Gods of Chicago: Omnibus Edition

by Sikes, AJ

  Even in these fantasies, all Aiden Conroy could hear were the sounds in the alley.

  His mother went back upstairs to get ready for work. Aiden told her he’d be hitting the streets straight away. She said he should pack a lunch but he said he was going for a job at a lunch counter or grocer’s because if he got one they usually feed you. Not much, but enough to keep you going for your shift.

  Later that day, Aiden left yet another grocer’s with his hands still idle, bringing the day’s tally to eight lunch counters and five grocers without a single bite. He trudged through the wet streets, kicking at low drifts of snow and wrapping his coat tighter around him every time a gust came up. Aiden carried Mr. Brand’s camera box under his coat so that his anxious fingers wouldn’t be tempted to fiddle with the knobs and dials again. He’d thought about going by the Record to see if he could catch his boss there. But Aiden remembered that Crane, the G-man, he’d told him and Digs never to show their faces around the place again.

  Digs wouldn’t be. Aiden knew in his gut that he shouldn’t either.

  He stepped into a soda fountain and spotted a couple of birds in dark suits standing at the counter. Something about the guys gave Aiden the willies but good. He backed out of the place quiet as a mouse and hot-footed it over to the next block.

  The streets were quiet for a midday hour. Wagons trundled by. Bicycles streamed past. But fewer than usual. The last few days really put a clamp on Chicago City’s mood. The city had been under the weather since Valentine’s Day. That massacre business over on Clark Street. People were talking about it like it was a phony story that Mr. Brand cooked up to sell papers. But those guys in suits had bought every copy Aiden had. Same as happened to Jenkins and Digs that day. Aiden’s heart skipped a beat.

  Jenkins and Digs were both dead. He hadn’t got the skinny on what happened to Jenkins, but Mr. Brand had said it was bad news. The Outfit was involved; they were sending a message. Aiden had heard what those guys would do to a fella when they wanted to send a message, and he’d seen what happened to Digs. Aiden felt a stabbing terror twist his guts. Was he next on the list? A few blocks farther along and the pain in his belly turned to hunger. He hadn’t eaten anything all day and regretted not taking his mother’s advice. Could he keep anything down though? It was worth a try. Better to eat now than to go home with no job and an empty stomach to boot.

  At the next corner, Aiden stepped into another lunch counter. He didn’t bother asking about work and ordered an egg salad sandwich with the change he had left over from the sawbuck he got on Valentine’s Day. The chilly coins in his pocket stung his fingertips, and Aiden couldn’t help but think the sensation was from the coins being the Devil’s own money. His sandwich came and he forced himself to take a bite. He had to eat, otherwise he’d be a shivering wreck when he got home. The guy at the grill switched on a radio set and told Aiden to eat up. He tried to return the smile, but Mr. Brand’s voice came from the radio and Aiden nearly spit out his first bite.

  . . .of ill repute. That’s what you’d all call a whorehouse. Mrs. Gordon was a prostitute who used to work for Al Capone’s Outfit. It seems. . .

  When Mr. Brand’s voice cut out, Aiden set his sandwich down and stared at the radio set, willing it to come to life, for his old boss to come across the airwaves and tell him the scoop. Give him something to go on. A second later, a whiny voice that sounded like it was coming from inside a tin can crackled out of the set.

  This is Franklin Suttleby, with the Ministry for Public Information. Citizens of Chicago City are asked to disregard that last broadcast. It was unauthorized and contained no factual evidence or details. We now return you to a repeat broadcast of last night’s episode of Flatbush Ranch, which will be followed by a repeat of your favorite drama, Uptown Rooms and Downtown Dollars.

  Aiden nearly choked on the food in his mouth when the door opened and two guys in suits came in. They went straight to the cook and started asking questions. Aiden caught the words kid and newsboy and slowly got off the stool and dashed out the door. The suited guys gave a yell and came after him. At the first corner, Aiden went right, slid into an alley behind a drugstore and came up against the grill of a delivery van. The driver braked hard and shouted from inside the cab, shaking his fist. Aiden made his way past the van and grabbed at the door when he got around the back. The driver slowly edged into the street. By the time he got moving, Aiden was tucked in the back of his box and holding the door closed.

  He rode in the van for what felt like a dozen blocks, maybe more, until the crunch of gravel told him the driver had pulled up along the riverside. Aiden decided to hop out as soon as the van stopped. He popped the door and nearly hit someone who had been reaching for it. Following his momentum, Aiden tumbled from the van box and came face to face with a surly looking guy in a flat top bowler and heavy coat. The guy smelled like moneybags and looked the part, too. He shouted something at the driver, who had come out of the cab.

  “That’s the kid tried to get run over. Hey, kid!” Aiden had already hot-footed it into a maze of houses facing onto the north side wharves. His neighborhood was only a few blocks over. He’d make it home. He kept saying it over and over. He’d make it home. He’d be okay.

  Aiden did make it to his street and he had his home in sight. He stopped moving and hid behind a neighbor’s fence. A long black sedan was parked in front of his house. Two men in suits came down the steps. Behind them Aiden’s mother and father were led by another man who held a fancy looking rifle and wore a uniform, just like the guys standing out front of the Daily Record now.

  The men bundled his parents into the sedan. “Kid’s not here,” the soldier said. “I checked the whole place. He must still be on the street.”

  “Wait here,” one of the suits said. “He might come back.” The soldier went back into Aiden’s house while the other two drove away with Aiden’s parents in the sedan. Aiden stayed down until the sedan turned at the corner and drove out of sight. His parents were being arrested. Those guys weren’t with The Outfit. None of them were. Even the guys who bought the papers on Valentine’s Day. They were G-men. Had to be. Nobody else had pea shooters like that one waiting for him inside his house.

  What should he do?

  As if in answer to his silent question, the curfew bell rang out through the cold afternoon air. It couldn’t be time yet. The sun was still up, even if it was hidden behind a heavy dark cloud. It had to be a mistake. Aiden searched the sky. Patrol boats circled the neighborhood, their sleek gray cylinders passing through billowing white clouds from nearby smoke stacks, highlighting the ships even more against the thick cloud cover above. Aiden risked a glance at his house. The front door stood open and a trail of cigarette smoke filtered out. The gunman was standing just inside the door. Tucking Mr. Brand’s camera box tight under his arm, Aiden buttoned up his coat and moved out of his hiding place. With some careful duck and dodge tricks he’d seen Digs pull, Aiden made his way around houses and yards until he was on a dirt track between the two oldest homes in his neighborhood. The Miltons had owned one of them. It was still empty. Should he try to hide out there? Would the G-men start searching for him? Would the monster that killed Digs come after him at night?

  Every car that passed on the main road put Aiden’s nerves on edge. He forced himself to keep moving along the track and out onto the street at the other end. The thought of what he would do once darkness fell nearly paralyzed him, but he kept on, making for the quieter roads far away from his Old Town neighborhood.

  He’d made it a few streets away from his house when a metallic clicking startled him. He ducked into an alley behind some waste barrels. He had to squat in a snow drift, but the barrels were the only cover he had. Two crabs scuttled along the pavement, heading in the direction of his street. A clanking followed them and Aiden squeezed himself tighter behind the barrels. He held his breath and prayed the ironw
ork hound wouldn’t come down the alley. The machine clanked along the sidewalk and stopped at the mouth of the alley. Muffled voices carried down to him and Aiden stayed still. His feet grew numb in the snow drift. An icy chill crept up his pants. He wanted to move like nothing in the world could be better, but the fear of getting caught kept him frozen like a statue. Aiden’s heart thundered, and he shrank down when he heard the crackle of a bullhorn echoing from above.

  “Citizens, curfew under Civic Order one-one-three-eight is now in effect until oh-five-thirty hours. Officials from the Ministry of Safety and Security are searching for known fugitives. Citizens are advised not to interfere in official actions. That is all.”

  The ironwork hound clanked away and the muffled voices followed. Aiden risked a glance and immediately ducked back behind the barrels. A G-man stood at the mouth of the alley holding one of those fancy rifles. The sound of a car motor put Aiden’s stomach in a knot. He remembered his parents being put in the car and taken away. Would the G-men arrest him, too, or just kill him? Like Jenkins and Digs had been killed? A car door opened and closed then the car drove away. Aiden peered out and saw an empty sidewalk.

  Running down the alley, Aiden kept throwing looks over his shoulder in case they’d been waiting him out. But nobody came tearing after him. Overhead, patrol boats kept circling. Every so often the ships broadcast the same announcement about curfew and fugitives. Aiden slid into a narrow alley that branched off the one he’d been in. He made it a few steps before he drew up short and nearly flew back out the way he’d come. He was in the alley where Digs got it. The cellar window seemed to wait like the mouth of a waste chute. Aiden froze when a car motor roared down the main alley. A sedan raced past where he’d been standing moments ago. The car stopped at the far end of the alley, then drove away with a squeal of tires.

  Seconds later, the car pulled up at the other end of the narrow branch where Aiden hid. Just the end of the bonnet stuck out where he could see it. Doors opened and closed and feet crunched on gravel. The G-men seemed to be heading back to the street along with their ironwork hound. Its clanking steps echoed into the narrow alley and sent tremors of fear into Aiden’s throat.

  He edged deeper into the alley, moving fast and stepping in the line of snow that ran down the length of one building. It froze his feet even more but kept them from from scraping in the gravel of the alley. The sedan hadn’t moved. The clank of the hound came closer. At the window, Aiden pawed through the snow. The stick came out in his shivering pink fingers. He worked it against the window frame like he’d seen Digs do. The window gave a creak as it opened. Aiden looked up and down the alley at the slivers of light at either end. No movement. No shifting shadows or bulks of men and ironwork hounds coming into the space. Up above an airship flew by, broadcasting the same message that spelled doom for Aiden. He slid into the cellar and closed the window behind him. He couldn’t latch it, and the G-men would be there soon enough.

  Aiden looked around the cellar. Crates of apples and shelves of root vegetables lined the space. At one corner a short flight of wooden steps led up to a door. A band of light glowed from beneath the door. In the opposite corner, another door was set into the wall. Aiden went to it, remembering that Digs had said about the tunnels in the old city. The door was barred. Aiden lifted a stout wooden timber off two hooks and set it on the floor. He tried the handle but the door wouldn’t budge. Footsteps overhead told him that McCoy’s Grocery was still occupied. Probably by the old man himself. Maybe he’d come downstairs? Aiden ran his hands around the door in front of him, feeling for anything that might be holding it closed. His fingers brushed across a notch in the doorframe and he probed at it. Something clicked in the wall and the door popped open a bit. He pulled it the rest of the way against old hinges that squeaked and groaned in protest.

  The footsteps overhead grew rushed and Aiden heard shouting. A low voice gave orders and then Aiden heard the thump-clank of an ironwork hound. He jumped through the doorway into the darkness beyond and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Chapter 28

  In the broadcast booth, Brand picked over the page Crane had given him. He saw where someone had numbered the sentences, apparently ordering the statements so that whoever ended up reading the page would give the report as the editor intended. Thinking about that word, Brand pinned a mental badge on Crane as the author of the redactions, amendments, and clarifications in this report.

  The lights flashed on and off in the broadcast booth and the ‘On Air’ sign by the door flickered to life.

  Ladies and Gentlemen of Chicago City, Brand read from the page before tossing it down the waste chute behind him and picking up his broadcast without missing a beat.

  Last night, February nineteenth, a young man was murdered in the Old Town neighborhood. This wasn’t any young man, but a former employee of the Chicago Daily Record, now the Ministry for Public Information.

  It seems this information, however, is too hot for some ears, so I’ve been advised to inform you of other information regarding the death of one Peter “Digs” Gordon. I’ll let you decide which is bunko and which is the truth. According to a report written by the Minister of Public Information himself, one Jameson Crane, it seems that Mr. Gordon’s mother returned home from a night of debauchery at a local house of ill repute. That’s what you’d all call a whorehouse. Mrs. Gordon was a prostitute who used to work for Al Capone’s Outfit. It seems…

  Brand stopped talking as the On Air light went dim and the broadcast booth door slashed open. Crane stood in the doorway, full of bluster and clutching a few pages that he mashed in his grip as he stabbed a finger in Brand’s direction.

  “The Ministry of Safety and Security has been notified of this breach of the public trust, Brand. You are under arrest. Officers are on their way. And in case you get any ideas about running, I’m about to inform the soldiers outside that you’re a threat to public safety and a fugitive. They’ll have orders to shoot you if necessary.”

  Brand gained his feet when the door opened. Now he stepped toward Crane, who hadn’t moved from the doorway. Stepping forward with his left foot, Brand let his right hand hang loose. Images of Digs Gordon blurred in his mind until all he saw was violence against a night sky. He took another step and was in reach of Crane. The G-man stood there fuming. Brand balled up his fist and slammed it into Crane’s gut.

  The G-man toppled over and coughed all the air out of his lungs. He followed this by coughing up whatever he’d eaten for breakfast. Brand darted a quick look into the hallway and saw no one. At his feet, Crane slumped on his knees and struggled for breath. Brand’s foot connected with his ribs. Crane fell face forward into the broadcast booth, crumpled and wheezing. Brand slid the door shut. Still thinking of Digs, and Jenkins, too, he went to the desk and grabbed the microphone, ripping its connections loose. Crane struggled to stand as Brand whipped the microphone down and across the G-man’s jawline. Crane went slack and hit the floor in a heap.

  Brand grabbed up the pages that Crane had when he came in.

  “Important information in here, Minister Crane? The kind the people need to hear?” Brand spun to toss the pages into the waste chute, but his eye caught the first line of text and he paused. Hardly believing what he read on the page, Brand stuffed the clutch of papers into his pocket and pitched the microphone into the waste chute behind him. The sound of whirring gears and clacking blades gave way to a grinding noise and then an alarm sounded, alerting the maintenance room. Brand hot-footed it over Crane’s still limp form and cracked the door open.

  The sound engineer stood in the lift and shouted an alarm as the door closed on him. Brand watched the numbers light up, showing the lift climbing. He shot down the hall to the stairwell door and was two flights down before he heard shouts from above. The stairwell let out into the basement. Down a dim corridor, Brand saw a figure turning a corner. He had the gimpy gait of
an old man who’d left the better part of a foot in a trench. Mutton, the Record’s trusted wrench and pliers man. Brand let him go and snuck down to the workrooms where the old man holed up every morning.

  Mutton kept a tidy workspace. Shelves lined with machine parts and tools stood out from every wall of the cramped little cupboard. Chief had offered more space and the old man had turned it down every time. Brand remembered him saying he liked to be able to reach everything he needed from where he sat. Sure enough, a swivel stool stood in the center of the space on casters. But some of the shelves were at eye level, and Mutton was no giant. Then Brand saw the pulleys and ropes strung along the ceiling and the handles that connected to clamps and gripping devices. Sitting on the stool, Mutton could reach any corner in the room and any shelf, no matter the height.

  Brand quickly tossed through the tools on the workbench. He grabbed a hand cranked filament torch and went to shove it into his pocket. Remembering the pages he’d scooped up, he took them out and gave them a quick scan. He had to be sure of what he read. The Governor’s seal marked each page as official. The text on the page was something else. Brand had seen orders for military operations before. He understood words like mission, perimeter, and enemy. What he hadn’t seen before was a bulletin about Chicago City that used those words. Crane had his fingers in some kind of pie, and it looked to Brand like the kind you’d pass on eating unless you weren’t given a choice. The date on the bulletin read February 21st, meaning whatever events were being reported on hadn’t happened yet. It also meant that the people of Chicago City would be served a heaping pile of bunko unless Brand could figure out Crane’s scheme. And a way to pull the lid off it.