The description all fell into place with my jumbled memories from yesterday morning. The sound of the car backfiring must have been gunfire, and the policemen that were leading the two ‘criminals’ out of the building were probably the assassins. But there was nothing in the article about a shoot out outside of the garage or anything about a dead woman.
The article listed the dead: Peter Gusenberg, Frank Gusenberg, Al Weinshank, John May, James Clark, Arthur Daves, and Frank Porter. But I didn’t see the name Moira Kelly. Where was her name? Did they not include her because she was a dame? How could they have not found the body, or seen the blood?
My food arrived but I ignored it. Maybe she’s still alive? But there was all that blood and she had no pulse. A glimmer of hope took root in my mind. The cops were pretty thorough, and the news hounds wouldn’t have let a dead woman stop them. Hell, they would have made that the front page headline “WOMAN SLAIN IN GANG WAR”, with a graphic picture of the dead woman. Anything to sell a paper.
No, Moira had to be alive. Maybe the cops had gotten her to a hospital? But now I had a feeling of guilt—not an uncommon thing for the son of a Jewish mother. If she’s not dead, then I left her there, all alone. I had abandoned her, and because of me she might have died, or be at death’s door even now.
“Hey Saul,” Joe grabbed my shoulder.
“Huh?” I looked up from the paper. My dinner was untouched and the coffee was cold.
“Break’s over. We gotta go back. You know that Mr. Dickenson will dock you if you’re late.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I stood up.
“You hardly touched your food,” Joe said as we headed out of the shop. “You sure you’re feelin’ okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just wasn’t very hungry.” We reached the elevator and I pushed the call button. “I guess that I’m just shocked by all of the crime in our fair city.”
Chapter 4
The morning sun filtered through the windows of the sorting room. I finished sorting the last of the letters in my bin, and then turned toward the door.
Joe tossed a stack of letters back into his bin. “Come on Saul, let’s go see if my girl can get us some breakfast. I’ll even make sure she leaves the pig off your plate.”
I winced again at the memory of yesterday’s breakfast and hesitated. Our usual morning ritual was to head to the coffee shop. I’d order coffee and a donut, and Joe would spend his time trying to convince his ‘girlfriend’ to go out with him. She’d lead him on, finding some excuse to say no at the end. I was starting to think that Joe preferred being led on. I don’t know what he’d do if she actually said yes. “Um, not this morning Joe.” I put my hand on my stomach. “I’m still not feeling well. I’m just gonna go home.”
Joe gave me a quizzical look, but smiled and said, “Okay, pal.”
He seemed let down, probably because this was the second day in a row I was going to ditch him. “Let me know if your girl says yes this morning.”
Joe perked up once I got him thinking about something else. He gave me a wave as I headed out the door.
I was tired and famished. It was after noon and I had lost track of how many hospitals I had entered. I never knew that there were so many hospitals in Chicago. I’d tried all of the ones in the north—those closest to North Clark Street. I’d gone south to Mercy and St. Luke’s. I probably should have gone to Cook County first, but what can I say, I’m not really good at planning stuff out.
I walked into Cook County, the sharp smell of alcohol and antiseptic filling the air. If I had to smell that all the time I would never want to be in a hospital. I walked up to a large desk where a bespectacled woman sat. She wore a starched white nurse’s uniform and had light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Hello,” I said with a smile. “I’m looking for a woman who might have been admitted here yesterday.”
The woman gave me a bored expression as she peered at me over the frame of her glasses, but said, “Name?”
“Moira Kelly. She might have come in at the same time as that gang killing up on Clark Street.”
She looked at a ledger book, her finger tracing down a list of names. “Nobody here by that name.” She set the book aside.
“She has red hair,” I persisted. “And she would have had a gunshot wound.”
The woman gave me a shocked look. An orderly wheeled a gurney past the desk. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “But the only person who came in yesterday with a gunshot wound was that man there.” She pointed to the gurney as it passed the desk, and leaned closer to me, whispering, “Only he had fourteen bullet holes in him.” She sat back down, “and he died yesterday afternoon.” She went back to her work.
I almost collapsed from exhaustion. Hope had been the only thing keeping me going, and she’d just burst that bubble. I mumbled, “Thanks anyway,” which she ignored, and I staggered outside.
The air was sharp and cold, but it did little to relieve my weariness. Instead, I felt numb all over. I couldn’t come to terms with the two contradictory thoughts in my head; that Moira had to be alive because there had been no body found at the scene, and that she had to be dead because she wasn’t in any of the hospitals.
I headed up the street, wandering aimlessly but subconsciously in the general direction of my apartment. All the while a commentary ran through my head. Maybe somebody in the neighborhood saw her and took her in to treat her? “And what, these kind strangers were doctors and surgeons?” My mother’s voice mocked me.
I should go to the police to see if maybe they had found the body and had somehow convinced the press to keep it out of the papers. “Don’t be a schmendrek,” my father’s voice taunted me. “You want them to question you about what happened and why you ran away? That’s not what somebody who is not guilty of something does.”
I waved the thought away as if swatting at an annoying gnat, pulling off my cap and scratching my head in thought. I don’t know what to do. Should I check the morgue? My Dad’s voice persisted, ”You’d face the same questions there as if you’d gone to the police, though they can’t arrest you there.” The only other place for me to check is Moira’s place. “But honey, you don’t even know where that poor girl lived,” Mom chided me. Lived? What do you mean lived? Moira’s still alive! “Okay, honey. If you say so.”
I shook my head, finally clearing my parent’s voices from it. A guy can’t catch a break. I moved out so I could get away from my mother’s patronizing tone, but apparently I managed to bring it with me. I continued to wander, eventually reaching my apartment. My legs felt like rubber, and all I could think about was how wonderful my bed would feel as I fell into it. I begrudgingly forced my legs to drag me up the three flights of stairs. I paused on the landing of the third floor, realizing that Mrs. R hadn’t come out to greet me. I didn’t worry about it, as I was grateful that she wouldn’t delay me from reaching my bedroom. My neighbor seemed to be taunting me; I could smell coffee brewing in the hall. As I put my key in the door, it pushed open. I hadn’t turned the key to unlock it.
I stepped into the kitchen, a little slowly due to fatigue. The kitchen light was on, the bare bulb casting its harsh light on the canary yellow cupboards and walls. Two strange men were sitting in my only kitchen chairs, their hats perched on my kitchen table. They each had coffee in front of them, and since I only had one coffee cup, one was using my only glass. The one on my right, who had the glass, was a broad-shouldered man wearing an ill-fitting brown suit, with a white shirt and ugly red tie. He looked like some of the guys my dad worked with who carried entire sides of beef from the cutting floor to the freezer. He had a distinctive face; he had broken his nose so many times that it seemed to point to his right ear.
The one on my left, holding my coffee cup, was a bit smaller, but still as formidable. His suit was better cut, a dark blue color with a matching tie. His brown eyes seemed to pierce through me over the
brim of the cup. Glass looked tough, but Cup’s intensity scared me more.
Cup set his coffee down and said, “Your coffee tastes like shit, Mr. Imbierowicz.”
I know I was tired because I said, “Well, I didn’t ask you to drink it, momzer.”
Glass must have known some Yiddish because he nearly jumped out of his chair, his fists clenched and ready to knock my block off. Luckily for me, Cup either didn’t know that I’d just called him a bastard, or he didn’t care. He held up his hand and Glass relaxed, though he didn’t sit back down.
Cup picked up his coffee and drained it, setting it back down with a grimace on his face. He stood up, grabbing his fedora and placing it on his head. “You need to come with us, Mr. Imbierowicz.”
Fatigue must have given me a backbone. “I know you two aren’t cops, so in this town that makes you hoods. I’ve had a long day, I’m tired, and I just want to go to bed. So fuck off.”
Glass glared at me, but Cup just snickered. “You are either brave or stupid,” he looked at me closely. “Or maybe a little bit of both.” I could see the butt of a gun protruding from a holster under his left arm as he pulled on his overcoat.
“Let’s go,” Cup said to Glass, who stepped toward me, forcing me into the hall. Cup reached up and clicked off the light, then stepped out behind us, pulling the door shut and locking it. He pulled my key out of the lock and handed it to me. “We don’t want to keep Mr. Moran waiting.”
Chapter 5
Glass led the way down the stairs. Cup gestured with his hand for me to go in front of him. To any onlooker it would have looked like Cup was being polite and letting me go first. He hadn’t moved his hand toward his gun, or raised his voice, or done anything to make me think that he’d hurt me. Somehow, I knew that he wouldn’t hesitate one second to do any of that if I tried to be difficult.
I was too tired to be difficult. I headed down the stairs after Glass, with Cup a few steps behind me. At this point I really didn’t care. I wasn’t a fan of pain and had no intention of testing my limits with these two. When we passed the second floor landing, I saw a shadow move under Mrs. R’s door. I realized now that my surprise visitors were the reason that she hadn’t come out to greet me on my way home.
As we descended the stairs I said, “So why does Mr. Moran want to see me?” Now that the shock of finding two men in my apartment and drinking my coffee had worn off, I had become curious as to why the notorious “Bugs” Moran wanted to see a nobody like me.
Cup said, “It’s none of your business why. You just need to come when summoned, like a good dog.” He actually patted me on my head as he said the last part. I tried to slap the hand away, and Cup just laughed.
I interpreted Cup’s words to mean that he really didn’t know why Moran wanted to see me. He was nothing more than an errand boy. A nicely dressed and well-armed errand boy to be sure, but still an errand boy.
Like everyone else in Chicago, I had a good idea of who George “Bugs” Moran was; the papers had made sure of that. He was the ruthless, some said crazy—thus the moniker “Bugs”—leader of the North Side Gang, and perpetual enemy of Al Capone.
Moran had been the sole leader of the North Siders ever since Vincent Drucci had been killed by a cop almost two years before. He was said to have a bad temper, and the papers said that he was responsible for the shootings and deaths of several known Capone henchmen. Of course, the cops didn’t have anything on him, but everybody in Chicago knew that Moran was the second most dangerous man in the city, after Al Capone of course.
We reached the bottom of the stairs and headed outside. Glass turned and walked to a light blue and maroon Packard 343 convertible with its top up. “Nice car,” I commented. Glass didn’t say anything, but opened the back door and gestured with his meaty hand for me to get in. I obliged, noting the nice leather interior. “I guess crime really does pay.”
“Everybody’s a comedian,” Cup said as he got in next to me. Glass went around and got behind the wheel. The Packard started with a low rumble and Glass pulled away from the curb.
Glass turned the car east on West Chicago Avenue driving steadily through the mid-afternoon traffic. We crossed the river, and at North Lasalle, he turned left. “Where are you taking me?” I asked. I didn’t expect a response, or at most a snide remark from Cup, but I was tired of the silence.
“We’re going to Mr. Moran’s place at The Parkway.”
Wow, an actual answer. I didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad sign.
We crossed North Avenue, and then drove along Lincoln Park on North Clark. A chill ran up my spine thinking back to the events of yesterday morning. I distracted myself by looking towards the park. Despite the cold a few intrepid people were out walking, trying to enjoy the weak February sun.
Glass turned the car onto Lincoln Park West and we pulled up in front of The Parkway. Glass turned off the ignition and got out, opening the rear door. Cup gave me a slight nudge, and I exited the car. The three of us walked through the hotel entrance, Glass a little ahead to call for the elevator.
Once it arrived, we got into the elevator and rode it all the way to the top floor. Glass stayed put when the door opened, but Cup headed down the hall. I dutifully followed. I really didn’t have a choice; I had no escape route even if I thought there was a chance that I could get away. Honestly, by this point I was really curious as to why the city’s second biggest gangster wanted to see me.
Cup stopped in front of an ornately decorated door and knocked. Not waiting for a response, he opened it and gestured for me to enter. I walked into a small entry room that was populated with a few straight-backed chairs, a side table holding a vase of white lilies and red tulips, and a brass coat rack. Cup walked in behind me and hung his coat on the rack. Closing the door, he said. “Mr. Moran is waiting for you in the study.” He pointed down the hall.
I gave Cup a look and asked, “What, you’re not coming with me?”
He only shrugged and said, “He didn’t ask for me.” He picked up a copy of the Tribune from one of the chairs and sat down in it. I caught a glance of the headline “SLAY DOCTOR IN MASSACRE”. I hesitantly walked down the hallway. My stomach felt like it had a swarm of butterflies in it as I entered the study.
The room was dimly lit by a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A large desk sat to the left, and a leather sofa was on the right. The room was thickly carpeted and a fur-trimmed coat hung from a coat stand next to me. Across the room from me, a man with a cigar in his hand stood in front a window.
“Mr. Imbierowicz,” the man said as he turned around, his features in shadow. “Why does the Beast want you alive?”
Chapter 6
Moran walked over to the desk and sat down. As he stepped into the light I could now see him clearly. His face was round, the cheeks a bit pudgy. He wore a white shirt and a dark blue vest. A spotted tie was loosely knotted around his neck, which failed to cover a scar on the right side. And they call Capone “Scarface”.
“Please, sit down, Mr. Imbierowicz. Would you like a cigar?” Moran indicated the lit cigar in his hand as I sat down on the couch.
“No, thank you.” I was taken aback by his pleasant demeanor.
“Mrs. Imbierowicz taught you well, I see. That’s good. I like a man who knows his place.” He gave me a hard look, like a man would give to a dog to make sure that it knew its master. At least he didn’t pat me on the head.
“Yes, sir.” It wasn’t the height of witty banter, I know, but I was doing my best just to keep from pissing my pants.
“Al Capone is an animal. Everybody in Chicago knows he’s behind that massacre yesterday, even though he’s in Florida. Nobody but me has the balls to do anything about it.” He took a drag on his cigar and set it in the ashtray on his desk. “Capone has no moral scruples. I might get a bit angry from time to time, and I’m not afraid of a little violence,” he touched the scar on
his neck. “But I’d never pull a stunt like the one that he pulled yesterday.”
I bit my tongue as I recalled Moran’s hundred car procession a few years ago that had shot up Capone’s hotel in Cicero. I thought about it, but I wisely didn’t mention it. I guess my mom did teach me well. Instead, I said, “And how does this pertain to me, Mr. Moran?”
“Ah, right to the point I see.” He chuckled. I was getting a little annoyed by the number of people laughing at me today.
“A few weeks ago, the Chicago cops got smart and conducted a raid up north on some of Capone’s slot-machine interests.”
I nodded, like I knew what the hell Moran was talking about.
“During the raid, the cops managed to snag some of the books that little Ralphie Capone had carelessly left there. In another miracle of cooperation and intelligence, the cops gave the books to the Feds. The Feds now have a thread that they can use against Ralphie to start tugging at Capone’s organization.” Moran stood up and grabbed the cigar from the ashtray. He walked around his desk and leaned against it, pointing at me with the tip of his cigar.
“That’s where you come in, Mr. Imbierowicz.”
“I’m sorry sir, but I still don’t understand. I work at the Post Office as a mail sorter. Other than what I read in the paper, I don’t know anything about Capone’s gang or the Feds.”
“Ah, but you managed to stand between Capone’s goons and my people yesterday morning and came away without a scratch.”
“That was pure luck,” I blurted out. “My girlfriend and I were walking down the street and just stumbled into that gunfight.”
Unremarkable Page 3