by John Mead
But before he could go, Jack stretching himself awake said, “What doesn’t make sense to me is why a skilled undercover detective, hand-picked by the top man himself, thought a shy, black, female piano teacher could help her in cornering a man she seems to have considered dangerous?”
Jack had left the others as they went their separate ways. He was still troubled by thoughts of his missing day and how his hip flask had found its way to the scene of a murder but on the positive side he was obviously no longer a suspect. It was too late for him to try and meet with Kitty, he would leave it until the morrow and would spend the day trying to trace his missing steps from yesterday. For now he would head home and hailed a cab on the south side of Rush Bridge; as he boarded he thought he saw, though only a fleeting glance, a figure in a brown check suit ducking down an alleyway.
3
Dinner Party
Day Two – Wednesday April 16th 1886
Jack solved the riddle of his hip flask whilst he waited for Kitty outside a dime museum. He had unthinkingly reached into his jacket for a drop to warm him on a chilly spring day then realising it was Miss Blackstaff’s notebook he had taken out he had carelessly replaced it, only for it to fall to the pavement. It would have been by instinct that he’d have had a fortifying drop before entering the warehouse, the flask must have slipped to the floor, missing the pocket in his absent-minded haste, and fallen amongst the rubble. He was determined he could now legitimately retrieve the flask from Cage and have the inspector send the notebook to Miss Blackstaffs’s mother with the rest of her daughter’s possessions. It was, therefore, a smiling and even-tempered Jack that a breathless and late Kitty discovered waiting for her. Under the circumstances she quickly gave up the pretence of having rushed to make up for her tardiness and they entered the dime museum arm in arm.
Stevens rented a little apartment north of the river but they only met there when they had sufficient time for a longer and more intimate meeting, usually after a meal or before going out. Their other regular venue was the River Bar, though no more than a drinking den, it offered them privacy amongst the low class women and river men who frequented the place. Kitty, much to Jack’s amusement, dressed in her oldest clothes when going to the bar, cussed a great deal and and comported herself like any of the other female customers who found the bar a profitable place to pick up paying clients. Kitty had a hankering for playing roles, some more to Jack’s liking than others, and undertaking little adventures about the city. Today she seemed to be playing a shy and naive widow whom Jack was escorting to see the sights so that, as they sauntered through the museum, she was coy and reluctant to snatch kisses as they loitered in the darker corners.
At another time Jack might have enjoyed the game, forcing his attentions on the the ‘unwilling’ widow and, eventually, persuading her to accompany him to his rooms for an afternoon of debauchery; but currently he had other things on his mind. Hoping it would lead to some enlightenment about his missing day he asked Kitty if she remembered anything odd occurring at their last meeting.
“No, though you were quite drunk when I left you, I thought you were going to your home,” was her unhelpful response, annoyed by his lacklustre enthusiasm for playing his part in her game; the exasperation in her face signalling she expected him to kiss her.
“Did you see the papers today?” he finally asked, releasing her as another much younger couple turned the corner, invading the privacy of the little nook they had discovered.
“The death of poor Philomena Blackstaff, you mean?” Kitty said, glancing over her shoulder to note the young woman was taking up her station so her man could steal a kiss or two before another couple supplanted them. “I wonder if the owners keep the lighting low to attract so many couples,” she mused as they sauntered on, “it does little to help the viewing of the exhibits.”
“Did you know Miss Blackstaff?” Jack ignored Kitty’s comments on the establishment he had brought her to, she already knew he had suggested it for its reputation, knowing it would appeal to her adventurous nature.
“I knew of her, I went to one or two of her recitals for the working man and woman, and I spoke to her once,” Kitty told him, twining her arm in his and putting her head, carefully so as not to displace her hat, on his shoulder as they stood before some exhibit of rather dusty Indian apparel. “It was a brief conversation, outside a hall she had played in down by the docks, it was of little consequence. However, she was respected and liked, the men and women of the area appreciated the time she gave and that she didn’t put on any airs.”
“Was she with anyone?” Jack wanted to know. “A blond woman in particular.”
“The unnamed one found with her you mean?” Kitty told him, suddenly kissing him passionately as the other couple came up to view the exhibit, then quickly leading him away; she had it seemed found another game to play. “She was with her brother, I believe, he was speaking to a group of men whilst various people were thanking her, praising her playing, which she was modestly denying being anything exceptional. However, I considered her very talented and told her so. There were plenty of young blond women about but none seemed to be with her.”
“You are a supporter of the Knights of Labour, aren’t you?” Jack asked, pondering on the notebook entries about MW and how both he and Cage had jumped to the conclusion the young piano teacher was writing about a man.
“Supporter and recruiter, for more than two years now, I can go with impunity into any factory or business in the Dead Hands area of control. None would dare gainsay the sister of Mr Henry Tipwell, certainly not whilst some of his boys shadow my every footstep when I am about my recruiting activities,” Kitty told him, all the while blatantly watching the other couple canoodle, then stating, “The hussy!” just loud enough for the woman to hear before Jack, tugging at her arm, pulled her around another corner.
“You saw nothing of Miss Blackstaff at meetings of the Knights, nor heard anything about her?” Jack asked, becoming irritated at Kitty’s antics but allowing her to embrace him as they turned into a particularly dark corner.
“No,” she gasped between kisses that were growing in passion, “I saw her father, the reverend, speak once or twice.”
“Oh, the trollop!” the woman hissed, turning the corner and stopping to pull her own beau towards her by his lapels. The two men allowed their women their passionate and increasingly lewd embraces, the pair of women hissing insults at each other between kisses. Just how far things might of gone none could tell but the women suddenly took flight, pulling their men behind them, as voices could be heard approaching.
“I don’t have time for this,” Jack stated, annoyed though aroused by Kitty’s wanton behaviour, pulling them up in front of another exhibit of a rusty looking machine of some type. “I have to see Hank and then get home to change, I have a dinner at my daughter’s too get to.”
“Oh, you might have said,” Kitty scowled, watching the two young men that had interrupted her earlier game pass behind them, “I thought you brought me here for other reasons, you said I would enjoy it given its reputation for public displays.”
“Still it is a mouldy dump and I am leaving,” Jack started to pull her down the corridor, his voice rising in anger.
“Stop it, get your hands off me,” Kitty kept her tone even but loud enough for heads to turn as they entered a more crowded area. Jack immediately stopped and looked around as if he was also searching for where the raised voice had come from.
“If I had time I would put you over my knee,” he informed her, knowing it would cause her to smile again, she was far too adept at getting her own way for him to do other than placate her. “It was me that found the bodies yesterday and, frankly, I’m troubled by what I saw and look for answers as to why they were left the way they were.”
“You are a strange one, Jack,” Kitty smiled, knowing it was his curiosity, that led him into so many scrapes, that she like
d about him best as she craved adventure herself, “most others would have run a mile,” then laughing as she remembered the report in the morning paper. “So you are the, ‘elderly gent, out walking,’ who, ‘discovered the mangled remains’.”
“Yes,” Jack snorted derisively, “and it is as accurate a report as their suggestion that the murders were done by members of the local street gang. The newsmen think these two are killed for the same reason there has been a string of vicious beatings across the city as the various gangs jockey each other.”
“I’m sorry, Jack,” Kitty purred, recognising from his tone that the killings meant more to him than ideal curiosity. “I can’t help much, though I do now recall seeing the pianist at a recent Knights meeting and she was with a young blond woman, but I know no more about her. However, I do know someone who might, a woman on the Knights’ membership committee I report to, if you promise to take me to the theatre afterwards I will introduce you to her tomorrow afternoon.”
“It’s a deal,” Jack readily agreed his anger already gone. “Will it be ‘The Bijou’ or the ‘Opera’?”
“I was thinking ‘Hershey’s’, the music hall, would be more fun,” she stated with a broad smile and a wink.
Jack knew exactly where Hank would be during business hours, at Brandon Edward O’Shea’s side, and the great man would be in his normal place of business which was located in a corner of the restaurant in a hotel he owned. The hotel was discreetly located just off the financial district within the city centre, its entrance was down a short street that went nowhere. Jack had been there once before, many years previous, but he sauntered in as if he was a regular customer and approached the maitre d’hotel.
“Good day,” Stevens responded to the quizzical smile, whilst wondering if this was the same impeccably dressed and barbered young man who had been here on his previous visit. “If I might ask that you pass a message to Mr Henry Tipwell, over there.” He nodded to the group of men sat in one of the larger booths in the corner to his right, the booths either side being occupied by young men who were of an equal stature to Hank and were obviously there as guards.
“I am sorry, sir, but Mr O’Shea and Mr Tipwell are in conference with business associates and cannot be disturbed,” came the polite and unctuous response. Jack smiled, expecting such a response, coughed loudly and dropped the revolver he had concealed in his hand, the crash against the polished wooden floor causing everyone to look up.
“Sorry,” Jack exclaimed, bending to pick up the gun and making no effort to conceal it, “Brandon, Hank, my apologies for the disturbance.” Then thinking he recognised one of the faces turned towards him as the eldest McCormick son, smiled broadly and nodded as he added. “Old age you know, I keep dropping everything.”
“Good afternoon, Jack,” Brandon, touching a finger to his hairline in the form of a salute that he’d grown accustomed to using on seeing Jack, in acknowledgement of Stevens being a veteran. “I am engaged at the moment but if you care to wait I will do my best to spare you a few minutes later today.”
“No need, my dear friend,” Jack courteously replied, neither man particularly liked or disliked the other, Martha having once been Brandon’s mistress during the period she thought Jack dead, the men treated each other with cold cordiality when they met at some function or the theatre. “I see you have important and influential guests,” he nodded at McCormick and received a hesitant nod in return, “but if you can spare me five minutes of Mr Tipwell’s time I have a personal favour of his to complete.” Jack returned to the hotel lobby, leaving Hank to deal with O’Shea’s angry expression and spent a minute composing a note to Cage about the notebook and his flask, which he had a bellhop take round to the appropriate precinct station.
“He said he is dining with you tonight at your son-in-laws,” Hank told him, not taking a seat and towering above him like a replica of the Home Insurance building. “Though he doesn’t seem happy at your intrusion.”
“My apologies, Hank, please explain to the estimable Mr O’Shea I only come here because it is urgent and about the personal favour you asked me to do for you.”
“Very well,” Hank sighed knowing Jack to be a man of good sense whom he trusted. “Though my intention was for you to report the find to the police, steer them away from jumping to conclusions and then walk away.”
“Which is what I’m doing,” it was close enough to the truth for Jack to consider that he didn’t lie to his young friend. “But the police are on a path that brings them back to the street gangs.”
“The reports in the papers this morning are erroneous, I can assure you, from what I know this is not the work of any gang,” Hank was dismissive of the standard of reporting on the case. “There’s been some trouble of late, not just round the stockyards where all the new Polaks and other immigrants fight for space, but here and there along a number of borders.”
“Not between the Kings and the Dead Hands, though?”
“No, they are too evenly matched and the Kings profit from Mr O’Shea’s goodwill,” Hank told him, relenting and taking a seat, thinking Brandon would now want the full story from him.
“Rumour has it that the Kings have lost ground to the south of their territory,” Jack queried, not certain what he wanted to know from Hank, still thinking about the way the women were posed and what the possible message they represented might be. “And, as you say, with all the immigrants coming into the city, the Italians and Greeks, could these attacks be the start of something?”
“Change is inevitable, especially west of the river,” Hank shrugged. “Each gang has it’s own core territory, outside of that, it is a case of ebb and flow and the Kings claim too big an area for them to hold. The coloreds are pushing up from the southeast as they carve out their space, but it doesn’t take from the Kings’ home streets across the south river or there would be real bloodshed. There’s room for them all, even the god-dammed Chinks are starting to hold onto a little space in amongst the coloreds. All of the recent beatings are of little real consequence just boundary markers to show where the lines are drawn.”
“Hands and knees smashed, ribs kicked in, faces slashed, vitriol thrown; these weren’t included in the Homestead Act as legitimate ways to mark out a territory,” Jack pointed out.
“Maybe not, but hanging women from a rafter isn’t a recognised way either,” Hank stated, shifting himself in the chair, knowing he should get back. “Besides Reverend Blackstaff is respected for his work across the city. We may be Irish and the Kings German but we are all Catholics and religion binds as close as blood. What’s more both Catholic and Protestant bishops speak out for the work the reverend is doing, so killing his daughter will anger a lot of people in all quarters of the city.”
“You heard how the pair were hung up, does this mean anything to you?’ Jack asked as Hank stood to leave.
“Sorry, Jack, nothing at all, other than it sickens me that any woman should be so treated. It is savage, something you read about that those heathens the Indians would do.”
Jack could have told him otherwise but seeing his friend was already drawing away, settled on one final question, “The name ‘Chicago Joe’, does it mean anything to you?”
Hank paused, giving thought before he answered, “The only person I have heard of going by that sobriquet is real small fry, dabbles in whores and guns. Can’t say the name has cropped up for a while, Italian I think, he worked north of the stockyards. More than that I don’t know but I can get the word out and see what comes back, if it helps.”
“It would. Thank you for your time Hank,” Jack said, thoughtfully, to his friend’s retreating back.
The dinner at his daughter’s was large and formal, with a number of courses: duck liver, filleted fish, cutlets, various deserts, fruits and cheese each served with a different wine. Jack had to admit Abigail and Chester’s chef was excellent, though he wondered how he might fare with a
Dutch oven cooking on a cattle drive. The dinner was the centre piece in wooing McCormick and Deering to support Chester’s campaign towards his goal for governorship. Neither man was quite in the league of Jason Gould but were big bugs amongst Chicago’s elite. Nor were they naturally democrats, both being self-made men from ‘humble’ beginnings but neither of them particularly liked the current republican governor and Chester was looking to use their support and influence to his advantage.
Brandon O’Shea and Jacob DeWert, Chester’s father, were also present and the three seemed to be getting along swimmingly with their two guests. Andrew, Jack’s son, spent most of his time in deep conversation with McCormick’s eldest son, whom Jack recognised from his interruption of O’Shea’s earlier meeting. Whilst the former group talked politics, the younger pair, who in practice ran the businesses of each party, were hammering out the detail of the deal negotiated by O’Shea. The women, the wives of the illustrious men sat around the table, listened attentively and turned the conversation to fashion, theatre or social events whenever an otherwise unsuitable topic arose or during lapses in the conversation. Jack remained in happy silence throughout, nodding between mouthfuls of food or wine, he was so locked up in his own thoughts that he did not at first realise the elder McCormick had addressed him.
“Mr McCormick was asking about your time in the army, Jack,” Martha came to his rescue.
“My apologies, Mr McCormick, I’m a little deaf, unfortunately it comes with old age,” Jack stated, though he was many years younger than the man who addressed him. “What in particular did you want to know?”
“Actually, Mr Stevens, I wondered if you thought the lives lost and sacrifices made had been worthwhile or if the outcomes could have been better achieved through some peaceful solution?” It was not an uncommon question to be raised at dinner tables during recent years. Twenty years after the end of the war and, even with the Klan supposedly dead in the south, in practice the lot of colored folk had hardly changed since their freedom. With labour unrest growing in the great cities and railroads crossing the continent the country’s focus was on its ‘Manifest Destiny’, to occupy and exploit the entire land from coast to coast. The United States was now expanding, far more populous and growing daily in wealth when compared with the Eastern Seaboard ideologies of twenty years previous.
