Doc wasn't big and he didn't act tough. But he was somebody all the same, and Al knew it.
"Doc, what are you after?"
"I'm after whoever or whatever's stopping you from selling your booze in peace, Mr. Capone - and turning Chicago into a killing ground."
"Why? Why should you worry about my problems?"
"Because they're my problems as well. At least, this one is."
Suddenly something was bothering me and I wasn't sure what it was. A sound ... I stood up. "Listen!"
A steady roar of traffic was coming from Twenty-Third Street. Frank Rio said, "I hear cars. Whaddya expect from a city street, Dekker, hoofbeats?"
Ace was on her feet too. "No, he's right, I hear it too. Not just passing traffic but a lot of cars, heading this way. Like a convoy."
A car drove up to the restaurant, its gong clanging. I saw Capone relax. "It's okay, it's only the cops." Al had nothing to fear from the police. He owned most of them.
But this was no detective bureau car. I saw a gun muzzle appear at its window. The muzzle belched fire and I heard the stuttering roar of a tommy-gun.
"Duck!" I yelled - and the car sped past, the sound of the tommy-gun fading into the distance.
Suddenly it was very quiet.
"What the goddam hell!" roared Capone. He started for the entrance, Frankie Rio close behind.
"Wait!" said Doc, and there was something in his voice that stopped Capone in his tracks. "All those shots and not a single hit?"
"They're firing blanks," snapped Ace. "That first car was a decoy to get us onto the street."
Suddenly we heard the roar of the convoy, louder and closer this time.
"Down!" I yelled. "Everyone down!"
Doc grabbed the tile-topped table we were sitting at and threw it on its side, scattering bottles and glasses. We ducked down behind it.
We heard more cars driving up to the Hawthorne. Then the roar of more choppers, lots of them this time, and they weren't firing blanks.
The front window of the restaurant disappeared in a shower of broken glass.
7 THE ATTACK
By now everyone in the restaurant was yelling their head off. Capone, who'd hit the deck at surprising speed for a guy his size, turned his head and bellowed, "Everybody down, down flat! There's more to come!"
There sure was. Bullets poured into the restaurant in a steady stream, smashing plates and glasses and cups. The tommy-guns stitched neat lines of bullet holes in the walls. Bullets smashed wood-panelling into splinters and brought plaster crashing down from the ceiling.
Me and Ace and Frank all had guns in our hands but there was no point in shooting back - it would have been like spitting into a hurricane. All we could do was keep our heads down and wait for the firestorm to die down.
I raised my head a fraction and eyeballed round the edge of our table. It was a hell of a sight. Ten - I counted 'em -ten sedans were drawn up in a long line outside the restaurant, a blazing tommy-gun sticking out of each window. Ten choppers and each drum held a hundred rounds. They musta poured a thousand bullets into that restaurant.
One by one the tommy-guns fell silent. Someone up the front of the line honked three times and the cars started moving away like some goddam procession.
All except the last car, the tenth. The door opened and a man in a brown shirt and khaki overalls got out, clipping a fresh drum onto his tommy-gun. Two more hoods with shotguns jumped out of the back and stood flanking him.
The guy with the tommy-gun took a couple of steps toward the Hawthorne and started shooting, swinging the blazing chopper from side to side. Taking his time, like he was in a shooting gallery, he pumped another hundred slugs into the restaurant. When the drum was empty he jumped back into the car. The two shotgunners followed, and the sedan started moving away.
Suddenly Ace was on her feet and moving. Gun in hand, she hiked up her skirt, jumped through the shattered window and started shooting at the retreating car. I jumped through the window right behind her and saw two shotgun muzzles appear through the car's back window. I tackled Ace like a Chicago Bears line-backer, carrying her to the ground. Two shotgun blasts boomed over our heads, one of them so close it blew my hat off.
I was lying on top of Ace, catching my breath - and thinking it wasn't such a bad place to be - when an elbow jabbed me in the ribs. She wriggled out from under and got to her feet.
"You big ape, Dekker, when will you stop interfering? I could've shot the driver, caught one of those other hoods and found out who's behind this."
I got wearily to my feet, picking my hat up out of the gutter.
"You're just overflowing with gratitude, ain't you? All you'd have caught was a faceful of shotgun pellets." She was opening her mouth to give me another earful when I shoved my hat under her nose. The shotgun pellets had blasted a big chunk out of the brim.
"That's a ten-dollar fedora there, lady, ruined! And for your information we know who's behind this. That last guy, the one in the overalls, was Pete Gusenberg in person. Pete's a snappy dresser, probably didn't want to spoil his suit."
I turned and stomped back into the ruined restaurant, where I found Doc, hands in pockets, calmly looking round. It was quite a sight: broken glass, splintered wood and shattered plaster everywhere. Everything in the restaurant had been pretty well shot to pieces and the room was full of hysterical people, laughing, chattering and sobbing.
I fished out a Camel and stuck it in my mouth. "Many dead, Doc?"
"Apart from a few cuts and bruises I don't think anyone's even wounded." He pointed to a line of bullet holes across the nearest wall. "They seemed to be aiming about waist-high, and by the time they got going everyone was flat on the floor - thanks to your warning."
"You worked it out first, Doc. If we'd all run out on the street the way they wanted..."
He nodded. "It was Capone they were after, of course. I got shot at for nothing - just an innocent bystander."
I looked at him, wondering just how innocent he was. "You picked a tough town to run a saloon in, Doc. And you keep dangerous company."
Al Capone stood in the centre of a little group nearby, back in charge as usual, issuing a stream of orders. He put his hand on the shoulder of a little bald guy with a droopy moustache. It was the manager, weeping helplessly at the sight of his ruined restaurant.
"Don't worry, we're gonna have this place fixed up better than new, I'll see to it personally. Frankie, check out things on the street. Anything damaged, anybody hurt, I'll take care of it."
I heard later that the machine-gunners had put holes in about thirty of the jalopies parked along the kerb and blasted the windows of a number of local stores. Capone paid handsome compensation to the car owners and shopkeepers. Miraculously there had been only one serious casualty out on the street, a woman who'd been sitting in her car with her family when the shooting started. A splinter from the bullet-shattered windscreen got her in the eye. The operation that saved her sight cost Capone five thousand bucks.
Capone turned, saw Doc standing nearby and swept him up in an Italian embrace. He didn't exactly kiss him but it was a pretty near thing.
"You and your friends saved my life, Doc. Anything you want, anything in Chicago, it's yours."
"Like running my own saloon?"
"You got it, Doc. I'll put the word around. No interference from me or anyone else. Guaranteed. Anything else I can do for you, just name it."
"Well, you did say something about lunch."
Capone laughed. "Service here could be a little slow today. We'll go back to the Hawthorne Hotel, see what the chef can rustle up. Say, Doc, you like Italian food?"
Capone put an arm round Doc's shoulder and led him away. As they left Doc glanced quickly back at Ace, and I got the idea some kinda signal passed between them. Then they moved off, Doc overshadowed by the bulk of Capone.
I turned and saw Ace looking thoughtfully after them.
"Looks like Doc's well in with the Big Fellow," I said.
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"It's a knack he has, Dekker, making influential friends. I've seen him best mates with bigger bosses than Al Capone."
"You want to go with them? I'm pretty sure we're included. Al's very generous, and he means what he said. If you want a new mink or a new Cadillac, now's the time."
"I don't approve of fur coats and I'll buy my own Cadillacs. All I need now is lunch, and I think I've had all I want of Al Capone's hospitality. I don't suppose you'd know some place that sells a decent steak and a bottle of wine?"
"Sure," I said. "Little Italian joint called Tonio's. Wooden booths, candles on the tables, a violinist. Kinda romantic."
She gave me a look. "Just as long as the steaks are good, Dekker."
"Best in Chicago."
"Let's go then."
We walked back to the corner where Happy had parked the limo and found him fast asleep behind the wheel, his chauffeur's cap over his eyes. I rapped on the window and he woke up. He wound the window down and blinked, taking in the crowded street - even the Cicero cops had turned out by now - and the pavements covered with broken glass.
"Has there been some kind of trouble, Mr. Dekker?"
"Al didn't like the soup," I told him. "Take us downtown, will you Happy? Tonio's on Clarke Street."
We got into the car and Happy drove us away.
Sinking back into the leather upholstery beside Ace I thought there were two possibilities. Either she'd suddenly fallen for my manly charms, or I'd been right about that signal. Doc wanted to talk to the Big Fellow alone.
Lunch was over, the remains of the meal cleared away, and the Big Fellow and his guest were alone in the luxurious hotel suite.
They sat in adjoining armchairs by the window overlooking Twenty-Second Street, now teeming with cops, pressmen and astonished citizens, all staring in amazement at the bullet-shattered Hawthorne Restaurant. A shootup on this scale was something special, even in Chicago.
A marble-topped table between the two men held a crystal decanter of Napoleon brandy and a box of Havana cigars. As they talked Capone drank and smoked continuously, while Doc sat back in his chair nursing a balloon glass of brandy. Doc didn't seem to be much of a talker but he was a hell of a good listener. Capone was doing most of the talking, holding forth on his favourite subject: himself.
"... so I got into a little trouble in New York and I came out here."
"And you never looked back?"
"Well, I hadda start at the bottom again. Hell, I even worked as a doorman outside the Four Deuces for a while." Capone lowered his voice to a throaty whisper. "Looking for a good time, mister? We got some good-looking dames inside..."
"But you got promoted?"
"My timing was right. Me and Prohibition hit Chicago in the same year. You around when it all started, Doc?"
"No, I was out of the country ... travelling. I've never understood how such a ridiculous law got passed."
Capone leaned forward, eager to make Doc understand.
"Somewhere back in the '90s this gang of bible-thumping blue-nosers called the Anti-Saloon League decide they want to make booze illegal. Booze! At first everyone thinks they're crazy. But they get bigger and bigger. By the time the Big War breaks out in 1914 they're already picking up a helluva lot of support. By 1920, just two years after the war, they've got enough clout to make Congress pass the Eighteenth Amendment. Suddenly it's illegal to make, sell or transport any drink containing more than half a per cent alcohol. But it ain't illegal to buy it, own it, or drink it - so the customer's in the clear."
Al Capone sat back and puffed at his cigar, a dedicated businessman discussing his trade.
"Making booze is illegal, sure. But there's a helluva demand out there. So whaddya do? You make it anyway, illegally, pay off the cops and the Prohibition boys. There's plenty of breweries turning out real beer, most of them with police guards protecting their shipments."
"What about the hard stuff?"
"You can make that too, though not the kind you're drinking. Like the Sicilian mob. The Genna boys have put a little still in every kitchen in Little Italy. They pay the family fifteen bucks a day to brew the alky, come round and collect it once a week." Capone chuckled. "The stills blow up now and again and the stuff's rot-gut anyway, but it's a good racket. Or you can import. Bring the booze in undercover from Canada or Europe. Costs you more so you gotta charge your customers more but they're getting the genuine article, French brandy, Scotch whisky, good wine. That's my specialty - the quality end of the market."
"So why all the killing?"
"Greed," said Capone sadly. "Laziness and greed. You see Doc, whether you make your booze or import it, you got a business on your hands. You gotta run breweries, look after a network of alky cookers, organize shipments and deliveries, and pay off cops, politicians and feds as well."
"And some people find that too much like work?"
"Exactly. And remember, there's a third way to get hold of booze, the quickest and cheapest way of all. You steal it. So, you get guys hijacking each other's shipments, raiding each other's warehouses. Deany O'Bannion was doing it all the time." Capone sighed. "He was a swell guy, Deany, but in the end he had to go."
"And you took over?"
"I took over Johnny Torrio's operation when he retired on account of getting shot. Weiss, Moran and Gusenberg took over from O'Bannion. They're the ones who pulled that stunt this afternoon."
"You're sure of that? I mean, you do have other business rivals."
"Sure I do. Spike O'Donnell's boys, the Gennas, the Aiellos, Saltis and his Polack mob. But by and large we all get along. But Weiss and the rest of those guys can't forget about O'Bannion."
The Doctor stood up. "Mr. Capone, I want to ask you a favour."
"Name it."
"I want you to summon a peace conference. Every mob in Chicago, large or small, including Moran, Gusenberg and Weiss. A meeting to fix territories, stop hijackings, settle grievances once and for all."
Capone shook his head. "This ain't the time for it. First I gotta deal with those guys who shot up my place."
Doc sighed. "They pull a knife, you pull a gun, they put one of yours in the hospital, you put one of theirs in the morgue, is that it?"
"That's the Chicago way. If they think I'm scared, I lose respect. I hate to refuse you Doc, but I can't do it."
The Doctor stood over Capone, fixing him with compelling grey eyes. "Mr. Capone, you're the only man who can do it, the only one everyone will listen to. And do you seriously think that anyone in Chicago will think you're scared?"
Capone brooded for a moment, then rose, his bulky figure towering over his guest. "Okay, Doc. But I tried this before. What makes you think it'll work this time?"
"I don't," said Doc surprisingly. "What I want to know is who's going to try to make it fail."
8 HIS HONOUR THE MAYOR
Big Bill Thompson slammed his massive fist down on the Mayoral desk, making ashtrays and pen-set jump and jingle.
"Machine-guns blazing on the streets of Chicago!" he boomed. "Innocent citizens terrified and wounded. It's a disgrace, I tell you."
A big, handsome man, elegantly dressed and full of vitality, Thompson was a typical politician, strong on sound and fury, weak on effective action. He liked to be known as Big Bill. His campaign slogan had been: "Vote for Big Bill the Builder - He cannot be Bought, Bossed or Bluffed."
District Attorney William McSwiggin, plump, bespectacled and serious, gave the expected response. "Quite right, your honour, a disgrace indeed! Something must be done." Both men looked sternly at the third man in the room.
Police Captain Dennis Reilly, resplendent in blue uniform and gleaming brass buttons, recognized his cue. "Investigations are under way at this very moment, your honour. I give you me solemn word the villains responsible shall be brought to justice."
The formalities were concluded.
Big Bill Thompson, Mayor of Chicago, sworn enemy of crime and upholder of Prohibition, yanked an expensive gold fob- watc
h from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time.
"It's still a little early but what the hell, it's been a tough day. Let's have a drink. Will you do the honours, Bill?"
District Attorney McSwiggin went to the drinks cupboard in the corner of the oak-panelled office. There was the clink of bottle on glass and he returned with two heavy crystal tumblers brimming with Scotch whisky.
"Irish for you, Dennis?"
"If you please."
McSwiggin brought Reilly a tumbler of Dewars and returned to his seat.
Big Bill took a cigar from the silver box on the desk, then pushed it towards Reilly and McSwiggin. Both men took cigars and lit up.
For a moment all three sat silent, sipping whisky. Unspoken thoughts hung in the air, as heavy as the coils of blue cigar smoke.
The Mayor knew perfectly well that McSwiggin was Capone's liaison man with Chicago's political establishment. He knew that Reilly looked after the interests of the Moran, Gusenberg and Weiss mob in a similar way.
Both McSwiggin and Reilly knew that Mayor Thompson expected his cut from them and from every other corrupt official in Chicago, in return for running Chicago as an open city for crime.
Thompson had an ever-hungry campaign fund that needed constant topping up. He was serving his third term as Mayor of Chicago and he had his eye on higher things. Big Bill Thompson fully intended to be the next President of the United States. Why not? The man who could run Chicago could surely run America.
"I have to admit that the boys went a bit too far," said Reilly at last.
"I'll say they did," said Thompson. "They tell me it was a war zone over there at the Hawthorne, bullets and broken glass everywhere."
"Pete Gusenberg's an impulsive fellow, your honour."
Thompson looked at McSwiggin. "The question is, what will Capone do about it? If he decides to pay 'em back in kind there'll be a full scale war right here in Chicago. I can imagine what the Tribune's going to make of this."
Doctor Who - [New Adventure 29] - [Vampire Trilogy 2] - Blood Harvest Page 6
