by B C Bell
“Excuse me, sir, I need—”
Sammy held his jacket pocket up and a hole exploded in the young policeman’s chest. Expressionless, Sammy fired twice into the other cop’s belly before the officer had a chance to go for his gun—then turned toward Crankshaft.
Machinegun chatter exploded in the air. The two policemen collapsed in the street as the concrete started to erupt in tiny chunks at Lladdono’s feet. The Bagman jumped down out of the tree, just in time to see a man with a Thompson submachine gun in a passing car, zeroing in on Sammy—looked like Nitti’s Outfit wasn’t too happy about the trouble at the club the other night.
Mac tackled the scar-faced hitman from behind and rolled with him into the gutter, the violin case landing on a corner lawn as the assassin’s car swerved by.
Lladdono pulled the pistol out of his pocket with Mac still clamped to his back. People in the park screamed as Sammy forced himself up on the curb, firing into the air. Mac fought to keep him on the ground. Sammy twisted out of The Bagman’s grip and came up in the yard with the automatic. Mac came up with a roundhouse right cross.
Sammy dropped the gun and stood there with his nose bent to one side and a dull look on his face, while Mac waggled his hand in the air, shaking off the pain of the blow. Crankshaft had Lladono in his sights—but he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger with Mac in the line of fire.
At the edge of the park, two mean looking Irishmen—obviously part of the old O’Banion mob—pulled guns from their shoulder holsters. The car with the Thompson sticking out of the window veered into a screeching U-turn at the end of the block and came back down the street going the wrong way.
Crankshaft stood in the middle of Dearborn with his .45 aimed at The Outfit’s windshield, waiting for Nitti’s men to get close enough. Tires screeched in the street as behind him a Studebaker slammed on the brakes and swerved. Crankshaft fired and dived into the park, rolling and coming up on his elbows.
The Studebaker just missed the ace mechanic and jumped the curb into the yard across the street, where Mac and Sammy stood pummeling each other. The Outfit’s car slammed into the oncoming traffic, the driver draped across the wheel. The Thompson submachine gun came out the other side of the wreck. One of Nitti’s men was still conscious.
The two Irishmen fired at the Tommy gun. The Tommy gun fired back. People ran screaming across all four avenues around the square.
Crankshaft hunkered down at the base of the oak tree and wished he had a hand grenade. At least in the war there had only been two sides.
Sammy Lladono threw a left that Mac was sure had broken his neck. Mac’s last punch had hit air. He was trying to gracefully lose this boxing match, so Sammy could run away and Crankshaft could follow, but Sammy kept reaching for something in his left hand pocket—probably another gun. Mac hammered at Lladdono’s shoulder in an effort to keep him from going for it. Lladdono kicked Mac in the stomach, shoving him away, and went for the gun again. Mac threw the violin case at him.
Sammy was forced to catch the case using both hands as The Bagman made a hard motion with his arm, pointing, telling the hitman it was time to make a getaway. Lladdono went for his gun again.
Mac jumped backward behind another tree. Bullets splintered the bark in front of him. “You idiot! Get outta here!” Mac was forced to go for his shoulder holster. “Run, you moron!”
Machinegun fire raked across the chest and face of the two Irishmen, cut down on the corner by Nitti’s men with the Tommy guns. Police sirens roared in the background.
Traffic on the other side of the square had stopped while Dearborn was completely empty except for the wreckage, the corpses and the screams. Lladdono had Mac pinned behind the tree. Mac was still calling him names and telling him to run. Lladdono looked around. And ran. He picked up the violin case and headed down Dearborn.
“Crank, come on!” Mac yelled, turning and aiming his revolver at Lladdono’s back.
Crankshaft stepped out from behind the oak with his gun leveled, scanned the area, and made a break for the Blue Streak. He pulled the car around the corner onto Delaware, just in time to see Mac fire one shot. Mac ran around the back of the car and jumped in.
“Follow him!” Mac screamed, pulling off his mask.
“I will if you don’t kill him first!”
“I had to at least wound the son of a bitch! Did you see him? The guy didn’t change expression the whole time!”
The streets were filled with noise, blood, and wreckage. Sirens, car horns and shouts continued to fill the air as the sound of gunfire dissipated. Crankshaft hit the gas.
A hundred yards ahead, Lladdono pulled a cab driver out of his car at gunpoint and tossed him onto the sidewalk. He threw the violin case into the back, climbed behind the wheel of the car, and headed north. Crankshaft slowed down and followed.
While police cars, ambulances and fire trucks, sirens blaring, wheeled toward Bughouse Square, Sammy the Scar wheeled in and out of the lanes headed in the opposite direction. He took a hard left, then a right. He knew how to drive. He stuck close to the lakeshore, turning inland when he ran out of road, eventually slowing down so nobody would notice him. Crankshaft lurked behind in the Blue Streak, always hidden just behind another car or hill.
Fifteen minutes later, Sammy pulled over and parked. He jumped out of the cab and limped down the sidewalk into The Bluebird. Crankshaft cut across the street, cutting off traffic to make a U-turn, and parked haphazardly on the other side. Glancing in the window of the cab Mac saw blood on the driver’s seat. The two men stopped in front of the speakeasy’s door.
The Bluebird was the kind of place that gave the temperance movement a good name. A bar before prohibition, it was now legally a rooming house—but it was still a bar; they just took out the maple counter and replaced it with card tables. The old fire trap still had its original, unfinished wood floor, scuffed and warped into arcs like a child’s crayon seascape. The entire building reeked of alcohol, mildew and bodily fluids. Put simply, The Bluebird was a place where people, devoid of hope and purpose, went to drink themselves to death—and the fact that it existed at all was a testament to the low moral standards of the city’s building inspectors.
Mac hated The Bluebird. Hated it so much he pulled his mask back on like he was going to rob the place.
The Bagman and Crankshaft busted through the front door with guns drawn. A small collective of drunks jumped up, while the rest didn’t even seem to notice.
“Where’d he go?” Mac said, keeping his voice low.
A thin, greasy man, who looked to be about thirty going on fifty, pointed upstairs at a railing that circled the barroom. The entrances to the rooms faced the rail.
“What number?” Mac said.
The man pointed at the same door and went back to drinking. Mac and Crankshaft hurried up the stairs and stopped at the side of room six.
“Mac and Crankshaft hurried up the stairs…”
Mac kicked the door in. Gunfire blasted out of the room as he rolled to the side of the entrance. Half of The Bluebird’s clientele dove under the tables or back in their doors. The other half stayed passed out.
Mac came up holding his side. When he looked at his hand there was blood on the palm of his glove. He clenched his jaw under the mask and the right side of his mouth pried itself open into a scowl. His eyes went metallic. Crankshaft thought he heard something growl behind the mask. Then three more shots pounded out of the room. Plaster exploded on both sides of the door as holes appeared just above where the two men were crouched. Then–the clicking sound of the gun’s hammer striking on an empty chamber. Guys with automatics always forget how much ammo they have.
A masked animal in a blue suit burst through the door to room number six with a revolver in his hand. Sammy “The Scar” Lladdono stood there expressionless, with one hand on his butt
and the other holding a gun high in the air. He dropped the gun, and started to grin.
The animal pounced on him, pounding Lladdono with the butt of the revolver till it bounced out of his hand. Sammy sank to the floor and the animal followed him. Gloved fists sank into an expressionless face until it didn’t look like a face anymore.
Mac felt a hand gripping his wrist. He looked up and saw a sympathetic friend.
“It’s over, Mac,” Crankshaft said. “It’s over.”
Chapter VIII
The Wounded
After The Bagman had picked the lock on the closet door, Crankshaft stayed with Coco while Mac went down the street and called Hunts on the telephone. Mac made sure not to arrive back at The Bluebird until after Hunts had showed up with the police and a doctor. The doctor wanted Coco to go to the hospital with him so he could evaluate her for treatment. He had one of the detectives call an ambulance for Lladdono.
Hunts told the cops he had seen Sammy the Scar hijack the cab with the violin case in his hand, and followed; whereupon he just happened to see his good friend Crankshaft Jones walking down the street. When they heard the gunfire, the two of them had decided to investigate.
According to the Tribune, the Daily News, and the Sun-Times, Sammy “The Scar” Lladdono and the “mysterious” Bagman had both been involved in a shoot out at Washington Square Park less than an hour before. Already dubbed “The Bughouse Massacre,” the gunfight had left five dead and two wounded. Counted among the survivors were a suspected member of an organized crime ring, and a young policeman who had witnessed the masked man battling known felons.
Chicago Police had no comment as to whether or not The Bagman was the same person sought in relation to a protection racket dispute several weeks before, but encouraged anyone who had any information regarding the identity or whereabouts of The Bagman to contact their local precinct. When asked if they had any suspects, Lieutenant Charles Deveraux said the police were “working on it.” However, they did have Sammy Lladdono, who was currently being held on charges of murder, kidnapping, reckless endangerment and about half the penal codes of both the state and federal government.
Meanwhile, in the classifieds, a public notice announced that Mr. Frank McCullough had applied for a license to open a retail establishment, specifically a cigar store, in Cook County, Illinois. However, since the name “Mac” didn’t appear in the notice, at least ninety-nine percent of the people that knew Mr. McCullough wouldn’t know who it was, even if they wanted to contest the deal.
Mac took his feet down and threw the newspaper on the desk. He’d stolen Crankshaft’s seat again. He looked up from the newspaper at Antoine “Crankshaft” Jones and Miss Coco Blue. Crankshaft had on his best suit and Coco was still stunning, even after her ordeal. Of course she was wearing smoked glasses to hide a shiner, but it just made her look all that more glamorous. The word “incognito” popped into Mac’s head.
“You guys going down to Maxwell Street?”
“Painting the town,” Crankshaft said. “Every color but red. Seen enough of that. You’re welcome to come along if you want.”
“Thanks, but I’d just be a fifth wheel. Besides, I think you guys need some time to yourselves. I’ve already helped ruin one of your dates.”
“Nonsense, Mac,” Coco said, patting his hand. “You saved my life. If you hadn’t gone after Sammy the Scar, I’d probably be buried by the side of the road someplace.”
“Ah, if I hadn’t found you, Crankshaft would have. Don’t let him fool you, he may look all aloof—all hard and crusty on the outside—but inside, he’s got a creampuff filling.”
Coco shook Mac’s hand in both of hers, and then glided back toward Crankshaft with a sultry step. Mac raised his eyebrows and, impressed by her graceful figure, almost winked at Crankshaft—who feigned an insulted look while Mac got up and opened the office door. The sun’s rays hit him in the face and he smiled, but he looked pale, and tired.
The bullet that had hit him may have just creased his ribs, but he’d had to patch it up himself. He’d poured whiskey on it and packed it with gauze for almost a day, until Hunts saw him wince and forced him to go to a doctor. Luckily, Hunts knew the kind of M.D. that wouldn’t report the wound to the police.
Mac held the door open for Crankshaft and Coco and stepped out onto the lot. Since he’d installed his secret hideout, the lot looked a lot neater. Crank had already moved a bunch of garage parts and tools down there, but that was all right, Mac’s little crime lab wasn’t going to take up too much space anyway. The three of them walked to the edge of the lot where Mac opened the gate for the couple.
“You guys have fun together. You look great. Have a Polish on me.”
“A Polish?” Coco said.
“Maxwell Street Polish,” Mac said. “Crank—I mean, Antoine—will tell you all about it.”
Crankshaft and Coco headed to the corner and into the sunset, Crankshaft describing all the wonders of the windy city as they walked into afternoon. “It’s like a hot dog, only much, much better. They take a Polish sausage, slather it with sauerkraut, sometimes some grilled onion, and it will change your life for a mere ten cents. Only one of the myriad miracles you’ll see in our travels through the glorious wonder that is Antoine Jones’s grand tour of the windy city…” Mac had never heard him talk so much.
Still in his shirtsleeves, he leaned against the gate and looked down the block, listening to the couple’s voices fade into the background. He flexed his back and flinched a little, but he felt good despite himself. The day was surprisingly cool. Maybe he’d head home and take a nap with the window open, maybe see what was on the radio.
He looked up at the El tracks and his eyes followed them down across the street. Wheezy Waldheim was sitting on the ground, leaning against the fence, staring at his knees.
Mac felt around in his pockets, looking for something he’d almost forgotten about. The doctor’s card Coco’s manager had given him. The De Soto was parked about ten feet away, and he knew where Crank kept the keys. He still had about half a violin case full of money, not to mention a little left over from cracking the mob’s safe. He walked across the street and stood in the shadows of the El with his hands still in his pockets. Waldheim didn’t seem to notice him, until Mac tapped one of the derelict’s shoes with the toe of his own.
“Hey, Wheezy, I was talking to another guy earlier this week. He had a problem, too. Like you got, you know. He was talking about… Well, I got to thinking if—well maybe you weren’t having so much fun… I heard about this doctor, and I got his card. Maybe… If you want to, maybe we could go talk to him.”
Tales of the
Bagman
Bagman
Part Three: The Payoff
Big City,
Big Shoulders
Chapter 1
A Criminal’s Dream
It was the kind of score a criminal dreams about. The kind of thing that makes honest men turn to crime. It was Money. Unbelievably, practically free.
Frank “Mac” McCullough, no stranger to crime himself, had been so stunned when he first heard about it that his face elongated to twice its normal length in utter, open-mouthed, wide-eyed amazement. “Say it ain’t so,” he muttered to himself, and for the briefest of moments considered pulling one last bank job.
Not that he was about to. Bank jobs were now federal crimes. Get caught and you could end up busting a lot of rocks for a lot of years. It was serious stuff and Mac was not a serious guy. At least that’s what he told himself.
Never mind that half the city considered him a menace. Never mind that he was wanted by the law, and never mind that he was in a war with the local mob. No, Mac paid it no never mind at all. Because the man they all really wanted wore a bag on his head, Mac’s alias: The Bagman. And as long as Mac wore his own bright and
shiny countenance they’d never find him. Problem was, he couldn’t keep the bag off his head.
Yeah, Mac McCullough—ex-bagman for the outfit—was also The Bagman, Chicago’s latest underground mysteryman. Since early June, The Bagman had made headlines in all the Chicago papers. He had been accused of taking prisoners in a mob racketeering dispute, and blowing up a city block with a hand grenade in a face off with the cops. He had also been involved in a hotel robbery, a massacre at a public park, and the near-death beating of a kidnapper. The other problem was that the newspapers thought he was running his own protection racket, fighting a mob war, and daring the police to take him on. McCullough had simply thought it was the right thing to do.
So when Mac heard that several local banks were actually stupid enough to employ a messenger, a man who shuffled around from bank to bank with thousands of dollars in cash, checks, stocks and bonds, all of it chained to his arm in a briefcase, well, what better chance would he have to prove he was one of the good guys?
The rule in Mac’s old neighborhood was that when you grew up you had two career choices: cop or criminal. So—like half the guys on his block—when the Depression hit he had already been well on the way to becoming a first class crook. He’d seen gangs spend days—no, months—planning armored car heists, tunneling under vaults, and working their way around alarms. Sure, most of them wound up in jail, but doesn’t every gambler believe he’s going to be the one to beat the odds? Crooks didn’t think about failure. And if they did…well, most crooks didn’t think much to begin with, or they wouldn’t be crooks.
So when he heard about “bank messengers” —what thief wouldn’t leap at the chance? All you needed was a bolt cutter and some intimidation. The Little Rascals could pull off that job. Get Alfalfa to distract the guy and that Spanky kid could slip in and jack the case with a pair of two-bit pliers. The two of them would be loitering on the playground and buying Darla drinks before recess.
