by B C Bell
B.C. Bell
Airship 27 Productions
Tales of the Bagman
Copyright © 2010 B.C. Bell
Editor: Ron Fortier
Associate Editor: Ilena George
Promotions and marketing manager: Michael Vance
Production and design: Rob Davis
Cover illustration © 2010 Laura Givens
Interior illustrations © 2010 Kelly Everaert
Published by Airship 27 Productions
Airship27Hangar.com
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without
permission in writing from the copyright holder, except by a reviewer, who
may quote brief passages in a review.
eBook EditionO
Tales of the
Bagman
Prologue
Chicago: Summer 1921
The boy was only thirteen years old the day the policemen came to the door. The moon had been seven-eighths full that evening, he always remembered that even to this day. One more eighth and it would have been full. But it didn’t quite make it.
His mom had disappeared a few years back. Sent a letter from Texas saying she was going to spend some time with relatives. She just needed a little time. The boy never heard from her again.
He had been heating up some pork chops for his old man to eat when he got home from work. They had long since gone cold. The boy occupied himself in the back yard, throwing a rubber ball at the rear wall of the house, catching it in his glove, practicing going to the opposite side so he could play shortstop.
An old black man named Crankshaft—old to the boy at least—came out of his garage every once in a while and gave the kids playing ball in the vacant lot next door pointers. He knew his stuff. He’d immediately told the kids that Larry Donnegan should move over to first base; since he was a lefty Larry had a better reach, a better chance to catch the ball before the runner got there.
Crankshaft told Frank he should be at shortstop, because the boy was big and quick. If he couldn’t grab the ball, he could just block it or knock it down like Honus Wagner did for The Pirates. Frank just had to keep practicing going to the opposite side. The old mechanic told him, reach around with your glove and spear the line drives flying to your right. Otherwise, just knock it down, block it. Just like Honus. You can take it.
And Frank McCullough could. The old man called him “Mac,” even showed him how to move up in the batter’s box so he could get the jump on a curve ball. The kid got beaned, but he got up, shook it off. He took his base and on his next at bat, he hit a triple. Then he stole home. The catcher stood in the baseline, and the runner hit him like a lineman. The catcher, unconscious, dropped the ball. The runner—unconscious, too—collapsed, slapping his hand down on home plate.
Yeah, Mac McCullough could take it. It was leaving it he had a problem with.
And on that muggy night in June, a night the moon couldn’t even bother to fill in a lousy eighth of its brightness, a night when it might as well not even try to come out and be full, that was the night Mac began to wonder if he wouldn’t rather just leave it.
“Yes, sir,” the boy said, standing in the open front door. “What can I do for you?”
“Are you Frank McCullough?” The cop asked the question like he didn’t think he was. Frank was big for his age. Thirteen going on eighteen.
“Yes, sir. What is it? What happened?” The boy knew something was wrong.
“Son, my name is Officer Costanovitch and this is Officer Reed. Is your father Mr. Jim McCullough?”
The boy nodded.
“Can I ask…?” he stammered. “I need to find out…” the officer paused awkwardly. “When was the last time you saw your dad?”
The boy stopped to think for a second. “Last night. He works early in the morning, so a lot of the time I don’t see him before school. My mom…” the boy looked at his feet. “My mom’s not here. I’m guessing it was about ten o’clock I saw him last. He told me to go to bed.”
“Well, Frank…” Costanovitch looked at the boy’s feet, too. It took strength for him to finally look the boy in the eye. “I’m afraid your father’s been in an accident.”
The next twenty-four hours are a blur in the boy’s memory now. The policeman told him they had found a body floating in Lake Michigan next to a small boat—just small enough to be unregistered—and the body might be his father. Then they had taken him to identify the bloated, blue thing that had once been his Dad.
After that, the boy changed. He talked to no one. He took a week off from school. Then he took a year. He stayed in foster homes where it was clear they cared more about the support money than the child. After that he just disappeared, hopped trains and rode the rails.
He learned a lot of things they don’t teach in school. Things nobody should learn.
Then one day, he came back to the city…
Tales of the
Bagman
Bagman
Part One: Loose Change
Birth of a Bagman
Chapter I
Breaking Legs
Chicago is the kind of city that defines spring fever. After record snowstorms in February, people practically ran out in the streets naked to celebrate spring. Now it was June and the thermometer was already climbing into the nineties. To make matters worse, the depression was in full swing and all those naked people couldn’t afford new clothes. Politicians kept saying prosperity was right around the corner, but so was the line at the soup kitchen. The Cubs had just lost two to the Gashouse Gang, vaudeville was dead, and the only people making any real money were the mob.
Frank “Mac” McCullough knew there was going to be trouble when the car stopped on Waveland. He nudged his partner across the front seat.
“Tony, this is the place?”
“It’s Anthony, Mac. Anthony,” Tony said. “And this is the place.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. This is the place. You got a problem with that?”
Mac had a problem with it. He didn’t know what it was, but it was a problem. Something wasn’t right.
He wasn’t afraid. That wasn’t it. And it wasn’t that he was a nice guy or anything. Hell, he worked for the mob. He broke legs for a living, or at least that’s what people thought. Mac didn’t necessarily like his work, but he was good at it. He knew people called him a courier to his face and a bagman to his back, but it paid well and work was hard to find.
But there was something about the house on Waveland Avenue. Something familiar. Too close to home.
“No problem,” Mac said, and considered his career options.
Everybody from the old neighborhood had grown up to be a cop or a criminal. Mac hadn’t exactly grown up, but he knew which way he was headed. Cops didn’t make any money. And they sure didn’t drive around in shiny, new sports cars. He stepped out of the passenger side of a 1933 Graham “Blue Streak” Eight, with a forced smile on his face and an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.
End of options.
“This one bother you ‘cause there ain’t no high windows?”
“Yeah, that’s probably it.” Mac told himself he was nervous because he’d never actually broken anyone’s legs before. Up until a month ago all he’d ever done was collect protection money—hop out of a car, go into a store, come out with the money—it was simple. Since he’d been promoted to full-time
racketeer he spent most of his time climbing skyscrapers and threatening to throw construction workers off the girders. If it was a businessman, they’d take the elevator, and Mac would threaten to drop him out the window. He’d only had to rough up a couple guys, but one or two punches made them all pay up. The “breaking legs” thing wasn’t a bad rep to have if you were making collections.
“Don’t worry,” Tony said. He slammed the car door and rolled his shoulders, making sure the revolver under his coat didn’t bulge. “Just let me do all the talking.” Tony always did all the talking. He was good at intimidation. He had a voice like a reptile.
They sauntered up to the front door exchanging glances, Mac checking to see if any of the neighbors were watching. Tony couldn’t have cared less, and pounded the door with his fist. Nobody answered. He ran a thumb and forefinger down each side of a pencil-thin mustache and cupped his hand under his chin as if he were thinking. Mac knew what he was going to say—
“Run around back. Make sure nobody’s trying to sneak out.”
Mac trotted through the yard, down the gangway. The Model-A was still in back, but the man they were looking for could just as easily still be at the corner tavern, or maybe took the train to work like everybody else in the city. At least none of his family was home yet. Mac disconnected the car’s distributor cap to make sure it didn’t go anywhere and watched the back door from the edge of the alley, waiting.
He didn’t have to wait long. Pretty soon he could hear Tony kicking in the front door. Tony was more than all muscle and no brains; he was just plain mean. He enjoyed scaring people, threatening lives. He got off on it. That’s why he didn’t worry about the neighbors as witnesses, he’d be more than happy to come back and convince them not to talk.
Mac unsheathed his lock pick set and opened the back door. As he entered he heard the front door smash open and crash against the wall. When they met in the living room, Tony was still holding a piece of the door attached to the knob like he was trying to figure out how to work it.
“Maybe we should’ve just waited,” Mac said.
“Nah, he’s here. We’ll start on this floor and work our way up. Prob’ly hiding in a closet or something.” Tony dropped the doorknob in the middle of the living room and headed upstairs, while Mac stayed below looking in the kitchen. The coffee pot was still warm.
Two minutes later, Tony yelled, “Hey Mac, I got him!”
Mac took his time heading upstairs. One of those new Kit Kat clocks was hanging in the hallway with its eyes moving back and forth, its tail working as a pendulum. The Kat’s shifty eyes made it look nervous. Mac finally realized what had been bothering him when he heard Tony’s voice from outside the door.
“It’s come to Mr. Lurie’s attention that you’re almost two weeks late on your payment, Mr. Guthrie.”
It was the name. Guthrie.
Mac had been in this house before. A long time ago—but he’d been in this house.
“Two weeks, Mr. Guthrie,” Tony rasped. “The agreement was for payment on the first of the month—and here it is the twelfth. Mr. Lurie can’t afford to have anybody welshing on any deals. He’s on a very tight schedule financially.”
Mac cleared the door and peered into the office to see Tony violently shoving a gray-haired man away from the desk and into a bookshelf. Mac didn’t have to see the old man’s face to know who it was: his Uncle Ray. Tony shoved the old man again, squeezing his face into a shelf full of books.
Uncle Ray Guthrie had been a friend of Mac’s family back in the days when he had still had one. Ray had helped Mac’s father get into the construction business and later on became a partner in the company. He’d been a part of family picnics. He’d come to weddings and funerals. He may not have been a blood relative, but he’d earned his place at the table. Uncle Ray looked up over Tony’s shoulders and into Mac’s eyes. Mac’s heart sank.
“How are you, Ray?” Mac said.
“Frank?” Uncle Ray did a double take. “Frank? You with this man?”
Tony stopped shoving and glanced from one to the other.
“Yes, sir, I am,” Mac said. Nobody had called Mac by his real name in a long time.
“Frank, you tell this man I’m good for the money. You tell him—”
Tony started laughing. “Oh my stars and garters! You know this guy don’tcha, Mac? That’s why you kept asking if this was the house. You know this guy.” He pushed Uncle Ray back toward the wall again.
“Yeah, I know him,” Mac said, stepping between the two.
Tony leaned back, loosened his tie, turning his head side to side and tsk-tsking. “Well don’t that beat all.” He smiled like a reptile, too.
Mac ignored him. “How much are they into you for, Ray?”
“Twelve hundred dollars. I—I had a business deal fall through,” he stammered. “All’s I need is a little more time, Frank. Just a little more time. Two, three days.”
Mac looked over at Tony. Tony tipped his hat back and raised his eyebrows as if to say “get a load of this.” Unbuttoning his jacket, he sat down on the arm of an overstuffed, velvet chair.
“C’mon Tony—” Mac begged.
“Anthony, dammit. Anthony.”
“Anthony, I swear I’ll never call you Tony again. Can’t we let him go just this one time? I’ve known this man all my life. He’ll get you your money.”
“Ain’t my money, hotshot. It’s Lurie’s. And it’s been almost two weeks already,” Tony said. “We don’t come back with something, he’s gonna break our legs.”
“Ray, you got nothing?”
Uncle Ray was holding his hands together like he was praying for help. “It’s all invested, Mac. Every cent.” The old man was sweating, eyes pleading.
Twelve hundred dollars was a lot of money, more than Mac had to offer. He had just gotten paid, but he still didn’t have enough to front Uncle Ray; Tony cheated at cards, too.
“Look, Ton— Anthony, I got two hundred bucks. If I give it to Slots, you think he’d wait a day or two?”
“You and I both know it’s gotta be half or nothin’. And don’t call him ‘Slots,’ he hates that. It’s Mister Lurie. He ever hears you call him ‘Slots’ he’ll slit your throat. You know that, right? MISTER Lurie, my friend, it’s always Mr. Lurie.”
There was a moment of silence, then some muttering. Mac’s uncle fell to his knees, face to the floor, praying, begging forgiveness.
Mac held his hands open, palms up toward Tony—give me something here.
Tony shrugged at him. He was enjoying this. “Man’s got to do his job, Mac.”
Mac pinched between his eyes as if he had a headache. Turning, he faced the wall and stared up at the bookshelves.
“Don’t worry, kid. I got this one,” Tony said. “First one’s always free.” He paused, pushing himself up off the arm rest. “But you owe me one.” He stepped over behind the begging man and grabbed him by the arm, forcing him upright.
Uncle Ray went along with it, straightening his back, sticking his chest out. An old man with tears running down his face, silent, defeated, and resigned. He turned, stared Tony down and then looked Mac in the eyes again.
“This is what you do now your father’s dead, Frank?” he said. “You go around crippling old men? Babies? Women maybe? Not even smart enough to loan the money. Just beat people up.”
“Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, pops,” Tony said, holding the old man’s arms behind his back. He started to raise his head and grin at Mac.
All he saw was a fist like a sledgehammer. Coming right at him.
Mac had thrown the left hook over his Uncle’s shoulder—at an awkward angle—not his strongest punch, but enough to break Tony’s nose. Tony stumbled backward, clutching his face, as Mac shoved Uncle Ray across the room in an effort to protect him. Tony r
eached into his coat for his gun.
Mac reacted almost by instinct, shoveling clear one of the bookshelves to his left. Twenty hardbound volumes careened through the air, pummeling Tony, distracting him as Mac hit his elbow and forced the gun back into the shoulder holster. Standing too close to punch him, Mac grabbed Tony by the lapels and head butted him, then threw a pile-driver right to the jaw. Tony’s gun hand hung limply in the air.
So did Tony.
Mac held the gangster one-handed by the collar and shook him to make sure he was unconscious. Then dropped him to the floor.
“Uncle Ray, you’re coming with me,” he ordered, kneeling and pulling the gun out of Tony’s coat.
Mac grabbed Uncle Ray by the arm and pushed him outside, while Ray was still trying to figure out what had happened. Mac stuck the gun in his pocket, a staggering Uncle Ray in tow. He shoved the old man into the passenger seat of the car, got behind the wheel and pressed the starter.
“We got to get you out of town, Uncle Ray.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere Slots Lurie won’t find you.” Mac fish-tailed the car around the corner and headed for the highway. “You’re going to call him and tell him you don’t know what happened. You don’t know why the two men he sent started fighting, but you’ll have his money for him. You had to go out of town to get it. Can you remember that?”
“Sure, but where am I going to go? Look out—”
Mac wheeled around a Hudson Essex, changing lanes twice. He kept his eyes straight ahead on the road, staring, one eye half closed in thought.
“Aunt Trudy’s…” Another unrelated relative, an old girlfriend of Uncle Ray’s.
“Mac, I can’t go to Trudy’s. We drive each other crazy.”
