The Cassidy Posse

by D. N. Bedeker

  So it’s poor Sean now, thought Henry. He looked at the gentle young man that was supposed to be a killer. Why hadn’t he just gone into the wilderness and disappeared? Maybe that had been the plan. Now that he was back, there was probably little chance the powers that be were going to let him get on a witness stand and tell his mournful tale to a jury unless they could stack it without an Irishman on it. That would be a pretty obvious ploy in Chicago. He looked at Sean sitting meekly handcuffed to a kitchen chair. He was a sacrificial lamb.

  “Mike, why don’t we just turn Sean over?” he said as they walked back to the table. “We’re going to be in some trouble not following procedure.”

  Mike looked at him peculiarly as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Kevin told yuh. Didn’t yuh get that part? He goes into Cook County jail, he dun’t come out. There ain’t nobody knows Chicago poletics better’en me. I think they was tryin’ tuh finish him duh night he escaped. That gun that was under his pillow was empty and too convenient. They weren’t countin’ on Red Alvins being there. After they took off west, somebody got the bright idea ov sendin’ me after him so they could kill us both a thousand miles from Chicago. Just a couple unfortunates that got themselves killed in the middle ov a range war. Too bad. Case closed.”

  “But you don’t know that for sure,” protested Henry.

  “The hell I dun’t. That crazy Kid Del Rio told me duh whole deal as he was about tuh put a bullet in me head. Then Sean here tells me after the shooting on the train that he saw a huge guy leaving the balcony the night poor Mrs. Carver was killed. I’m thinkin’ the lad is tellin’ the truth.”

  Henry sat down and saw Sean Daugherty looking at him with docile, accusing eyes like a puppy that had just been hit. He glanced up at Mike, who was still eyeing him.

  “Are yuh in this with me or not, Henry?” Mike said quietly so that Clara, who was in the living room, would not hear. “I just figured you were me partner and I brought him here. If you’re worried about your career, we’d better clear out. I got tuh know who I can count on.”

  “Mike, it’s just…” Bockleman struggled for the words, “you don’t know what it’s like to have a family and responsibilities. I mean you’re the famous Mike McGhan always thumbing your nose at the bosses. You get away with stuff nobody else does because you got nothing to lose. Some of us don’t have that kind of freedom.”

  Mike began unlocking Sean’s handcuffs and making motions to leave.

  “I’ll get out before anybody knows we was here.”

  “Sit down,” Bockleman commanded. “It’s too late for that. There have been people watching this place for days. I was in this as soon as you walked in the door.”

  “What are you in?” asked Clara pleasantly as she abruptly entered the kitchen. She was looking for a rag to mop up one of her son’s spills.

  “I’m in a lot of trouble if I don’t help you clean up these dishes,” he said as cheerfully as he could manage. He brought the cups and saucers to the sink and made an elaborate ceremony out of donning an apron. Mike smiled appreciatively. He watched the young couple as they teased each other while going about a simple domestic chore. He had always figured when a guy got married, he had so much to worry about he not only lost his freedom, he lost his edge. When their son ran into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around his father’s knees, he began to understand Bockleman’s position. A man could get use to coming home to this. It would make him very protective.

  There was a hesitant knock on the door that brought him out of his sentimental musings. Bockleman’s son still had him wrapped up, so Mike went to answer.

  “It’s Kevin,” came a whisper through the door.

  Mike eased the door open and Kevin O’Day slipped into the apartment.

  “Thet was quick,” said Mike. “Was Clayton there?”

  “Yes and it’s all set up,” he said proudly. “We take Sean to Judge Clayton’s office tomorrow, and he will be placed under federal custody.”

  “What about your paddy wagon?”

  “Oh, John headed for home as soon as he let me out.”

  “How are we suppose tuh get him there?” asked Mike. “It’s not like we can trust anybody duh Chicago police department will send to help us.”

  Kevin looked at him and smiled. “We’ll walk.”

  CHAPTER 41

  THROUGH THE LOOP

  Mike moved to one side of the fingerprint-smeared glass door that served as the entrance to Bockleman’s apartment house. As he peered out, he touched the shoulder holster where he carried his service revolver for reassurance.

  “Damn fog,” he declared. “Can’t see a thing.”

  Bockleman broke the barrel forward on his hinged Smith and Wesson Schofield that he brought out for special occasions and checked to see if it was fully loaded. He had picked up the big, blue-steeled .45 after the shoot out in Kelsey’s tavern. He didn’t think the slugs from his .38 had taken effect quickly enough.

  “How much trouble are you expecting?” asked Kevin.

  “Hopefully none,” replied Bockleman, “but if we do, I want to have some stopping power.” He jammed the large weapon into its oversized shoulder holster.

  “I don’t think we’re going to make it,” said Sean.

  Mike opened the door and motioned for Sean to step out on the porch.

  “Have a little faith,” he said. “This is just goin’ tuh be a pleasant walk down State Street. We’ve done it many times before.”

  They stepped out into the misty morning fog the lake had deposited at their doorstep overnight. The elevated stone porch would normally give a good view of the neighborhood but this morning their visibility was limited. There was a milk wagon across the street making its morning deliveries. A bakery wagon went by traveling too fast for the conditions. A few people, late for work, hustled by, squinting into the fog.

  “For we can not tarry here, we must march, my darlings,” Kevin recited tensely as they descended the stairs to the street, “We must bear the brunt of danger.”

  “Whitman?” guessed Henry.

  “Mr. Bockleman, I am delighted you would recognize Walt Whitman.”

  “Yeah, that Henry is always a delight,” said Mike as he handcuffed Sean to his left hand. Bockleman moved up to Sean’s other side and strained to see through the fog as they walked cautiously north towards the river.

  “Kevin, you stay back some,” said Mike. “I want tuh make sure my genuine judge witness makes it if somethin’ was tuh happen.”

  Their nerves were worn thin as they approached Harrison Street. People came at them suddenly out of the mist and they touched their gun butts each time. Poor visibility was no reason for anyone in Chicago to slow down.

  “Let’s take the ‘el’,” said Bockleman.

  “What?”

  “The new elevated train,” said Bockleman. “The one around the loop.”

  “That railroad in the sky,” said Mike. “I thought they closed that damn thing.”

  “Only to change it to electric traction. They finished it while you were running around out in Wyoming. I took Clara for a ride on it last week.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be doubtin’ that fer a minute. You always got tuh be in on duh latest thing.”

  “Good thing, too. It crosses nice and high right over the river. If we’re running into this many people on the street already, wait ‘til we get to State and Madison, the busiest intersection in the world.”

  “The busiest intersection in duh world,” Mike scoffed as his eyes stared into the fog. “What downtown merchant come up with that bit ov blarney? Did somebody sit there all day with nothin’ better tuh do then count everybody that passed by?”

  “What if we catch a bridge going up when we get to the river?” Henry continued. “Think of the crowd that will be congregating around us.”

  Mike had no argument for this. In both places, they could be compressed by a mob of people. A quick knife could appear from anywhere and do its
work without a soul seeing anything. You were just as alone in a crowd in Chicago as a wide-open prairie out West. There would be no witnesses.

  “We’d have tuh go out ov our way,” he complained. Just because Bockleman came up with a good idea, Mike couldn’t concede it to him that easily.

  “We can catch it at Dearborn. It’s one street over,” said Henry as they headed west.

  Mike motioned for Kevin to catch up, and they clamored up the stairs of the elevated platform at the Dearborn Street station. When they got to the top some thirty feet above street level, there were only faint wisps of fog. Bockleman gave out a sigh of relief and treated Mike to one of his knowing “gotcha” grins. Mike uttered some profanity under his breath and began stomping around on the wood planks of the station with Sean in tow.

  “This is marvelous,” said Kevin when he caught up with them at the top.

  “Kevin, I said tuh stay back, not drop out ov sight.”

  The smile disappeared from Kevin’s face and his shoulders slumped. It was just as it was when they were kids on Archer Avenue. He could get straight A’s in school and impress all the adults, but that mattered very little to a kid in south Chicago. Who he really wanted to impress was Mike, and that never seemed to happen. He guessed this was the price one paid for being a tag-a-long. He was only favored with Mike’s company the summer before high school because Mike wanted to impress Abigail Spencer who was working at the library. He would have Kevin read great works of literature and then tell him the main ideas so he could conduct his amorist quest of a college girl six years older than him. Mike was never one to see his limitations.

  Their relationship did not change through high school. Mike would have flunked out or quit like most kids on the Southside if it had not been for Kevin’s constant concern. He had actually interceded on Mike’s behalf with Father Cahill so that he passed English. He promised the good father Mike would do the work and then, of course, he did the work for him. There had been little thanks forthcoming, but Mike always showed up at his house everyday to walk to school. It was reward enough, he supposed, that none of the other toughs that fell in step with Mike McGhan as he walked down Archer had the nerve to pick on him anymore. The only one that was allowed to criticize him was Mike himself. They were vulgar, course and profane and for some reason that he still did not understand, he enjoyed every minute of their company. Such were the priorities of youth.

  Now he was a judge awaiting a possible appointment to the federal bench. His station in life had risen far above Mike’s, but in two days their relationship seemed to be returning to childhood. Mike was totally out of place in a classroom but out on the street, he had no peers.

  “Kevin, quit daydeamin’,” shouted Mike. “Get on board.”

  The electric train had pulled up so quietly Kevin had not even noticed. Mike and Bockleman had jumped onto the grated metal gangway, pulling Sean Daugherty behind them. Now Mike was impatiently waving him aboard.

  CHAPTER 42

  THE BEST LAID PLANS

  Karl Van Dersel, alias Mr. Simms, looked over the seat of the milk wagon he had carefully situated in front of Henry Bockleman’s apartment. To make things look natural, he had sent the driver to a few doors with a carrier full of milk bottles. Karl didn’t want to arouse any suspicion in the men slowly opening the glass door across the street. He was dealing with two detectives so he had to assume they were fairly observant.

  Mike McGhan and Henry Bockleman descended the stairs and began walking north on State Street flanking their prisoner on both sides while a small, bookish-looking man followed a few steps behind.

  “Okay, kid,” said Karl. “Let’s see if you can run as fast as you say. Tell that fat ass Van Ech the two dicks are walking north on State.” The street-wise teenager crouched behind him quickly exited the back of the wagon and disappeared into the mist.

  Walking. They were walking in the fog. This would make it easier, thought Karl. The smaller man with the horn-rim glasses would be the judge. His orders were quite clear on how the judge was to be handled. Kevin O’Day was to be removed from the scene of the crime but not harmed. The death of Mike McGhan and his partner would cause enough clamor. He had been told killing a judge would be unacceptable. It irritated Karl that they would even mention these little political nuances. He had the savvy to understand that if a judge from outside Chicago was killed, it couldn’t be handled inside the city limits. It would bring in outside investigators. Questions would be asked.

  He employed two con men, Walter and Binky, to act as shills to draw Kevin O’Day away from the scheduled unfortunate attack by crazed German anarchists seeking revenge. They had given a creditable performance drawing Walter’s Aunt Edith away from the carriage so that he had Nell Quinn alone. Karl was using people whom he knew had proven themselves. He was taking no chances after the debacle in Wyoming. His highly placed employers had thought him brilliant when he devised his plan to dispatch Mike McGhan in the middle of a range war. He had turned the unforeseen escape of Sean Daugherty into an advantage. Then the unexpected turn of events in the mountains had led him to hire the unstable Kid Del Rio. Five hundred dollars in gold gone. No wonder his judgment was being questioned. Karl slammed his fist down on the seat in anger.

  “Something wrong, Mr. Simms?” asked the terrified driver. The force of the blow had lifted him off the seat. Karl had given the milkman a hundred dollars to be part of the little charade, and he was sensing the man was already regretting it. He would be another loose end to tie up. Someone had said that dead men tell no tales. That was sound advice.

  “Speed up a little,” Karl said, ignoring his question. “Keep close enough that you can see Walter and Binky.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the nervous driver. “Is this good?”

  “Just don’t get so close that you can see McGhan through the fog. If you can see him, he can see you. If he sees a milk wagon behind him for several blocks, he will get suspicious.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll keep back.”

  Walter and Binky were doing a fine job, thought Karl. They were about fifty feet behind Kevin O’Day, pretending to be a couple of fine young dandies on their way downtown. They seemed to be carrying on a lively conversation and paying no attention at all to the group ahead of them. The taller, more assertive Walter was the perfect foil for the nervous, talkative little Binky. They were well seasoned for this kind of caper, having been taught the gentle art of the con by Aunt Edith at a tender age. Last night he had the whole outfit meet in a room at Berghoff’s to go over the final plans. Walter insisted on auditioning for the job by performing the pigeon drop right in front of the restaurant. While Karl and four other implacable killers watched from the alleyway, Binky smeared his face with whisky and pretended to be a drunk who passed out near the entrance of the restaurant. Walter knelt over his prostrate body and called over the mark they had selected. Binky had a roll of official looking negotiable bonds supposedly worth a thousand dollars. Walter appealed to the larcenous side of the mark’s nature by suggesting they split the bonds. The man was drunk, Walter reasoned. He deserved to get rolled. Unfortunately for Walter, he was on his way to catch a boat to Canada where, as the story goes, he would not be able to cash his half of the bonds. He offered his part of the loot to the stranger in exchange for all the money he had on him. That was only fifty dollars. Walter complained earnestly to the stranger that he was taking advantage of him, but he had to catch the boat and there was nothing he could do. Karl and his group stepped back into the alley as the gleeful mark walked by them counting the handful of worthless paper.

  They all retired to the restaurant again where Walter used the ill-gotten money to buy drinks for the group. Karl had to admit he was amused. Walter and Binky were playing to a tough crowd; everyone sitting at the table was a multiple murderer. Walter was doing his best to assimilate into his new environment. He stated he was tired of penny-ante grifting. He knew Mr. Simms was connected to the highest level of power in the state. Bink
y, however, was uncharacteristically quiet. He seemed more intimidated by the company. Karl doubted that either one of them would hold up in a tight situation.

  That is why Karl surrounded himself with four highly recommended assassins who would be stationed at the bridge. When McGhan reached the Chicago River, the bridge would go up. That always created a crowd. If you couldn’t manage an empty prairie to kill someone, a crowd would do. Stacked shoulder to shoulder in a sea of faces, the actions of a few assailants were invisible. Knives would flash and quickly disappear. Nobody ever sees anything or remembers anything. It was the anonymity of the crowd. It would never fail you. The only credible witness, Kevin O’Day, would be drawn away from the crime scene on some ruse by Walter and Binky. When the crowd parted, there would be three bodies lying at the foot of the bridge. Karl already had the pictures of known German anarchists that the right policeman would swear he saw walking down State Street moments before the crime. If everything went right, Karl would not even have to get out of the wagon. Unfortunately, because of his size, people seemed to always remember him.

  Karl was startled out of his musing by an unexpected turn of events. McGhan’s foursome stopped a moment, conversed, and then crossed State Street right in front of the milk wagon. They were going over to Dearborn. They traveled only a short way before ascending the steps of the platform to the new elevated train. Karl was furious. He reached forward and pulled the driver off of his seat and discarded him in the back of the wagon like a child’s doll. Screaming obscenities, he took the reins and whipped the horses towards Dearborn. It was Wyoming all over again. The trap was set. Everything was in place, and then McGhan would inexplicably wander off course. Whether the Oregon Trail or State Street, McGhan could be counted on to take the road less traveled. This would be the last time, Karl assured himself. He would finish it here and now.