Adele laughed. “Oh, Barbara, you don’t understand. You’re too young, I suppose. You think everything’s about how much you have.”
“Well, yeah.” There was something else?
“But until you’ve lived in that house when it’s empty, or worse, when it’s not empty and you’re alone anyway, you have no idea what it’s like.”
“Does he cheat on you? Your husband?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“What would you do if he did?”
Adele sipped her wine and stared out the window for the longest time. When she looked back, her eyes were damp. She touched them with a napkin, leaving a black smear. “Oh, dear. I don’t know. Probably keep him.” She looked at Cassidy with sympathy. “I guess I want the good life, too.”
*
Monk’s stock had certainly risen. In the eyes of his new associates he had become a star.
“You stole his car?” Mario could hardly believe it.
The morning after, the money and jewels had been put away, and the crew was assembled for a large in-room breakfast. Every surface was covered with eggs, toast, bacon, grapefruit, Danishes, and newspapers. Coffee cups were filled and refilled, white linen napkins were wadded and cigarettes were lit. Cassidy wandered off to her suite to get ready, leaving the boys to themselves.
They promptly reverted to grade school humor with Monk as the subject. “How big was the car?” was a favorite, with “bet you could get a lot in that backseat,” a close second. Mostly they all were impressed with the nerve and planning to steal the personal car of a major gangster just after you’d robbed the gangster himself. “What’d you do with it?”
“Left it at a chop shop on Wabash.” Monk told them. “They paid me a hundred dollars for it.”
“It’s probably on its way to Mexico right now,” admired Paul E. Smalls.
“Balls of steel,” said Mario with Jefferson Davis adding, “More like polished brass.”
“So, what do we do now?” After this latest move Mario was feeling far more inclined to listen to Monk. The guy might be a geek and look like a movie star, but he sure proved himself last night.
“Now,” Monk said, “we hit everybody else.” He was feeling a whole string of new sensations. He bathed in the approval of the others, he was still amazed with himself for the limo idea, and success was a potent drug. He felt invincible and warned himself not to get cocky; there were an awful lot of them, and a very few of us.
And they are mean mothers, he reminded himself.
They clamored for details and Monk explained.
Coffee cups got knocked over, ashtrays overflowed and Cassidy returned. Notes were taken on Hotel stationary, which added an elegant touch to “drug runners- corner of 4th and Pulaski” and “cash in safe, combo is 49-27-52” which caused howls of laughter when Mario said that was his ex-wife’s measurements.
Cassidy went back to her room in disgust.
“So, what do we do till tonight? I don’t like sitting around all day.”
“There’s a pool,” suggested Monk.”
“I need my guitar,” said Jefferson, “I ain’t no good ‘less I got my guitar.”
“Screw the pool,” said Mario. “I want to go to the track.”
“Jeez, Caputo. You go to the track and they’ll kill you for sure.” Monk was disgusted with the guy. He almost wished Caputo would go out and get caught. “You can’t go out in public,” Monk told them. “Here, at the Hilton, no one will expect us. But if you go back to your usual haunts,” he pointedly looked at Jefferson, “you’ll be found. Our enemy has people everywhere looking for us. Remember; we are the dead men.”
Everyone disagreed. Lou wanted to go to the ballpark, backing down only when it was pointed out that Rufus Black was bound to be there, and he’d probably want to kill him. Paul E. Smalls wanted to go out— “anywhere, just out. I get the shakes all cooped up.” It was like open mike night at an insane asylum.
“Guys,” Monk said quietly. ‘“Uh, guys?” Several heads turned. “Maybe going out isn’t a swell idea. There’s people everywhere searching for us. But here’s what I want you to do. You’re private investigators. You’ve all got sources. Up ‘til now we’ve counted on the bad guys to give us information. Now I want you to call the good guys, the stoolies and straight cops and anybody the mobs have ever gone after, and tell them this is their chance to get even. Find out everything that’s going on in this town.
“We’re going to make the great fire look like a weenie roast.”
Later, after a frenzied couple of hours on the phone, Lou took Monk to a hidden balcony, one of a hundred little nooks scattered around the building. The view of the city was marred by the pigeon droppings on the iron railings and the distant smokestacks of Gary, Indiana to the south.
“You sure about this?”
“No. But what else do we have? The mob’s gonna kill us anyway. We may as well go out with a bang.” He watched an airplane drifted by over the lake, bound for a landing at Midway. “Besides, it could work, you know.”
“You think so?”
“Not really.” They leaned on the befouled railing and watched fleecy clouds.
“But what a way to go,” Lou said. “What an awesome way to go.”
Chapter 35
Let the war begin
“Remember, we have the element of surprise. Hit as many places as you can and be sure to get away clean. No one follows you, right? And always have your new clothes ready. If anybody’s after you, change clothes and they won’t recognize you anymore.”
Four men and one woman in the parlor suite, all getting ready for a busy and dangerous evening, paused in various degrees of preparation to listen. Paul E. Smalls hesitated from placing bullets into his revolver to say, “Yes, mother.” Everyone laughed and the tension eased a bit.
“These are small hits. I don’t want anyone hurt, but make the most of the evening.”
“We got it,” groused Mario. He was wrapping a screwdriver blade in black electrician’s tape. Jefferson Davis was in a corner, alone as always, looking worried. Monk went over to talk with him.
“You nervous?”
“Yep. Can’t say I feel right, going out after Rufus Black’s places. Scares me just about out of my skin.”
Monk touched his shoulder. “You’ll do fine. Just remember the plan.” It was a nice little speech, like the one a coach would give his players before the game. Except this time the game was robbery against the mobs.
They all paused at the door and looked to each other expectantly, like parachutists awaiting the rush of air. Finally, Lou said, “For Christ’s sake, let’s get on with it.” He opened the door and the war officially began.
Throughout the night a dozen similar events occurred. Restaurants, gambling joints, several downtown offices, a couple of individuals found out on the street when they shouldn’t have been, even a private house of a mob enforcer—the attacks were swift, anonymous, unexpected and coordinated. Monk had plotted out specific destinations and assigned them with military efficiency. He mapped out the shortest routes between one hit and another and his troops, four hunted private eyes, a blonde typist and a used book store owner, committed the single most effective attack on crime since Eliot Ness sent the Untouchables against bootleg booze.
In all cases the takes were small. The intent was publicity, not money. They all aimed to cause the greatest confusion possible, the most fear and the deepest anger.
“Anger will make them careless,” Monk had told them.
“And more dangerous,” added Mario, the skeptic. “If they catch us.”
“When they catch us.”
But not this evening. By four-thirty all of them had snuck back into the Hilton, safe and vibrating with excitement. For an hour they discussed the night, comparing notes and showing off their loot. The best take came from Paul E. Smalls who had broken in on the mob enforcer.
“What is it?” asked Monk.
“His gun.” Paul E.
was elated. “I was looking for the safe they said he has and I found this.” It was a silver semi-automatic pistol, gleaming and deadly. “I bet if we gave it to the cops they’d tie it to something.”
Monk burst out laughing. “Now that’s initiative. Gentlemen and lady, I suggest we hit the sack and wait to see our press.”
The newspapers had a field day. “GANG WAR” screamed the headline of the Tribune.
“IS ANYBODY SAFE?” demanded the Sun-Times. The Daily News and Chicago Herald, both afternoon broadsheets, wouldn’t be out for hours, but it was clear that they, too, would cover the gang wars above the fold.
Monk waved the Trib in a pose eerily like Truman displaying the same paper a decade before when it trumpeted Dewey’s victory. “This time they got it right,” he yelled to shrieks of unrestrained glee. Champagne corks popped and cigars were handed out to replace cigarettes.
Monk took the papers over to a corner and began to read them, looking up when Cassidy came to sit by him. “What are they saying?”
“We’re the biggest news since Korea. The Trib is calling for an investigation, the police are saying they don’t know what to make of it and Malcom Warburton says quote, “it’s no surprise considering the way the current mayor is handling our crime problem.” Monk smiled like a cat eyeing a mouse. “He doesn’t know what ‘crime problem’ is yet.”
The afternoon was spent on the phones, talking to informers and other contacts. Monk had leased two other rooms under assumed names; they had plenty of telephones and privacy, but by agreement the parlor of the Presidential suite was headquarters. Throughout the day they would deliver bits and pieces of news to Monk who carefully wrote them down and added them to his plans.
“A bookie told me he had a beef with Cermak’s boys about a year ago. He knows of a mob run horse racing joint,” said Mario Caputo.
“Is he legit?” asked Monk.
Mario shrugged, “He hates Cermak, I know that.”
“Good enough.”
Paul E. Smalls proved to be a fountain of information. Once he put the word out that he was looking for people unhappy with the mobs he was flooded with tips. He dropped them off with Cassidy who was acting as informal secretary. “Do with ‘em what you want,” he said and wandered off.
Monk took the information and made endless lists, organizing them by which mob, how much he could trust the information, where they were located. He gave them assignments and waited for the results.
For randomness, they skipped evenings or went out in pairs. They’d all been to the tailor and had expensive clothing made and had leased several more, fancy cars with tinted windows.
Jefferson Davis was especially impressed with his suit, fingering the lapels and watching himself in mirrors whenever he passed one. On the first evening after he’d arrived, Monk explained the strategy. “The clothes will make us invisible to the mob informers looking for us. They watch for lowlifes; we hide out as swells. It’s the Scarlet Letter technique.”
Seeing the blank looks he explained, “You hide something in plain sight and they never think to look there. With us, who’d ever expect the Hilton?”
“There’s a problem,” said Jefferson. “You say we’re gonna stay here, but,” he waved his arm around the glorious room. “Ain’t no chance they’re gonna let me in.”
“I got that figured out. Frank Sinatra was here last month with the Rat Pack. He had the same problem; the Hilton said Sammy Davis Junior couldn’t stay. Said he had to get a room in a colored hotel.
“Fine,” said Sinatra. “We won’t stay either.” The Hotel changed their tune quick. Once we get you some good clothes and tell them you’re a performer, they’re going to welcome you, my friend, with open arms.”
Jefferson, who had never been welcomed anywhere, open arms or not, was dubious, but after being fit with the suit and escorted in along with Cassidy and Monk, he found himself in an excellent suite on the fourteenth floor. The staff called him sir and he had the cleanest sheets he’d ever slept on. Amazing.
Mario commented that the change into rich clothes was a lot like Batman.
“What?” asked Monk.
“The Batman, from the comic books.”
Monk again shook his head, confused.
“The Batman fights crime at night, and disguises himself during the day as a rich playboy. See? Just like us.”
‘‘’Cept he’s got that kid, Robin,” said Paul E. Smalls.
“His ward,” said Lou.
“The hell’s a ward?” asked Jefferson.
“Like he’s adopted,” explained Monk who didn’t know comics but was a walking dictionary.
“They’re a couple of pervs, you ask me,” said Mario. They all stopped to stare at him. “Homos, you know? A couple of fags.” He looked around the room, seeing only unfriendly expressions. “Jeez, you guys don’t understand nothin’.”
In the silence Monk asked, “Everyone got their assignments? Good. Let’s hit ‘em.”
The reaction of the mob heads was automatic and universal. Find these guys and kill them.
Tony Scolio put out a bounty of $25,000 for anybody who would talk. The two contenders for Gus Cermak’s position, Maynard Wazinski and Buddy Fitzgerald, began arguing about who was in charge. Their fighting became bitter enough to ignite old rivalries and factions and within a week gunfire broke out as the gangs fought each other.
Rufus Black became furious over Lou Fleener’s betrayal He also offered a bounty of $25,000, but added a proviso; he wanted Lou alive.
Malcolm Warburton and Mayor Daley became front page news. Their escalating battle of words grew more bitter as they leveled accusations back and forth. Reading the papers, you’d think that the mayor’s office was behind all crime itself.
Newspapermen went crazy writing stories and editorial policy ranged from the mild, “What is happening in our once proud city?” to the firm, “Criminals must be dealt with harshly,” to the outright paranoid. “Criminals threaten the safety of everyone,” said The Tribune, never a voice of reason. It editorialized that the death penalty should be used.
In Duke Braddock’s house, the mood was one of restrained schizophrenia. On one hand, the opportunity of publicity for Warburton was an amazing turn of fortune. On the other hand, the attackers were beginning to cause enough damage to be felt. Also, Braddock’s feelings were on the line—he had been personally attacked.
That he was the cause of this present tempest never escaped his attention. Despite being vain and a criminal, Duke Braddock was an educated man. He knew cause and effect when it came and pointed a gun in his face. Perhaps, he mused over a wide round brandy snifter, I went too far when I brought in Monkton and Fleener. He decided that, given the chance, he would consider buying them off to prevent further difficulties.
Of course, he’d have them killed later, but the peaceful approach appealed to him for now.
Unlike his fellow gang leaders, Duke Braddock didn’t hold much stock in violence or monetary rewards as a quick solution. Certainly, when these people were caught, violence would end the problem, but until they were it was useless. The idea was amusing; the mobs, with all their guns and deadly resolve, reduced to impotence by a simple turn of fate. They couldn’t find anyone to hurt.
Rewards also seemed like a dead end. Certainly, there were stoolies loyal to—or afraid of—the mob. And those people would be combing the streets looking for a way to cash in. But equally certain was the fact that any number of people would be delighted to hide Lou and Monkton just to get back at the mobs.
Braddock’s first act, nearly a week earlier, had been to call a certain precinct captain. That one phone call alerted a hundred corrupt policemen, another dozen detectives, and a handful of politicians.
But even that didn’t make Braddock feel better.
The simple fact was that he had underestimated Dion Monkton. The man was smart, of course, but he turned out to be resourceful and persistent as well. Braddock had a saying that he believed in wholeh
eartedly; “persistence is everything.” And now he was faced with an opponent who seemed to be willing to persist endlessly.
Resourceful, smart and persistent; a deadly combination. Duke Braddock sat in his luxurious library, surrounded by everything money could buy, and felt the first faint trace of worry.
Chapter 36
Now it’s a battle of attrition
The next three weeks went by in a blur of activity.
The gang robbed until near dawn, compared notes and the take and fell asleep until two in the afternoon. Each member made calls and took notes and around six gathered in the parlor. Notes were traded for assignments and Monk began his work planning the next night’s raids. Cassidy, delighted, became custodian of the loot, a job she cherished.
One night in the third week, as confidence rose to an unsafe level, disaster struck.
“Just hand it over,” said Paul E. Smalls. He held a small assassin’s gun pointed at the head of a cowering man in a small office of a movie theater. The man wore a shiny satin tuxedo and had thin hair combed over his nearly bald head. His hands were twisting in a prayer like motion as he spun the dials of a safe.
“There’s nothing in here,” the man insisted for the fifth time. “I don’t know why you’re here.” He sounded on the edge of crying and Paul E. felt a moment of doubt. Had he gotten the wrong information? This man didn’t seem like a mob guy, and the theater didn’t seem like a front for anything except bad movies. Bedtime for Bonzo featuring the second-rate Ronald Reagan—and a chimp for god’s sake—were playing a double bill with Sorority Sisters—Coeds with a Secret!
Paul E. reviewed his source, a newsstand vendor named Pico. The guy had nearly been run out of business by a couple of mob guys last year. He paid protection money now and still walked with a limp. He hated mob guys; his info was solid. Paul E. leaned against the doorframe and waited impatiently, eager to escape. Something was very wrong here.
“There.” The man twisted his body to show the empty safe and Paul E. Smalls became convinced; this was a set up. The idea of being captured, never far from his mind, filled him with horror. What would they do? Knives? Acid? Bullets in non-fatal places, one at a time? Oh my God. Paul E.’s legs turned to rubber.
Missing Amanda Page 20