’d set up Josiah Farnsworth as a patsy for the Valentine’s Day massacre. Nitti’d punched out the Mayor and threatened Brand. And now Nitti had gunned the Mayor down for nabbing Capone. If Brand could get sight of the gangster, maybe listen in on his crew’s chatter, he could get the pieces that would put the story together for him. Then he could call the cops in and have the satisfaction of watching Frank Nitti try on the city’s jewelry.
Brand took shelter in the boarded up entry alcove of an old hotel. The neighborhood had been abandoned for a while. The perfect place for gangsters to arrange a hideout. Brand watched the shop building, dancing his weight back and forth to keep his feet from freezing up. The shop sat low on the old street, like a forgotten pile of bricks and lumber left to the elements. A line of barrels, like weary and fallen soldiers, stood along the shop front. Some lay on their sides, mouths open and showing small drifts of snow collecting like chalky grins. Next to the shop an empty yard stretched away into the gathering darkness of the stormed over afternoon. Brand couldn’t see a car anywhere, but someone was in the building.
A door opened onto the yard, sending an angled slice of warmth into the dusky light. A man in a dark suit appeared for a moment, looked into the depths of the empty yard and went back in. The door swung shut behind him and the metallic click of the latch came to Brand’s ears. Should he try to get in that way. What if they spotted him? Would they gun him down? Of course they would. The abandoned area made a great setting for a murder that would never be seen. Brand gave himself a full ten seconds to worry and then remembered Jenkins’ face one last time.
He dashed out to cross the street when two tramps on creaking rusty bicycles slipped out of the night to foul the air around him. Brand pulled up short at the edge of the sidewalk and stared into the rheumatic eyes of the dirtiest human beings he’d ever seen. Filth clung to them everywhere, like their clot
hes were made of waste. Even the muddiest soldier in the trenches had a clean face beneath the grime. These guys were something else, like a pair of walking trash heaps. Even worse, Brand recognized one of them.
Josiah Farnsworth slunk along beside his younger and taller companion. Brand realized he’d seen both men before.
“That was you on Valentine’s morning. Right, pal?”
“Yeah, sure enough it was me, Brand. Hey, I get you know my new partner here,” the tramp said and leaned in close to whisper, “He won’t shut up about some squeeze named Emma. You know where we can find her?”
“She’s no squeeze. She’s his daughter.” Brand said, leaning back from the stink coming off the tramp. The old man had stayed back, huddling into his coats and shivering like he had nothing on.
“So, Brand, you want the scoop on the Bicycle Men or you just here for the show and tell later?”
“Eh?” Brand’s mind raced and he struggled to keep track of the conversation and remember why he’d been standing on the sidewalk to begin with. Wasn’t he supposed to meet someone? Was it these two bums?
“What’d you say your name was, pal?”
“Didn’t. But I’ll tell ya. Larson Combs, formerly at Argonne. Like I said yesterday morning. Remember that little hike we took through the trees?”
“I still don’t think we ever met up over there, friend. You said something about a story?”
The tramp flicked a glance over his shoulder at Old Man Farnsworth. “Probably better we wait until it’s just us two, Brand. Company can ruin a good telling, and I want to make sure you get the skinny without none of this fella’s moaning about his Emma. C’mon, old timer.”
Larson lifted his feet to the pedals and grabbed at the night air beside his head. Before he pulled it aside he gave Brand a wink and a nod. Then he was gone. Old Man Farnsworth trundled up on his creaking bike. Larson had a newer one, but the old man’s was a Boneshaker model, big and clunky and with metal wheels that took every bump and sent it straight up to the seat so hard it could rattle a man’s spine right out of his skin.
“That you in there, Mr. Farnsworth?”
“It’s me, Brand. Sure as anything can be sure anymore. This is me. Josiah Farnsworth.” His face hung glum and stone drunk, and a tic quivered under his left eye. The old man held out a hand waiting for Brand to shake. Brand came closer, reached out and touched his fingertips to the old man’s palm. Feeling real skin, he gripped the hand and gave it a squeeze.
“So that’s squared. You’re real, so that means your pal is real, too. Now how about the get up. Last time I saw you it was uptown starch even if you were three sheets to the wind. What’s with the magic act?”
“It’s like the gypsy woman said, Brand. I’m a messenger now. Work for them.”
“For who? The gypsies?”
“No. The. . .,” Old Man Farnsworth looked off down the empty street, staring at the distant dark like it was an oncoming train. “Hell, I never was a church going man. Never gave no thought to what came after it all. Thick-headed. That’s what I was.” He turned back to face Brand and his eyes stayed full of terror, but his mind had clearly moved on to something else. “You’ll tell her, won’t you? Like you said. You’ll tell my Emma that I’m sorry. And. . .and that I love her. Always loved her.”
“Yeah, I’ll tell her. But—”
The old man lifted a drape of the city aside and shook his head at Brand. “Not now, Brand. I can’t say nothing more about it. Not now. Gotta get with Larson again. He’s teaching me the trade,” The city dropped back down to cover Old Man Farnsworth’s exit. Brand waited, willing the old man to pop back into existence so he could answer more of Brand’s questions. Nothing happened. The night stayed still except for a sighing breeze and flutters of a coming snowfall. Promising himself a double once he got back to the Vigilance, Brand stepped clumsily off the sidewalk. His right foot sank into a sodden pothole full of ice cold water. He shook his leg to get some of the wet off him, but knew it was pointless. He’d have to peel off his shoe and sock and go back to the airship with one bare foot. He stepped carefully across the street, made it to the other side and tucked down by the barrels. Still on edge, Brand looked back across the still, quiet street to where he’d been standing. He tracked his focus through the air above the street, trying to zero in on any movement between him and the hotel entrance where he’d hidden a moment ago.
Nothing moved. No mysterious tramps on bicycles popped into existence like pink elephants after a long night at the speak. For the second time in as many days, Brand felt reality going fuzzy around him. His flashbacks to the Great War had been worsening, going back to the first day he spent in the Early Bird waiting for the hit. Now, with the image of the tramp’s haunting grimy face staring out from memory, Brand felt his gorge rise. He choked it back and stared into the street until his icy wet foot shouted at him for warmth. Brand shook himself, trying to focus on the ground beneath him for balance. His guts finally settled and he got his feet under him. He went in a crouch, down the line of barrels to the tattered awning above the machine shop entrance. Voices came from inside, muffled and angry. Brand quietly slid up to the door and pressed an ear against the wood. He caught a few words, something about the Governor. Whoever was talking had a case of rage big enough to take on an army. Brand’s foot was numb, like it had iced up. He hopped on it and caught movement out the corner of his eye. Something in the street.
Dammit! Was he going to keep seeing things from now on? Brand swiped a hand across his vision as if to wipe away whatever he’d thought he’d seen, and his fingers trailed through the air before his face, peeling away the fabric of the city in thin streaks. Beneath these tears in reality, he saw the glimmering skyline of another cityscape. His breath caught in his throat and he jerked his arm down, bumping his elbow against the door. He held his breath, cursing himself for being careless and thinking he should run for it. But nobody came out. He let his ear rest against the wood of the door again and fell backwards as it was whisked open.
“Mr. Mitchell Brand. Of the Chicago Daily Record. Won’t you come in? You can rest your feet by our fire.”
Chapter 13
Brand thought about running, but decided to pass on getting shot in the back. The menacing .45 in Nitti’s grip told him that was good thinking. Nitti motioned with the gun, guiding Brand through the foyer and into the shop room in back. Their path took them through bits of glass and scattered ledger sheets. In the shop room, a small furnace burned, giving off radiant heat. A stout chair was positioned facing the furnace mouth. Down to the right, the remains of a machining line sat like a rusting skeleton, draped heavy with cobwebs and blackened here and there by soot. One of Nitti’s heavies stepped up to Brand and grabbed him by the lapels, lifting him off the floor. The thug slammed Brand onto the chair in front of the furnace.
In the firelight from the furnace, Brand caught Nitti’s face looking scared, saw the gangster’s lips shake as he pulled up a chair and laid his .45 on his knee. His goons stood around them, one of them adding coal to the fire, making the air in front of Brand’s face grow hot. The heavy behind him kept his hands on Brand’s shoulders. Sitting there facing his own death, Brand wondered which of the birds around him had been responsible for Jenkins. With his heart heavy with regret and rage, Brand hoped he’d at least have a chance at getting a shot in before they put him down for keeps. Sizing up his opponents, Brand figured his chances were as close to nothing as they could get. The thug by the furnace was a thick-necked bruiser, the kind Brand had learned to give a wide berth when he passed them on the street. He’d have given anything to have that kind of space between them now. The man put on a heavy pair of gloves and hoisted a metal rod to stir the coals, eyeing Brand with a nasty grin the whole time. Sparks rose up into the air above the furnace mouth.
Nitti addressed him and Brand pulled his eyes away from the th
ug with the metal rod. Nitti’s mouth still shook, but Brand couldn’t be sure the tremors had fear behind them. Tension maybe. Or the remains of the rage that had passed through them moments ago.
“I have spoken with you. Now three times. In just two days. You have a deficit. Do you understand?”
Brand wanted to make a remark about Jenkins evening the score, but Nitti’s face told him to play nice if he wanted to play at all.
“Yes, Mr. Nitti,” Brand said, his own lip shaking now and threatening to rattle his jaw off his face. “I’m into you for a day, I see.”
“You are behind a day. You understand me, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Nitti. I understand. I’m behind a day. I should…”
“You should shut your yap and listen,” Nitti shot back at him. Then he looked to the goon standing behind Brand. “Mattone. Che fai? Our guest is cold.”
The bird pushed forward so that Brand’s face was less than a foot from the furnace mouth. Then Thick Neck stuck the metal rod into the furnace again, stirring the coals and causing a spray of sparks and ash to fill the air in front of Brand’s face. His eyes stung and watered.
“Mr. Brand. We. Mr. Capone and myself. We have been quite disturbed with your radio show. We find it lacking in certain qualities.”
Brand felt Nitti waiting for a reply so he nodded, slowly raising a hand up to wipe the tears from his eyes.
“Of course, you must know. Mr. Capone was arrested this afternoon. This leaves me in a position I had not hoped for. As it means my employer is incapacitated. And so I find myself confronted with a difficulty. You.”
Brand turned to look at Nitti and had to blink and shake his head to clear his vision. The gangster kept swimming in and out of focus, like he sat behind a film of quicksilver. Nitti’s eyes ran with threads of glimmering light that split the skin of his face. His jaw stretched, lengthening until his narrow chin formed a knife point under his thin lips. He stood up with a rapid flex of his legs and Brand jerked backwards in fright. He fought to keep from screaming as Nitti towered over him. The point of his chin lowered to Brand’s face and would stab the newsman in the eye if the mobster bent forward even an inch. In the corners of his vision, Brand saw images of Nitti’s victims. The gossamer forms of their bodies swirled in the air, trailing away like embers and sparks rising from the furnace. Brand didn’t see Jenkins, but he did see dead men from rival gangs. He saw coppers and business owners who didn’t play by The Outfit’s rules. He saw women who’d outlived their usefulness as playthings and whose children were nothing more than a burden to the man who’d sired them.