Chicago Prime, 1931-v2
Old Illinois, 6:13 AM
- Southern Hospitality
My alarm-o-gram sprang to life with a translucent image of a blonde headed buxom gal sporting a cocktail dress and the beautiful rebel flag, singing Dixie. I checked my watch. 2.5 hours sleep. Not bad for me.
I rolled off my couch, slipped back into my jacket, grabbed my hat that somehow found its way back onto the rack. I poured myself a cup of last night's brew and marched back out into the daylight of Chicago Prime. Delaney was certainly waiting for news of my little adventure to The Crater.
I walked past the door that led into Sammy’s from the stairwell, but Sammy closed up shop around 2am and didn’t open back up until lunch time. I took a right out the door, then a left down Milky Way towards Atlantis. I would’ve taken the car, but it was too nice of a day to turn down a walk, even if it took me twice as long.
The Chicago Prime Police Department headquarters was in the center of Atlantis. It stood out like a platypus in a jewelry store —it didn’t look like it belonged there. Six stories of limestone and negligence, with bars on the ground floor windows that kept criminals out about as well as a “No trespassing” sign, surrounded by extravagance only seen in royal palaces. Then again, that was all of Atlantis compared to The Crater and Old Illinois. Hell, Atlantis could give places down south a run for their money.
I pushed through the front doors, the smell of burnt coffee, musty case files, and half-eaten late-night food hitting me like a freight train. The desk sergeant—a Scottish walrus of a man named McDougle—looked up from his racing form and grunted through his bushy red mustache.
“Jonez. D'layneez 'spectin' ye. Tird flair." His accent was thick and nearly incomprehensible to the untrained ear.
“Much obliged, McDougle. Anyone ever tell you gambling’s bad for you?”
“Aye, lad. But ah cannae gi' it up. Ah'm destin't tae win.” His coffee was steaming next to him, an unorthodox brew I imagine. Probably the one he kept under the false bottom of his lower left desk drawer. It wasn’t my place to bust him. It’s a tough city and a thankless job.
A small laugh escaped my lips “Best of luck to you.” I tipped my hat and headed for the stairs.
The stairwell smelled like someone had died in it, which, knowing this building, they probably had.
I heard some commotion coming from several offices about various other low-profile murders, rapes, robberies, and even common vandalism. If the water level raised an inch for every call The CPPD received about rape and robbery alone, the whole city would be underwater, save for maybe The Silver Slipper Casino. The bullpen was a dense cloud of cigarette smoke and secret hits of whiskey from late night oil burnings. Delaney’s office was in the farthest corner where most of the other Lieutenants were posted.
I rapped my knuckles on the doorframe twice. “Lieutenant.”
Zachariah Delaney looked up from a stack of paperwork that could’ve doubled as a fire hazard. He was forty-five but looked sixty, with a face that had seen too many crime scenes and not enough of his family. Salt-and-pepper hair, shoulders that used to be broad before the job bent them, and eyes that still held onto honesty like it was the last chip in a poker game he was losing. A cigarette smoldered in the ash tray on the edge of his desk. Delaney had quit smoking six months ago, and he only ever toyed with the idea when things were really bad.
“Jones,” he said, gesturing to me to close the door and have a seat. I declined his offer to sit. “Tell me something I want to hear.”
I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. “It was Jessica Callahan. No doubt about it.”
“Well—and?” Delaney already had a bit of a short fuse, so I decided stoking that particular fire was for another day.
“All signs point to premeditation. Some apparent postmortem markings around her neck suggest it was some serious player or players either intending to send a message or had a remarkable grudge against her. Staged for someone to find her. Even a note and toy rat. Most likely a calling card.” I dug the note out of my pocket and handed it to Delaney.
Delaney eyed the note. “The Rat King?”
“Ring any bells?”
“No. But I don’t like the sound of it.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “There’s some serious freaks in this city. No telling if this was organized or just some guy's idea of a sick joke. High-profiles like Callahan aren’t easy to get to. Even on her side of the fence, there’s some serious muscle that’s willing to protect people like her. The Gabridone’s and the like aren’t the only ones with protective measures.”
Yeah, Zachariah was a good cop. He’d been a hell of a detective before they upped him to desk-jockey in favor of some of the more…agreeable personnel.
Delaney folded his arms in front of him on his desk. “Her husband needs to be notified. I’ll send Officer Morrison.”
“If it’s of any difference to you, Delaney, allow me. Besides, I need some questions answered.”
“No offense, but Morrison’s our people, Jones. Besides, everyone else is either on Gabridone’s payroll or too green to know which end of a gun the bullets come out of.” He paused and leaned in, speaking just below the ambient volume of the precinct, “Tipping you off about the body was risky enough as it is. You go prancing around doing our work for us, you might as well paint a bullseye on that suit of yours.” He leaned back in his chair and ran both of his hands through what was left of his curly seasoned hair. “This is going to get ugly, Mercury. Jessica Callahan wasn’t just some politician’s wife. She had gravity. She gave a lot of people hope. Her husband’s no shlub, either. This is going to make serious waves. This is going to destroy him.”
Delaney didn’t know it yet, but I was going to see Senator Callahan one way or another. So, Delaney probably knew, but it was best to keep him in the dark. Plausible deniability goes a long way for a cop.
Before Delaney could say anything else, the door swung open without so much as a courtesy knock.
Detective Raymond Johnson strutted in like he owned the building and was about to raise the rent. Six feet of slicked-back hair, cheap cologne, and the kind of smirk that made you want to rearrange his face for free. His suit was too nice for a cop’s salary, which is what he was going for. He hated being a cop. Almost as much as he hated me.
“Well, well. Delaney, you entertaining our resident Mississippi immigrant?” He said the last two words like they tasted bad.
I didn’t move from where I was leaning against the wall. “Detective Johnson. Still using the same cologne, I see. What is that, desperation mixed with insecurity? I don’t know if you know this, but it’s also more effective if you eat the mustard, not wear it.”
Johnson looked down and saw a small stain on the breast of his $200 shirt.
His smirk tightened. “Funny. Last I checked, you weren’t a real detective, Jones. Just some PI playing pretend.”
“Real shame that a guy playing pretend is more feared by criminals than a guy who had to jerk-off Gabridone to make detective. Maybe that isn’t a mustard stain.”
Johnson’s face went red. “You watch your mouth, you son—”
“—southern gentleman?” I finished. “I appreciate the recognition, Detective. Now, unless you’ve got something productive to add to this conversation, I suggest you go find a mirror and practice looking important.”
Delaney cut in before Johnson could respond. “Raymond, did you come in here for anything important? Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, I have work to do.”
Johnson tore his eyes away from me, fury behind his mud brown eyes and a plot for revenge sprouting its first fruits. “That midget of ours captain wants to see you. Something about the Callahan case. Seems the Commissioner’s office is calling it a suicide.”
Suicide? I let the thought hang in the spaces between my prefrontal cortex and hippocampus. I wasn’t an M.E., but I’d seen enough crime scenes to know when someone’s been murdered, killed themselves, killed themselves to look like a murder, and murder to look like a suicide. This didn’t fit three out of the four.
Delaney asked, “How’d they get to her? Cops never go into the Crater. Practically suicide.”
Johnson turned a sinister smile as he replied, “some of us aren’t giant pussies, Delaney. We command respect even in the roughest of areas.” Johnson moved both of his hands to his waist, pushing his jacket back to not-so-subtly show the 44 Magnum he carried.
Johnson’s eyes narrowed at me. “And as for you, Jones, Commissioner Rodriguez personally demands that you aren’t to get involved.”
Rodriguez was a Spaniard brought in by Don Gabridone to control the muscle of justice that was the CPPD. If the cops don’t go sniffing around Gabridone’s goings on, then nothing stinks.
“And if I decide I don’t care what that greasy spic thinks?”
“Then he’s given me full authority to bring you in on obstruction—-by any means necessary. And in any condition necessary.” He smiled a maniacal smile, almost hoping for a shot at the title.
“I can only hope you’re as good at shooting that little pea shooter as you are your gay little mouth, Raymundo.”
Johnson took a lunge toward me, fist cocked back loading up a haymaker.
Delaney stood up and jumped between us, grabbing Johnson’s arm. “That’s enough! Both of you. Raymond, tell the Captain I’ll be there in five minutes. And close the door on your way out. Mercury, it’s time to go.”
Johnson shot me a look that could’ve curdled milk, then turned and left, slamming the door hard enough to make the wanted posters on the wall flutter.
I waited until his footsteps faded down the hall. “Charming fella. See he hasn’t changed since making detective.”
Delaney sat back down, suddenly looking ten years older. “Mercury, I need you to understand something. I’m walking a tightrope here. The brass doesn’t like me talking to you. They really don’t like me feeding you information. And with you being from Mississippi…”
“You don’t have to explain, Delaney. I know where I come from, and I know why I’m here. Once that's done, I’m outta your hair.”
I tipped my hat to Delaney and bid him adieu. I needed more info before I could adequately ruffle anymore feathers. I passed McDougle as he was refilling his special coffee blend, and saw he had placed a hefty bet on Jack’s Golden Goose to win with thirty-to-one odds. A man can dream.
- Reading Into It
The Chicago Prime Library was truly a spectacle of human innovation. The roman columns cascaded down like a waterfall, the alabaster walls glowing orange in the morning sunlight, and the golden trim shining their reply. Thankfully it wasn’t just a white washed tomb. It was full of detailed histories dating back to antiquity, on subjects from science and math, to crocheting and homemaking. I was certain to find some more info on Mrs. Callahan here before I went and asked her hubs anything.
In Chicago Prime, the official record was about as reliable as a three-dollar pocket watch. The papers printed what they were told to print. The radio stations broadcast what they were paid to broadcast. Wally Woolworth was the man to talk to if you wanted the real scoop.
I found Wally at the main desk, cataloging returns with the kind of focus usually reserved for bomb disposal. He was a wisp of a man, maybe five-foot-six in shoes with lifts, with wire-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes to the size of saucers. He wore a bow tie every day—different color, same earnest commitment to looking the part.
“Mr. Jones.” He spoke without looking up. “I was wondering when you’d darken my doorstep again.”
“Wally! You’re looking distinguished as ever.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere. What are you looking for?”
I leaned against the desk, keeping my voice low. “I’m hoping to do some light reading on some famous politicians and their wives. The more current, the better.”
Wally’s eyes flicked up to meet mine over his glasses. His eyes darted back and forth on mine. I didn’t grow up believing in psychics, but I always wondered if Wally was one.
“Ah yes, public figures will be right this way, Mr. Jones. Please mind the step.”
He led me through the main reading room, past some tables of people reading— two women reading books by Jane Austen and Louisa May Alcott, and two men reading newspapers— and down a hallway interlocked with a virtual fortress of bookshelves.
Wally closed the door behind us and spoke in his normal voice—which was surprisingly deep for a man his size. “Are there any particular time periods you wish to focus, Mr. Jones? We have everything from King Solomon and his wives and concubines to the current standing United States president, Al Smith and his wife Katherine.”
“You got anything about Senator Callahan and his wife Jessica?”
Wally looked at me like I had unironically asked him if he had a nose on his face. “Well of course. It’s all over the papers. ‘Tragic Suicide of Beloved Wife of State Senator.’ Makes me want to vomit.” He pulled a step ladder over to one of the tall shelves and climbed up. “Ah, yes, here we are. The Callahans.”
“You’re a saint, Wally.”
“I’m a librarian—a keeper of knowledge.” He handed down a manila folder thick enough to stop a bullet, along with a couple books titled From off-the-Boat to in the Senate: An Irishman’s Tale of Political Prestige and The Life of a Politician’s Wife. “This is everything I have. Will you be reading them here or checking them out? I must say, if you are checking them out, please bring them back unharmed. Last time you checked out a copy of The Odyssey, a page was missing and the spine had scorch marks on it.”
I flipped through the folder. Donor lists—mostly small contributions from working folks, nothing unusual. A schedule of upcoming debates, including one next week at the Atlantis Opera House about organized crime’s influence on city government. That debate wasn’t going to happen now.
“I’m a fast reader, Wally. Shouldn’t take me more than an hour to gain what I can,” I said. “And the page to the odyssey is in my office. It has a very important piece of evidence on it that I can’t let go. I promise I’ll return it when I’m done.”
“And the scorch marks?”
“All I can tell you Wally is an iron smelting plant isn’t a good place to read.”
Wally climbed down and pushed his glasses up his nose, then slowly sighed. “I don’t need to know about your personal escapades, Mr. Jones. My only concerns are these books and my family.”
I took a beat to speak to Wally on a personal level, “How is Cecilia?”
He looked down, then back at me as the words found their way into his ears, “Not well. Her sickness is worsening. I want to be there every second, but I have no one to watch the library for me.”
I reached and placed my free hand on Wally’s arm, “I’m sorry Wally. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”
“Just pray for her. And for me.”
Wally and I shook hands and parted ways. I said a prayer to God for Wally and Cecilia. I also made a mental note that I needed to try to find someone to help Wally so he could be home with his dying wife, but that was for a later time—hopefully.
Before I left, I grabbed a copy of The Nutcracker from the performing arts section. Call it a hunch.
Wally raised an eyebrow and looked at me over his glasses, but said nothing.
- Weasel and Bulldog
I was about a hundred feet from the library steps when I spotted them. In the reflection of a building’s windows, I saw the two men who were reading newspapers at the library following me down the street. My suspicions were raised when Wally and I passed them and I saw that they were reading about steam cleaning devices for your curtains.
The one on my left was the smaller of the two, slim as a rail, and tall as the Eiffel Tower. His fingers were long and spindly, hanging down past his knee cap every swing of his arm as he walked. He was clean shaven with dark eyebrows and darker hair under his hat. The guy on the right was a brutish, wide fella who was shaped like one of those stones the Egyptians used to build the pyramids. He looked like he had cinder blocks for hands and a part of a circus tent used to make a suit big enough for him. For ease of even my perfect memory, I called them Weasel and Bulldog.
They both wore fine, tailored suits, black and white pinstriped from their fedoras to the bottom of their pants. Bulldog walked with a hunch and bowed legs while weasel walked stick straight with a seven foot stride. But neither were good at tailing with any discretion, especially walking around as a living, breathing number ten.
The art of tailing requires not drawing any attention to yourself while maintaining a surveilling distance. You want to be able to keep eyes on your target without staring daggers into them. To blend into the crowd around you. The whole goal is to watch and report without anyone else being in the know, especially the one you’re tailing.
These two shlubs were doing their level best to fail at every single one of those things.
I kept walking, letting them think they were being clever. Turned left on Madison, right on Clark, then doubled back on Monroe. Basic countersurveillance—if they were professionals, they’d recognize the pattern and adjust.
They didn’t adjust.
When people realize someone’s following them, they tend to panic, and for good reason. They immediately become unrelaxed, start walking faster, and even look behind them. But my knowledge of them following me worked in reverse. Now I was tailing them, but from the front.
Bulldog is clearly the muscle, used exclusively for intimidation and extortion when a stubborn victim needs some persuading. Obviously neither were very smart, but likely he was the dumbest of the two, so he’ll be aggressive, but he’ll be hasty and panic when things aren’t going as his pea-sized brain expects it to go. His size is his biggest strength, but also his biggest weakness. He’d tire out in a matter of seconds if he doesn’t finish me in one punch, so staying out of his reach will be my best tactic, then strike when he’s doubled over gasping for air.
Weasel is likely no fighter at all, but certainly a talker and sneaky. I spotted a blade sticking out of his pants in the front, so if I get too busy with Bulldog, he may try to stab or slash me when I’m not looking. If I even so much as blow on him, he’ll fall unconscious, so I have to keep him awake for questioning.
I turned down an alley off Dearborn—narrow, brick walls on both sides, garbage cans providing cover. Dead end about fifty yards in, but with a fire escape I could use if things really went sideways.
I walked about halfway down, then stopped. Pulled out a cigarette. Lit it. Took a long drag. I placed my library books and folder on top of a trash can next to me.
Bulldog and Weasel stopped about ten feet from me.
“You folks lost?” I didn’t turn around. “The circus left town a week ago. I think they’re missing their dual act: The Flying Morons.”
I could hear the Bulldog breathing like a locomotive.
“We ain’t lost,” Weasel said. His voice was high, reedy. “Just wanted to have a conversation.”
I turned around and faced them, “Conversation.” I took another drag. “That’s a four-syllable word. I’m impressed.”
Bulldog looked a little confused and started talking quietly to himself as fingers began counting slowly. Weasel pressed on.
“We know you were in The Crater checking out that dead whore’s body. It’s best you listen—best for your health anyway.”
“Look, boys, I’d love to have this conversation, but I charge by the hour, and you fellas don’t look like you can afford my rates.”
Bulldog threw his hands by his side in his most threatening posture yet, his voice like a bass drum. “Mr. Caroselli said if yous don’t listen, then we’s gets to hurt yas.” He punched his left hand with his right, deep cracking sounds coming from them.
I made sure my movements were smooth and slow so as to not startle them into doing something hasty. I eyed both of them under the brim of my hat, cigarette dangling from my lips. “Assuming I let either of you walk away unharmed, you tell Mr. Caroselli that I’ll be coming to see him personally. No need to make me an appointment.”
Bulldog and Weasel looked at each other and laughed.
That’s when I made my move.
I closed the distance to Bulldog in two steps. He was a little quicker than I gave him credit for, but at ten feet, he’d have to be superhuman. My fist was already making a beeline for his chin when he rounded on me. The element of surprise would normally send someone on their heels, but Bulldog was evidently too used to taking hits to the face. My knuckles connected perfectly on his jaw, sending all of my two-hundred pounds into it through my fist. He didn’t fall down, but he was clearly stunned.
I hadn’t drawn my guns for reasons still unknown to me. I suppose it’s because my father had always taught me not to draw unless I intended to kill.
Weasel had jumped back in the time I was trying to clean Bulldog’s clock, and when I turned to face him and check my distance, I could already see the blade in his hand, lunging for my stomach. He missed, but just barely. My coat, unfortunately, wasn't as fast as me. I heard ripping as he went passed me towards the wall on my right. With my momentum moving sideways, I planted my left foot back to level a kick straight into his gut. I connected. Weasel fell like a sack of very skinny potatoes. I felt Bulldog’s massive arms wrap around my waist and lift me into the air trying to squeeze the life out of me. I got one arm free and sent my elbow straight for the side of his massive head. If he’d had a visible neck, I might have broken it, but instead I caught him directly in his ear. He dropped me and fell back holding his head with both hands. I landed, whirled around and sent two more haymakers into his abdomen aiming for his liver and spleen. My punches sent him to one knee clutching his huge belly, then I sent my own knee directly into his face. Bone and blood crunched underneath my leg as he fell onto his back unconscious.
I turned to check on Weasel, who was back up and going for his holster. I was faster as I introduced him to Delilah.
“Let’s not.”
His hand froze halfway to his pocket.
We were both breathing heavily in the alley way as citizens down the way minded their own business as they had always known to do whenever they saw two gangsters tailing someone. Bulldog was still breathing, so he wasn’t dead.
“Good. Now, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to start telling me what you know, and if I like what you’re saying, you’re going to walk out of this alley on your own two feet. If I don’t like the answers, well…” I cocked the hammer. “I’ll let you use your imagination.”
The wiry one’s eyes were the size of dinner plates. Up close, I could see the sweat on his upper lip, the tremor in his hands.
“We don’t know nothing!” His voice cracked. “We was just told to follow you, see where you went, who you talked to!”
“And tell me not to chase the Callahan murder.”
“Yeah, that too!”
“Why is Don Caroselli so invested in Callahan not being investigated?”
“I don’t know! He never tells us nothing like that. He says ‘Louie, Tony, go and—’ and we just do! We don’t ask no questions!”
The big one was groaning on the ground. I kept the gun on the wiry one.
I believed him. No sense in pressing a capo for information only an underboss or don would know. “Here’s a message for Mr. Caroselli. Tell him Mercury Jones doesn’t like being followed. Tell him he’ll be seeing me soon. Don’t worry about forgetting, I’ll make sure he gets the message.”
I kept my gun leveled at Weasel while making sure I kept Bulldog in my peripheral vision in case he decided to wake up swinging.
“I need you to hold your giant friend down.” I stepped back towards one of the dumpsters and grabbed a piece of discarded, broken wooden furniture. Part of the leg had splintered.
Weasel immediately started sweating, “W-w-why?”
“Because I said so.” I tore off a big piece of splintered wood and tossed it to Weasel.
Weasel complied, as one does when a gun is pointed at them and their only real means of muscle is unconscious.
“Now, about that message.”
