Chicago Typewriter

8.

I dozed through the afternoon back at my apartment, despite sore head, sore ribs, and sore feet. I supped on sardines and soda crackers. The latest Strange Worlds comic book came in the mail, but it failed to hold my attention. I kept thinking about lips, and perfume, and other impossible things.

Restless, I strolled into the night noise of Chicago. I wasn't going anywhere fast without a motorcycle. Why'd I let her kiss me? That was crazy. Why'd she kiss me? That was even crazier. But it felt good. Maybe I had more going on than I thought.

I fished out a cigarette — American, not Egyptian — and lit up. My head cleared enough to remember the smell of the cigarette ash. Same ash at Ebony Gardens and under the bakery on 6th Street. And the same fruity smell coming from Buster's fancy Egyptian cigarettes. Per that evidence, Buster sprayed bullets into the back of a dead man at Ebony Gardens. And let's not forget Deacon Largo, who I saw at the guarded gambling room along with his nephews Ike and Buster. Deacon and Buster worked at the same department store. Said store would make a splendid front for an Italian mob kingpin, hypothetically.

If Buster was in the Italian crime gang, I needed to know. I steered my aching feet toward the Whirling Dervish. I dropped my gun into my pants crotch again on my way in. The massive bouncer waved me through after the customary inspection and an obligatory insult. I settled in behind the bar, in what I now thought of as my stool. In my inconspicuous and shadowy corner, I nursed a scotch-and-soda and began the night's surveillance.

The far door was still double-guarded. My plan was to take inventory on everybody that entered or left.

I nursed my illegal drink to kill time. I wondered about Bianca Largo. Was she just lonely? Sounds like she was neglected by Chief Largo, and within two years of getting married. Two years seemed like a short time to me. What did the drive-by mean, when Deacon Largo cruised by his brother's house, the day I beheld Bianca draped in lacy secret glimpses?

A couple came in and headed for the guarded door. They were in overcoats, facing away from me, but I recognized Bianca Largo's walk. My grip on my glass tightened. One of the burly door wardens took their coats. Bianca and — Deacon Largo. He was bigger than the chief, and better dressed. When Bianca's coat came off, I saw she was wearing something that glittered around her neck. My sinking stomach shriveled tight. It looked a lot like the diamond necklace in photo number eight from Ebony Gardens.

A few minutes later, a dapper dandy sauntered in, next to a shambling tower of meat. I recognized them both. Buster Largo and Hack Sawyer, together like bosom buddies. I was so numbed by the revelations that I barely batted an eye. So they were all in it. Well, possibly the younger kids Millie and Ike weren't. What about Chief Largo? He was famous for hating gangsters, but would he arrest his own brother?

Suddenly, my gut clenched anew. If his own brother was stealing his wife, then, yeah, Chief Largo could. "This is pure poison," I grumbled.

"Sure is!" agreed the bartender as he passed by.

I needed some air. I slithered out of the smoke-filled den. Outside, the lake wind usually banished the faint trace odors of upchuck and sewage. 

My feet wandered until I found myself in the alley behind the Whirling Dervish. I frowned at the back doors. There were two of them, composed of steel cemented into thick brick. The left one probably led directly to the shady back room.

A cat padded by. Black, of course, to match my luck. I should have kicked Millie Largo out of my cubicle. If I had, I would have remained ignorant of this mess. But as luck would have it, I was neck deep in the whole stinking pile of it.

The cat scampered up a telephone pole, claws splintering and scrabbling. My eyes followed it up. There was a concrete ledge halfway up the brick Whirling Dervish building, over the ground floor but under the roof. There were darkened windows, too. Windows? Maybe a way to spy what was going on in the secret room. Once I had thought of it, the idea stuck.

I muttered to myself. "A concussion and a broken rib, Lucy. Fate, with its usual dramatic flair, has decreed that this is your night for performing gymnastics."

Following that cat was painful, but I managed to not scream, faint, or fall. Weathered bricks at the building corner provided footholds, and starting about twelve feet up, and the creosote-soaked pole had horizontal metal bars stuck in for workmen to climb.  I wormed my way up and onto the ledge. Hugging to the building, I shuffled over to a window.

My fingers probed. No exterior latches. Each window had many glass panes secured by warped wood strips. Flaking paint barely clung to the weathered slats. My fingertips felt voices, though to my ears the sounds roiled, muffled and incoherent.

Below me, steely clashes rang out and I almost jumped out of my shoes. Latches tumbled. Steel grated on grit. The babble of conversation and electric light spilled out. Lit from below, I froze.

A male voice drawled, "Shut the door, Hack."

Hack's voice was a gravelly gargle. "Yeah, boss."

The door scraped. It banged shut with a vibration I could feel in my soles and fingertips. The noise of talking diminished. I pressed to the window. All the danger was behind and below, but movement meant death. Stalemate. I studied the shadowy reflection of my fear-widened pupils in the dirty glass.

"C'mere. I ain't shoutin' this," said the boss. It had to be Deacon Largo. The voice resembled that of his brother the police chief, just fatter.

"Yeah, boss."

"The hit tomorrow. Who's the target?"

"Um. Chief Largo, boss."

I twitched.

"Where's the hit?"

"The alley with the gutter down the center. Iggy took me there. The chief drives down it every time he goes to the station."

Deacon Largo spoke as if to an idiot. Well, Hack Sawyer was an idiot, so that made perfect sense. "And what are you bringing?"

"A tommy gun, boss. Iggy's the one with the car to block the alley. I come from behind, with, with ..."

The steel door clicked and scraped again. The conversational babble broke out, and the light. I was above the party, presumably in plain view if anybody looked up. The door shut. The light went out. The voices silenced. Hack was so tall, he could reach up and grab my ankle. I shuddered, despite myself.

Hack's voice said, "With Buster."

"Good evening, gentlemen," said Buster. It was definitely his voice, oily and artificially sophisticated. He would be smoking, using his cigarette holder. I would start smelling his Egyptian cigarette in a minute.

"I'm just going over tomorrow with Hack," Deacon Largo said. "You're remembering good, Hack."

"Thanks, boss!"

"What about you, Buster?" Deacon said. "Still want to be in on this?"

I could imagine Buster's smirk. "Of course, Uncle. It was my idea. I'm just sorry it's a bit rushed, now."

Deacon grunted. "You shoulda been more careful at the robbery. You musta left clues for the detective. If he wasn't watching you before, he is now. And maybe me."

I could smell the fruity Egyptian smoke, now. It made me want to cough. But if I so much as hiccupped, they'd be on me like stray dogs on a steak.

"We're safe, Uncle. You know we are. You know who's lined up to replace Chief Largo, and he's one of us."

"I didn't say I was worried, I said you need to be more careful. Make sure it all goes smooth tomorrow. Got me?"

"Loud and clear, Uncle. I can handle it. Looking forward to it."

The conversation paused. My own blood hammered in my ears as I imagined those below coming to a pause. And looking up.

After an eternity, Deacon said, "Good. Let's go."

The steel door scraped, slammed, and latched. I sagged where I stood midair, a perspiration-soaked ragdoll.