by Jack Tunney
“Look, I just want to congratulate the kid. He’s done very well to get this far.”
Sammy gazed down at Logan, screwed-up his eyes. “You’ll write it up properly?”
“Sure. I was rooting for him tonight.” He coughed and injected a croak into his voice. “I’m hoarse with shouting!”
Gently pressing a big ham of a hand against Logan’s chest, Sammy said, “Wait here.” He turned, called over his shoulder, “Hey, Holly, this reporter seems to be a big fan of yours! Do you want to make an exception?”
“Okay, Sammy, let him in!”
Logan let out a sigh of relief and stepped inside, adjusting his tie which now had sweat stains on it. “Thanks.”
The smell of the place never changed, no matter how often he visited this locker room or any other. A mixture of sweat, linseed, leather, chalk, and cheap after-shave. Ah, that was him, the after-shave, and it failed abysmally in masking the other odors. The things I do for a story.
Hollis Twyford sat on the table, his big hands resting on his thighs, palms up, the tapes partly untraveled. “Hey, take a seat, Mr. Reid.”
“Call me Logan.” He pulled up a chair.
Hollis gestured vaguely. “You’ve been following my career, it seems.”
“It makes a good story. Orphanage boy works his way up, through the amateur circuit then goes pro when he can and wins fight after fight.”
“So, what’s your angle?”
“No angle. I just want you to beat O’Donnell.”
Hollis rubbed his nose with his knuckles, grinned. “It’s just fortunate that he’s not related to the Southside O’Donnells, eh?”
“Sure is.” The boy has kept his finger on the pulse of this town, Logan thought. The O’Donnells were still a thorn in Capone’s side. “Yeah, ironic, really, that Seamus O’Donnell is Tony Canelli’s boy.”
“What do you mean, ironic?” demanded Tony Canelli at the doorway, and behind him stood two bruisers Logan had recognized in the audience, Box and Cox.
Sammy shrugged his broad shoulders. “Sorry, Holly – he – they barged in on me. Wanted to talk, they say.” The worried pallor of his face suggested the new visitors might have other things on their mind, besides talk.
Unfazed, Hollis eyed Canelli. “Talk away, Mr. Canelli. I’m all ears.”
“That’s on account of they’re like cauliflowers, been hit too much, am I right?” Canelli guffawed. He was in his early fifties, Logan knew, his face lined, his eyes narrow and in shadow under bushy black eyebrows. Canelli’s black hair was slicked back, turning gray over his ears.
Logan backed away. “Very witty.”
“You, reporter, I want you out of here. Now. Scram!”
Shaking his head, Logan displayed his teeth, which he hoped to retain. “Sorry. I haven’t finished my interview.”
“No reporter says ‘no’ to me.”
“I didn’t say ‘no’, Mr. Canelli.” His eyes on Canelli, he also kept a careful watch on the two lieutenants. His legs felt like mush right now. If he had to attempt to dodge either or both of those goons, he’d have to head for the john. “As I recall, I shook my head. A different thing entirely.”
Canelli appraised him, moving his head from side to side. “I’ve been hearing things about you, Reid.”
“Really? Good things, I hope.”
“You’ve been snooping around. Asking questions.”
He offered a smile, though he felt like crying. He’d paid well for the information from a number of people; all of them promised not to squeal on the deal. Yet, if one of them had, then he had a good idea what the headline in the news might be tomorrow: Reporter slain mysteriously. Clearing his throat, he added, “That’s what reporters do. Ask questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
He didn’t know! “Just about the noble art, you know. My readers are great followers.”
“Yeah, it’s a great game. We’re glad the ban’s been dropped. Give the people what they want, eh?” He reached over, slapped Logan on the back.
He flinched, stood his ground. “That’s it, Mr. Canelli.”
Slipping his right hand in his jacket pocket, Canelli pulled out a cigar. “So, I asked you what you meant with the ironic gag.” Cox produced a clipper, sliced off the end of the cigar and lit it in a swift motion.
Heat drained from his face as Logan noticed that the cigar cutter was stained dark red. Tobacco or blood? He didn’t want to know. “It’s a mite subtle, Mr. Canelli,” he croaked. “It’s just that, normally anyone with the O’Donnell name is on the Southside, no?”
Canelli huffed and let out smoke, which wafted in Hollis’ face: he didn’t blink. “It’s a common name, O’Donnell. Thousands of them came over from Ireland.”
“I stand corrected by your superior historical knowledge.” Logan bowed slightly.
“Hey, Boss,” chimed in Box, the other lieutenant, “is he taking the…?”
“Nah, he wouldn’t dare.” He glared at Logan.
“I’ll catch you later, champ.” Logan waved and walked toward the door, surprised his legs moved. Cox and Box shuffled to one side, made way for him. “See you, Sammy!” he called and was out of there. Next stop, Pinky’s Speakeasy, for a double brandy.
***
“Make yourself scarce,” Canelli told Little Sammy. Cox and Box edged forward, threatening.
“Go on, Sammy.” Hollis peeled off the final gauze hand-wrap tape. “I’ll finish up here and catch you at Pinky’s.”
“Okay, son.”
When Sammy left, Canelli turned to his two hoods. “Step outside, see we ain’t disturbed.”
“Sure, Boss.” They shut the door quietly behind them.
“Now we’re all alone, Mr. Canelli, what can I do for you?”
“Well, young man… Believe it or not, our histories go a long way…”
“I don’t understand. Naturally, I’ve heard of you, seen you around, but we ain’t running in the same circles.”
“No, you’re right. I was getting carried away.” He clapped a hand on Hollis’s shoulder. “You’re strong. I saw how Mountain Morgan’s legs wobbled toward the end. You’ve got staying power, stamina.”
“That’s good of you to say so, sir.” He lifted Canelli’s hand away. “Is there anything else, besides those kind words?”
“I just wanted to wish you luck in the fight with O’Donnell.”
Hollis looked askance. “He’s your man. Why worry about me?”
“Just being considerate. Having seen you grow, as it were… I knew your father…”
“You knew him, Mr. Canelli? When was that?”
“Oh, before you were born.” Canelli turned his head to the side, studied him. “Yeah, you’ve got his hazel eyes.”
“Can you tell me anything about him? Nobody at the orphanage mentioned him…”
“Well, it was tragic, how your ma and pa died in that fire.”
Hollis glanced away. “I know. I wish…”
“Yeah, you wish what all orphans wish, kid. But it can’t happen. Just put on a good show when the time comes. But remember, O’Donnell’s not called ‘The Bone Grinder’ for nothing, you know?” He hesitated, added, “Seems a shame to put your fine young body in harm’s way of that battering machine.”
“I’m not throwing any fight, Mr. Canelli – my next one or any other, come to that.”
Canelli held up his hands in mock alarm. “I wouldn’t suggest such a thing. We don’t want to get banned again, do we? Too much money’s invested now.”
Hollis slid off the table, draped a towel around his neck. “I need to shower and change, Mr. Canelli.”
“Sure, sure. Just remember what I said.” Canelli turned, opened the door and went out, slamming it after him.
What did you say, Canelli? Just a bit on the cryptic side, it seemed to Hollis. But the fact that he knew pa was a kicker. Yeah, that was a shock.
***
Dorothy Pink sang and danced Barney Google while, in the speakea
sy booth, Logan supped his brandy and Sammy glugged his beer. Hollis stuck to water on the rocks. Sensible guy, Logan thought, and sank half his drink.
“Logan,” Hollis asked, “what do you know about Canelli?”
Sammy eyed Logan warily. The boy’s trainer knew a little bit, but hadn’t pieced it together. It had taken months of ferreting around, questioning janitors, ex-trainers, old pugs, even a couple of cowboys and an Indian, the last in retirement homes, to dig up the truth, or as near as he’d probably ever get to the truth.
Logan shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”
“Maybe I do. He said he knew my pa – before I was born, before the fire…”Pulling out his reporter’s notebook, Logan tapped its edge on the table. He glanced at Sammy.
“Go on, tell him,” Sammy said in a resigned voice. “He has a right to know whatever you’ve found out.”
Hollis leaned forward. “Tell me what?”
Licking his lips, Logan lifted his glass, emptied it. “Fill it up, then, and I’ll tell you, though it might take a while.” Hell, it was two lifetimes, in truth; quite a while.
***
“Your pa was born in Denver in 1866. He worked at lots of things but eventually became a cowboy.”
“A cowboy?”
“Look, if you’re going to interrupt, it’ll take all night.”
Besides cowboying, Orrin tried his hand as a deputy marshal, and for a brief time was an outlaw. When he saw how things were shaping up, with the law closing in and the West he knew shrinking and modernizing and getting tamed, he decided to give himself up. He received a short jail sentence. While in the pen, he learned to box, and on release went back to working with cattle. From time to time, he took part in prize fights and won a few worthwhile purses.
In 1889, Orrin joined a Wild West Show and performed horseback riding stunts. He was pretty good with a lariat as well. He lassoed a pretty blonde gal by the name of Enrica Carpezio, and they married that same year. In 1895, they moved to Chicago.
Orrin’s past experience came in handy and he was hired to work in a gym, helping out with young boxers. Then Chicago’s professional world of boxing abruptly collapsed; prize-fighting was banned in early 1901, imposed as a result of a rigged boxing match between Terry McGovern and Joe Gans in the previous December.
For the next three years Orrin drifted from one odd job to another in the various gyms. He helped out with the amateur matches, but didn’t earn much. Eventually, to make ends meet, he got sucked into minor league crime. When Enrica found out, she threatened to leave him. The arrival of baby Hollis changed that. Orrin promised to go straight.
“Easier said than done,” Logan concluded.
Hollis leaned over the table. “You can’t leave it there! I’ve just been born!”
Logan shook his head. “I’ve got to do more digging, check my facts. I have a couple of guys lined up to chew fat over old times. When I’ve got it all in shape, I’ll tell you, son. I promise.”
“Promises are important, Logan Reid.” Hollis remembered Father Frawley at the Gym at St. Vincent’s all those years ago, before Little Sammy came along. The old Jesuit had straightened his wire-rimmed glasses, and said, “Never forget a promise, Hollis. You are measured by the promises you keep.”
Hollis had nodded. “I promised you, Father Frawley, and I meant it. I’ll work hard and someday I’ll do so well my ma and pa, looking down on me, will be proud of me.”
“That’s the ticket, son. Now, hit this bag hard!”
The old Jesuit leaned into the heavy bag and Hollis rained in a fierce spate of power punches and body blows. “Combinations, that’s the best way to wear down your opponent,” Father Frawley enthused, gasping for breath. “And vary them, so the guy never knows what to expect.”
“I expect you to keep your promise, Logan,” Hollis now said. “I want to know as soon as you’ve finished your digging.”
***
The private nursing home was in secluded grounds. Logan reckoned it cost a lot of mazuma to stay here. Earl Ricca was rumored to have worked the rackets for years, but nothing was ever pinned on him. When he started getting wobbly on his feet and forgetful, he was retired to this home. In the conservatory, Earl sat in a wheelchair, covered with a plaid blanket. “They look after their own, sonny,” he whispered, wiping drool from his moist lower lip.
“You obviously paid your medical insurance promptly.”
Earl chuckled. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Last time we spoke, you said you’d tell me about Orrin Twyford.”
Earl nodded. “Yeah. My memory’s goin’, but I can still remember stuff years back. You promise this won’t point to me?”
“How can it? We’re talking twenty years ago. I have a job remembering what I did last week! Who has memories that go that far back?”
“Me. And Tony Canelli, that’s who.”
“I take it you don’t like Canelli?”
“Nah, I don’t. I didn’t like him before, but I sure didn’t like him after what he did…”
Logan pulled up his chair, got closer. “Tell me, Earl. Please.”
“Okay. It was like this, see?”
For a number of years, Tony Canelli had the hots for Enrica, Orrin’s wife. After the birth of their son, she seemed to blossom even more. It got so Canelli behaved like a school kid, hanging around the Twyford house. It sickened Earl, but he couldn’t say anything; he was Canelli’s gopher at the time.
Then, finally, when Orrin was sweeping the floor of the gym one night, Canelli climbed into the boxing ring and called him over. Earl watched from the side of the room, leaning against the wall next to the speed punch-bag.
Orrin put down the broom. “Yeah?”
“I heard you used to box, a while back.”
“That’s right. Never went pro, though.”
“Can I see some of your moves, Orrin?”
Orrin grinned. “Sure. Why not?” He clambered through the ropes and before he could straighten up, Canelli landed a rabbit punch on his neck.
Stumbling into the center of the ring, Orrin sank to one knee, dazed.
Earl eased himself off the wall, made to move forward but a cold warning glare from Canelli stopped him.
“I thought you could box.” Canelli sneered.
Orrin got to his feet, awkwardly, and walked straight into the butt of Canelli’s pistol.
As Orrin backed off, Canelli rained down blow after blow, tearing and bruising Orrin’s face, each devastating whack punctuating his words. “Not. Much. Of. A. Fighter. Are. You?”
Crawling into a defensive ball, Orrin mumbled, “Why’re you doing this?”
Canelli knelt beside Orrin, wiped the gun butt on his shirt. He straightened up. “I want your wife, Orrin Twyford. Make it happen.”
Defiantly, Orrin wailed, “No! Never! You’ll have to kill me first!”
Canelli chuckled and raised a foot, ready to swing it at Orrin’s head.
“Boss, don’t!” Earl shouted.
Canelli lowered his foot, pivoted. “You don’t give me orders, Earl!”
“Getting rid of a corpse ain’t easy, Boss. You know that.”
Irritably, Canelli kicked Orrin’s thigh. “Yeah, you’re right. Here ain’t the place.” He hunkered down, growled, “You’ve got a week to break it off with your wife, send her round to me. Capeesh?”
Docilely, Orrin nodded.
***
“Before the week was out, trouble boiled over,” Earl whispered hoarsely. “What I’d give for a whiskey right now!”
Logan glanced round. The nursing staff was busy elsewhere. He pulled out his hip flask and shoved it under Earl’s blanket. “Return it before I leave.”
Earl’s eyes lit up. He too checked left and right while he fiddled under the blanket and then he pulled the flask to his lips, drank deeply. “Some of the gangs were fed up with the stranglehold Mont Tennes had on the gambling joints.”
“Yeah, the race-track wire system.” L
ogan nodded. “Heard about it.”
He’d been a kid at the time, but later learned that horse racetracks were banned in 1904 by Mayor Carter Harrison II. Betting on races throughout the country still took place. This was possible through John Payne’s invention of a telegraph-wire system to relay the results of horse races across the nation to specific gambling joints in Chicago. Fair enough, he supposed, but then Payne sold this service to Tennes, who charged the managers of betting joints for access to the results, information that he controlled. Telephones couldn’t compete. In one brilliant move, Tennes monopolized access to these horse race results and betting on horse races as well. That sure upset his competition. Profits in the gambling business were huge. Inevitably, conflicts between Tennes’ gang and others led to gang warfare. And that warfare included shootouts and Chicago pineapples.
The Twyford house was bombed, apparently by a rival gang. Orrin and his wife Enrica were declared dead; miraculously, their baby boy survived, since his cot was upstairs in the back.
“I thought they perished in a house fire?” Logan queried.
“That’s what the press was told. Tried to keep a lid on the number of bombings. Bad for business.” Earl supped more whiskey, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Of course, that isn’t what happened…”
“So, what really happened?”
“Canelli set it up. I stayed outside, the jigger man; I saw most of it, and what I didn’t see I heard later what he did.”
Canelli and his two goons, Cox and Box, called on Orrin at his redbrick rental. He opened the door and they barged in. “I can’t wait a week,” Canelli snarled. They left the front door open and Earl peered inside, a silent witness.
Over Cox’s shoulder was a large long bag shape; it looked quite heavy.
Orrin limped back against the wall, staring at Canelli. A muscle in his face twitched; it never used to, Earl thought, before the beating he took in that ring.
“Orrin, what is it?” Enrica was descending the staircase into the hall. Near the bottom step, she stopped, her face turning white. “What are you doing in our house, Mr. Canelli?” Her eyes widened as she noticed Box and Cox.
“Negotiating with your husband, Mrs. Twyford. Your late husband…”