by Sikes, AJ
“The way to shut down Capone and his organization isn’t to fight them. They make the rules in that game, so they’ve already won. If you want to beat The Outfit, you have to play by rules they can’t change.”
The group was listening, even the loud mouth, but nobody replied. The Mayor continued. “I mean take away their money. The source of all their power is the money they count on from their illicit enterprises. Why, just look at us, all sipping from glasses. And where do you think this lovely amber liquid came from?”
“Are you talking about ending Prohibition in Chicago City, Mr. Mayor?” Loud Mouth asked. “That would mean going against decrees signed by all four governors. Can we take that kind of risk?”
“The governors have made it clear they expect great things. And if there is a city in this nation that can deliver great things, it’s Chicago City! We can take that risk with Prohibition because we have to if we’re going to deliver what the governors expect from us. And the same goes for gambling. Prostitution, too. Why not? If we regulate the so-called vice industries like any other, we can ensure the workers are treated fairly and the city can take its share in taxes instead of slicing off the top to pay Capone. With their funding cut off, those men will have to find real work, real jobs. And then it’ll be our game, where we make the rules! As it should be,” he finished by raising his glass in a toast and then emptying it in one swallow.
“Hear, hear!” shouted a few of the assembled guests in chorus. Most of the crowd threw back whatever was in their glasses and went back to dancing and cavorting. A few in the immediate circle stared down into their glasses in between exchanging looks of concern. The Mayor paid them no mind. He’d noticed Brand and pushed between the tall ladies to speak to him.
“Mitchell Brand,” the Mayor said, clapping a hand on the reporter’s shoulder. “Here to cover the doings of Chicago City’s most trusted and trustworthy no doubt?”
“That’s a sure thing, Mr. Mayor. As you say.”
“Good. That’s good, my boy. Now, of course, you’ll refrain from mentioning anything else you might overhear tonight, as no official business can, indeed, should be conducted at a social gathering.”
“Of course, Mr. Mayor. Like you say, nothing official about tonight.”
“Well, that is good to hear, Brand. Very good to hear.”
Brand was set to ask about the evening’s entertainment, but before he could open his mouth a commotion rose at the entrance to the hall. A group of men in suits, hats, and coats marched into the room. Guests backed out of the way until the group reached the Mayor’s circle. Frank Nitti strode out of the clutch and shoved aside two of the fair investors.
“Mr. Mayor,” Nitti said, his voice heavy with a weight Brand hadn’t heard before. It was the sound a mountain of steel would make as it fell on you. “There are times. Things happen.”
The Mayor shuffled his feet once, casting a quick wary glance around the circle of guests watching the scene. “Yes, Mr. Nitti. I am aware that things happen in Chicago City. I am also aware that as Mayor it’s up to me to make sure the wrongs things don’t happen. This trouble—”
“Nobody wants trouble, Mr. Mayor. But there are times.” Nitti spread his hands and shrugged. “You know this. Right?”
“I know I’m enjoying the rewards of a friendship I didn’t choose, if that’s what you mean.”
Nitti’s face went slack and then sharpened in an instant. He grinned and threw a right cross like lightning, his gloved fist impacting low on the Mayor’s cheek. The thick set man spit out his cigar and dropped like a side of beef. He lay there holding his jaw and looking up at Nitti.
The band stopped playing and the room went quiet. People stood up and craned their necks to see the action.
“Mr. Mayor,” Nitti said, leaning down to look the man in the eye. His voice still heavy but sharper now, like a blade that sliced every thread of conversation in the room. With complete silence around him, Nitti went on. “Mr. Capone offers his sincere gratitude, Mr. Mayor. For the valuable service you have provided to Chicago City.” Nitti stood and caught Brand’s eye. His manner loosened up and a weasel’s grin curled onto his face.
“I believe we have already spoken. Mitchell Brand of the Chicago Daily Record.” Nitti’s voice softened further, but the knife edge remained. “I’ll remind you. Watch what you say on the radio. Certain ears may take offense at your tone of voice.” He gave Brand’s cheek a slap.
Brand nodded and kept his face hard, but he saw something in Nitti’s glare that made him take a step back. A golden glow flashed from the mobster’s eyes, disappearing as quickly as it came. In that moment, Brand felt a weight, like he’d felt from the mobster’s voice. It pressed against Brand’s chest and threatened to knock him off his feet with the slightest effort. Nitti and his boys turned to leave the way they’d come and Brand got his composure as the gangsters showed him their back. Whatever had happened with Nitti right then, it was gone.
Nitti and his group marched straight through the crowd, heading for the front door. Brand watched the gangsters leave. He couldn’t be sure because Nitti’s thugs had surrounded their boss again, but it looked as if Nitti simply vanished, winking out of sight as the group drew abreast of Detective Wynes. The copper looked to the Mayor, who had struggled to his feet. The Mayor waved to let the gangsters leave unmolested. He dusted himself off before shuffling out through a door behind the bandstand.
The party returned to normal after a bit and Brand circulated, chatting with guests about the special edition. Nobody in the room had seen a copy, which gnawed at him after awhile. His story had been hot off the press, but without the photo to back it up, he was just blowing hot air up the city’s caboose. After nearly an hour of people telling him they’d sure like to see the evidence, Brand’s dejection ate a hole in his gut and he left his half empty glass on a table. He was about to leave when Emma Farnsworth came at him from the direction of the powder rooms. At her approach, a faint scent of roses wafted between them. She looked cooler than when they spoke earlier, but still ready for war. “What did Nitti say to you?”
“What’s it to you? Besides, a newsman never betrays his sources.”
“Funny stuff. Look, Brand, Frank Nitti is putting the pinch on my father. If you know anything about it—” she let her eyes finish for her.
“That’s the spirit. Why don’t we sit down?”
“Fine,” she said and walked to a corner table.
Keeping things private, Brand thought to himself. Good chance he’d get some dope he could use for a story, and the photos of her began to make some kind of sense in his mind. He still didn’t have all the pieces, but the frame was coming together.
“So what’s this about, Brand? Why are you really here? What do you know about The Outfit and my father’s plant?”
“How about one at a time? Why am I here? To get the dope on why the mob is interested in your father’s plant when everyone knows the old man’s betting low cards. And speaking of cards, what’s with the gypsy act? I didn’t know you went in for that sort of thing.”
“It’s none of your business, but I’ll tell you that every man and woman in this room has sat down with Madame Tibor. Now what was that crack about my father? The plant’s doing fine. Sure, Dad’s not in the game like he used to be. But if anyone goes down first, it’ll be Lane-Hartley. Gas it out. It’s all wind, water, and radio-electricity from Mr. Tesla’s operation now.”
“Okay, that’s a safe bet. But then why go after your old man? Why not try for the big fish, like Tesla? If it’s protection they’re running.”
Emma seemed to size him up, as if gauging his worth and debating whether to end the conversation or not. Her face went slack and she sent her eyes off to the side before replying. “You think it’s protection?” she said, turning to look him in the eye again. “I don’t know about that, b
ut I know they wanted something from Dad. Nitti’s been coming by the plant since Christmas, first with a basket of sausages, then a new coat. This morning somebody brought him a bottle of Capone’s favorite hooch. They wanted him to do something, but I don’t know what.”
Brand connected the dots for her. “Sounds like a patsy play. It’s a cinch Capone ordered the hit this morning and Nitti’s been coming by to set your old man up as the fall guy in case the coppers got wise. Maybe they were working the competition angle. Brauerschift hasn’t made things easy for the Farnsworth operation, and the hit was in one of their repair shops.”
Emma put her head to one side and cocked an eyebrow. “Dad would never do something like that, not just because of competition.” She righted her head and stuck her chin out at Brand, defying his suggestion. “Besides, he’d bought some new turbine fittings and handed out bonuses for Christmas, and he ordered a new set of regulators last week. He’s been talking about getting some of the new Brackston auto-tools even, so he could save on labor. He’d be laying off a few guys, but he was going to pay the others better and still—” She cut herself off and sent her eyes off to the side.
“Don’t worry, Miss Farnsworth. I won’t be printing any of this in the paper.”
“Oh really? I should have known better,” she said, her brow crinkling up with regret.
“Hey, I mean it. You might not have the highest opinion of me, and I don’t know why that’s the case. But I’m good for my word to people. Unless I can prove any of this, we’re just blowing smoke in each other’s eyes.”
“Okay, Brand. But. . .” She let her words fall to the table and followed them with her eyes.
“You’re not happy about what I’ve suggested, I can see that. Maybe you know it’s true though. Those tools and plant fittings sound expensive. Your old man has that kind of money?”
“I don’t know. It was all supposed to happen after next season was in. Dad doesn’t tell me about the money side of things, just how the plant works, the machines, that kind of thing. We were supposed to go over the books this morning.”
“And?”
“And he called it off.”
Emma’s face went dark, and even though he didn’t have any experience with them, Brand could tell he was looking at a woman scorned.
“You and your old man don’t see eye to eye. Half of Chicago City knows it. What’s the story there?”
“He isn’t happy that his only surviving child is a girl. He’s giving the plant to the foreman after he dies. He says he wants me to know how things work, but this girl’s not dumb enough to believe she’ll be the one to run the show.”
“Well if Nitti was looking to make your old man the fall guy, there has to be something connecting him to The Outfit. Is he at home now?”
“I doubt it. He’s probably passed out on his desk. He had half that bottle in him when I left this afternoon.”
Brand let it go at that. They were getting close to what he’d learned from the old man earlier, and he had to keep that conversation on the QT. Unless he wanted to end up back in Miss Farnsworth’s not-so-good graces again. They said their goodbyes and Brand put a few notes down in his pad while Emma walked over to the bandstand. A pretty-looking rich boy, a young fair investor, snatched Emma’s hand as she walked by. Brand wasn’t sure, but he thought Emma and the horn player exchanged a look as she followed Mr. Moneybags around the dance floor. Brand spun it around in his mind as he moved to the entrance. The girl at the door helped him back into his coat. He turned to leave and drew up short, face to face with the gypsy couple.
“Madame Tibor, at your service. Mitchell Brand,” the woman said, holding her hand out as though she expected him to kiss her fingers. He gave them a gentle tug, like he would a lamp cord.
“A pleasure, Madam,” Brand said, lifting his hat as he stepped to leave.
“You wait!” Madame Tibor said, her eyes rounding to wide-open white orbs with pinpoints of black in the middle. “You wait and you see now.” She pulled her stack of cards from the folds of her dark shawl. She slid cards over and under the stack in a practiced shuffle, and Brand had to force his eyes away. He ended up staring at the husband.
“You’d be Monsieur Tibor, then? Is that right? Look, I’m a little busy right now. So maybe you and the missus here. . .”
“He does not speak,” Madame Tibor told Brand while she kept up her shuffle, looking him in the eyes. Her hands and fingers danced a cat’s cradle around the deck of cards as she spoke.
“Men from hills and men from towns. You say. . .feuding, yes? They are feuding when my András was boy. He tells his father where town men are hiding. They are all killed. Then town men capture my András. He is only boy, so they let him live. Take his tongue.”
The gypsy woman finished and pulled a card. She gave it to Brand. He lets it rest on his palm, looking from the husband, András, to Madame Tibor.
“You are important, Mitchell Brand. This card. Pantheon Tower. House of Gods. See?”
Brand flicked his eyes at the card in his hand and felt his gaze trapped by the picture. A black pillar stood over a cityscape against two skies. To one side of the pillar, the city sat beneath a golden sun and a sickle moon, both orbs casting a glow onto the buildings below. On the other side, the image of the city flickered in and out of focus on the card. Buildings grew and shrank in place, as if the city were being constructed and demolished on the surface of the card in Brand’s palm.
“Where gods live, power lives. You are powerful man, Mitchell Brand. Very powerful.”
Brand smirked, trying to keep his head. But the dancing image on the card spun his eyes into orbit. He felt like his mind might follow and he pried his gaze out of the card, giving himself a moment of clarity. Around him, the room swelled with laughter and conversation. He stared at the gypsy woman and her silent husband. Madame Tibor drew a second card and gasped as she saw it. András changed his expression, too, widening his eyes in shock. This made his gaunt face look even more skeletal as the skin stretched over his high cheekbones. Madame Tibor placed the card face up in Brand’s palm, laying it crossways over the first card.
“Changeling,” she breathed out in a hush. Brand’s eyes went to the card and he saw a creature of every imaginable type all stitched together. It had a man’s hands, with extra long fingers ending in claws and talons. These were attached to a feathered arm on one side and a bear’s furry arm on the other. The torso was lengthened, with a ribcage like a great cat. The thing had the haunches and legs of a goat on one side and a horse on the other. The head was a real winner though, with the beak and eyes of a raven, the ears of a rodent, and a snake-like neck.
Brand felt himself falling into the card, but Madame Tibor’s voice anchored him in the room. “This is problem. This card never good, but especially not good for you, Mitchell Brand. Man of power crossed by Changeling is man under threat.”
“Threat of what?” He hadn’t meant to say anything, but his tongue had different ideas about who was in charge.
“We see,” Madame Tibor said and drew a third card. When she saw the card, the gypsy threw her head back and bunched her face up in a spasm of agony. András reacted with a speed and strength Brand hardly expected from the man. Madame Tibor slumped to one side and her husband had his arms around her before she dropped to the floor. He held her upright until she was steady and kept one arm wrapped around her as she placed the third card on Brand’s palm. He relaxed when his eyes took in the image. Whatever spell the gypsy had cast on him was broken. On the card was a simple image, one that Brand was more than familiar with. He’d seen enough death in his life to know it on sight, even in an archaic and fanciful illustration like the one he held in his palm.
“Like I thought,” he let himself say between worried lips. Then he broke out laughing and slid the cards together and pitched them back into Madame
Tibor’s hands.
“That’s a good act, sister,” Brand said as he turned away. Looking over his shoulder he smiled and waved, then let his face go stony. “Keep it. I’m not buying any.”
With that, Brand left the room, letting the crowd’s laughter and the sound of clinking glass usher him outside into the frigid night. Outside, the doorman returned Brand’s wave with a nod and went back to holding down the concrete patio. Snow flurries kicked up in a sudden gust and Brand lost his footing. He skipped down the steps in a quick shuffle, only just saving himself from falling on his nose.
At the street, he hailed a waiting cab, a sedan that had just dropped off another of Chicago City’s wealthy drunkards. Brand stepped up to the car and noticed a shifty movement in the corner of his eye. He turned to see the gypsy woman and her husband descending the stairs. Halfway down, they drew up short and the air around them fluttered and shook. The fabric of the night whipped aside and a shivering tramp stood astride a rickety rusty bicycle, an old Boneshaker with metal wheels. The tramp flickered in and out of Brand’s vision, like a candle flame in a draft. He seemed hollow beneath his skin, but gradually filled in as he stood on the steps, like he was the bottom bell of an hourglass. Brand’s feet carried him up to the scene before he knew what was happening. He stopped a few steps below the trio. The tramp pulled a satchel up from inside his loose overcoat and reached into it. He drew out a metal tube and held it out for the gypsy woman.
“For you, um, I guess. . .Ma’am. Is that—”
“Yes, is correct. For me. Ma’am,” the gypsy said, letting a bright tinkling laugh follow her words into the night air. “Is okay. Ma’am or mother. I am called both.” Madame Tibor took the tube from the tramp’s outstretched hand and replaced it with two coins.
