by Lee Thomas
Lennon knew Smith was on a couple of payrolls: one was the city’s; the other was the Northside gang’s: “Bugs” Moran’s Irish crew. The Italians and the Bug had split the entire city, and that included the city’s employees. Lennon himself collected an envelope once a week, but his bonus came from the Italians on the Southside, once ruled, and some said still ruled, from a prison cell by Al Capone. Between that and his salary, Lennon could still barely stay in the black. The house his wife wanted, the clothes she wanted for their daughters and herself—damned if he could rub a couple of dimes together by the time payday came around again. He certainly couldn’t afford a suit the quality of Smith’s.
He ordered another drink from a waitress who wasn’t nearly as fresh as the girl in green. Then his partner, Curt Conrad, appeared beside him, shuffling into view like a diseased rhino. The fat man pinched a cigar between two sausage-plump fingers and carried his hat in his fist. Conrad sat down, and they started gabbing.
But Lennon couldn’t remember what they had talked about. It hurt to try like his thoughts were weighty bastards, and they tromped on the broken glass in his skull as he attempted to line them up.
He’d been in a bar.
Now he lay in a bed.
With as much care as he could muster, he rolled his head on the pillow so he no longer faced the scalding light, and Lennon opened his eyes again. In the chair by the door, his wife Edie sat slumped. She was sleeping. Her hands rested in her lap: one clutched a wadded kerchief, and the other draped over her handbag, which in the gloom resembled a napping black cat. Briefly he wondered where his daughters were. Normally, Edie never let Gwendolyn and Bette out of her sight—not that a night in the hospital had anything in common with normal.
Lennon sensed movement in the hallway, hisses and mutters and displacements of light that might have been shadows or just defects in his vision. Across the corridor, the silhouette of a woman appeared in a doorway a moment before it closed.
Lennon wondered if he was dreaming because nothing he saw was in focus. Nothing felt solid, except for the pain. The pain felt hard and hot, but aches could slip into dreaming minds, couldn’t they? A tickle of panic went through him. He vaguely remembered a determined face bearing down, remembered the collision of muscle and bone and the sensation of swimming backwards, and then nothing. What if Lennon wasn’t in the hospital at all, but only dreaming of it? What if he were still lying in that yard with his head split open and his brains leaking into the snow? His panic swelled. He struggled against it, called out for Edie, and at first she didn’t move, and Lennon felt certain he was trapped in a terminal dream. He bolted up in the hospital bed and the pain coalesced unbearably; so much so that he answered it with a harsh, gravelly shout, which seemed to do the trick.
“Roger!” Edie cried. Fright broke her voice as she bolted from the chair.
A squad of men appeared in the doorway behind her, and they all rushed in, and suddenly he was surrounded by familiar faces, many of whom smiled to see him awake. And then there was talking—ridiculous questions about how he felt—and finally Curt Conrad, his partner, a man he’d never considered particularly compassionate or bright, told the crowd he was getting a doctor, and Lennon thought that was a fine idea.
Edie sobbed into his neck, and he wished he could get his mind off of the pain long enough to appreciate her concern, but her hair smelled pungently of floral perfume and the scent all but made him gag. He coughed and each spasm was like getting slugged by a heavyweight. A wave of gratitude ran through him when the doctor entered the room and cleared it of well-wishers before setting into his examination, which consisted of simple questions (How many fingers am I holding up?) and a bright beam of light drilling through Lennon’s retina and into whatever part of his brain telegraphed anguish.
“Detective Lennon,” the doctor said, “Do you remember the events leading up to your injury?”
There was a girl in a green dress that reminded him of pond water, and then a man with a determined jaw was closing in, only steps away, and then he thought about water again.
Swimming. Sinking.
“Not really,” Lennon said. “Bits. Pieces.”
“That’s natural enough. You took a nasty blow to the back of the head. Your memory got rattled. You might have even lost some of it for good. It’s hard to say in these cases. Just don’t let it worry you. You seem to be functional. We’ll want to keep you awake for at least a few hours to make sure you remain responsive. I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer through without morphine at least for the time being. We don’t want to addle your mind with drugs until we know the extent of the damage.”
“How about aspirin?”
“Not until we’re sure you’re not hemorrhaging internally.”
“When will you know that?”
“Another couple of hours should do it.”
“And if I am bleeding into my skull?”
“Don’t worry yourself, Detective Lennon,” the doctor said. “In these cases, if you can open your eyes, you’re probably just fine. This is all just precaution.”
The doctor patted Lennon’s forearm and left the room. Then Edie returned, handkerchief to her face, still crying. She quickly resumed her place against his neck, smothering him with the scent of lilacs.
“That’s enough, now,” he whispered into her ear. He didn’t dare lift his arms to try to push her away, though. The more alert he became, the sharper the pain. “Come on, sweetheart. Ease off. I’m one big bruise.”
Edie pulled away, and Lennon was struck by the panic in his wife’s eyes. Edie was fragile and unworldly; she’d never really grown up, had never endured anything more than imagined discomforts. Swaddled in a soft environment, she couldn’t imagine a life without her husband.
To his complete surprise, Roger realized he hated her in that moment. Her tears were accusations, prosecuting him for being wounded, for being weak. He could have died, and her wet eyes asked, “What about me? Did you ever think what would happen to me?” The grim emotion disturbed him with its suddenness and virility. And the grief in his wife’s eyes only fueled his irritation, because he knew he was bound to fail her. In Edie’s world, heroes were bronze statues, impervious and static. Her heroes never bled, they never fell down. But he couldn’t live on a pedestal; he couldn’t be a radio-drama husband who said and did all of the right things, and made promises that would last forever because the show needed to end on a high note and Frances Langford was singing them out.
Quit looking at me like I’m disappointing you, he thought.
“Gwendolyn and Bette are with my parents,” Edie told him, expectantly as if waiting for congratulations for having made a sound decision on her own. “When Curtis called, I was beside myself, so I called mother and…” Edie rolled her eyes and sniffed gingerly and tried to smile. “And I haven’t even asked how you feel? I’m so sorry. Darling, are you okay?”
“You know those headaches you get that keep you in bed?” Lennon asked.
“Of course.”
“Like that, only scalp to sole.”
“Won’t they give you anything for the pain? They must have something.”
“No,” he replied. “Not just now.”
“How can they just let you suffer?”
Please go away, he thought.
“Roger,” Edie asked, sounding one part concerned and one part perturbed.
“They have to wait with head wounds. It won’t be long. It’s okay.”
Curt Conrad appeared in the door behind Lennon’s anxious wife, and for the first time in years, Lennon was glad to see his partner. He couldn’t shake the way Edie was making him feel. His irritation with her grew with every tear she attacked with her handkerchief. He should have been grateful for her concern, thankful that she needed him so completely, but he was stuck with the rigid pain and it was staining his mood.
“Come on in, Curt,” he said.
Startled, Edie twisted at the waist to watch Conrad waddle into the room.
“Honey,” Lennon said, “I need to talk with Curt—about last night.”
“Have you caught that animal, yet?” Edie asked.
“No, ma’am,” Conrad said.
“Are you even looking?” Edie demanded.
Conrad stopped and fixed Edie with a hard glare. He pulled the stump of cigar from his lips and said, “Road blocks. Train station. Lakefront. Nobody’s getting out of this city.”
“As it should be,” Edie said, apparently satisfied that his colleagues were taking her husband’s treatment seriously. She turned back to Lennon and said, “Can I bring you anything?”
“Not just now,” he said.
Edie dipped forward and kissed Lennon’s cheek, filling his nose with her awful perfume one more time before telling him that she would be back soon and that she loved him. As she left she turned her head away from Conrad as if he were a hobo making lewd remarks and stormed out of the room.
“Lennon,” Conrad said, grasping the back of a chair. He slid it toward the bed and asked, “How’s your skull?”
“Still attached,” Lennon replied. “You want to tell me how I got here?”
“What do you remember?” Conrad asked. In the chair, he stared at his hands, seeming more interested in the dirt under his nails than Lennon’s response.
“We were at a house,” Lennon said.
“Yeah,” Conrad said, nodding. “You know whose house it was?”
“No. I don’t even know why we were there.”
Conrad hummed deep in his throat. “Guy’s name was Musante,” he said. “I got word that someone wanted him dead, and it wasn’t the wops. Impelliteri sent us over to keep an eye on him and make sure nobody tried to take him out.”
“I thought we stayed out of that shit,” Lennon said.
“We do,” Conrad told him, using his thumbnail to dig beneath the nail of his middle finger. He hadn’t looked at Lennon since taking the chair. “I told Marco it was a one-time thing. A favor. I like it when he owes me favors. So we drive over and park outside and not much happens for about twenty minutes and I get to thinking that maybe Musante is already face down. So I take the front; you take the back. Next thing I know, bang bang. I go in, but the perp is already fast-assing it out the back, where he introduced himself to you. Hopped a fence, and…”
“And what?” Lennon asked.
“And nothing. He was gone. I got off a few shots, but there was no way I was going to catch him. Cardinal may be big, but it doesn’t slow him down none.”
“You already identified the guy?”
“Sure,” Conrad said, flicking a bit of filth from his thumbnail to the floor. “Got his name on the radio fast. William Cardinal. ‘The Butcher.’ That wrestler who does muscle work for Powell and Moran. He’s not going anywhere. Like I told the missus, roadblocks are in place. Train station is covered. If we don’t get him, the wops will.”
Son of a bitch, Lennon thought. He’d seen Cardinal in the ring. The match had gone on for nearly three hours, until the Butcher had managed to take down Dicky Reed once and for all. Lennon remembered it as one hell of a match. The corners of his mouth ticked up in a grin.
“Something funny?” Conrad asked, finally looking at him.
“Not much,” Lennon said. “I just feel better knowing I got my ass tossed by a pro like Cardinal.”
“You can pay your respects soon enough.”
“He should have stayed on the mats.”
“Yeah, well, a million shoulds aren’t worth a speck of moth shit. He’s gonna have his face plastered all over the papers—name all over the radio. He’ll be in a cage or ice cold or both by this time tomorrow.”
Chapter 3
A Lovely, Simple Frame
Butch Cardinal wasn’t dreaming of home; he wasn’t dreaming at all. He’d dozed off only an hour ago, and now a door creaked open and a flashlight cast glare over him. In the beam of light, he saw the snub nose of a revolver, and his muscles tensed.
Blinking and squinting against the torch’s blaze, he lifted his hands, partly to keep the light from his eyes and partly in surrender. He’d thought the gym would make a safe place to flop. Only now was it occurring to him that safety was a thing of the past.
“Get up,” a rough yet familiar voice said.
“Rory?” Butch asked.
“Are you expecting someone else?”
Relief flowed through him. Rory “Ripper” Sullivan was one of the few people Butch knew in Chicago outside of the rackets. They’d met on the legit wrestling circuit as Sullivan’s career in the ring was ending and Butch’s was just building steam. The man had acted as Butch’s mentor for half a year, before calling it quits and buying this building in Chicago. Rory lived in the apartment above the gym with his daughter, Molly. Without enough cash in his pocket for a room at the Y, let alone a hotel, Butch had taken a cab north, putting a good amount of distance between himself and his room. With no place else to go, he’d made his way to Ripper’s Gym.
He sat up and swung his feet off the side of the cot.
“And that’s as far as you go,” Rory said. The gun slid closer as if riding the beam from the lantern.
“What’s this about?” Butch asked.
“I think you’ve got about two seconds to answer that question yourself,” Rory said. “I’ve been hearing things. In fact, it’s about all I can find on the radio. Now, I want to hear some things from you about a guy named Musante.”
Butch stiffened. Had Musante’s murder already made the news?
“I don’t understand,” Butch asked.
“You don’t understand,” Rory mocked. He ratcheted on the overhead fixture and turned off the flashlight. Rory was on the short side, but he looked like he’d been carved out of stone, with a wide chest, thick arms and a square face. The gym had been more than a business for Rory; it had been an obsession. Even in his advanced years, Rory had the musculature of a fighter in his prime. Cold blue eyes stared out beneath white brows. His chin was notched. Normally, when he spoke only a ghost of his Irish accent was apparent, but the angrier he got the more pronounced his brogue became. “The likes of Powell aren’t nothing but poison and gristle, and you would have known that if you’d ever listened to me. Now start talking.”
Butch explained what had happened at Musante’s in as much detail as he could manage. Reciting it back to Rory, hearing it all out loud, Butch found every moment implausible. Unreal. Rory wasn’t helping much. His face was like a mask, showing no more emotion than he would if he were listening to someone complaining about the fish at a restaurant he had no intention of visiting. Butch ended the story and leaned forward making a bridge of his hands and resting his upper lip against it.
“And you came here?” Rory said, dryly. He leaned against the doorjamb and shook his head. “I can’t have you here.”
“I’m not looking for a hideout, Rory,” Butch said. “I just didn’t know where else to go.”
“Tell me about the cops.”
“What cops? After the shooter killed Musante, I ran. I didn’t stick around until the cops came.”
“You dumb sack of horse meat,” Rory said, “The shooters were the cops.”
Butch looked up stunned. “That isn’t right. Not right at all. How do you figure?”
“Because your name’s all over the radio. The cops said they walked in on the murder, so if you didn’t do it, then they did.” The Irishman lowered the gun and stepped away from the door. “Get your kit together and come on out to the office. I’ll put some coffee on.”
“I should go,” Butch muttered as if speaking to himself. Rory didn’t need this kind of trouble.
“Oh, you’ll go. But it sounds like you’re up to your eyes, and the only thing panic is going to get you is more panic. So let’s take a few minutes to think things through before you go tearing out of here.”
“Sure,” Butch said. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” Rory said, “My opinion isn’t going to change your lu
ck. They’re still going to fry your ass if they get their hands on you.”
With that, Rory left the doorway and a stunned Butch, who covered his face with his palms and scrubbed viciously as if his troubles were a film of dirt he could remove with a bit of elbow grease. Except these troubles were in deep, a stain. If Musante was right, Butch should have been dead on the floor alongside the ugly old man. But why?
He pushed himself off of the cot and stretched out his back. A twinge of pain shot up his left knee from where he’d landed in the alley after escaping his apartment. Compared to his ear, which stung like hell, the minor twinge was hardly a concern. He shook it out and walked through the lighted gym. In the office, Rory had already set a percolator on the electric burner he kept on top of his filing cabinet. Photographs, yellowing newspaper clippings, and post bills with Ripper Sullivan’s name printed in big black letters cluttered three of the walls. A half wall, open from waist level to ceiling, squared off the fourth side of the room. Rory kept his desk against the partition so he could collect dues from the men entering the gym and so he could keep an eye on his equipment. Unlike the walls, the desktop was clear—the wood dry and split like Lonnie Musante’s kitchen floor.
“I didn’t mean to bring this mess in here,” Butch said. “I should get going.”
“Sit your rump down,” Rory said.
Butch hesitated. He wrung his hands and then smoothed the hair on the back of his head.
“Sit,” Sullivan repeated. Butch did as he was told. “What did I always say about the first thing you do when you get into a ring?” Rory asked. “And I don’t mean that exhibition nonsense; I mean a real match.”
“Size up your opponent,” Butch said.
“That’s right. Glad you remembered something useful.”
“But how am I supposed to size this up? None of it makes sense. The Irish? The Italians? The cops? I haven’t stepped wrong since I got into town, haven’t skimmed so much as a nickel. I play the game clean.”
