One Hundred Years Of Tanner

by Remington Kane

One of the men left the truck and looked in Tanner’s direction. In the man’s hands was a Winchester rifle with a walnut stock.

  “The theory says that every possibility is explored by the different selves, yeah?” Tanner asked, while never taking his eyes off the man with the rifle.

  “Yes, that’s what they say in the novel.”

  A boy ran from a house across the street. He called the man with the rifle, “Daddy!” then gave him a hug. Afterward, the man handed the boy his present, a new hunting rifle, a Winchester model 1866, nicknamed Yellow Boy, for its shiny brass receiver.

  Tanner had failed to see the colorful gift ribbon along the barrel because the man had been gripping it. Tanner turned from the window as the truck drove off with the men and the smiling boy.

  “If every possibility was explored, then there would have to be a you, a me, that never made a mistake, never turned right when they should have turned left, in other words, a perfect you, a perfect me. On the other hand, there would also be a you and a me who never did anything right, who made mistake after mistake. There’s no one like that in either extreme, no one human. We are who we are, Jasmine, and we live with our mistakes, our failings. There’s not a better copy of us somewhere. This is the life we get.”

  Jasmine closed the cover on her iPad, then gave Tanner a long look.

  “Maybe you should write a book,” she told Tanner.

  “In a way I am,” Tanner said. He was talking about The Book of Tanner, which he still had to make entries in upon his return to Spenser’s home.

  The sound of running footsteps came from the stairs, followed by Romeo appearing in the doorway.

  “The kid’s gone,” Romeo said. “And his mother found a note.”

  16

  Tanner 1 – 1923 – 1938

  Prior to Prohibition, O’Connell had become friendly with a saloon owner named Jimmy Maloney. Maloney turned the saloon into a speakeasy during Prohibition and was a low-level member of the Chicago Outfit.

  After having trouble with Frank Recti, O’Connell decided to do things differently.

  He set Jimmy Maloney up as a go-between for contracts. If anyone wanted to hire Tanner, they would have to go through Jimmy Maloney.

  For his part, Maloney made out well financially in the arrangement, as O’Connell gave him a percentage of every contract. Hiring Tanner for a hit cost a flat, non-negotiable, two-thousand dollars. If the target was on the run or in hiding, the fee climbed to three-thousand.

  These were princely sums in the 1920’s, but Tanner’s reputation was well in place after his slaying of Gilberto Ricco. If you wanted a man dead, you hired Tanner.

  Aspiring mob bosses and their men would have airtight alibis when the hit went down, and if the cops ever put the squeeze on anyone, all they could give them was a name, Tanner.

  By the mid-1920’s, the name Tanner was thought to be catch-all by the cops. The Chicago P.D. believed no such man named Tanner really existed, and that it was just a name used by hoods when they were too afraid to point fingers at the true assassin.

  The name was also used by mob leaders to keep their troops in line.

  “Anybody snitches to the coppers, and they’ll get a visit from Tanner.”

  O’Connell found it all amusing.

  On average, he was killing five or six men a year, and yet, dozens of hits were being attributed to him across the country.

  Tanner was becoming a myth, like a boogeyman for mobsters.

  But one man knew him by sight. That was Frank Recti. Recti had engaged in a street battle with the Chicago Outfit that had obliterated his men, however, Recti came out the other side still standing. It had cost him everything he had to save his neck, but by 1929, Frank Recti had redeemed himself and was a Made Man and a higher up in Al Capone’s organization.

  The year 1929 saw the St. Valentine’s Day massacre, which soured public opinion and brought down new heat on mob activities. Meanwhile, dozens of rival gangsters were gunned down in the streets as chaos threatened to tear the Chicago Outfit apart.

  A meeting was held in Atlantic City New Jersey in May of 1929, purportedly to bring about peace. In reality, it was an undertaking intended to dismantle Capone’s hold on Chicago, by dividing his territory. Capone’s activities were engendering scrutiny from federal authorities, and that heat, if turned up high enough, would burn everyone, not just Capone.

  When nothing changed, things only became worse, and Capone continued to reign.

  It was in July of 1929 that Keane O’Connell visited a new rare book store. To his delight, the store had the six-volume set of Edward Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of The Roman Empire. The books were in excellent condition. O’Connell purchased them, then arranged for the books to be delivered to the hotel where he was staying.

  O’Connell had a picturesque home outside the city that no one knew of, but he stayed at hotels when working. He had made a hit the night before, the slaying of two men who’d been on the run from a Capone lieutenant. He had plans to return to his country acreage the following day.

  The home was surrounded by rolling green hills that made him think of his boyhood home in Ireland. It was also dotted by ponds and bordered a lake on one side.

  O’Connell was forty-five, but other than his graying temples, he felt as fit and young as he ever had. The lake at the end of his property was four miles from his home, and O’Connell made the trek to and from the lake most days, while thinking.

  He was an autonomous soul, a man who liked solitude, but the passing years and the lack of friends and family had left him feeling glum.

  There were days he missed his brother, Davin, fiercely, as well as the rest of his family, and he would drink and reminisce about better days and a youth long gone.

  Chicago was a growing city in the 1920’s and construction often rerouted traffic. While taking one such detour, O’Connell drove past a storefront that sparked a memory.

  O’Connell was driving a red, Ford Model A sedan. After parking the vehicle in an alley by a movie theater, he walked back to the shop he passed, then stood outside to peer through the window.

  He was at the dress shop where, twelve years earlier, he had left the waif, Eloise.

  There were three customers inside the dress shop, and they were being waited on by a striking blonde. O’Connell looked the shop over but saw no sign of the girl he left there, while the blonde seeing to the customers looked nothing like the woman who had owned the shop.

  He sighed.

  Twelve years was a long time, and people moved on.

  He returned his gaze to the blonde, and when he saw her smile, the truth struck him. The lovely blonde creature in the shop was Eloise.

  She had grown in height quite a bit, had shorter, well-styled hair, and alluring curves. It shocked O’Connell how different she looked, but he was thrilled to see her doing so well.

  When the customers left with their bundles of new clothing, O’Connell stepped into the shop.

  “May I help you, sir?” Eloise asked.

  O’Connell felt a pang of disappointment at not being remembered, but it disappeared as recognition lit Eloise’s eyes and she rushed around the counter toward him.

  “Tanner!”

  Eloise hugged him as if he were a long-lost friend, and O’Connell laughed with pleasure at her joy.

  “Hello, Eloise, and my, just look at you.”

  Eloise held up a finger, indicating to O’Connell that he should wait a moment. Afterward, she walked over to the door, locked it, and hung a sign that stated the shop was closed.

  “Come into the back room, Tanner. We really must catch up.”

  O’Connell hesitated.

  “No, lass, I only stopped by to say hello. There’s no need to lose business over the likes of me.”

  “Nonsense, Tanner. And I’ve an idea, it’s lunchtime and I’m famished. Let’s eat and we can talk over a meal.”

  O’Connell cocked his head.

  “You’re sure about that, Eloise?
Have you forgotten what sort of man I am?”

  Eloise stood on her toes and kissed O’Connell on the lips.

  “You saved me from four men who were about to rape me, and then you saw that I wound up somewhere safe. I know what sort of man you are.”

  O’Connell smiled.

  “I guess I could swallow a morsel or two.”

  Eloise was unmarried, but she had fallen head over heels for a young accountant who had been classified as 4-F during the war. The man had been born with one leg slightly shorter than the other, which caused him to limp.

  Sadly, the young man later died during the outbreak of the Spanish Flu.

  The woman who had owned the shop sold it two years earlier to Eloise for a bargain, then moved west to reunite with the daughter who had run off and eloped.

  “I was only able to buy the shop because I still had that money you gave me, Tanner,” Eloise told him.

  Their long lunch was followed by a walk, then more talk back at the shop. O’Connell left Eloise that day with plans to return the following weekend.

  That one weekend became many, and O’Connell found that he was developing feelings for Eloise, feelings that she shared.

  “I’m too old for you,” he had told her after a shared kiss behind the closed doors of her shop.

  “I’m not a little girl anymore, Tanner,” she said, then she led him by hand up to her small apartment above the shop.

  By the time the stock market crashed later that year, Eloise and O’Connell were seeing each other as frequently as they could, and he had told her his true name, and invited her to his home.

  Keane O’Connell was happier than he’d been since leaving Ireland.

  17

  Old Friend, Old Enemy

  Chicago in the 1930’s was hit hard by the Great Depression, while the mob wars continued, and illegal booze kept flowing.

  O’Connell began to work less. There were federal agents targeting the mob like never before and his go-between, Jimmy Maloney, had to reopen his speakeasy often, after being raided by treasury agents.

  O’Connell didn’t need the money. He had a paid for home on twenty acres, a safe full of cash, and simple tastes.

  He also had Eloise, whom he had married in June of 1930. There would be no children from their union, as Eloise was incapable of having them. Her father had raped her while she was a child and had caused her damage.

  It mattered not to O’Connell. He had lost a wife and a son once because of a difficult pregnancy. He did not wish to tempt that agony again.

  By the end of Prohibition in 1933, O’Connell was nearing fifty, but still took the occasional job. He had also upped his fee.

  A contract he took in April of 1938 was on the leader of an emerging union in Detroit. The man was a con artist looking to cause trouble and hoping for a payoff to go away. It was a dangerous game, as the Detroit mob was strong.

  They were also under intense scrutiny, as were the unions they controlled, and so they brought in an outsider to handle the problem.

  O’Connell attended a large union meeting outside a Detroit auto plant where his target would be speaking.

  He struck while the man was alone in a travel trailer he used as an office while touring. The young prostitute the union leader hired had just left the man lying in bed. O’Connell jimmied the trailer’s cheap lock and killed the thug with a knife as he slept.

  As he was walking away from the trailer, shouts rang out. O’Connell spun around with his hand on his gun, but the cries and shouts weren’t directed at him.

  There was a man being chased by a small crowd of union workers who were armed with makeshift clubs.

  Although he had only caught a glimpse of the man, O’Connell recognized him right away. The man was Michael Waller, who O’Connell had last seen gravely wounded during the war.

  By the time O’Connell caught up to the crowd, Waller had decked three of the seven men, but three others had tackled him to the ground.

  The remaining man was about to bring a two-by-four crashing down on Waller’s head when O’Connell punched the man in the throat.

  Seeing their companion drop to his knees and gag for breath, the men holding Waller released him to attack O’Connell.

  That was a mistake. A short time later, Waller and O’Connell were the only ones standing.

  Before they could reunite properly, more men came running toward them. O’Connell told Waller to follow him, and they were soon driving off in the car O’Connell was using.

  Once he was certain they weren’t being pursued, O’Connell parked and grinned at Waller.

  “It’s good to see you again, lad.”

  Waller was rubbing sore knuckles. He also had a nasty bruise forming under his left eye.

  “You’re not as glad to see me as I am to see you, Keane. Those men might have killed me.”

  O’Connell nodded as he took a good look at Waller. As a boy, Waller had already been tall. He’d grown even taller and was a muscular man.

  “Why were those men after you?”

  “I’m a Pinkerton Agent. I was working undercover and someone got wise. It was a man who knew me from another undercover job I’d done.”

  “I should have known you’d have a dangerous job, lad.”

  Waller smiled.

  “It keeps things interesting.”

  The two men went to a bar and caught up. O’Connell felt bad lying to Waller, but he wasn’t about to tell him the truth. Michael Waller was thirty-six. He had never married and had seen the country while working for the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

  “I’m thinking of settling in Detroit. The city is growing like crazy and I like it there,” Waller said. “But I’ll be in your neck of the woods soon. I’ll be training a new office opening up in Chicago next month.”

  “How long will you be there?” O’Connell asked, while lighting his pipe.

  “Several weeks, we’ll be starting from scratch.”

  “Then you’ll have to come to dinner, and you can meet my wife, Eloise.”

  “I don’t want to put you to trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble, lad.”

  Waller grew serious and stared into O’Connell’s eyes.

  “I owe you my life. If not for you, I’d have died in that French farmhouse and never made it home from the war.”

  “You’d have done the same for me, Michael.”

  Waller nodded.

  “I would have.”

  “I know it, lad. You’re as brave and steadfast as they come.”

  Waller arrived in Chicago a few weeks later.

  Michael Waller had stayed in the army after the war, had trained as a medic, but found Army life boring during peace time. After returning to civilian life, he joined the Pinkerton Detective Agency. The work was exciting but paid little.

  Eloise liked Michael Waller the moment she met him and saw a side of O’Connell she’d never seen before.

  O’Connell was a solitary sort, preferring his books to the company of others, and she had felt a sense of pride that he had allowed her into his life.

  Waller was also allowed to see the human side of Keane O’Connell, and Eloise listened with rapt attention as the men discussed the war.

  Neither man spoke of the killing they had done, but Eloise read between the lines and thought that Michael Waller must be a very brave soul. Perhaps it was that quality that tied the two men together, bravery, and a sense of daring.

  In any event, Eloise was happy to see that O’Connell had at least one friend in the world, for despite her presence in his life, at heart, Keane O’Connell was a lonely man still mourning his dead first wife, and infant son.

  She knew O’Connell loved her, and they were happy together, but Eloise understood that some wounds never quite healed.

  Capone’s fall and imprisonment turned out to be a good thing for Frank Recti. Recti had risen even higher in The Outfit and was in control of The Outfit’s enforcement of rules. O’Connell had heard rumors about Re
cti, which were passed along by his contact, Jimmy Maloney. Recti was said to be holding a grudge against Tanner.

  “Word is, this team of hitters the papers are calling Murder Incorporated isn’t doing as well as it should be here in Chicago. If people want someone hit, it’s you they call. Frank Recti is saying that independent hitters are no good, because you don’t answer to The Outfit. He came here asking me how he could find you.”

  O’Connell gave that some thought, then offered Jimmy Maloney advice.

  “You should leave town until some other bee gets in Recti’s bonnet.”

  “I’m not worried about Recti, Tanner, besides, I couldn’t tell him where to find you if I wanted to. He knows that, and I got friends too.”

  “All right, Jimmy. I’ll check in with you next week.”

  Six days later, Jimmy Maloney was dead. He had been shot inside his bar, in what the police were calling a robbery.

  After learning of Maloney’s death, O’Connell stopped at a drugstore to make a call. He spoke to a mutual acquaintance of Maloney’s named Martin Hoffer. Hoffer was a bartender who worked at Maloney’s bar.

  “It was no robbery, Tanner. I found Jimmy. He had been tied to a chair and tortured. Someone had cut off his fingers and gouged his eyes out.”

  “Jimmy said that Frank Recti had been in to see him.”

  “Yeah, Tanner. This was done by Recti’s people.”

  “Are you sure, Martin?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure, because they paid me to keep my mouth shut.”

  “But you’re talking to me.”

  “That’s right, because if you’re the kind of man I think you are. I know you’ll kill that bastard Recti for what he did to Jimmy.”

  “Leave town, Martin, and don’t come back until you hear that Recti is dead.”

  “I’ll be on a bus out of town tomorrow morning, and Tanner, I ain’t coming back.”