by Sikes, AJ
Chapter 9
Emma closed the door behind her quietly and slowly stepped down the porch steps. Snow began to fall, dusting the heavy coat Eddie gave her. She tugged it on tighter and looked back at the house, knowing Eddie was sleeping upstairs, alone. Their conversation from earlier played over and over in her mind as she went to the car.
“I don’t have anything to lose but you, Eddie Boy. But I can’t let them get away with this.”
“You’re talking crazy, Lovebird. Crazy as crazy gets. Come back in the house now. C’mon back inside before you give me the vapors. I love you, Emma. And you’re wanting to go out gunning for Frank Nitti like that don’t mean a thing, like I don’t mean nothing to you.”
She’d followed him back inside. Let him hug her. Hugged him back, tight and warm against him. “You do, Eddie, you mean everything to me. You’re the only thing I have left. But the Outfit took my family apart. Mom left when dad started drinking. He drank because he couldn’t keep up with the loans he took from Nitti to keep the plant running. I was a dope for believing his story about how mom ran off to live in the Seaboard with some guy from New York City. She left because she was sick of watching dad drink himself to sleep every night, and watching me clean up after him.”
“Dammit, I know it means we wouldn’t never have met, but what kept you from going with her?”
“She didn’t want me to go. I remember the day she left. She just looked at me from the door and blew me a kiss. I could tell she’d been crying, but she didn’t give me a chance to ask why. She just left me behind. She left me to make sure he had somebody to look after him.”
“And you did, and what’d he give you back for it? Huh? A lotta lip and not much else, some nice clothes maybe. This car here. But—”
Emma had cut him off with a look. Her father may have been a lot of things, but he’d looked out for her, given her chances other girls could never hope for. And he’d let her make her own way instead of insisting she go out and find a guy to marry her. Maybe he hadn’t been able to love her enough to trust her with running the plant, or maybe he was just protecting her from Nitti’s hooks.
“Emma, I know you had love for the man, but you told me plenty how you hated him, too.”
Emma had looked away, out the window, watching the snow fall on the muddy ground where it collected into grey and brown drifts against fences and porches.
“Maybe I did hate him, or maybe I didn’t,” she’d said, feeling Eddie’s hands caressing her shoulders, his breath hot on her neck. “Maybe I loved him like every girl loves her daddy, no matter how rough it goes on her to love him. And now he’s dead because that damn crook, that rat named Frank Nitti, got into my family’s cupboards and chewed holes in everything we owned. Everything we ate and drank, all the nice clothes, the furniture. The house I grew up in. All of it has his stink on it. He’s going to pay for that, and I’m the debt collector. Then we can go somewhere, just me and you, Eddie.”
“Where we gonna go?” he’d asked and smiled like she’d told him the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “A negro and a white woman in a car together? You gonna ride in back for the rest of your life?”
“We’ll go to New Orleans. You’ve still got family there, and friends. Miscegenation laws aren’t on the books there. People live separately, but you said they know well enough who loves who, and nobody makes a stink about it. Not at all if you stay out of the wrong clubs. Clara Lewis would still be alive today if she had just taken a riverboat out of town instead of stepping out a window in the Monadnock.”
Eddie’s face had gone cold. “Don’t talk like that, Lovebird. You talk about dying when you want to get me thinking you’re coming back, and I just know you ain’t if I let you drive off with that gun in your bag.”
Emma had kissed him, full and warm. She held him and let his arms encircle her, his hands sweep up and down her back, pressing her to him. The warmth of his body against hers was almost enough to distract her from her plan.
“Eddie, I have to do this. I have to payback Frank Nitti. In full.”
“Emma. . .I know The Outfit did your family a hundred ways of wrong, but you ain’t gotta do nothing but stay right here.”
She’d reached up to silence him with her fingers, but he caught them and brought his lips to hers. He held her hand tight, pulling her closer with his other hand in the small of her back as he stepped away from the window and to the bed. She fell with him, fell into the caressing and the squeezing, the fevered kissing and then the rhythmic movement of her body against his and his against hers, over and over in tandem with their heartbeats.
Eddie had dropped back onto the pillow when they’d finished, letting his hands fall to her thighs. She’d rolled to the side to lie next to him. She stayed there until he’d fallen asleep and then carefully stole back to the dressing cabinet where she stored a few changes of clothes.
Whispering through a blown kiss, Emma said, “I’ll be back, Eddie. And then we’ll leave this town. I promise.”
Outside now, with the snow collecting in her hair, Emma turned away from the house. She slid into the driver’s seat and started the car, casting one last glance back at the upstairs window. Eddie’s frightened face looked back at her and she ripped her gaze away. If she looked at him for just one more second, she’d lose her nerve and Nitti would get away clean as can be. And Emma Farnsworth had had enough of rotten men spoiling her life and getting away with it.
Chapter 10
Brand felt like folding when he climbed into the cabin later that morning. His whole life felt like preparation for yesterday’s story. Getting the crime scene photo, putting out the news about Chicago City’s worst killing. Grabbing threads that brought one of the city’s oldest families into the picture. Nearly getting one of those threads connected for certain. And then watching the whole thing unravel in his hands.
The print copy of the Daily Record was on its way to the people with news about old man Farnsworth. Digs Gordon and the Conroy kid didn’t end up going to the Commissioner’s after all. Chief just called them in and let them know about Jenkins. They agreed to keep quiet, nodding their heads so fast Brand thought they’d spin their eyeballs backwards.
Brand spent time in the printing room, listening to the Brackston auto-press churn out the story on Josiah Farnsworth’s suicide and the dead tramps. He’d kept both stories clean, just like Chief said. It was easy enough for the story about Old Man Farnsworth, but the word he’d got back from the riverside turned Brand’s insides to jelly. Three men, shredded in their sleep. Hardly enough left to make sense of what had been killed much less who.
He wrote up a quick radio spot on the dead tramps, knowing he should keep it clean like he’d been told. But Brand couldn’t resist the urge to warn the people of Chicago City. The victims yesterday morning were top dollar, and today they were penny ante. If the murderer was a monster and decided to go after folks in between. . .Brand winced as he read the descriptions of the three dead men. Even though there wasn’t much left to describe.
Ladies and Gentlemen of Chicago City, this is Mitchell Brand with the Chicago Daily Record. Some disturbing news has come to us this morning. Three men, found murdered in their sleep last night. The men were among the noble class of residents who enjoy life by the riverside.
Down and out they may have been, but to die like. . .This reporter has been asked to keep the details under wraps, but for all our sakes a more thorough telling is called for. Be watchful, ladies and gentlemen. And be warned. Killers are on the loose in Chicago City, and we’ve all seen what they’re capable of.
For the full story on last night’s murders, catch a copy of the Daily Record. They’ll be sailing down to the streets within the hour.
Stay tuned, Chicago. And stay in touch.
He felt like the story called for more, but with his hazy head from last night’s long h
ours he couldn’t put his finger on what was missing. Just his luck, Chief knew exactly what was missing and rang Brand on the radiophone as soon as he’d shut off the mic.
“Brand, I said—”
“You said. And I heard. I also heard what you didn’t say, but I didn’t catch all of it. I’ve got the Farnsworth story to do, still. So unless you’ve remembered what you were chewing on upstairs, I’ll get back to the news.”
“Do me a favor, Mitch. I’m asking nice, but it’s all I can do not to say you’re fired. Just keep it on the QT as best as you can. You and me both know there’s more to say. There’s always more to say about every story comes through our hands. But sometimes you gotta play hush. It’s how the game goes, Mitch. You know that.”
Brand did know it, and he knew it had to be something heavy weighing on Chief’s head to make him bring that card into play.
“Okay, Chief. For you. For old time’s sake.” Brand let a little syrup coat his words, just so Chief knew he still wasn’t happy about being muzzled. Chief cut the connection after a grunt, leaving Brand still wondering what had gotten into his old friend’s head so deep that it would come to slapping a gag over Brand’s mic.
Archie would show up in a bit, to get them into the sky for the afternoon. The only thing on Brand’s docket until then was a radio report about Josiah Farnsworth. Thinking about that set Brand to grinding his teeth in frustration. If the old man had gone quietly in his sleep, it’d just be another society death. Brand could have dashed it off and forgotten the matter. But this death spelled more than tragedy for the society folks. It was tied up in a mess of dirty dealings. And it wasn’t the only one, Brand reminded himself. He wanted to say something about Jenkins, but both the Commissioner and Chief had sworn him to keep hush about it.
Brand settled into his chair and finished a smoke. He rolled another and lit it before reopening the broadcast link with the Record’s spire.
Good afternoon, Chicago City. This is Mitchell Brand again, with the Daily Record.
Today we mourn the loss of a city patriarch. Josiah Gabriel Farnsworth shot himself to death last night. He was a strong man. A powerful man.
Brand paused there, remembering the cards Madame Tibor had placed in his hand. Then he mentally kicked himself for letting hokum break his stride. He drew in a lungful and continued the report.
Josiah Farnsworth was also a man in a game with heavy competition. Maybe that tells us enough to understand why. We can only hope his surviving daughter, Emma Farnsworth, finds solace in her time of sorrow.
Brand reached to shut the mic off and then stopped. He saw the crime scene photo from yesterday in his mind. He saw the men and women who slogged it out in the factories every single day, just to make sure they could pay their rent, or the protection money, or the ransom. People who worked for chump change and used it up in the speaks that were owned by the same guy who prevented anyone from earning a decent wage. After a long drag on his smoke, Brand stabbed it out and kept talking.
It remains to be seen whether or not Frank Nitti’s visit to Farnsworth Wind and Water, which this reporter witnessed yesterday afternoon, is related to Mr. Farnsworth’s suicide. If anything is revealed about Josiah Farnsworth’s possible involvement with The Outfit, the Daily Record is committed to bringing you the truth about what happens in your city.
Stay tuned, Chicago. And stay in touch.
Chief would harsh him out for that, but Brand had taken enough from the world in the past twenty-four hours. The story was there, and he would follow it to its end somehow. The weight of the past day and night caught up to him as he stared at the radiophone, waiting for it ring. After fifteen minutes of nothing but the sound of wind outside the cabin windows, Brand scribbled a note and left it in the pilot’s chair. Then he staggered aft, stopping in the washroom to splash some water on his face before going back to his bunk.
Sleep came quickly, and Brand felt like it left just as fast. He jolted awake to the ringing of the radiophone by his head. Brand looked at his watch, but his weary eyes couldn’t make out the time. He grabbed the horn out of its cradle and grunted into the tube in the wall, ready to catch hell for his last broadcast. It wasn’t Chief though.
“Boss! You gotta get up here. Capone was arrested and they just shot the mayor.”
When Brand got into the cabin, Archie had the Vigilance over a municipal mooring deck. Fading light outside said it was late afternoon with a snowstorm blowing its way into the city. Flurries had piled up in drifts on the deck, and clouds lowered over the horizon like a falling curtain.
“Where are we?”
“Few blocks from an old machine shop. That’s where I saw the shooter’s car pull up.”
“Coppers?”
“They missed out. Whoever’s driving the car, he knows the streets like I know the sky. I had us overhead when it went down. Saw their car. Long sedan, like Nitti was driving at Farnsworth’s yesterday.”
“What happened with Capone; when’d it go down?”
“Like the Mayor said last night. He was gunning for Capone and his crew. They got him coming out of a warehouse full of hooch. Governor’s boys were there, too. Lots of them.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up? We should have been on that story.”
“I would’ve, boss, but sure enough the Governor’s boys would have kept us off, hey?”
Archie was right. Except for the times when Brand had got there first, like on Valentine’s Day, a G-man showing up meant that whatever story might have been there ended up being someplace else. And any story you did get from them wouldn’t be worth printing on a three-dollar bill.
“Who told you to cover the Mayor’s office?”
“Nobody. Got your note and figured I’d just circle around the hot spots like usual. Then I heard on the wire about Capone and I had us just a few blocks over. I got us overhead when the Mayor’s on the steps giving his speech about Capone. He’s talking big when this car comes up and bang bang bang and down he goes.”
Brand shrugged into his jacket. He pulled on his overcoat and hat as Archie dropped down to mooring level and radioed the gearboxes on the deck. The city’s automatons ratcheted the cables into place and radioed back that the ship was secured.
“Okay, boss. We’re set.”
Brand opened the cabin door and dropped the ladder.
Chapter 11
Eddie was right, and she knew it. What was she doing driving around Chicago City with a snowstorm blowing into town? The coppers were still after her for taking her dad’s gun from his office, leaving him there with a hole in his face. Somebody would spot her if she didn’t play it careful. She tugged Eddie’s coat closer around her, turning the collar up for warmth and to keep her face and hair hidden.
Down the city streets, around corners, down alleys. Where was she going? She had a gun in her handbag and a man she wanted to point it at, but she had no idea where to find him. Who could tell her where Nitti was hiding out? Who knew and would tell her without giving her up to the coppers?
Brand? That flea-bit newshawk couldn’t find—maybe he could. But how could she get to him without being pinched for showing her face in public? And could she trust him to help her anyway? Not unless she gave him a story to blab all over town.
Emma kept half her mind on the road as she spun ideas around in her head, wondering who she could talk to, who might help her. A cyclist came up alongside her when she stopped at an intersection. In the flurries, she could just make out the press badge on the man’s hat. Dropping the window a crack, Emma called over to him, raising her voice above the gusting wind.
“Where’s the story tonight?”
“Eh? Oh, thought you were a fella for a second there. What’d you say?”
The guy tried to get an eye on Emma’s face, but she kept the coat collar up so only her eyes show
ed.
“I said where’s the story? Nothing else gets a newshawk out on a bicycle in this weather, right?”
“Heh. Guess you haven’t heard then either. Maybe aces up for me. Big news about Capone at the Mayor’s Office right now, I’m heading over to see if I can get the scoop.”
In the middle of the intersection, the auto-warden lowered a red paddle and raised a green one. The cyclist took off like a shot and skidded on the slick pavement. He got himself straightened out and Emma saw her chance. She followed after him and caught up quick enough. On an open stretch of road she drifted close to him and he wobbled trying to avoid her fender. He shouted something back at her as he went down in a heap. Emma got out, leaving her car idling. Before the newshawk could react, she’d snatched his press badge and bag.
“Hey, what the hell, lady? Hey, you’re Emma Farnsworth. Coppers are—”
