by Tee Morris
Unless…this was something more than the standard hit. Had “Pretty Boy” been planning some kind of coup d'état (I just love those French words, but they’re a bitch to learn when working your way through a library!), and Capone caught wind of it? Or was he pledging his allegiance elsewhere? Had “Pretty Boy” been thinking of changing his nickname to “Stool Pigeon” and turning state’s evidence? Had he reached the decision that a retirement and old age suited him better than a dirt nap at the prime of his life? What could Capone’s second-in-command, sitting pretty in the right hand of the Big Boss himself, have been up to that would merit this kind of drastic retaliation?
Why? That is what my client wanted to know. Why was Capone’s confidant in all matters suddenly and unceremoniously removed from his court via methods of extreme prejudice? This hit clearly wasn’t intended to send a message or a warning; Capone had intended this hit to be the final solution to a problem. From the looks of this hit, the problem must’ve been a big one.
Hearing the unwelcome sound of other shoes against soot, I crouched lower behind the rubble and peered through cracks between blackened timbers to see exactly how many cops I was had to contend with this morning.
Well now, yet another surprise this morning for ol’ Billi Baddings. The two guys belonging to the shoes contaminating the crime scene along with mine were not cops. One of them was a real behemoth, chiseled jaw and all that. The other one was his doppelganger, but shorter, definitely the runt between the two of them.
I couldn’t hear a word they were saying, but guessed they weren’t working for the Mob because they weren’t communicating with grunts, whistles, and clicks. The drab, off-the-rack suits that probably weighed as much as your basic leather armor were the second clue.
When I noticed the duo making a beeline for the site of the first crater, my eyebrows went up. These guys knew exactly where to look for the location of that bomb, and they studied the soot and ash found there very closely, even giving it a few whiffs themselves. It didn’t take an extraordinary honker like mine to get a hint of the kind of bomb used, but for humans, it took someone with the training and the talent.
“Now, wha’ d’ya t’ink yer doin’?” came a brogue thick as potato soup from behind the two newcomers to my investigation. “This is wha’ we here in Chicago call a crrrime seen,’ an’ unless yer warin’ a badge, yer either a corpse or a con ta be mullin’ about ’ere! Bett’r t’ings in Chicago ta do than disraspect tha dead, don’cha t’ink?”
Slower than keep slime, the two guys stood up from the crater, opened their coats with one hand, and withdrew their wallets with the other.
As the suits opened their billfolds and did the ID routine, I took an opportunity to make my exit. Keeping low (which was easy for me), I stayed close to anything that would conceal my presence: overturned tables, razed foundations, burned-out booths, and so on. The cover that remained was enough for me to slip out of the ruins and into the now wide-open alleyway.
From my new vantage point, it looked like the two bombs had done little surrounding damage. When I vigorously rubbed my fingers against the worn, blackened blocks of Sal’s next-door neighbor and gave my stained skin a few whiffs, I picked up those signature scents that I knew Chicago for. Engine exhaust. Coal soot. Standard city smells.
After a good, strong exhale, I took a slightly deeper whiff. Yeah, I could detect minute traces of the blast, but I couldn’t convince myself that this building had been even impolitely nudged by the two bombs. The new blast scent I was picking up was a lot stronger…but it wasn’t coming from the alleyway.
I returned to Sal’s through what was left of the men’s bathroom, daring to get caught. And there it was, just as my gut had told me it would be, where the ladies’ loo had once been: A third crater.
The crunching of debris underfoot, much closer than it was before, reminded me my borrowed time was now gaining serious interest. It was that moment when a bard knows he’s hit his final note for the evening, or when a jester drops that joke that kills. Know when to make your exit. If I didn’t get out of there, and get out of there now, the cop would probably use something a lot nastier than a hook to haul my ass off of this stage!
“That was no hit. What happened at Sal’s Diner makes a wizard’s maelstrom look like a Spring drizzle.” Hey, I was just joking when I said that in my office to Miss Lesinger. Still, my own words kept echoing in my head as I wiped my fingers with a hankie, making sure I was clean of any evidence.
Now I was back in the alleyway and coming around the corner to Sal’s nonexistent storefront, where the cop and two suits were continuing their Saturday-morning tea. Keeping my head down, my face concealed under the Stetson I was wearing, I took advantage of the angle to study Sal’s sidewalk. While there were no real scorch marks projecting outward to indicate a blast, this sidewalk had not fared as well as that of Sal’s neighbors. The damage implied this job was far from perfect. From the placement of the third crater—and if my hunch was right about possible other craters—Capone never intended to blow this place up. The Big Boss wanted to blow the diner down, effectively and efficiently burying whomever happened to be there that morning.
I lingered at the street corner, pretending to see if there was any oncoming traffic. It was still early in the morning, so traffic could barely be described as light. While the flatfoot continued to act like a cheerful tour guide, the suits knew this for the tactic that it was, and their hushed conversation went dead on me.
I crossed the street, then once again to the opposite corner, turning back to face the diner-in-ruins. This time, I was playing the part of a dwarf looking to hail a cab. By now, the cop’s crusty demeanor had left for the Emerald Isle, and he couldn’t have been more pleasant. Yeah, I guess the suits were cops after all, probably from another precinct. Chicago’s Finest were working together to put on a show for the commoners, but still nowhere closer in riding the city of Public Enemy Number One.
Cute little show, but I enjoy the vaudeville at the State Theatre a lot more.
*****
Halfway to the office, I slipped the cabbie a Lincoln and changed directions for the opposite side of town, toward Chicago City Hall and the courthouse. One of the big news stories of late was the commission for a new statue of Lady Justice to stand proudly in the center of the courthouse foyer, life-sized and elevated on a grand marble pedestal. Its completion had been slated for January, but January had come and gone. So had February. Now, it looked liked Ms. Justice, along with some of the other improvements happening throughout City Hall and the courthouse, would be unveiled sometime in the late spring. No later than the early summer, the sculptor assured The Chicago Daily recently.
The screws were beginning to tighten on the contractors, and no doubt a rack waited in the wings for Justice’s artist. I guess those lawmakers were growing tired of the tarps and stepladders between their offices and the courtrooms. Can’t say I blamed the suits too much on this one. Miranda had impressed on me the selling value of an image, and it’s tough to sell the public through press conferences and photo opportunities when Chicago’s legal hub appears to be a work in progress.
With all these steps leading to a set of massive doors with ornate carvings, you would think Chicago’s downtown courthouse housed the finest and most prestigious of this realm. In fact, the lowest of lowlifes—low enough to make a nest of trolls look like the Rockefellers—spent enough time in these hallowed halls to call it home, if but a second one. Of course, as it was the weekend, the courthouse was quiet as well as locked up. Crime didn’t take Saturday and Sunday off, mind you, but those who made the laws that got broken did.
Peeking through the crack between the doors, I could make out the scaffolding, tarps covering the commemorative plaques and busts of judges and men of history, and other signs of work crews who were either off for the day or sleeping in late only to come in and continue work later. And I could make out a few pair of coveralls lying to one side of a ladder. It was easy to imag
ine those guys wearing their pinstripes underneath their coveralls, painting right up to quitting time and leaping out of their work clothes before the last stroke was dry.
This was my stage. Let the play begin.
Out of a fine leather pouch, I slid out a set of favorite tools from my realm. The small pick and its longer brother had been forged from a charmed metal that would not break under any stress, even if a marsh dragon tried to use one as a toothpick.
When I “acquired” this kit off a mercenary fighting on the wrong side of my battle-axe, the other officers thought I’d come up on the short end of the quarterstaff. Then again, I didn’t travel in the same circles as those privileged dinks. The buddies I traveled with from tavern to tavern took one glance at the pouch and knew I had struck a mother lode of ore! Sure enough, a wizard passing through my village appraised the metal in the tools as being “of magical origin.” Three words that a dwarf loves to hear.
The first pick fit easily into the top notch of the lock, and searched for a latch to catch. Once I struck it, the second pick slid inside the lock until it hit the bolt.
I casually walked away from the door for a moment, making certain I was in the clear. There was some weekend traffic on the street, but it was still too early for the tourists to be paying a visit. No beat cops in sight either, so I was all set to work my magic.
The last tool was a larger, U-shaped piece of metal forged into the top of a small metal rod. I rapped it hard against the door, producing a small hum from the fork—a perfect pitch.
The picks in the lock remained still until I placed the fork tongs on either side of them. The two slim rods now vibrated in a blanket of sound, and soon the picks moved on their own accord, searching for the grooves and bolts that a key would trigger. Suddenly, the top pick slipped forward while the lower turned slightly to an angle, and I heard the bolt in the courthouse’s front door slide back with a loud thunk.
I’m not crazy about magic, but it does come in handy now and then, especially when your specialty is infiltration and reconnaissance. My bread and butter in Acryonis…and now, Chicago.
“One-Hanselthrop…two-Hanselthrop…three-Hanselthrop…” I whispered as I slipped through the massive doors. The alarm was sounding, and soon the weekend detail would wake up and find out who or what triggered the bells clanging in the main hallway. The only thing that could screw up this plan would be an eager beaver in his first day on the job.
“Ten Hanselthrop…eleven Hanselthrop…twelve Hanselthrop…” I now had my coat off and was drowning in the smallest of the coveralls I found by a covered paint bucket and a set of wide brushes and rollers. Regardless of humans’ height, everything was big on me, but nothing that I couldn’t solve by rolling up sleeves and pant legs.
“Seventeen Hanselthrop…eighteen Hanselthrop…”
Clop-clop-clop-clop. Yeah, here comes the infantry.
I jammed a painter’s cap on the back of my head and tossed my own fedora on top of my coat, now folded up next to the nearest stepladder. I even added the final touch of paint can and brush in my hands by the time courthouse security—an older cop who was looking to make retirement by taking a job like this one instead of risking the beat walks—came tearing around the corner. I suppressed a smile on noticing the top buttons of his uniform and dress shirt were left open. Poor guy had been deep in the Fairy’s Realm when the alarm went off.
“What the hell, bub?” I barked. It was always good to come out of the box strong. Adds to the disorientation of the initial sight of me.
“I was gonna—” he shouted, but then shook his head as he cast a wary glance to the alarm bell. “I was gonna ask you the same thing, Shorty!”
“Weekend detail!” I shouted back. I don’t know if it was just me, but I had to wonder if those damn bells were getting louder. “I was told to be here this morning ’cause we were going to finish up the second floor today! Door was unlocked, so I figured everyone was here! Guess I got here early!”
“What?!? You got to hurry?”
And now, the vaudeville routine. “Guess—I—got—here—early!”
“Kinda small for a painter, ain’t ya?” the cop shouted at me.
“Save the wall for later?!? Okay, but there’s gonna be hell to pay when we start on the ceilings without finishing—”
“No, I said you’re SHORT for a PAINTER!”
I shook my head, “Nah, we won’t be short! There will be a full crew on today! I’m just early!”
“NO!” he screamed in desperation. “YOU—SHORT!”
“Oh, yeah! I’m short. So are a lot of us on the Saturday crew. Why do ya think we got so damn many ladders?!?”
The security guard flung his hat on the ground and leaned in closer to me. “Have you got a work order?”’
“Fork over?!?” I asked, stretching up and turning my ear closer to him. I could hear him just fine, but I needed him to go away and stay away. No better way to be left alone than to establish oneself as a severe pain in the ass. “Fork over what?”
“A WORK ORDER!!!” The poor sap was shouting so loud now that his voice was cracking. “I need to see the work order!”
I placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned on him as I stood on my tippy-toes. “I think my boss has it!”
“What?!?”
“MY—BOSS!!!” Since I’m used to shouting orders over charging axemen, sounds of sword on shield, and goblin battle cries, my voice nearly knocked him off his feet. “My boss should have the work order on him!”
The bells were really starting to get to me now, so I know his patience had to be wearing thinner than a wraith’s wardrobe. He just nodded and pointed to the wide staircase at the end of the hall. “Offices are that way! Next time—back entrance!”
He was probably swearing up a storm over why he hadn’t checked the courthouse doors at the end of the previous day. As I watched him disappear to shut off the alarm, I set down the paint and brush for a moment so I could grab my memo pad and lock-picks. I was about halfway up the steps to the second floor when the sound of the bells ceased, replaced by the scuff-scuff-scuff-scuff of my own feet ascending the stairs.
Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Hope you enjoyed the show. I’ll be here all week!
I climbed up to the seventh floor, where I knew the more important lawyer-types congregated: District Attorneys, Assistant D.A.’s, and the rest of their lot. I figured these were the guys who were keeping tabs, or at least trying to, on thugs like “Pretty Boy” DeMayo. Apart from the Feds itching to prosecute Capone for his various criminal activities, the D.A’s office would love to score one up on the Treasury Department. Locally, it would easily make anyone’s career in politics if it were the local law enforcement that brought Capone down. On a national level, it would attract a lot of attention—and alongside that, commerce—to the Greater Chicago area. And hey, if you wanted to leave Chicago for greener moors and cleaner shires, you could write your own ticket if you could boast how instrumental you were in taking down the Big Boss.
My enchanted picks barely broke a sweat with the Assistant D.A.’s office. I slowly poked my head around the doorway, because you never knew if an Assistant D.A. would be burning twilight torches in order to come across that one all-important clue leading to Capone. This Saturday morning, no one was home. The office was kept immaculate—a very good sign that I was in for a quick visit. Setting down the paint can and brush, I set to work finding what I would need in this office: Height.
There are certain constants in this new realm to which I have grown accustomed, and now I’m reaching a point where I appreciate them. I can always rely on hot dogs in Wrigley Field tasting a lot better than the dogs I get in Grant Park. I can always count on the news in the Herald Examiner to be less biased than that of the Defender. I know that politicians, be they local or higher up in the Congressional pecking order, will promise to make everything better while they’re actually trying to make things worse for their successors. And I also know that humans who work
in offices believe themselves to be in such a hurry that they need wheels on their chairs to shave off those all-important seconds between sliding away from a desk and getting on their feet.
The whole concept of a chair with wheels on it initially struck me as not only hysterical, but just a hint pretentious. Come on, you can’t just get a normal chair, scoot up to a table, and conduct your business like anyone else? Does one truly believe the time saved between gliding away from a desk and planting your feet on terra firma is that crucial in getting things done? It really took a lot for me to not laugh at these humans in their “wagon-thrones,” as I had called them from my hiding places in the library.
Of course, when I had gone shopping for office furniture, there wasn’t a lot of “dwarf-sized” furniture around…and it was pretty disappointing to find out how miniature “miniature furniture” truly was. That was when I realized that the carpenters of Acryonis who specialized in “Scrap Furniture” were pretty skilled at what they did, regardless if what they called their wares made dwarves flinch.
So I swallowed my pride and bought my own office chair. And I love it. I not only get height, but I get a lot of mobility.
This guy apparently liked his chair with a lot of swivel, so I had to adjust to its give. I climbed into the seat and pushed against the desk, rolling over to one of the file cabinets. I opened up the top drawer and started scanning through the “A’s,” hoping that the Assistant D.A.’s filing system was as neat and pristine as his office.
The top drawer was continuing into the “C’s,” so this was a strike out. I pushed back from the filing cabinet to give me enough room to go down into the “D’s” one drawer down. Still nothing. And when I was in the “C’s” there wasn’t even a file on “Capone.” Was I not looking in the right place? Should I be checking “M” for “Mafia” or “Mobster?” Would I need to check under “I” for “Italians?”
