One Shining Moment

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Not very busy right now,” Jerry nodded at the ranks of empty tables, “but it’s filled up every night.”

  “Right in there—better knock first,” the burly man said, then turned and left them.

  Jerry knocked twice and the door opened at once. “Well, come in, Kid,” the swarthy-skinned man smiled. He stepped back, and when Jerry and Christie were inside, he said, “This must be your aunt, I guess?”

  “Sure, this is Miss Christie Stuart,” Jerry nodded. “This is Eddy Castellano—and this is his brother Nick.”

  Nick had been sitting behind a big desk, but he got up at once and came to smile at Christie. “Well, now, you better give them brothers of yours a hiding, Miss Stuart. Amos and Owen, they never told me what a fine-looking lady they had for a sister.” He shook his head in admiration. “Come in, come in—we won’t be long. Hey—this is my youngest brother, Mario,” he nodded toward a young man just under six feet tall, with dark hair neatly cut and alert brown eyes. He was wearing an expensive suit and looked somehow more refined than his brothers.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Stuart,” he smiled. “Is this your first trip to Chicago?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll let me show you around. I’ve heard so much about your family, it’s a pleasure to meet one of the famous Stuarts.”

  Christie flushed, saying, “I’m not famous, Mr. Castellano—but thank you for your offer.”

  “Hey, Mario, why don’t you show Miss Stuart the china—all the fancy dishes and stuff.”

  “Certainly. If you’ll come with me, Miss Stuart—Mr. Colosimo has worked on it for a long time.”

  When the two were outside the room, Eddy turned to Jerry at once, saying, “Well, I’m glad you’re back, Kid.”

  “Thanks for letting me use the plane, Eddy. My aunt—well, she really needed a helping hand.”

  “Sure, glad to be of help.” Eddy tilted his head to one side. “What’s she going to do in Chicago?”

  Jerry shrugged. “She’ll be with the Salvation Army, I guess. With my aunt Lenora.”

  The Castellano brothers gave each other an unbelieving glance, and then both smiled. “I thought all those women had to be old and plain,” Nick observed. “Sure don’t seem like much of a life for a woman—but if that’s what she wants to do . . .” He puffed on his cigar, then changed the subject abruptly. “Got a job for you.”

  “Today?”

  “Naw, tomorrow. You rest up tonight, but tomorrow I want you to fly to Detroit. When you get there, call this number.” He turned to his desk, picked up a pencil and jotted a number on a slip of paper. “Ask for Mr. Smith. Tell him to come to the airport.”

  “No first name?”

  Nick hesitated, then nodded. “John Smith. Bring him here. When you get back, call Eddy and he’ll come out and get the guy.”

  “Sure, Nick.”

  “And, Jerry—don’t talk to the guy.”

  “What if he talks to me?”

  “He won’t.” The flat statement hung in the air, and Nick added, “It’s a business deal, Jerry. The less said the better, okay?”

  “Okay by me. I’ll call as soon as we get back. Now I better get my aunt to the Salvation Army depot.” He hesitated, then said, “I never knew you had a younger brother.”

  “He’s in college,” Nick said, pride in his dark eyes. “Gonna be a first-rate lawyer one of these days!”

  Eddy grinned, “Saves money, having a lawyer in the business. He’s a good kid—reminds me of you, Jerry”

  “Deliver me from being a lawyer—but to each his own. Well, I’ll call when I get in—may be late, though.”

  “Makes no difference, call even if it’s past midnight.” Eddy eyed Jerry, then asked, “How can you see to fly a plane at night?”

  “Lights from towns—and when the moon is full and there’s not many clouds, you can see the rivers and lakes. Really a pretty sight. You want to come along, Eddy?”

  “Not me!”

  Jerry laughed and turned to leave the room. He found Christie and Mario in the collection room and said, “Hate to break up the lecture, but we’ve got to go.”

  “Sure,” Mario smiled. “Next time, I’ll show you the rest, Miss Stuart.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “A pleasure to meet you.”

  When they were in the car driving away, Christie said, “He’s very nice. What does he do?”

  Jerry hesitated, then shrugged. “He’s a gangster, Aunt Christie.”

  Christie turned instantly to stare at him. “I can’t believe that!”

  “He’s a Castellano. They’re all gangsters. Haven’t you ever heard Amos talk about them? Or Owen?”

  “Well, yes, but he seems—different.”

  “He’s the baby brother. I’d guess Nick’s made up his mind to buy some respectability. Mario looks pretty much like a successful young college man, but he’s a Castellano. That makes him different. That restaurant? Colosimo? He was one of the bosses, ran gambling and bootlegging. A gangster named Johnny Torrio had him killed just a few months ago. That’s the kind of world the Castellano family lives in.”

  Christie said no more until Jerry pulled up in front of a large three-story building with SALVATION ARMY painted on the front. When he shut off the engine, she said, “He doesn’t look like a gangster.”

  Jerry walked around and opened the door. As Christie got out, he said, “No, he doesn’t. Maybe I’m wrong—but I don’t think so.” Then he nodded toward the door, “Come on, Aunt Lenora’s probably anxious about you.”

  As they entered the building, Christie looked around curiously. There was nothing fancy about the place, rather it was plain and unadorned. Along the walls were tables piled high with old clothes, and several women wearing uniforms were sorting them. “Where will we find Miss Lenora?” Jerry asked one of them.

  “She’s working in the kitchen.”

  “I know where that is,” Jerry nodded. He led the way down a long hall, and when he opened a door, Christie stepped into a long rectangular room filled with tables. Men sat on benches, and it was obvious that they had arrived at mealtime. The men all wore rough, ragged clothing, and most of them needed shaves and haircuts. “There she is—” Jerry said, nodding toward the back of the room.

  Christie saw Lenora at once. Her sister was wheeling down between two rows of tables, a large basket of bread in her lap. As Christie watched, she saw Lenora stop, put loaves on a table, say a word to the men, then wheel on. She stopped at another table, then looked up and saw the two.

  “Christie!” she cried out and spun the wheels so rapidly that the bread went flying. Ignoring the fallen loaves, she scooted down the aisle, slammed on the brakes, and held up her arms. Her face was glowing with pleasure, and when Christie bent over, she found herself grabbed so hard that she lost her breath.

  “Praise God, you’re here!” Lenora said, then after a quick squeeze, released her sister and winked at Jerry. “Well, you didn’t waste any time did you? How’s Pa?” But before either could answer, she shook her head. “Never mind, we’ll have all kinds of time to talk, Christie. Now, you two sit down, and we’ll have a good dinner.”

  “Oh, I’ve got to run—”

  “Hush and sit down, Jerry Stuart. You’re too skinny. There—right over by the wall—see? Go sit down, and I’ll get us something to eat. You can tell me about the trip.”

  “She’s something, isn’t she?” Jerry said as the two sat down at one of the tables.

  “She always has been,” Christie said softly. They waited for a short time, and then Lenora returned with a tall man in an Army uniform. “This is Major Hastings. Major, my sister Christie, and my nephew Jerry Stuart.”

  The major was a wiry man, taller than most, with a craggy face and clear gray eyes. When Jerry shook hands with him, it was, he told Christie later, “like shaking hands with a Stilson wrench!” He had red hair and many freckles and was homely as a plowed field, but his eyes were
kind. “We’ve been making big plans for you, Miss Christie,” he nodded. “I won’t tell you all of them, but your sister tells me you’re a musician. What instruments can you play?”

  “Any of them, Major,” Lenora answered quickly. “She’s like my pa. He can play anything.”

  Major Hastings looked at Jerry and asked, “I don’t suppose you can play a tuba?”

  Jerry thought that was amusing and laughed outright. “Not me, Major. Maybe I could pound on a big drum, but that’s all.”

  The four of them had a good meal of rich stew and vegetables, then Jerry rose. “Thanks for the meal. I’ve got to fly early, but I’ll be checking on you two.”

  “Thank you, Jerry,” Christie said. “You came at just the right time.”

  Jerry nodded, turned, and left with a jaunty step. “Now then, come along and we’ll get you settled,” Lenora said firmly. “And don’t let Major Hastings talk you into going out on the street with a band tonight.”

  “I had no such intentions!”

  “Don’t believe him, Christie,” Lenora smiled. “He’s an evangelist and will stop at nothing to get a service out of us. Come along now—” She led Christie to a room with a single bed and one chest. It was clean, but very small. “We’ll fix it up nice,” Lenora said. She put her arms up, and Christie came to her. The tension seemed to flow from her as her older sister held her tightly. “I’ve been so unhappy, Lenora!” she whispered.

  “I know. But the good Lord has brought you here—and in his presence is fullness of joy!”

  “You Mr. John Smith?”

  The short, squat man who had stepped out of the taxi peered at Jerry with slate-colored eyes. “Yeah, I’m Smith. You the pilot?”

  “Yes. Can I help you with your suitcase?” Jerry reached for a short, blunt leather suitcase, but Smith forestalled him. “I’ll take this one. You can get that one there.”

  “Sure.” Jerry picked up the shiny new black leather suitcase, saying, “You ready to go now? Weather’s good enough for a nice flight.”

  The chunky man nodded, and Jerry noticed he had a wicked-looking scar that ran from his forehead down his cheek, turning outward to draw the lips into a grimace. Looks like he nearly lost an eye in whatever did that, Jerry thought. He realized that his passenger was not going to give him any small talk, so he loaded the suitcase into the small compartment and watched as Smith carefully put the smaller one beside it. Jerry shut the door, locked it, then nodded at the front cockpit. “You ever fly before?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’ll be an easy flight.” He showed the passenger how to get up to the seat, then reached over and fastened his safety belt. He noticed when he leaned over that Mr. Smith carried a gun but said only, “All right, I guess we’re ready.”

  It was an easy flight, and when they reached Chicago, Smith said not one word until Eddy came and picked him up.

  “Good job, Kid,” Eddy nodded to Jerry. He gave him an envelope, saying, “Little bonus there.”

  “Thanks, Eddy.”

  Jerry went to his room, took a bath, and went to bed at once. He was tired and slept dreamlessly. The next day he went to the Salvation Army headquarters and visited with his aunts. He saw at once that Christie was more relaxed. The lines of tension were easing, and Jerry said to Lenora when he got her alone, “She’s feeling better, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, much better. She won’t talk much about what happened, but time helps.”

  “Will she join the Army like you?”

  Lenora was wearing the black uniform and bonnet that women in the Army all wore. She touched her lapel tentatively, then said quietly, “It’s too soon to tell, Jerry. For now she needs a place where she’ll be loved and accepted—and where she’ll have plenty to do. That’s what we can give her with the Army. Later on she may decide to do something else. People don’t always stay with the Army.”

  “No?”

  “Oh, it’s a hard, demanding life, Jerry,” Lenora answered. “We work hard and have little, and people make fun of us.”

  Jerry grinned, making a fetching appearance. “Better not while I’m around. I’ll teach them better manners!”

  Lenora laughed at his threat. “Come along and beat the big bass drum for us tonight. We’ve got a service in Little Sicily.”

  “Hey, that’s the roughest section of Chicago.”

  “That’s where they need God, Jerry.”

  “I . . . I guess so. Well, I’ve got to run. Be back when I can. I promised to take you and Aunt Christie out for a fancy meal.”

  “That would be nice.”

  Jerry left the headquarters and went by Nick’s office to get his instructions. Nick looked worried. “Glad to see you, Jerry. You ready to fly?”

  “Always ready, Nick.”

  Nick grinned with relief. “Mr. Smith’s in the Beverly Hotel over on Washington Street. Pick him up and take him back to Detroit, okay?”

  “Sure, Nick. When do you want me to fly him there?”

  “Right now!”

  Jerry saw the tension on Nick’s face, but he’d made up his mind to ask no questions. “On my way.”

  He found Smith waiting, and on the trip back to Detroit, the two of them barely spoke. When Smith got out of the plane, he grabbed his two suitcases and hurried off the field.

  “You’re welcome!” Jerry called after him, but the squat man didn’t look around.

  Jerry made the trip back uneventfully, went to bed, and slept hard. The next morning he ate breakfast at Buddy’s Grill, and as he ate the eggs and ham, the proprietor himself came over to say, “Hey, Jerry, you been gone?”

  “Made a short trip, Buddy.”

  “You hear about the big score?”

  Jerry gave the pale-faced man a puzzled look, asking, “What’s that?”

  “Why, somebody took out Ace Tanhauser and two of his men.” Tanhauser, Jerry knew, was a fairly big-time bootlegger. He had been with Torrio but had set up his own organization. “Look at the picture,” Buddy urged, shoving a paper under Jerry’s nose.

  The picture was gruesome. It showed three men lying in stiff, awkward positions, obviously riddled with bullets. One of them held his arm up in a mute, eloquent gesture.

  “Who did it?”

  “Aw, who knows—or cares?” Buddy took the paper, adding, “I wish they’d all kill each other off—Capone, Torrio, Castellano.” He looked at the paper and shrugged. “The cops are looking for some guy who they think might have done it.” He read aloud, ‘“Police are looking for a suspect named Hymie Holtzman. Holtzman, a notorious gunman wanted by the police, was reportedly named by one of the dying victims. Holtzman is thirty-two years old, short and muscular and has a scar on the left side of his face. He is armed and dangerous, and police captain Lofton Edge warns that no citizen should try to apprehend him.’”

  Jerry took the paper, staring at it incredulously. His face turned pale, and he got up at once, putting two bills on the bar. When he was going out the door, Buddy called out, “Hey, don’t you want the rest of your breakfast, Jerry?”

  Then he stared at the picture on the front page of the paper and said in disgust, “What kind of a jerk am I—showing a customer who’s havin’ his breakfast this kind of garbage?”

  Jerry walked stiffly down the street, unaware of anything except the picture in the paper—and the description of Hymie Holtzman.

  “It was Smith—” he muttered, and startled at the sound of his own voice, clamped his lips shut. His hands were trembling, and as he walked toward his car, he thought, I’ve got to get out of this—I’ve got to!

  The pigeons overhead circled and cooed, coming down to light on the sidewalk. They walked with nodding heads, their soft voices a contrast to the raucous vehicles that passed, cars jostling each other. Finally a small boy came racing out of a doorway, waving a stick, and yelling at them. They rose with a flutter, circled once, then flew to the top of a dirty building and lined up on the edge of the roof.

  But Jerry St
uart paid the birds no heed. He got into his car, drove away, and over and over he kept saying to himself, I can’t stay in this thing—I’ve got to get out!

  MARIO

  William “Big Bill” Thompson was probably one of the most corrupt politicians who ever filled the office of mayor of Chicago—which is quite a record, considering the competition. Under his look-the-other-way policy, prostitution, gambling, and bootlegging flourished.

  Chicago, under Big Bill’s rule, imported a small army of hardened criminals, many of them serving as thugs in the newspaper circulation war. The principal battles between Hearst’s Chicago Examiner and the thugs of the Chicago Tribune were pitched battles, intimidating truck drivers, news dealers, and even paperboys.

  In 1923, Big Bill was succeeded by an honest man, Judge William E. Dever. The new mayor closed so many speakeasies that Torrio, Capone, and Castellano moved the mob operations to Cicero, just west of Chicago. That unfortunate small town would have been better off if a tornado had hit, for Capone, using goons and thugs, influenced the Cicero municipal election so that only candidates favorable to a wide-open town were elected. Almost overnight more than 150 speakeasies mushroomed, and vice abounded.

  Jerry Stuart inhabited this jungle, his nerves constantly alert, hating every minute of it. He was well paid, and he told himself this justified what he did—but deep down he knew that he had joined himself to a world of predators killing for profit.

  As he drove down the streets of Cicero to the Castellano headquarters, Jerry noted that the stores were decorated for George Washington’s birthday. “Wonder what the father of our country would think of this if he came back?” he muttered. “Probably say it wasn’t worth men going through Valley Forge to make men like Torrio and Capone rich.”

  He pulled his Stutz Bearcat into a narrow parking space in front of a gray stone building, entered, and as he passed by the two men who sat watching the entrance, he said, “Don’t shoot, guys, it’s only me.”

  “Hi, Jerry,” one of them grunted. “How’s the weather up there?”