In the early fall of 1930, no one could see an end coming to the ten-year national nightmare officially known as the Eighteenth Amendment, more commonly identified as Prohibition. My drinking cronies called the proscription a few other less-than-complimentary things, none of which I care to relate here. Not that anyone who imbibed particularly clung to the letter of the law as written. The enactment was a nuisance and a cause for apprehension for some, nonetheless. My theory was, so long as you weren’t “apprehended” for violating the law, there was no need for the “apprehension.”
In the early fall of 1930, no one could see an end coming to the ten-year national nightmare ….
As for those who circumvented the decree and drank freely regardless, take Harry’s Paradise Tavern, for example. Back in January 1920, when the law took effect nationwide, the current owner’s old man, Harry Bittles Senior, was prepared. For Pete’s sake, the movement toward the ban had been in the works since long before March 1917. When Congress convened at that time, “the dries” far outnumbered “the wets” on both sides of the aisle. Despite their hopes to the contrary, everybody saw it coming.
Anyway, the senior Bittles converted the tavern from strictly a bar to a restaurant serving “light” meals and “special” coffee and tea. These latter choices were mere formalities as a means, if chosen, to deliver the desired hooch to his customers in coffee mugs or tea glasses. As I’ve related before, when Harry Senior passed and my friend Harry Junior took over, he continued the fine family tradition of service to his customers. The source of Bittle’s beverages was unknown to me. Asking where the booze came from was something akin to a starving bum wanting to know who grew the potatoes on the table in front of him. I didn’t know, and it never occurred to me to care. I didn’t give it a thought, that is, until a day in the autumn of 1930.
Asking where the booze came from was something akin to a starving bum wanting to know who grew the potatoes on the table in front of him.
I’d spent most of that particular day in court testifying in a nasty divorce case. It was the result of an angry wife hiring me to track her husband and his latest paramour to their love nest. Afterwards, I was ready for a drink. That should be plural: drinks. The weather had cooled under sunny skies, and my outlook was buoyant. I strolled in to the tavern, expecting to get razzed again about the dismal season my Cincinnati Reds were having. Meanwhile, Bittle’s favorite team, the Cardinals, were slipping into the World Series, just ahead of the Cubs, to face Philadelphia.
The mood of the establishment was not what I’d expected. As I walked to my usual stool at the bar, I passed greetings to the other regulars gathered for their afternoon pick-me-ups. Their subdued responses left me puzzled. I plopped on the seat at the bar and waited for my favorite saloonkeeper, who was nowhere in sight. Suddenly, the door to the storeroom behind the bar flung open, and Harry’s short, heavyset form burst through it. A scowling, apelike man, wearing an ill-fitting suit with a tie knotted two inches below his collar, closely followed him. The bartender stopped short and turned to face his pursuer. The man moved as close to the owner’s face as his gut allowed and growled low, while stabbing the barman in the chest with a thick, hairy forefinger. With his back to me, the goon’s words were inaudible, but his threatening tone was unmistakable.
Suddenly, the door to the storeroom behind the bar flung open ….
I started to get off the barstool and move to my pal’s aid. Harry eyed me around the thug’s shoulder and gave a nearly imperceptible head shake. Uncertain of the circumstances, I kept my seat. We regulars exchanged sideways glances of concern for our chum. But no one stirred.
The thick-wasted goon finished his spiel, slammed through the flip-up opening in the bar’s surface and scuttled toward the street. “And it’ll be here tomorrow, brother! So have da dough for it or I’ll be back!” he angrily threw over his shoulder. He kicked a couple of chairs over for good measure on his way out. I cautiously watched him until he disappeared out the front door. In my racket, it’s smart business to know what’s going on around you, especially when there’s a dustup involved. My eyes returned to the ashen-faced proprietor. He walked to where I sat at the bar but said nothing.
“What the hell was that?” I kept my voice low.
“It was nothing, Gil. Forget about it.” He set a mug on the bar and poured my usual, but his hand was shaking so bad booze spilled onto the bar.
I tried to take the edge off his mood. “Keep that up, my friend, and you’ll have to stock drinking straws, ‘cause I’m not letting good hooch go to waste.” He sat the bottle down and smiled pitifully as he looked hard into my face. He distractedly wiped the wet surface with a bar rag.
“What is it, Harry?”
“How’s Marty settling in?” he asked, his eyes moving away from my face. My older brother, Marty, had just moved back to our fair city after a stint playing professional football with the Dayton Triangles. Marty had said he wanted to settle down and help me with our mom. She was going downhill fast in her grief over the death of our old man the year before.
I wasn’t buying his ploy, though. “He’s fine. Don’t try to change the subject.”
He persisted, “How’s his chances of getting on with the police department looking?”
I sighed noisily, impatiently. “He’ll have no problem. He’s a one-man roadblock.” Marty was what Tom Mix might call a huge buckaroo, now that the cowboy motion picture star was making talkies. “Now answer my question.” He just stared at me as if at a loss for words. Maybe he was simply afraid to tell me what was happening.
Harry swallowed hard. He looked at me with swimming eyes. My friend nodded toward the rest of the regulars, who sat talking in inaudible murmurs and occasionally cutting their eyes to the barkeeper. Then he mumbled, quietly, “I’m sorry you and the boys had to see that.” He shuddered. “I may have to close the doors to this place after all this time.”
“C’mon, Harry, it can’t be that bad. What’s the score?” When he hesitated, I argued on, “Look, after that episode with Blanche and her new beau, I thought you understood my friendship for you.” Though my involvement in the problem between him and his wife had only occurred a few months earlier, it seemed like ancient history. At least to me. I chuckled, “You know, I don’t come in here just for the booze. I can get hooch pretty much anywhere.”
My pal nervously worked a dead cigar around his mouth. “Come to the back room with me, Gil.” He put on a weak smile and called out to the other customers, “I’ll be right back! Anybody need anything?” Scattered, quiet responses amounted to “no’s” from the crowd. I followed the bar’s owner to the storeroom where he offered me a seat on a keg of something and paced the floor. This scene was becoming a familiar one. I waited. Harry dragged his cigar out of his mouth, looked at it and put it back. Finally, he spoke, hesitantly at first. “I’m … I’m being put in a squeeze, Gil, between the two mobs pushing their hooch. That guy you saw a while ago was from the north side outfit.”
“I’m being put in a squeeze, Gil, between the two mobs pushing their hooch.”
That didn’t surprise me much. The north side syndicate in our city was strictly of Italian extraction. And the fella who’d been in the tavern earlier had a distinctive Mediterranean look about him. As was the case in Chicago, two primary gangs divvied up our city. Descendants of the old Roman Empire filled one mob. The second was a mix of Irish and “Western European” members, commonly referred to as the “League of Nations gang” or “the League,” for short. To no one’s surprise, this League held a lot more sway than the one headquartered in Geneva.
But our metropolis was the opposite of Chicago in that the Italians held the north side and the League ruled the south side. The competition between the two for the bootlegging business in the “restaurants” and blind pigs scattered around town was fierce but, for the most part, peaceful. The Paradise Tavern, though close to the dividing line, was on the south side of town. “I don’t get it, Harry. You’re on the south side. What’re the north side boys doing in here?”
“Well, it ain’t caused any bloodshed, as far as I know, or made the papers yet, but apparently the north side gang is expanding its territory southward. The Italians are the stronger mob, but haven’t pushed their advantage until now. The flimsy truce between the two may be ending. Anyway, they’re here.” He blew air. “The League still expects me to buy their booze just like we have for the past ten years. Really, it’s more of a demand than a ‘please and thank you’ thing. Now the north side mob says I’ll buy my booze from them or else. And each side expects me to buy all my stuff from them. So, I buy double or suffer the consequences from one or the other.”
“Or both,” I finished the thought. Harry nodded sadly. Despite my jokes about drinking elsewhere, the last thing I wanted was to see him close the doors to his tavern. I’d become close pals with the father and the son proprietors and their saloon over the years. Plus, folks knew where to me find me if I wasn’t in my office or out on a job. A sudden change in location might cost me business.
I didn’t know what the hell I could do about his problem. But, still being flush from the divorce matter I mentioned and a few other jobs recently, I thought I’d look into it. Besides, at the moment, my business was slower than Congress. Fortunately, I’d paid the rents on my office and my apartment until the end of the month. “Look, can you stand to buy from both sides for just a little while? Just consider your purchases as stocking up? I’m going to see whether I can help.”
“I can’t figure what you could do, Gil.” His words had an edge to them I understood and accepted. Even so, Harry tried to soften the blow to my ego. “Uh, no offense.” He paused in thought for a second, then added, “But if I buy from both gangs, there’s no way I can pay you, too.”
I winked at my friend. “We’ll just put it toward those freebie drinks you promised after the Blanche incident.” I extended a hip flask to my barkeep, “In the meantime, how’s about a cup of ‘coffee’ to take with me.”
A slight smile played at the corners of Bittle’s mouth. He took my flask and shook my hand. His attempt at a positive attitude didn’t cut it. I could tell he didn’t have much confidence in my proposed efforts on his behalf. Hell, I wasn’t sure I did either.
I could tell he didn’t have much confidence in my proposed efforts ….
* * *
Because it was the north side organization expanding into Harry’s area, they were my logical starting point. I knew the monikers of few thugs who worked for the mob. What I didn’t know was the name of the mug who ran it, where to find him, or how to approach him, if it was even possible. This was another contrast between our city’s criminal underworld and Chicago’s. In The Windy City, everybody and his dog knew who and what Johnny Torrio and Al Capone were. In our fair metropolis, the underworld kingpins kept low profiles and were unknown to the general population. And this wasn’t a case of just walking up to a goon in the organization and trying to make an appointment. That bit of foolish bravado might mean making a side trip to the hospital or eating soup through a straw for a while–or both.
In our fair metropolis, the underworld kingpins kept low profiles and were unknown to the general population.
Digging around the next morning, I learned a gangster I’d read about in the newspapers worked out of a pool hall he reputedly owned. The joint was a dozen blocks north of Harry’s tavern. His name was Bernardo Suppa. My sources told me he was a heavy hitter, known to his associates as “Bernie Soups.” Soups was fairly well up the syndicate’s food chain. The thug had a short fuse and often caught his targets off guard with the quickness of his temper and the strength coming from his sinewy frame. His specialty was collecting money owed the mob and, in his spare time, rubbing out folks unpopular with his outfit. The mob did not list tact and tenderness on Bernie’s job description
My plan was to tail him discreetly to see whether he’d lead me to the big boss. Several days of shooting pool at his place cost me a chunk of the money I’d won on the Schmeling-Sharkey fight that past June. All the while, I was trying to crab an angle to get me to the head of the north side gang. Soups finally showed late one afternoon. He was a thin guy with a face that could make a lemon pucker. The mobster, decked out in a black pinstriped suit, a silk tie and gray spats, ambled through the crowded poolroom. Now, I’m not a clotheshorse by any stretch, but I’d understood spats were no longer in fashion. My guess was, when you had the reputation Soups enjoyed, you wore whatever you wanted without fear of comment.
As nonchalantly as possible, I followed the slender man to what I’d determined was an office in the back of the place. When he opened the door, I glimpsed someone, a big someone, inside waiting for him. The office door closed firmly behind the wiry man.
I latched on to a game of pool at a table as near to the office as possible. After we’d split two games, the door suddenly flew open and Soups emerged, followed by a huge, muscular, similarly dressed man. Built on bulky lines, he seemed to fill the room. With wide eyes and a broad brow, he had thick, black hair showing below his fedora. As he passed, he clapped my pool opponent on the shoulder with a hand that could palm the oversized world globe sitting in the Carnegie library downtown. His heavy, ruggedly handsome face broke into a wide grin as he whispered something to the man across the table from me. I came away with the impression the big man’s wide mouth, set above a strong jaw, bent as easily into a beaming smile or an angry grimace.
As he passed, he clapped my pool opponent on the shoulder ….
After the pair of goons strode away, I asked the guy I was shooting pool with who the heck the second mug was. I put my question casual-like, as if the answer didn’t really matter. He told me they called the huge man The Turk, a name unfamiliar to me. He added Soups and The Turk worked directly for the big boss of their outfit. When I followed up his comment with another question, my opponent eyed me curiously. Then he flatly said he didn’t know who the boss was. He concluded by telling me it wasn’t any of his or my business. I let drift.
I’d been getting the same answer to my furtive question the whole week. Just then I glanced at my strap watch and made an excuse I had to leave suddenly for an appointment. He accepted my explanation when it became clear he’d keep the wager resting on the edge of the pool table.
Outside, I found the sun had set during my time in the pool hall. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust and locate the two men I was looking for. They were across the street, climbing into a new dark blue Packard Custom Eight. I hustled to my LaSalle and fell into traffic two cars behind them. Soups, who was driving, headed south until he turned onto Broad Street, which unofficially divided the city between north and south. One side of the street was in the League’s territory and the other side belonged to the north side gang.
We followed Broad Street past Cappacino’s Restaurant until Bernie made another turn onto the street that was home to the Paradise Tavern. It crossed my mind the tough-looking pair might pay my pal a visit, but they traveled several blocks farther into the League’s territory. A light drizzle started falling as we drove. I was grateful. The rain settled the dust that rose behind the gangster’s bus and wreaked havoc with my breathing. At one point, Soups’ route meandered as if looking for an address or something. His winding path made it harder to follow him undetected. I managed.
Finally, as the drizzle gave way to a hard rain, Soups tucked his heap into the curb across the street from a small bar. Irish flags decorated the joint. It boasted the name Patrick’s Pub. I wrangled my car around to where I could watch the Packard. The two men sat in the dark and smoked. As the pair constantly eyed the saloon, they appeared to be waiting for someone. The hazy light from their cigarette tips was the only indication of anyone’s presence in the car, but I could clearly see them even from that distance. If they were trying to be inconspicuous, the effort failed. Apparently, no one had ever told them of the hazards of smoking on a nighttime stakeout where you don’t want anybody to notice you. Maybe, with the Turk’s size and Soups’ reputation for violence, neither one cared about being seen.
Soups tucked his heap into the curb across the street from a small bar.
In the dim light from a sign outside the bar, the Turk and Soups watched as customers came and went. At one point, a slender, redheaded young man emerged from the pub and briefly stood out of the rain under the cover of the awning in front. His appearance caught their attention. The pair tossed cigarettes from their respective sides of the car which cranked up immediately.
I watched as the young man stretched, then scanned the street in each direction as he adjusted his slouch hat and turned up the collar on his whipcord jacket. He seemed to take no notice of the two men sitting in the machine, idling at the curb across the road. Unprepared for the sudden rainstorm, he merely shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets and, head down, set off along the sidewalk at a pace slightly above normal. Watching him, I recalled the joy and feeling of invincibility being young and full of good hooch could bring.
The Packard pulled away from the curb and traveled slowly in the same direction as the young man. A short distance past the fellow, Soups eased his automobile to that side of the street and left the motor running. From my parking spot, I was still able to see everything and hear most of what might happen. But I couldn’t move my LaSalle closer without giving away my presence. When the pedestrian stepped even with the Coupe-Roadster, a voice from it beckoned him. At my distance from the Packard, there was no way to tell which of the two men spoke.
With the driving rain possibly hindering his vision, the redhead casually approached the passenger window unawares. The move was a foolish mistake. In the blink of an eye, the Turk flung the door open and sprang from the car. Aside from the element of surprise, the lad was no match for the mobster’s size. He was quickly overpowered and crammed into the seat between the two north side goons. Initially, there were a few muffled cries, then silence. In the surrounding darkness, I couldn’t tell what means the two men had used to quiet the guy. The kidnappers’ car sped away. The snatched victim’s hat lay in the road as the only reminder of his presence a moment earlier.
In the continuing deluge, I carefully followed the Packard through gloomy streets to a residential area on the outskirts of the city’s southwest side. As I approached an intersection where Soups had turned right, I slowed and watched the big car pull into the yard of an unlit clapboard frame house. I drove on past the intersection and parked a short distance farther on the street in front of an unlighted house. Jumping from my heap, I hurriedly retraced my route toward the intersection. Despite my hat, cold rain ran down the inside of my shirt against my spine. I held my suit coat tightly to my throat as I ran, but it didn’t solve the problem. I was no more prepared for the change in the weather than the kidnapped man had been.
At the intersection, lights from several other houses on the street showed the silhouettes of Soups, the Turk and their victim. They manhandled the struggling kid up the steps onto the front porch and into the house. When lights came on in a front room, I hustled toward the house. They turned lights on in a room at the back of the house as I ran.
A tall wooden fence separated the house from the one next door. A narrow, rutted driveway ran along the fence and led to a detached carriage house-garage in back. I pressed up against the front corner of the house and unleathered my gat. The eaves of the place provided little protection from the rain. The windows were seven feet off the ground, so getting a peek inside proved a challenge. Raised voices came through the closed windows of the back room.
I pressed up against the front corner of the house and unleathered my gat.
In the dull light cast from those windows, I saw a trash can next to the garage’s door at the back of the lot. Holstering my gat and staying in the shadows as much as possible, I hustled to the receptacle, carried it to a lighted window, and carefully mounted it. As I grasped the window ledge, I realized drawn shades were not the reason for the relatively low light emanating from the windows, as I’d first thought. Someone had masked the openings on the first floor with old newspapers. Fortunately, the paper on the window I was at had a tear just below a recent addition to the funny papers. Joe Palooka and his manager, Knobby, were discussing a dame. Thanks to the rip, I could take in most of the compact room.
As I peered through the gap, the young fella was saying, with a hint of Irish brogue, “… know where we are! We’re at one of our hideouts! You’ve got bollocks bringing me here.” He sat on a straight-back chair in the otherwise bare room with the kidnappers standing on either side. A weal was forming on the side of his face. They’d split his lower lip. Blood oozed from the opening. Both lips were twice their normal sizes.
The red-haired boy refused to answer a few questions from Soups about the League. Then the kid defiantly screamed, “Bugger off, the lot of ya! I’ll not be tellin’ ya shite! If you’re gonna kill me, boyo, be about it then!” No doubt, his cocky, smart-mouthed attitude had brought on his injuries. The boy was lean but had a hard-knuckled look about him. His eyes held a strong, defiant look as he yelled at the two north side hoodlums. If he were flashing false bravado, it was one of the better plays of it I’d ever seen.
“Relax, kid. We just wanted some information. Nothing more.” The Turk was speaking the reassuring words in a cold, even voice. “If we’d’ve wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already. Mostly, we just want you to help us pass a message to your boys we’re expanding our territory and nobody’s gonna stop us, see? Nobody,” he finished gravely. “Now get up, and we’ll take you home.”
The young man stood and threw a self-assured smirk at his captors. He dug a package of cigarettes from a pocket and flipped a fag between his swollen lips. He turned to Soups, who’d struck a light from a matchbook to set fire to a smoke of his own. The dapper gangster smirked knowingly and reached out with the lighted match. The redhead leaned toward the flame. A shot rang out, reverberating fiercely in the room. The unexpected crash of the gun nearly caused me to fall from the trash can.
A shot rang out, reverberating fiercely in the room.
I hadn’t seen the Turk pull his roscoe. Clutching white-knuckled at the window’s ledge, I somehow quietly held my precarious perch. The lad pitched forward, brushing Soups, as he flopped heavily to the floor. Dark-red blood flowed freely from his ruptured skull. His burning gasper had dropped to the floor ahead of him and lay beside him, lisping smoke toward the ceiling. The Turk casually stepped over the fallen figure and crushed out the dead man’s cigarette. “I hate careless smokers. Let’s go.” His voice was harsh but calm. As he turned to leave, Soups dropped the matchbook onto the redhead’s body.
The pair left the light on in the room and walked toward the front of the house with heavy treads. I climbed down from the window, pulled my rod, and flattened against the house. I crept toward the house’s front corner with my .45 at the ready and hid behind a large bush growing there. The mobsters closed the front door, clattered down the steps, and piled into the Packard. Soups teased the motor alive and pulled away slowly as if nothing had happened.
I reflected for a minute. During my time in the PI game, many things have passed before my eyes. I’ve witnessed many vicious, unexpected, cold-blooded events. And I’m no weak sister, either. But the brutality and suddenness of this killing had jolted me. I had to be honest.
No one stirred in any neighboring houses. I returned my weapon to its holster after the Packard disappeared around the corner. I made my way to the front of the house and walked inside. The mobsters had left the front room light on, too. The place had the bare fixtures often characterizing gangster hideouts. I walked swiftly to the back room and the body. The pale-skinned man lay in a wide scarlet stain on a threadbare rug. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Blood and brain matter caked his unruly shock of red hair to his scalp. The effects of the gun blast had perversely twisted his face. Pinkish froth coated the small teeth showing through the distortion. The fire had died out of the lad’s green eyes, still open but unseeing.
The fire had died out of the lad’s green eyes, still open but unseeing.
His now-rumpled clothes were a sort of casual collegiate style, though my guess was he’d doubtless never gotten past the third grade. My curiosity got the better of me, and I picked up the matches dropped by Soups. The matchbook advertised the Northside Funeral Home up on Audubon Avenue. The place was a known front for the north side gang’s money. Yeah, the killers had left their message for the League, all right. My belief was they would soon place a call to a known League hangout, telling the south side mob of their member’s whereabouts. And the added aspect of killing him one of the League’s own hideouts was significant. No one, no place is safe. Message sent.
At this point, I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d gotten myself into. These guys played rough and meant business. But that only made me more concerned for my pal, Harry, a harmless, cuddly teddy bear, if ever there was one. I wiped my prints off the matchbook and dropped it where I’d found it before leaving the house for my car. I fired up the motor and started back toward the main business district the way I’d come.
Along the way, while still in the League’s territory, I passed a well-lighted greasy-spoon diner with a familiar Packard parked out front. I eased my bucket up next to it and cut the motor. Through the windows of the joint, I could see Soups on a public telephone. The Turk was in a window booth farther down the diner, drinking a cup of java. Either the smaller hoodlum was reporting in on their night’s work or he was making the call to the League I’d thought they might. Any way you cut it, these thugs were in no hurry to get back to their side of town.
I eased out of my automobile and ankled inside. Soups’ eyes found me as soon as I cracked the diner’s door and followed me to a booth as he spoke on the phone. He adjusted the mouthpiece so he could watch me as I walked past where he stood. I took a seat in a booth from which I could see the thugs. Bernie cradled the phone as I gave a coffee order to a world-weary waitress wearing a severely stained apron.
Suddenly, I realized Soups was standing beside me at the booth. When I looked up at him, he was staring intently at me and picking his teeth with a thumbnail. True class always shows. I surreptitiously pulled my coat opening together to make certain it covered the gun under my left shoulder. He leaned forward over my table resting on his hands, got close to my face, and asked, “Do I know you, mister?” His tone was ominous. His breath was brutal. The Turk turned partway in his booth and glanced back in our direction before returning to his coffee.
He … got close to my face, and asked, “Do I know you, mister?”
My mind raced momentarily. Had Soups made me from the pool hall? Had he somehow spotted my car from earlier? Using my best out-of-town accent, I screwed up my courage, looked him hard in the eye, and responded, “Nah, bub, and I don’t want you to. All’s I want to know in this joint is the taste of their java.”
The thug eyed me for a long minute before pushing himself erect. He chuckled with a menacing flash of uneven teeth. “Okay, sport.” He nodded sharply. “See ya around.” Turning twice to glance back in my direction, he sauntered to the booth where the Turk sat. I held his gaze as he dropped into the seat across from his companion and occasionally glared my way.
The waitress absentmindedly plopped my cup of joe, a spoon and a napkin in front of me. She walked away as if carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. I was sure she had her problems. Just then, mine were pressing. I simply wanted to get back to my Murphy bed in one piece. The coffee was piping hot, so I blew on it. When I sipped the liquid, I parboiled my tongue anyway. There’s nothing like a good cup of coffee on a cool, rainy night. And this was nothing like a good cup of coffee. No wonder the place was nearly empty. I looked at the black, steamy stuff in my cup. As Marty might say, recalling his days in the Coast Guard, “You could clean the ship’s brass with the stuff.”
The two gangsters sat in the booth at the other end of the diner and talked in low murmurs. After an appropriate time, I paid my tab and left the eatery. Soups watched me suspiciously as I climbed into my LaSalle and left the diner. My assumption was the pair would retrace their route back into the city as I’d been doing. So I drove a block in that direction and pulled into an alley running between two stores. I turned my crate around so I could watch the road and tail the men when they passed. Normally, I have a firm rule against smoking during a nighttime stakeout. It too easily gives away your presence. But recent events had jangled my nerves slightly. I lit up a coffin nail.
A cigarette and a half later, Soups’ big car cruised by me. I gave it a block head start, then cranked up and pulled out behind it. Not much traffic cluttered the streets this time of night in this part of town, so I had to be careful. The closer we drove toward downtown, the more traffic picked up and the simpler it was to follow the sleek blue automobile without the fear of being detected. The last thing I needed was the mobsters’ guns blasting in my direction and putting holes in me or my LaSalle. Soups drove into the north side gang’s territory and eventually dropped the Turk off at an apartment building across from the big park there. The Turk lumbered his way in the front door as Soups pulled away. I followed the Packard.
A cigarette and a half later, Soups’ big car cruised by me. I gave it a block head start, then cranked up and pulled out behind it.
The dapper thug drove out on Belair Road toward the west end of town. The road became State Highway Fifty-one, leading to the city where I’d found Harry’s wife and her boyfriend, Geoffrey Coursey, several months earlier. Soups pulled into a clip joint called Johnny’s Jungle Room. A dozen years earlier, they’d constructed the exterior of the roadhouse to look like a gigantic circular native grass hut. The owners named it to capitalize on the popularity of the crowd-pleasing movie of the day, Tarzan of the Apes.
The interior of the place followed the same primitive theme to an extent, but with the appropriate creature comforts. Johnny’s was well-connected to the north side mob. I pulled into the packed parking lot a suitable distance from Soups. There, I sat and watched as he made his way inside. Despite the sizeable crowd in the joint, I wasn’t eager to chance an encounter with the already-suspicious gangster on the slim chance of learning the big boss’ name. I called an end to the unsettling night.
* * *
Early the next morning, I returned to my search for the name of the north side syndicate’s boss. That day bled into the next. During that time, I learned the murdered Irish lad’s name was Colin something or other. His choirboy face belied his age and his significance in the League’s criminal activities. After two long days of effort, with nothing but menacing glares in response to my questions, I decided to grab another meal at Cappacino’s.
A stop at the Paradise wasn’t in my plans at the moment. I didn’t want to face the man with no answers to his problem yet. It’s one thing to face a client with unsuccessful efforts, but it’s another to face a friend with the same results. I’d wait until I had something positive to report to my pal. My time was worth something, even if I wasn’t charging for it. But I didn’t know what to do to find the man I sought. For that matter, I didn’t know whether I could approach him if I learned his name. Or what to say if he were approachable. I knew three straight days of not showing my mug at Harry’s might cause him to call the city morgue looking for me.
I strolled into 725 Broad Street where the proprietor, Mama Cappacino, always greeted customers at the door. She was there, as always, and, as usual, she gave me a big hug. Mama put me in a booth toward the rear of the place, facing the door, as she typically does. The lady knows I won’t sit anywhere I can’t see the front door of a joint. Some things are instinctive. Others you learn the hard way in my racket. I placed my order with the waiter and got lost in thought concerning my next move to find and speak with the head of the north side organization.
Suddenly, a tough-looking stranger was standing next to my booth. Size-wise, he could have been the Turk’s twin brother. Uncertain of the reason for his presence, I merely smiled. He didn’t return the favor. “Git up.” He had a coarse rustle in his voice as he spoke in hushed tones.
Suddenly, a tough-looking stranger was standing next to my booth.
Now, it’s my philosophy in life never to put hands on people unnecessarily. At the same time, I don’t tolerate well people trying to manhandle me. I don’t care to get pushed around and won’t take it. “Like hell I will!” I kept my voice low, too, because I didn’t want to start any trouble in my favorite restaurant.
That train of thought regarding being jostled by others is often in conflict with the reality of a situation. And sometimes, a fella just has to go along with the flow of things. The big man slid his hand into his overcoat pocket and thrust it out in my direction. From the shape and size inside the cloth, the thing in his hand appeared to be a gat. A big gat. Just to press home the point, he banged it against the wooden seatback of my booth next to him. The iron was uncomfortably close to my head.
I raised my hands slightly and stood up and out of the booth. “Okay, mac. You don’t have to get tough about it,” I breathed.
“Put your hands down, chum. This ain’t no stickup.” He reached his beefy free hand out to me. “Just stand still and don’t make no sudden moves.” As inconspicuously as possible, he braced me from ankles to chest and removed my .45 from its holster. His technique in frisking me was as smooth as any I’d seen. Either he was an ex-cop or the coppers had checked him for weapons many, many times.
His technique in frisking me was as smooth as any I’d seen.
As the big man dropped my rod into his other coat pocket, he sneered. Then he whispered harshly, “Be a good boy and you can have your hardware back when we leave.” The we caught my attention. With my back now to the restaurant’s door, my first reaction was to glance back in that direction. In the second I had to do so, I saw another large man standing in the doorway. Mama Cappacino wasn’t in the usual place to greet her customers. That concerned me more. “Eyes front, buster.” He motioned with the gun in his pocket. “Sit.” When I made a move to return to my previous seat, he stopped me. “Uh-uh. Over there.”
With that, the rough-looking character placed a strong open hand against my chest and gave me a gentle nudge toward the opposite side of the booth. “Put your hands on the table where I can see ‘em. Keep ‘em there.” When he was satisfied I’d complied with his instructions, he pushed his hat far back on his widow’s peak and cocked his chin at the guy manning the door. After arousing the big goon’s attention by reaching inside my coat for a cigarette pack, I set fire to a gasper. He ignored me when I offered him one. We waited.
In less than a minute, a trim, older man, just shy of six feet tall slid into the booth across from me. He had a shock of graying hair, a swarthy complexion, chiseled jaw, and neatly trimmed mustache. I’d never laid eyes on him. As he was taking his seat, the man glanced up at the large photograph of Benito Mussolini above the booth. He made a disparaging Italian gesture toward it with his fingers flipping from under his chin. I’d read about Il Duce’s battle to suppress the Sicilian crime organization, and I grinned.
The new fellow wore an expensive, superbly tailored suit. The big hoodlum who’d searched me stood quietly by, ever watchful. I smiled at the man across the table. He returned a slight grin and spoke in a subdued but confident voice, “I understand you’ve been trying to locate me for the last several days, Mr. Tanner. I want to know why.”
“And you are?” I held out my cigarette pack to him. He waved it off with a sharp hand gesture.
“As I said, I’m the man you’ve been nosing around about for the last several days.” My visitor’s voice was grimly serious. He pulled a breadstick from the basket on the table. “Names aren’t important, Tanner. It’s in your interest to leave it at that. Now, why is it you wanted to see me?”
I glanced at the big man standing beside my visitor. His steely glare never moved from the front of the restaurant, though I knew he had me in his peripheral vision. My quick glimpse around my tall seatback toward the front of the restaurant failed to find Mama again. Returning my eyes to the man across the table, I said, “First things first, mister. Where’s Mama Cappacino?”
He chuckled, “Does her absence bother you that much?”
I bristled at his offhand attitude. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, it does. She’s a fine lady, and I wouldn’t want to see any harm come to her, especially on my account. Now, where is she?”
“You take chances, Tanner,” he said gravely.
I held my ground and stared into his face as intently as I could. “Look, mister, I’m not a tough guy. It’s just some people are worth taking chances for.”
“Not a tough mug, huh?” he said flatly. “That’s not what I hear.” Then, my visitor relaxed and smiled. “She’s in the kitchen preparing my meal.” I’m certain I gave him a skeptical look. He explained, “Understand no harm will ever come to a hair on Rosalie’s head as long as I breathe and can do anything to prevent it, Tanner.” Rosalie? Until that minute, I had no idea what Mama’s first name was. As I digested it, the man continued, “You see, Rosalie is my kid sister.” The added revelation stunned me. She’d never mentioned any living relatives beyond her son, Geno.
“Not a tough mug, huh?” he said flatly. “That’s not what I hear.”
He snickered again. “You’re probably confused because she still has a hint of an accent and I don’t.” I chortled. Mama’s was more than a hint of an accent, but it was part of her charm and the essence of her restaurant. “You see, I worked my way to this country while still a boy. Once here, I worked harder still to become someone, to make something of myself. I’ve been here a long time. So, over the years, I gradually lost the accent.
“When I was finally in a position, I brought my only living relatives, Rosalie and her husband, over, too. Her husband, Carlo,” the man crossed himself as he spoke, “was a greengrocer and wanted no part of my line of work. Fair enough, I thought. Each man to his own choices. But I set Rosalie up in this restaurant when she expressed an interest. She’s always been a marvelous cook.” He looked around and beamed. “She’s done very well for herself–and for Geno.”
He paused. “By the way, don’t try to worm my name from her. People make the mistake of taking her for a simple, kindly woman. But she’s a smart cookie and will never spill the name, no matter how close you two are.” I started to speak but a restraining finger the man held up stopped me. “Oh, yes, I know of the friendship between my sister and you. I’ve had a man follow you the past couple of days and find out who you are.”
“My compliments on your man’s shadowing ability,” I said nodding. “I have to admit I never saw the guy.” It was a tough admission to make for a mug in my racket.
He accepted the tribute with a nod and a smile. “When I learned you came here so often, I reached out to Rosalie to see if she knew anything about you. She thinks you’re a right gee, Tanner.” He let loose another easy chuckle. “Of course, she didn’t express it in exactly those terms. Regardless, it’s good enough for me.” He stopped speaking and sat back momentarily, as a waiter brought a bottle of red wine and two glasses to the table. The waiter started to pour, but Mama’s brother waved him off. Instead, the crime boss filled our glasses himself and shifted one across the table to me. Raising his glass, he said, “Salute.” I raised mine in response.
“She thinks you’re a right gee, Tanner.”
“So, as I said, I know you’ve been asking questions about me. I’d started to send two of my people to pay you a visit and learn your intent, maybe dissuade you. Then, I had a conversation with a few of my boys late this morning. It became clear it might have been you who was tailing two of my men several nights ago. You aroused my curiosity. So I decided to speak to you personally.” After a pause, he asked, “Was it you?”
If I answered truthfully, it put me on the spot as a witness to a murder. When I merely smiled, he went on. “Very well, Tanner, but let me tell you something which might wipe that grin off your face. Last night somebody rubbed out one of the two men who’d been followed. We found his body in a grease pit in one of our garages this morning.”
The news took me by surprise. “I haven’t heard of it and don’t know anything about it,” I stammered. “And I haven’t seen the afternoon editions.”
He raised a palm to me. “I learned from my man trailing you that you ate here last night, then went straight back to your place after. So I know you had nothing to do with it. He saw you tucked in and watched your place until after one this morning. I’m just letting you know what you might be getting yourself into if you persist in following my boys.” He studied me intently over his wineglass as he sipped.
“I also learned for the first time today the activity those two men were involved with the other night. So I’ve pieced together what probably happened. After their ‘meeting’ with the south side punk, I’m told one lug had the bright idea to call the League and tell them where to find the body. Unfortunately for this man of mine, the fella taking the call recognized the distinctive Midwestern nasal twang during the conversation. My boy set himself up as a target for their retribution.” Soups was the one with the Midwestern nasality. “Now, having cleared that up, I still intend to find out why you’ve been asking around about me.”
“My boy set himself up as a target for their retribution.”
“I just wanted to speak with you about a problem a friend of mine is having in relation to your business affairs. It may tie in with your two boys’ activities, as you term them.”
“Oh? And what might that be?”
Mama Cappacino briefly interrupted our conversation when she brought our meals to the table. She rarely delivered the meals herself. The mob boss took her hand and squeezed it, thanking her. She bent over, gave him a peck on the cheek, and whispered, “Buon compleanno, grande fratello.” After pouring more wine, she beamed at me shyly before walking away.
The man looked at my menu choice and nodded. His eyes returned to me with hoisted brows. I took the cue to continue my explanation. “My friend owns a tavern in the League’s territory. Everything was fine, the lines drawn, so to speak, until your boys showed up last week and put the muscle on him to buy your product. It seems you’ve decided to make a move into the League’s territory. The problem is, in the unsettled way things are now, the League still expects him to buy all his booze from them. And you expect the same. He’s caught in a squeeze between the two of you and can’t afford to buy from both of you. He’ll probably have to shutter his place up under those circumstances. And, under those same conditions, nobody’s gonna want to reopen the joint.”
I took a breadstick and broke it, waiting for a response. Nothing. “With all respect, it seems a little stupid to put the bite on somebody to make money, only to have them close shop with no money then coming your way.”
His face darkened with my words, but he maintained an even tone, “Tell me something I don’t know, Tanner.” He worked his pasta with a fork and spoon and went on, “Look, I’ll tell you something in confidence. In confidence because I don’t want the boys on the south side to see me as weak. And I’m asking you to keep it confidential out of the respect I think you have for Rosalie.” I nodded sharply. “Some of my boys started a move on the League’s part of town without asking and without my approval. They thought they saw an opening and moved on it. I’ve reined them in.” He shoveled in a mouthful of his food and chewed for a bit.
I waited. He was running with the ball at this point. Washing down the food with his wine, he followed the thought further, “Their side has lost a good man, and I’ve lost a good man. In our business, blood is money. If things deteriorate into a bloodbath between us and them, it can only hurt business on both sides of Broad Street. The law mostly lets things ride in this city, as long citizens don’t start getting hurt. But, if the conflict between us takes to the streets, even if it’s our own people biting the linoleum, they’ll come down on us hard.
I waited. He was running with the ball at this point.
“After the mess Big Al pulled off February of last year in Chicago, the heat’s worse than ever over spilled blood. I don’t need that sort of grief. Frankly, I don’t think the south side boys do either. I’ll do pretty much whatever it takes to prevent a full-scale war.” He smiled vaguely. “That is to say I’ll bend over backwards, but I’ll never bend over forwards.”
I chuckled at the implication of his statement. “Your boys may not appreciate that after putting out the effort.”
His eyes cut up at the man standing beside him, then stared at me intently. “My boys will do as they’re told. They trust my judgment. Besides, they’ve all made good while I’ve headed up this organization.” His voice was firm, self-assured.
All I knew to do was nod my understanding. “And my friend’s problem?”
“The lines’ll stay where they are. This ain’t Chicago, Tanner. If your friend’s place is in the League’s territory, that’s where it’ll stay. He’ll hear no more from us for the time being. If his part of town becomes ours, he’ll know it. The League will be nowhere in sight.”
“What about the product your people have already forced him to buy?”
He shot me a menacing, tight grin. “Don’t ask me to take points off the scoreboard, Tanner.” For a split second, I’d forgotten who and what I was dealing with. “Understand?” I waggled my head, which had received his message loud and clear. He laid his fork and spoon across his plate. Mama’s brother glanced at his bodyguard beside him, who then looked to the front door before giving his boss a nod. The crime boss made a vague gesture toward my plate as he rose from the table. “Next time, try the veal. It’s the best in the city.”
For a split second, I’d forgotten who and what I was dealing with.
I laughed softly. “I know. Everything here is.”
The man left as quietly as he’d arrived. After removing the magazine and the chambered round from my .45, the thug laid it on the table and followed his boss. I quickly made the gun ready for use and tucked it back into my holster. A minute or so later, Mama appeared at the booth. She was beaming. “He always come-a here on-a his-a birth-a-day.” After she told me her brother had paid my tab, we said nothing more about him. I smiled and asked how Geno was getting along. We made small talk for a bit before I left.
I departed Cappacino’s and made my way to the Paradise Tavern to deliver the good news to my friend. Having absented myself from the bar for several days, I was unaware the scuttlebutt about Harry’s being caught between two “suppliers” had made the rounds among the regulars. The customers greeted my news with joyful laughter and cheers. I got a bear hug from the proprietor and an evening of free drinks. Great hooch and even better friends. Who could ask for more, until the next job? ©
