by B C Bell
Engrossed in the safecracking, he leaned forward, down on his knees, focused, his heartbeat like a monitor for every notch on the dial. Then, something from the outside world pounded on the end of his spine.
Mac wasn’t sure if he’d yanked the stethoscope out of his ears or it had shot off with the pain running up his tailbone, but he rolled over just in time to see Jimmy the Jaw’s foot stomping where his spinal column had just been. The floorboards splintered. Mac couldn’t get his legs to work right.
Jimmy pulled his foot out of the floor. When he brought it back up, Mac grabbed his shoe, and pushed. Jimmy stumbled backward and fell over the desk chair as Mac kept rolling across the room. When he hit the wall, he managed to crawl back up on his feet, just in time to fall back down, dodging Jimmy’s fist as it punched a hole in the wall.
Mac had to get out of here. If anybody was around, they had to have heard something by now.
“The rat looked up at Mac and suddenly shut up.”
He didn’t have to pull himself up again. Jimmy did it for him, like he was a rag doll. This wasn’t good.
Mac pushed himself away from Pirelli. Spinning, dodging, he spun for the door. The heavyweight wrapped an arm around Mac’s waist and punched him in the kidney twice. Mac elbowed him in the face. Jimmy the Jaw punched him in the kidney again.
Mac looked down and stamped on Pirelli’s foot, shot his elbow into Jimmy’s nose, and the grip loosened. Mac turned sideways and kicked him in the sternum, propelling himself out of the room. and Jimmy the Jaw back toward the desk. When Pirelli stumbled through the door, a standing ashtray hit him over the head. Mac hit him three more times. He set the ashtray back down upright; it fell over, bent at an angle the shape of Jimmy’s head. Mac staggered out the door and down the alley.
When he woke up it was daylight, he was laying in the gangway of a bungalow on Melrose. Some kid with a beanie on was poking him with a stick.
Mac grabbed the stick and the kid ran away screaming. He thanked God it wasn’t a gang of them, they would have rolled him down the street like an old tire.
Wiping some blood off his face with what was left of his tie, he pulled his hat down low to cover it up, and stumbled all the way back to Lincoln Avenue. He could barely walk. so hopping the trolley wasn’t an option. It took him almost half an hour to hail a cab. Beat up and swaying in the heat, he probably didn’t look like a paying fare. When somebody finally pulled over, Mac climbed in back and mumbled Crankshaft’s address. He threw some money at the driver before he passed back out.
***
Crankshaft opened the garage door and found Mac laying face down on the floor. When he rolled him over, the body flinched. He took that as a good sign, and poured a shot of whiskey down Mac’s throat. Mac spit it out, tried to sit up and lay back down groaning. Crankshaft put him in the one chair that had a cushion.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Top of the heap.” Mac winced and slid back down on the floor.
When he woke up, his lips were burning, and he coughed from the second shot of whiskey Crank had poured down his gullet. His shirt was off, his ribs were taped up and he smelled like liniment. Crankshaft was standing over him, shot glass in hand and a big smile on his face.
“Looks like the top of the heap fell on you, you big ape.”
“Jimmy…” Mac muttered.
“The Jaw? You fought Jimmy the Jaw? That’s like picking a fight with a fire hydrant. Think, kid. Think.”
“I didn’t have time to think. He came up behind me.”
“Guy like that, you got to work the body, dance around him.”
“Guy like that wasn’t supposed to know I was there. He’s got fire hydrants for fists.” Mac sat up, clutching his ribs.
“Yeah, and it looks like he busted a few ribs. You’re probably going to be pissing blood for a couple days.”
Mac touched his rib cage, flinched, and sucked air through his teeth. “Great. You have to tape me up so tight? I can hardly breathe.”
“Take a deep breath and you might pop a lung.” Crank shook his head back and forth. “We need to get you to a doctor. No telling what he did to your insides.”
“What time is it?” Mac asked, hoping Crankshaft wouldn’t get smart and tell him, ‘time to go see a doctor.’
“Time for you—“
“—to go see a doctor,” they said in unison.
“Seriously, what time is it?” Mac stood up, gritting his teeth, trying not to make a face.
“About three o’clock.”
“Three o’clock? Already?” Mac reached over and took his .45 out of the shoulder holster hanging on the back of Crankshaft’s desk chair. He popped open the chamber and made sure it was loaded, pulled some spare bullets out of the other pocket. “Crank, I need another gun.”
“I think the one you got would probably take Pirelli out,” Crank deadpanned.
“No, no. It’s not for Pirelli. That was burglary. That’s different.” Mac had always adhered to the code that a good burglar didn’t need a gun. “This…” He paused, almost shrugging his shoulders, still staring at the bullets in the revolver. “This is war.” He flipped the chamber shut with a flick of his wrist.
“Don’t tell me what you’re going to do,” Crankshaft said. “Because if it’s something really stupid, I may just stop you.”
“Crank, what I mean is I need your help.”
“Is it stupid?”
“Look, I messed this thing up trying to get Slots off Uncle Ray’s case. Now he’s going to take it out on every shop owner from here to Fullerton. I can’t have that kind of thing on my conscience. I gotta do something.”
“Something stupid…”
“I promise, your part won’t be stupid.”
“But yours will,” Crankshaft said, his voice trailing off, not bothering to argue.
Chapter IV
A Gun and a Bag
The whole idea behind cracking the safe at The Lincoln Tap had been to throw Slots off course just long enough to discombobulate the protection racket. To at least make the big boys in The Loop start all over again. With Slots still in business they’d be picking up where they left off. And where they’d left off was with Stephano owing them money. Money he’d given to Mac.
And every business owner on Southport from Irving to Belmont and another six block square was in the same boat. To make matters worse, Mac couldn’t even remember which shops he’d hit. Slots was the kind of guy who’d send a bagman to the gates of hell in order to collect. He’d have a guy at the gates of Wrigley Field, if he thought he thought he could get away with it.
Crankshaft had that in mind when he pulled up to the corner of Waveland and Southport, just a few blocks away from the baseball field, in the stolen Blue Streak Eight. He’d dropped Mac off in back of the market and stayed parked until Mac gave him the high sign from the back door. Four o’clock. Crankshaft tried not to think this was this stupidest thing he’d ever been involved in. Then he remembered the war and all the stupid things he’d done to win The French Medal of Honor.
When he rounded the corner there was a Lincoln KB parked in front of the market with the engine running. Nice Car. Big Car. Probably seat seven people. The driver sat alone, smoking a cigarette, checking out the street and the inside of the store with scattered glances. Crankshaft parked the stolen Blue Streak directly in front of the Lincoln and almost laughed when he saw the man behind the wheel’s eyes bug out.
He stepped out of the driver’s side still wearing his coveralls from the garage with a clipboard in his hand, like he was returning a repair job. He glanced from storefront to clipboard, as if checking the address, and approached the mobster behind him. The driver had his hand halfway in his jacket, ready to grab his gun.
“‘Scuse me, suh,” Crankshaft put
on his best Stepand Fetchit. “I’se lookin’ fuh Wavelan’ Av’nue?”
The driver looked confused. Was that Slots’s car? Why’s this guy delivering it here? Now? He started to open his mouth and pulled his gun hand out of his coat to point at the street sign behind Crankshaft’s head.
Crankshaft pushed the driver’s arm out of the way and pounded his head into the door frame with both hands. Three times. Crankshaft hated Stepand Fetchit.
The gangster’s head hung over his arm out the window like a drunk who had passed out while signaling. Crankshaft reached in the car and took the man’s gun out of his coat, dropping it on the floor board. He picked up the clipboard and flipped it in the window, scanned the street to make sure no one had seen him and opened the door. Shoving the mobster over to the passenger side, he took the driver’s seat.
***
Mac stood in the back entrance with his .45 Colt Revolver in his hand. When he’d first heard Tony’s voice, he’d given Crankshaft the go ahead and swung the door to Stephano’s shut behind him. That way there was no looking back.
He’d been lucky enough back at the taproom that he didn’t think Jimmy the Jaw would be able to identify him, but now that he’d heard Tony he realized—no matter how this thing ended—he was going to have to leave town. Even if he were successful, word would eventually make its way up the food chain that he was the one that had run Lurie’s goons off. If Slots didn’t come after him, the big boys would.
He felt around in his suit, looking for a handkerchief he could tie around his face like they do in movies. No go. Even if he’d had one, half the gang would recognize him anyway. What was the point?
He was looking through the top half of the French door that led to the sales floor—about to kick it in and make an entrance—when he spotted a crumpled grocery sack on the floor that had probably been there since the Coolidge Administration. Mac stuck his hand inside the bag and tried to smooth out the wrinkles. He flexed his fingers and tried to gauge the size of the bag. Sticking his gun back in the holster, he poked two eyeholes through the paper and pulled it over his head like a mask. Smelled a little like Chinese food. He wondered if Stephano’s wife knew he’d been ordering out. If he survived this he’d rescue the old man from Mama Stephano later.
Mac put his hat on over the paper bag and pulled it down tight. He could just hear the reptile tone of Tony’s voice leaking through the stockroom door. Considering Lurie had lost two grand in the last two days, Tony was lucky to be alive. Lurie had probably demoted him and sent some hired muscle along to back him up. Meaning he’d either lost confidence in Tony, or there were going to be some beatings handed out today. Probably both. Peeking through the door, Mac finally saw him.
Tony was wearing sunglasses in an effort to hide two black eyes, and his broken nose was covered in tape. Christy Keeler, a tough little Dutchman Mac knew from the old neighborhood, stood in back of the store bruising the tomatoes and keeping watch out the window. The other two tough guys were new. You could tell by the way they were dressed. Their suits would’ve been nice if they hadn’t exchanged jackets to make it look like they each owned more than one. Instead, they were like two parts of a walking checkerboard. One of them had on a brown coat and blue slacks, the other wore brown slacks and a blue coat.
Tony had Mr. Stephano by the collar, holding him up in the air over the counter. He gritted his teeth and smiled at the same time, backhanding the shopkeeper across the face. He was enjoying himself.
“Whattaya mean ya gave the money to Tony?” he screamed. “I’m Tony!”
One of the hired guns behind him began to snicker.
“Only it’s not Tony! It’s Anthony, OK?” Enraged, Tony punched the old man in the gut. “It’s Anthony!” He wound up, his fist in the air behind him, ready to punch Stephano in the face.
“Shut up, Tony.” Mac stepped out from behind the door with his .45 in his hand.
One of the new goons started to reach into his coat for his gun.
Mac seemed to fill the room as he straightened his arm and pulled the hammer of the revolver back, aiming at the man’s head. “Don’t even think about it.”
The new goon took a step backward, displaying his empty gun hand, fingers splayed in the air. The other men’s eyes glanced side-to-side at each other, unsure.
Tony let go of Stephano’s collar. The shopkeeper’s head thumped on the counter as he slumped behind it. He came to rest sitting against the wall, battling unconsciousness, his eyes glazed.
“What is this, Halloween?” Tony said. “Lemme guess, you’re a scarecrow, right?” Tony’s hand faded toward his shoulder holster, but he waved it behind his head with a flourish. He was testing.
Keeler made a move for his coat. Mac shot him in the collarbone.
Keeler fell backward through a stack of Asco beans, scattering cans in the air. They clattered and rolled around on the floor.
“Scared now?” Mac said. Keeler lay on the floor screaming, clutching at his wound, blood seeping between his fingers.
Mac clicked the hammer of the .45 back again. The gangsters sped up their exchanged glances, their hands higher in the air.
“Oh God! I’m hit! I’m dyin’, Stan! I’m dyin’!” Keeler screamed.
“No names,” one of the new goons said. Kid was probably up for promotion already.
“Go ahead and help him, Stan,” Mac said to the one in the blue coat. “Well, that is your name isn’t it?”
Stan turned, slowly lowering his hands, and looked back at Keeler.
“Lose the iron first,” Mac said. “Slowly.”
Stan looked disappointed. Tony gave him a nod. Keeler kept bleating and rolling around on the floor, scattering canned goods. Stan made a point of holding his hands in the air, and reached toward his jacket.
“Two fingers,” Mac said. “Slow.”
Stan held his gun hand out, playing the world’s tiniest violin with his thumb and forefinger. He reached into his coat with the other three fingers extended, then placed a .45 automatic on the floor, and kicked it over without being told. The gun skipped off the end cap of the shelves and came to a rest between Mac and Tony, spinning in slow circles.
Mac pointed the revolver at Tony and the other new goon, the one in the brown coat. “Your turn.” Stan scuttled over the canned goods to help Keeler. Tony began to lower his hands, indignant.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Tony?” Mac said.
“It’s Anthony, mac.”
Mac punched him in the nose. A quick jab, no wasted motion.
He pulled Tony’s gun out of his coat one handed while Tony clenched his face in his hands, staggering.
“I think I’ll call you Tony.” The slang reference ‘mac’ had hit too close to home. If he kept talking they’d know who he was for sure.
When he looked up again, the man in the brown coat had him in his sights. Mac was staring up the barrel of .45 Auto. He had a gun in each hand but they were both pointed at the floor. Tony tried to smile from underneath his hands, but with the blood and bandages it was too painful to look real.
“You’re a real tough guy, Mr. Shopping Bag, ain’t ya?” the brown-coated one said. “But you’re aimed the wrong way. Problem with those revolvers is they get pretty heavy after a while. Should’a’ kept up with the times, gotten yourself an automatic. They’re lighter, shoot faster, quicker—”
This must’ve been the kid’s tough guy speech. Mac wondered how often he had rehearsed it and then tuned out.
This was bad and getting worse. Somebody had to have called the cops by now. He needed to get out of here. Lurie, Nitti, the cops, the money, his ribs—he couldn’t breathe. He had a list of things to worry about. He was hungry, and tired, and it was hot, even hotter with his head inside the paper bag. And this guy wouldn’t shut up. The speech was the fe
ather that tipped the scale.
Mac acted out of frustration—with a little bit of reflex thrown in. He flicked the revolver with his wrist, the same way he would to flip the chamber closed. And pulled the trigger.
It was all bluff and pretense, and later, he thought, maybe a bit of panache. It was like he had waved a magic wand. The gunman in the brown coat shut up, staring at the shattered barrel of the .45 auto as it twisted over his shoulder through the air.
Mac couldn’t believe it. He’d shot the gun out of his hand! A million dollar shot! He was the Lone Ranger! He was Tom Mix and Robin Hood! Hell, he was all three in one.
Or at least he had to act like it. Truth was he’d gotten incredibly lucky; he just couldn’t let the hired muscle know it.
“Next one goes in your eye.” He punched Tony in the nose again for good measure.
Brown sleeved hands went up halfway, the gunman’s eyes shifting from the automatic on the floor to Mac’s eyes. Mac cocked the hammer back. The goon’s hands went up and out, fingers spread.
Sirens started wailing in the background.
“Everybody up against the wall,” Mac said. He grabbed Tony by the hair and guided him. Keeler was still screaming. Mac turned around to look for some rope and stared straight up the double barrel of a shotgun.
He screamed. Tony screamed in response. Stan screamed. Keeler had never stopped.
Mr. Stephano lowered the barrel of the shotgun. Mac started to raise his hands.
“No, not you. This is for them,” Stephano said, pointing at the gun.
“Thank you.” Mac exhaled. “You got any rope?”
“No need. I’ll watch them.”
