One Shining Moment

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Rotten. Got caught in a thunderstorm.”

  “Yeah? Well, watch out for Nick. He’s a bear with a sore tail today.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Dunno—but he just bawled me out for nothin’.” The speaker was a tall, lanky individual named Bones Moreland. He carried three guns that Jerry knew of, and probably more. Now he glanced down at a paper in his hand and shook his head. “Competition is gettin’ fierce. Lots of amateurs settin’ up for themselves. Look at this, Jerry.”

  Taking the paper, Jerry ran his eyes down the list, which was apparently an offer for services to be rendered:

  Punching $2

  Both eyes blacked 4

  Nose and jaw broke 10

  Blackjacked 15

  Ear chawed off 15

  Leg or arm broke 19

  Shot in leg 25

  Stabbed 25

  Doing the big job 100

  Jerry handed the paper back, saying with a straight face, “The business is going downhill, Bones. I think you fellows ought to start a union.”

  The thick-bodied man on the right, a former prizefighter named Sailor Harrelson, laughed aloud. “That’s a hot one! A union!”

  Bones snorted slightly. “We got ways of cuttin’ down on the competition without startin’ no union. Better get in there—but watch out for Nick. Like I say, he’s in a bad mood.”

  “I’ll watch myself, Bones.”

  The house had been a mansion once, and it still had traces of grandeur. Jerry climbed the spiral staircase, admiring as always the fine woodwork, burl-walnut panels that gleamed richly under the crystal chandelier. He smiled faintly at the eclectic collection of paintings on the wall. Those left by the original owner were staid landscapes painted by English masters. Nick kept them but had added cheap prints of famous actresses in various stages of undress. One print caught Jerry’s eye, and he paused to examine it. It was a picture of Lillian Russell, the singer and actress whose torrid romance with Diamond Jim Brady had shocked the respectable world. Jerry studied the classic face and forthright eyes of the actress, then muttered, “You’d be right at home here, Lillian.” Then he remembered that Lillian Russell had died the previous year, 1922, and was ashamed of speaking ill of the dead.

  At the top of the stairs he turned to the left, then knocked on the massive, solid walnut door. When a voice said gruffly, “Come in,” he stepped inside and found Nick Castellano talking with an older man. “This is Walt Stevens,” Nick said shortly. “My pilot, Jerry Stuart. Sit over there, Jerry.”

  Jerry returned the polite greeting of Stevens, who at the advanced age of fifty-four was the dean of Chicago’s gunmen, then took a seat on a Queen Anne sofa. As Nick spoke with Stevens, Jerry studied him carefully. He’d seen him twice but had never met the man. Now he thought of the strange incongruities that seemed to surround the killer. He was a cold-blooded murderer, yet he had adored his wife, nursing her for twenty years through a long illness until she died. He was an educated man, his favorite authors being Robert Burns and Jack London. And he had a strange puritanical streak. He never touched a drop of liquor and forbade his adopted daughters to wear short skirts or use cosmetics. Jerry had heard that before he allowed them to read the classics, he excised any passages he considered indecent. He constantly preached old-fashioned morality and idealism and denounced the “flaming youth” of the era, typified by Clara Bow, Hollywood’s “It” girl.

  Jerry’s attention was sharpened when Stevens said, “I’ve got some new arms to show you, Nick.” He turned to pick up a brown leather case, and Jerry saw that it was the same shape as the case Hymie Holtzman had brought on the plane. The memory was still bitter in him, and he had kept up with the matter. Holtzman had provided an ironclad alibi, and no one had ever been arrested for the murder of Ace Tanhauser.

  Stevens pulled a gun from the case, saying in the manner of a college professor lecturing on the history of Rome, “This is the highest-powered instrument of destruction ever developed, Nick—a Thompson submachine gun.”

  Jerry had heard of the machine gun, and he saw that it was in effect a rifle with a circular drum to hold the ammunition. “Weighs only eight and a half pounds,” Stevens went on. “Can fire up to a thousand .45 caliber pistol cartridges a minute and penetrate a pine board three inches thick at five hundred yards.”

  “Yeah? Lemme’ see it.” Nick took the machine gun and held it as he asked, “Are these things hard to get? They must cost a bundle.”

  Stevens shook his head. “That one you’re holding costs $175,” he said. “A fifty-cartridge drum costs $21. They’re not hard to get right now.” A frosty smile touched his thin lips. “The Sullivan Law they passed in 1911 prohibits possession of small firearms, but it puts no restrictions on guns like this. Anybody can buy as many as he likes. Just have to give your name and address.”

  “Better buy up an arsenal of these, Walt,” Nick said, handing the gun back. “The Feds will get a law passed to keep these things under control.”

  “How many?”

  “Better get twenty or so, I guess.” Nick looked tired and irritable. “Get with Eddy on it. Better stock up on ammunition, too.”

  Stevens had pale blue eyes that seemed to have a hard surface. “Some trouble coming up, Nick?” he asked softly.

  Castellano moved back to his chair, nodded, and lit up a cigar. “Get on with it, Walt. I’ll get back with you tomorrow.” He waited until the gunman left the room, then swiveled around to face Jerry. He had an angry expression on his face and said abruptly, “What’s with this aunt of yours—Christie?”

  Jerry stared at the man, not understanding the question. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Nick.”

  “I’m talking about this!” Nick reached into his desk drawer, yanked out a newspaper, and threw it on the desk. He leaned back and watched as Jerry scanned the front page of the paper, his eyes hard and watchful.

  Jerry saw that it was an old copy of the Fort Smith Tribune—and the story on the front page carried a picture of Christie and the headline, “Local Businessman Caught with Mistress.” Jerry tossed the paper down and faced Castellano. “Christie was set up, Nick. The guy’s wife wanted a divorce and he wouldn’t give her one—so she hired a guy to frame this thing.”

  “It don’t look good.”

  Jerry felt a stab of anger, his green eyes suddenly flashing. “You say that? Nick Castellano—the gangster?”

  “Watch your mouth, Stuart!”

  “You watch yours, Nick!” Jerry stood to his feet angrily. “I’m not afraid of you or your thugs! Don’t talk about my family or I’ll bust you!”

  The threat seemed to amuse Nick, for he felt exactly the same way about his own family. He stood up to say, “Don’t fly off the handle, Jerry. I just wanted to know about the girl.”

  “What do you care about her?”

  Nick stared at him, doubt in his eyes. “She ain’t told you about Mario?”

  “What about Mario?”

  The question seemed to ease Nick’s anger, and he said, “Why, he’s been seeing her. I thought you knew that.”

  Jerry was stunned. “She never said a word to me, Nick. Neither has Aunt Lenora.”

  “That’s the older sister? Well, maybe Christie don’t tell her everything.”

  Jerry was disturbed about the thing. He shook his head, saying, “I’ll have a talk with her, Nick. She doesn’t need to be seeing Mario.”

  “Why not?” Nick’s temper was as volatile as a man’s could be. He’d been angry that his brother was seeing Christie—now he demanded, “He’s not good enough for her? Is that it?”

  Knowing that he was on dangerous ground, Jerry said carefully, “They’re from different worlds, Nick. She’s never been out of the hills until now. She’s had a hard time, and she’s confused. She doesn’t need a slick city man like Mario. And he doesn’t need her, either.”

  Nick nodded slowly. “I think you got it right.” He went back to sit down and puffed slowly on the big
cigar. He was silent for a time, then leaned forward to say, “Look, maybe I can explain. I know what kind of a guy I am. Me and Eddy came up rough. Owen knows about that. Okay, so we’re a couple of hoods—that’s the way it is. But we want something better for Mario.” Nick was not a man who explained himself often, and now he seemed awkward and nervous. “We keep the kid out of the rough stuff. He’s got his own law office—and I hope he don’t ever want to work for us. I want him to make it in the kind of world your father is in—I want him to be respectable. You see how it is, Jerry?”

  Jerry nodded slowly. He was seeing a side of Nick Castellano he’d never seen, and he liked the man for it. “Sure, I think that’s great, Nick. Your mother would like it, wouldn’t she?”

  “That’s right. The kid’s the apple of her eye, and I’m going to see to it that nothin’ stops Mario! He’s got to go all the way.”

  “I hope he does, Nick.”

  “Somebody sent me this paper—don’t know who. It scared me a little bit, Jerry. Takes a lot to do that to old Nick, hey?”

  “Scared you how?”

  “Why, I seen many a good man get taken down by a woman. When I seen the story, I thought it was so. I don’t know your aunt, and there’s lots of women out there who ain’t straight.”

  “If you knew Christie, you’d know she’s not one of them. Ask Dad or Uncle Owen if you don’t believe me.”

  Nick hesitated. “I don’t want to do that, Jerry, not if I don’t have to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Those two guys—I admire them. I don’t want to do nothin’ to mess up our friendship.” Nick sat watching the young man, his mind working rapidly. Finally he said, “Look, Jerry, you’re a smart guy. You and me, we can handle this. Like you say, your aunt don’t need a guy like Mario—and he don’t need her. In the first place, we’re Catholic and your aunt ain’t. That’s trouble right there, Jerry!”

  “Yes, it is—but I can’t think they’re serious, Nick.” Jerry bit his lip, trying to think. He knew that if his dad or his uncle Owen found out about this, they would be terribly disturbed. “Let me talk to her, Nick. We’re pretty close, and I think she’ll tell me what’s going on. And as soon as I get the word, I’ll get right back to you.”

  Relief washed over the face of Nick Castellano. “Hey, that’s great, Jerry. You do that! How about if you get right on it? We can fix it so you don’t have no trips until this is settled.”

  “I’ll go right over to see her, Nick.” He turned at once, then halted. Swinging back toward Nick, he said, “Might be good if you talked to Mario, wouldn’t it?”

  Nick looked down at the desk for a moment. When he looked up he was troubled. “You know, Jerry, me and Eddy can talk about anything. But with Mario, it’s different. He’s been sort of sheltered, and he’s educated. Somehow I can’t get him to see what life is like. He—kind of looks down on the business. But I’ll give it a shot. I may be way out of line on this thing,” he added hopefully. “They may not be thinkin’ of anything serious.”

  “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, Nick.”

  For some reason walking along in the falling snow beside a young woman wearing the sober dress of a Salvation Army lassie tickled the fancy of Mario Castellano. A pale sun burned in the gray sky, and he enjoyed the sight of millions of flakes falling across the path in front of them. They bit at his face, burning like icy fire, and he said, “Are you warm enough, Christie?”

  “Yes. Except for my nose and my ears.”

  “Mine too—but I love the snow. Come on, let’s make a snowman!”

  The two of them had been walking down one of the aisles of Lincoln Park, but now they stopped and Christie smiled at his remark. “I don’t think it would look good, would it? A Chicago lawyer and a Salvation Army lassie making a snowman in the park?”

  Mario was wearing a long black overcoat and a felt derby. His dark eyes laughed with amusement, and he shrugged. “Who’s to see? All the serious people are inside. Come on, I haven’t made a snowman in years.”

  “All right, I’ll help you.” Christie stooped and began to form a snowball, saying, “When I was a little girl and we made a snowman, I cried because they wouldn’t let me bring it in the house at night. I used to cry thinking of how lonely he must be out by himself in the dark.”

  “Here, let me get this ball started—” Mario took the snowball from her, placed it in the snow, and began to roll it along the layer of fresh snow. “If I’d been there,” he said as the ball grew larger, “I’d have brought it in for you.”

  “He’d have melted, and then I’d have cried even more. Be careful, you’re getting it lopsided!”

  “Woman, you’re talking to the snowman-making champion of the city of Chicago!”

  Christie laughed, and the two of them worked to create first one ball, two feet in diameter, then another. “Now, you make a head while I put him together,” Mario commanded. Bending over, he picked up the second ball, set it on top of the first, then cemented the middle with handfuls of the damp snow. Christie made a smaller ball and stuck it on the body.

  “There you are,” she nodded. “But you’ve got no eyes or nose or teeth. I wish we had some buttons for eyes, Mario—and a carrot for a nose.”

  Mario at once ripped two buttons from his coat and handed them to her. “Eyes—and how’s this for a mouth?” He broke a branch from an overhanging oak, then snapped a curving piece out and stuck it on the head of the snowman. Taking his pen from his pocket he stuck it deep into the ball, just under the eyes. “A fine nose!”

  Christie looked at him, wondering at the streak of fun that ran in him. She’d not seen any sign of this in his brothers, though, according to Amos, Mario’s mother, Anna, had a trace of it. Odd how we’ve gotten to be friends, she thought as they laughed and worked to complete their snowman. He’s about the last person in the whole city of Chicago I’d have thought I’d get close to.

  Mario had come by headquarters unexpectedly just three days after she’d met him. Christie had been flustered at his appearance and thought he’d be totally out of place. He wore a diamond ring on his finger and an expensive suit that set him apart from the roughly dressed inhabitants of the establishment, but he had a way of making friends, she soon discovered. She caught him giving money to a poor woman with two children who’d been evicted, and he seemed embarrassed by the incident. Major Hastings told her some time later, “He’s a generous man, Christie. He gave me an envelope filled with bills and mumbled that he was behind with his Christmas giving—told me not to let it get out.”

  At first Lenora was amused by Mario, who came back to visit at least once a week. But when Christie had started going out for dinner with him, then for walks, she watched the thing carefully. She had said once to Christie, “Be careful, Christie. He’s a worldly man, and you don’t need to get involved with him.”

  Christie had merely agreed, but now as they laughed and worked on the snowman, she was suddenly aware that times like these with Mario had become very important to her. She had been happy with the Army, but she missed her home—the old days, not those of recent times. Lenora was a dear, and the two had grown even closer. But Lenora had been given more and more responsibility so that she had little time to spend with Christie.

  Thus it was that the visits of the lawyer came to be more and more welcome to Christie. She knew that they were from different worlds, but somehow his wit and gentleness filled a place in her heart. She had grown up in the midst of brothers and missed the male companionship she’d enjoyed with them.

  Now as the two laughed at the comic features of their creation, she said, “At home we always got old clothes and put them on our snowman.”

  At once Mario plucked off his expensive derby and set it in place. Laughing, he took a cigar from his pocket and stuck it in the snowman’s face, saying, “There now, you look like a Chicago alderman!”

  “Mario—you’ll freeze without your hat!” Christie removed the hat, then reached up to brush
the snow from his dark hair. She scolded him, but after she replaced the hat, he suddenly reached up and took her hand.

  “Your hands are like ice!” he said. “Let me warm them.”

  “Oh—they’re all right,” Christie said quickly. But he held her hands, lifted them to his lips, and blew on them. She was shocked by the gesture and lifted her face to him. Her dark blue eyes grew large, and the snow left tiny flakes in her long lashes. As he continued to blow on her hands, she grew uncomfortable for some reason, and then when he suddenly kissed her hands, she whispered, “Don’t . . . don’t do that!”

  “Why not?” Mario looked at her with surprise. He was twenty-eight and had known women. They had come to him easily enough—so easily that he had begun to wonder if he had any quality except money to draw a woman. Most of those he’d known had been experienced—and hard. It was the gentleness of Christie Stuart that had caught his attention, and when he had visited her once and found out that she had wit as well, he was drawn to her. Now as he saw the frightened expression on her face, he was startled. Never had he known a woman who was so fragile, and he said quietly, “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Christie.”

  She saw something in his dark eyes that drove the fear away. “I . . . I’m silly, aren’t I, Mario?”

  “You’re very lovely,” he replied. “And I wish you’d trust me. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

  “I don’t think you would.”

  He still held her hands, which had grown warmer, and he was suddenly very much aware of the feminine grace of her features. He drew her to him gently, ready to release her at the first protest, but she made none. Her eyes grew wider, and when he bent and kissed her, he was shocked at the feeling that ran through him at the touch of her soft lips. He was accustomed to women who met him hungrily, but there was an innocence in Christie that was like nothing he’d ever seen in a woman. She was very still, but there was a pressure in her lips that made him think that beneath the stillness of her demeanor lay a passion that had never been touched.

  He lifted his head, smiled at her, then said quietly, “I like you very much, Christie. There’s a . . . a sweetness in you that’s very rare.”