Gods of Chicago: Omnibus Edition

by Sikes, AJ

  Murder and death swam around Brand’s head, sneaking into his lungs with every breath of smoke and soot he drew in. He opened his mouth to say something. He wasn’t sure what, but he felt a revulsion and rage at everything Nitti stood for and he had to get it out. As the words rose from his throat, Brand felt strong fingers pressing under his ears, forcing him up close to the furnace again. The heat stung his eyes and rivulets of tears ran down his cheeks. Brand’s heart beat a deafening cadence in his ears as he gulped down the words he’d almost spat out.

  “Did you want to say something, Mr. Brand?”

  “Mr. Nitti, I. . .I guess you think it’s my fault Ca—” Nitti’s fist connected with Brand’s jaw.

  “You will refer to my employer with respect.”

  Spitting blood from between his teeth, Brand corrected himself. “Yes, Mr. Nitti. I meant to say Mr. Capone. You think I’m the reason Mr. Capone was arrested. I’m just a newshawk, Mr. Nitti. The Governor—” Nitti gave Brand another shot across the face, putting stars in front of his eyes. The gangster cuffed Brand behind the ear and tugged his face upward. “Mr. Brand. Who do you think runs this town?”

  The mobster’s question hung there like a clock ready to strike the hour. Brand wanted to turn his head away, but the heat from the furnace stung his cheeks and he didn’t dare turn back to look into that hellish future. He let his eyes drift over Nitti’s face. No knife points stuck out of the man’s cheeks or jawline. No ghosts of those he murdered swam around his head. Instead of rage or even plain old anger, Brand saw what made Nitti’s mouth shake. It was fear, plain and simple. The gangster’s eyes rounded as if terror hid somewhere nearby waiting to strike.

  “I asked you a fucking question,” he said, wrenching Brand’s head and slapping him with his other hand.

  “What—?” Brand said, before Nitti slapped him again and harder this time. Brand could still taste blood welling up from his lip and now had another flow coming from inside his cheek.

  Nitti hit him again, just a light slap though. He grinned and asked “Who is it? Did you find out? Do you know?” The gangster’s lips curled back turning his grin into a sharp-toothed sneer. He grabbed Brand’s head in both hands and stared him point blank in the eye. “Who calls the shots in Chicago City?”

  “I’m just a newshawk, Mr. Nitti. I’m a reporter. That’s all. I don’t—”

  Nitti wasn’t having any of it. He slapped Brand again and then gave him a shot straight across the face that sent the stars spinning off and replaced them with an empty suffocating black. Brand’s head slumped forward. His ears filled with a ringing and his vision went blank. Bombs and artillery shells had the same effect. It just took a few seconds to shake it off, check to make sure your arms and legs were still on right and you hadn’t grown any new holes in your chest. Brand managed a weak shake of his head. His ringing ears made room for Nitti’s voice and the sound of the shop door opening. A gust of icy wind blew across the floor over Brand’s sodden shoes. He felt his toes curl by reflex and then a shiver forced its way up his legs and into the base of his spine.

  Brand felt his head jerked back. His vision remained clouded, but he could see a hand moving in front of his mug and then felt a stinging cold all over his face. He smelled and tasted the ash and oil and dirt of the streets all in a wet mash that scraped his skin. A second handful of snow got shoved up his nose before he shook his head clear and had his vision back. Gasping, Brand looked up and saw Nitti smiling beside him and then reaching out to cup Brand under the ear. He gave a firm shake and dug his thumb into Brand’s neck then let go. The goon with the gloves had the metal rod in his hands again. Then the one behind him pushed Brand’s face at the furnace mouth.

  “Mr. Mitchell Brand. I believe you are telling the truth. You know nothing.” Nitti’s lip had stopped shaking. His face was back to normal, feline and fierce with a set that spelled disaster for anyone who crossed him. “But I did not bring you here to discuss things. . .”

  What was that, Brand thought. Nitti brought him here. What’d he mean by that?

  “My problem with you is one of disrespect. When I am faced with such a problem. I am forced to provide encouragement. The offending party should not make the same mistake twice. For their benefit, I encourage them. You understand, right?”

  Brand nodded slowly, thinking about Jenkins again and unable to keep his tongue this time. “Yeah. I understand you. I’m sure Ross Jenkins understood you just fine, too. You could have just told the kid to keep hush. He would’ve listened.”

  Nitti’s face dropped from fear to confusion. “Who is Ross Jenkins? I do not know this person. Should I know him?”

  “He was one of the kids that worked for me at the Record. Your boys here brought him by my rooms after the gala last night. I get it. You don’t want me snooping around about the hit on Valentine’s Day. So this is where I get mine now. Well?”

  The gangster said a few words in Italian to his boys. They shook their heads, all of them. “Mr. Mitchell Brand, I am afraid you offend with your suspicions. None of these men are to blame for any dead children. I, on the other hand, am offended by your disrespect.” Nitti motioned at the man behind Brand and said something in Italian again. Before Brand knew what was happening, the heavy behind him reached down and lifted the newsman’s left arm, twisting it up and separating the fingers. The goon kept Brand’s arm bent behind his back, holding onto it by the wrist.

  “As I was saying, Mr. Mitchell Brand. Disrespect. I believe you understand. Right?”

  Brand could only nod. His eyes swam with tears and his heart beat a double time tempo.

  “You are behind a day. I encouraged you once yesterday afternoon. Then again in the evening, at the gala. I had nothing to do with this boy named Jenkins, but if his death has helped you correct your thinking, then I am glad for it. Either way. I am done encouraging. You are going to stop talking about The Outfit on your radio show.”

  Nitti pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and gave it to Brand.

  “Write.”

  “Write? Write what?”

  Nitti slapped the back of Brand’s head, pushing his face closer to the maw of the furnace. “You write a fucking goodbye letter.” Nitti laughed like a rasp drawn across a chalkboard. Brand made to reach for the paper and instinctively tugged on his left arm. The bird behind him held on tight, squeezing his wrist so hard Brand yelled out.

  “I’m left-handed! Goddamit!” he hollered, and then collapsed inside and began whimpering. “I’m left-handed,” he sputtered through tears. Brand let his arm hang in the thug’s grip and let his chin fall to his chest as he sobbed from the fear. Nitti was on his feet beside Brand, his hand on the newsman’s right shoulder. He was talking to the bird behind him, whispers in Italian. Brand felt his arm drop from the thug’s grip.

  “You may now write the note.”

  “I’m supposed to write my suicide note?”

  “Suicide note?” Nitti said, his face softening. “No. No, tonight you are going to say goodbye for The Outfit. For Mr. Capone and myself. He is indisposed, I believe is what you will say. I and the gentlemen here are leaving Chicago City. You need to tell the people for us. They listen to you for news. You will give them my news. From your airship radio show. And the people who run this town will hear it, too. I am sure of it.”

  Nitti told him that The Outfit was moving to where the violence of other parties would not intrude upon its legitimate business practices. Brand would also say how sad Al Capone was to hear of the Mayor’s death. Between gasps from pain in his freezing foot and the fear that he would be shoved face first into the furnace, Brand got out a report that would cover everything Nitti dictated. He handed the paper to Nitti, who read it and gave it back.

  “Now. You’ll go back to your gasbag. You’ll give that little sermon. And then, te ne stai a cuccia,” Nitti said and
shrugged, dropping his chin down to his chest with a smirk. “You be a good little dog.”

  “That’s it?” Brand asked. “You’re not going to kill me?”

  “No, Mr. Mitchell Brand. Somebody might kill you. But it won’t be me. Chicago City. She has always been my city. Now, somebody else will own her. I never dance with a woman who has two partners. You understand?”

  “I think so, Mr. Nitti. If I get it right, somebody else called the hit yesterday morning. Not Ca—not Mr. Capone. And you’re wanting to be gone before that somebody shows up.”

  “Yes, Mr. Brand. And I want that somebody to know I am gone and to believe it. That is why you are alive. Now, I see that your feet are very wet.”

  Nitti motioned with his .45 and his goons grabbed Brand before he could make a move. They both gave him a shot in the gut and then a couple slaps around his face. Then Thick Neck held him tight while the other thug got Brand’s shoes and socks off and threw them into the furnace. Together they held his feet up to the furnace mouth, making him squirm as the icy wet on his skin gave way to a searing heat. It didn’t take long before the soles of Brand’s feet were raw and stretched tight from the heat. A stinging pain cut between his toes and his heels felt like they’d been dragged over crushed glass. Finally, Nitti stood up and said “Let him go.” He kept the .45 in his paw and waved it to his goons. “Andiamo.” The gangsters flung Brand into the chair and stepped away out of his view.

  He slumped to the side, holding a hand over chest as he tried to follow his heartbeat back to some kind of safe haven, something like the shelters he found in the trenches when the shells came in waves. Pain radiated up his legs from the ravaged soles of his feet. His gut twisted with fear. He could hear the gangsters’ footsteps, but couldn’t see them. Brand risked turning his head to the side and saw movement out the corner of his eye. The goons had shuffled off to the foyer, leaving only Brand and Nitti in the open space of the shop floor. A sudden slap across his cheek sent Brand sprawling out of the chair. His hip and shoulder slammed against the cold concrete and he felt terror rising as Nitti’s feet approached. The mobster stopped only a pace away. He was close enough to drive a toe of his fancy leather shoes into Brand’s eye.

  “So. Mr. Mitchell Brand.”

  The two men stared at each other, Nitti standing upright and looking as shell-shocked as Brand felt. The .45 came up until Brand could see into the hollow blackness of the muzzle. Then Nitti holstered the gun and stood with his hands at his sides, looking knives into Brand’s gaze. The ghosts showed up again, spiraling around in the air above the furnace and dancing around Nitti’s head like moths.

  “You don’t want to be one of them. Do you?”

  “No. No, Mr. Nitti. I don’t.”

  “Good,” Nitti replied, glaring down at Brand. His face ran with quicksilver again and then it was just a face. Just flesh. A hissing like the sound of a tire going flat cut into the night air from outside. Brand heard the goons in the foyer stammering words in Italian. Nitti shook where he stood. He opened his mouth and a black, oily smoke gusted out to swirl in the air before the gangster’s face. Brand shuffled backwards a few feet, anything to put distance between himself and that threatening black cloud that seemed to drip with the purest evil. Nitti’s eyes had rolled up in his head and he staggered away from the cloud. It swirled with violence and threat and then swept away into nothingness. Brand shuffled on the floor, watching Nitti. The gangster staggered and caught himself on the chair where Brand had sat. The hissing from outside grew louder. Nitti snapped out of his shock when his boys shouted in alarm. Their voices were cut short by screaming.

  Brand stared into the darkness of the foyer as time slowed down around him, just like it had in the trenches when the screaming had been twice as bad. Nitti reached into his jacket for the .45 and made a few steps toward the foyer. Howls of terror came out of that black pit, echoing around the high ceilinged shop space. The sound of something heavy slapping against something soft. Thick slaps, wet with gore punctuated the air. Brand thought he heard bones crack. A choking gurgle.

  Nitti remained frozen where he stood, pistol in hand, facing the foyer door. The mobster twitched his head back, throwing a glance behind him and into the space behind and above Brand. Nitti’s gaze returned to the foyer as a deep, rasping hhhhhisssss slashed into the space of the shop. More sounds of bone snapping and flesh tearing came from the foyer.

  “No! No, no, no! Non c’é!” Nitti chanted, backing away from the foyer, sending his eyes in every direction as he moved. His feline features contorted with rage and fright, making him look even more feral and vicious. “It’s not fair, dammit! You said we’d be clear!”

  Brand thought Nitti meant him, but he didn’t dare speak up to object or question the mobster. His attention, and gun, were now aimed at the darkness of the foyer. Brand slid sideways, anything to get farther away from sounds coming from the foyer. He had to settle for rolling onto his back. His feet were useless, so he used his hands and scooted on his ass until he put a few more feet between him and the dark space at the edge of the shop room. Nitti still had his pistol trained on the foyer and kept up with his chanting. Some of it reminded Brand of the Latin he’d heard in churches. Most of it he recognized from the time he’d spent in Chicago City’s underbelly. Nitti seemed to remember Brand then. His eyes met Brand’s and locked onto them. Nitti’s cheeks bunched up under his eyes and his face fell as the hissing grew louder. Brand scooted away faster, turning to crawl, dragging himself along the floor. He got up onto his hands and knees and raced a bumpy course down the length of the shop room. Behind him he heard Nitti’s gun roar in rapid fire underneath a snarling and hissing violence that became a throaty roar. Brand risked a backwards glance and caught sight of Nitti lying on his back, pinned under thick sinew and bristling greasy hairs that hung like needles. That was all Brand saw of the beast. He crawled underneath the machine line and begged death to spare him.

  More gunshots rang out, frightening Brand into nearly shrieking from fright. He could hear the thing chewing into Nitti with wet sloppy snarls. At the end of the machine line, the exit door beckoned, taunting Brand with a promise he didn’t dare hope would be fulfilled. In the background, the snarls had stopped. Brand thought he heard the sound of the front door opening and closing. He risked a look out from his hiding place. Nitti was alone, lying in a mess next to the furnace. The monster was no where in sight. Brand’s heart thudded like a gong and he held a hand to his chest, trying to keep the noise from echoing around the room, giving him away. He sent frantic glances in every direction. Where was it? Where’d the thing go?

  A man’s voice echoed from the other side of the room. Brand shifted his weight against the ironwork of the machining line and slid behind the boiler by the exit door. Brand crouched and dropped forward to let his knees take his weight. A man dressed in a sharp dark suit stepped from the entrance to the foyer. He walked over to Nitti’s remains.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Nitti,” the newcomer said. “But, you did bring this on yourself. I recall we agreed to set you up with a safe location after you handled that business on Valentine’s Day.”

  The man squatted down and looked at Nitti’s face, almost like he was having a conversation with the corpse.

  “Old Man Farnsworth made it easy for us, of course, and I recall you were to be paid for your assistance in that matter as well. What I don’t recall is agreeing that you would publicly threaten and then assassinate a public official.”

  Brand slapped a hand over his mouth when he heard a gurgling reply from the mobster.

  “F—fuck you. . .goddamned. . .f—fucking rat.” Nitti said a name, but Brand couldn’t catch it.

  The whole time Nitti spoke, the G-man held his mouth in a smirk. Brand knew in his gut that the man had to be from the Governor’s office even though he didn’t wear the standard issue headgear. As Nitti let his fina
l curse out, the G-man stood, turned on his heel, and stepped over to the foyer, vanishing into the darkness beyond the shop room. Nitti gurgled some more and groaned. A moment later, the hissing sound filled the shop again and Brand slunk down to hide in the corner behind the boiler.

  Brand stayed still until the slapping and crunching sounds stopped. Scratching sounds followed, then grunts and groans. Then a body falling and something heavy sliding or being dragged across the concrete floor. Brand stayed hidden. The sounds were still on the far side of the room and hadn’t come in his direction yet. He waited until silence settled across the barren concrete, shrouding his thoughts along with whatever was left of Frank Nitti.

  The room echoed with the soft crackling of the furnace fire. Brand shivered in his niche by the door and cried quietly from the pain, from having been so close to the beast, to have smelled its feral stink mixed with blood. His feet felt like they’d been hammered onto his legs with railroad spikes. He waited. His mind went in and out of dozy thoughts, half-sleep coming and going in his rattled mind. When he couldn’t resist the pull of sleep any longer, Brand slid on his hip across the shop floor, back to the furnace. To distract himself from the pain, he played back his conversation with Nitti. Who could be coming to Chicago City that would be bigger than the Outfit? The G-man? Brand tried to make sense of it, but he was too worked over to concentrate. He sat with his back against an ironwork frame and waited for his feet to stop cursing at him. Across the room, Nitti’s shredded corpse filled the air with the stink of death. Wanting only to leave that den of horror, Brand stupidly tried to stand and fell to his knees instantly. He turned his head and retched before passing out.