Unremarkable

by Geoff Habiger

  I could hear a hand rubbing at an unshaven face and then the first voice spoke again. “So, who was yur brudders? I thought everybody dat died here was part of Moran’s outfit, ceptin’ da doc and da mechanic.”

  “Schwimmer and May were both brothers. And the Gusenbergs were completing their rites to become brothers as well. Had they completed the process then Frank might have survived.”

  I was trying to figure out what he meant by that. He was talking like they were all members of some club or fraternity, like the Masons or something. But I wasn’t sure how becoming a Mason could have saved anyone from getting shot. Hell, Dad was a member of B’nai B’rith but I don’t think they had given Dad any special healing powers. Maybe the Masons—or whatever club he was talking about—were different. There were all sorts of strange stories about the Masons so you could never be sure.

  I heard footsteps walking toward me across the garage floor. I tried to make myself even smaller. There was a long whistle, and the first voice said, “Shit, I guess if youse put enough bullets into anything even youse guys can be killed.” There was a chuckle that was abruptly cut off by a choking sound. My curiosity got the better of me and I risked a peek around the boxes.

  In the harsh light of the bare light bulbs I saw the strangest thing I’d ever seen in my life. Standing near the bullet-pocked north wall was a tall man, at least six-three or more in height, with broad shoulders and a thin, wiry body. He had very pale skin and short-cut brown hair. He was dressed in brown slacks and brown shoes, with a long brown leather coat. Man, this guy has a thing for brown. I think even his shirt was a light brown color. That wasn’t the unusual thing though. I’d seen plenty of guys that looked like him, but minus the fetish for the color brown. No, what was odd was that Mr. Brown was holding the other guy by the throat with one hand, and he was holding him at least two feet off the floor! Moran’s man was pudgy—heck, he was fat—he must have been about 250 pounds, and dressed in the usual baggy, dark-colored suit that Moran must get in bulk from Sears. His trench coat was open, as was his suit jacket, and I could see the heel of a handgun sitting in a shoulder holster. He wasn’t reaching for the gun, probably because he was using both hands in an attempt to pry Mr. Brown’s hand from his throat.

  The goon’s feet were flailing about, trying to kick Mr. Brown or to find some purchase on the floor. He was slowly turning blue in the face and was making sputtering sounds.

  Mr. Brown just held him there with his right arm locked tight. “Yes, even we can be killed. We’ve been killed for centuries. And if my brother’s deaths are an amusement to you then I will be happy to let you join them.” He casually flung the man—like he was tossing a rag doll—right toward me! Shit!

  Moran’s man hit the ground and slid into the boxes, causing them to tumble and fall to the floor. I sat there, crouched, my hands flung up to protect my head from the falling boxes, and stared up at Mr. Brown, who was looking quite surprised to see me.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Mr. Brown yelled.

  “Ummm…”

  Okay, not the most impressive of responses. I suppose that, had I not been scared shitless, I might have been able to come up with something better to say. You try coming up with witty responses in the heat of the moment. It’s not that easy.

  Mr. Brown took a step toward me, and I did the only thing I could. I pushed a box toward him and bolted toward the back of the garage. I was hoping to get out the door to the alley and make my escape.

  A blur of movement came from my right and suddenly Mr. Brown was standing right in front of me, blocking the exit. How the fuck did he get there?

  I skidded to a halt and fell flat on my ass, looking up at Mr. Brown. He towered over me and gave me a wicked, toothy grin—man, were his canines really long—and reached down to grab me. I scrambled backwards, trying to crab-walk out of his grasp, but he was faster and grabbed me by the throat. With seemingly no effort at all he lifted me off the ground. I quickly found my throat being squeezed, unable to breathe.

  His hand—I think he was just using his left hand—felt like an iron vice. I clawed at his hand, trying to get it to open, but it didn’t budge. My vision was beginning to fade.

  “Whoever you are, maybe a light snack is in order.”

  I was starting to lose consciousness, so I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him right. Snack? How could I eat anything if he was choking me?

  I felt his breath on my neck. What is he doing? Is he trying to kiss me or something?

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Mr. Brown and he suddenly let me go. I dropped to the floor and lay gasping for breath, reaching up to gingerly massage my throat.

  “Who are you?” Mr. Brown asked, pointing an accusing finger at me.

  “I’m nobody,” I managed to rasp out through my aching throat. “Pleasure to meet you.” There, something witty.

  “So, you’re the one.” Mr. Brown stood up and smoothed down his leather coat.

  What the hell is he talking about? “Yup, I’m the one,” I managed to say. “Sure, that’s me.” I started to crawl away from him, but my back hit the wall.

  “What kind of game is she playing at?” Mr. Brown turned away and walked back to the main garage. He reached down and picked up Moran’s man, who had been gasping for breath on the floor among the boxes. He got the man to stand on his own and even dusted him off. He then picked up a pair of fedoras that had apparently fallen off during their altercation and placed one on Moran’s man, then placed the other—also brown with a brown leather band—what is it with this guy and the color brown?—on his own head.

  Mr. Brown turned toward me. “See you around, Saul.” He grabbed the goon by the arm and the pair of them walked to the front of the garage. I heard the front door close.

  I managed to stand up and walked over to the boxes, where my own cloth cap had fallen. I picked it up and hit it a couple of times against my leg to knock the dust off. What the hell had just happened? I was a goner for sure but then Mr. Brown had just stopped and let me go. Why? Something about me had made him stop, but I had no idea what it was. And who was he referring to when he’d said, ‘What kind of game is she playing at’?

  I walked toward the back of the garage. Mr. Brown had said that he’d see me around, but I didn’t want to take the chance that he meant that he was waiting for me right outside the front door. I headed out into the alley and turned south. I had had enough of the North Side.

  Chapter 15

  I headed south and west, ending up at the Sedgwick L station. It seemed like a lifetime ago that I’d met Moira here and my life as I’d known it had ended. I climbed the steps to the platform, weary from my recent encounter, and waited for the train.

  I took the L over to Western, letting the rocking motion gently lull me into a sort of half-sleep. I’m sure I was quite a sight to look at but I didn’t give a damn anymore. I managed to wake up at the right stop and walked toward Douglas Park. It was late afternoon as I walked toward the tenement where my parent’s apartment was located. The building was red-brick, four stories tall, and surrounded by similar buildings on the left and right. I felt at home in the old neighborhood. I was happy to be on my own, but walking down the street and hearing people call to each other in Yiddish was comforting. Despite the cold, women were out on their front stoops, gossiping and catching up on the news of the neighborhood. I saw several people I knew and waved greetings to a few of my friends and parents of friends.

  I reached my parents place and walked up to the second floor. My mouth began to water as I could smell knishes cooking from within. I was about to knock on the door when it was jerked open. I stood there, my hand raised to knock, and looked down at my mother. She stood barely over five feet in height, and was a bit plump. (Hey—you try to find a polite way to say that your mom is fat.)

  “You need an invitation to visit your father and me? You move out on your own and suddenly
you forget where your parents struggled for years to raise you? You don’t call. You don’t write. You don’t come to Temple.” She turned from the door and headed for the small kitchen. “I have to learn how you are doing from your nice neighbor, Mrs. Rabinowitz. At least she keeps an eye on you for me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know anything about what was going on in your life. I don’t even know if you are still seeing that pretty red-headed girl or if you got that package of hamburger that your father was good enough to get for you from work.”

  I tuned Mom out, and headed into the living room where Dad was sitting by the radio. I knew Mom wouldn’t care whether I had heard her or not. Hell, I don’t think she really expected me to talk to her at all; I was just a new subject for her perpetual commentary on life in the neighborhood.

  “Hey, Pop,” I took off my coat and hat and tossed them on the back of a chair, then sat down on the couch. Dad was listening to some music program and he leaned over and turned down the volume on the radio.

  “Look what the cat dragged in.” Dad did a double take as he looked at me. “And it looks like the cat gave you a good smack or three, too. What happened to you, Saul?”

  “Gornisht. I slipped on a patch of ice.” I can lie easily to my parents—I had been doing it since I had been about 7 years old. It doesn’t mean that I liked doing it, but when I needed a good cover story I didn’t hesitate to bring out a good lie.

  “Mmm Hmm. And why do you lie to your father?”

  Okay—I said I could easily lie. I didn’t say I was very good at it. “It’s really nothing, Pop. Just a bit of fun.”

  “Fun? Looking like you went a round with Jack Dempsey is called fun?” Dad laughed and looked up at the ceiling, “Oy vay! God. Please forgive my son. It’s clear he doesn’t know what he is doing.”

  I laughed, hoping Dad didn’t know how close to the truth that comment was.

  “Hey, nudnik.” My sister Sarah leaned against the door jamb and crossed her arms. Sarah was five years younger than me, and probably dying even more than I had been to get out from under the rule of our parents. Sarah wanted to be like Clara Bow and all the other Hollywood stars, and dressed the part whenever Mom let her.

  “Hey, shlimazl,” I said. Sarah stuck her tongue out at me in response. She didn’t like being called a born loser any more than I liked being called a bore, but the nickname fit. She always seemed to get caught whenever she tried to do something sneaky, while I usually got away with it—my earlier lie notwithstanding.

  “Go help your mother,” Dad said to Sarah.

  “Why?” Sarah whined. “I just got here. Besides, Ma always complains when I try to help her in the kitchen.”

  “Sarah.” Dad pointed to the kitchen. Sarah pouted, but she headed out of the room.

  “So what do you want, Dad?” I asked. I was just as good at reading his actions as he was at reading mine.

  Dad eased himself out of his chair and walked over to the book case. “What, I need a reason to talk to my son?” He pulled out a book and opened it up, pulling out a hip flask from within the hidden space. I knew Dad kept a flask of whiskey hidden in a copy of The Great Gatsby that he had put to better use. I knew because I’d sneaked a few nips of the bootleg whiskey myself from time to time. He took a swig and then handed the flask to me.

  “No, you don’t,” I took a sip. The hard liquor burned my throat and I stifled a cough. “Geez, Dad, where did you get this kaker?”

  Dad took the flask and capped it, putting it back in the book. “A guy I know at work knows some people.” Dad shrugged, as if to say, ‘what are you going to do?’

  “You bring out the good stuff like this, I know it’s serious.” I grinned as Dad returned to his chair.

  “What have you gotten yourself into, Saul?” His voice was quiet, but full of concern.

  “Nothing, Dad.” I tried to sound confident.

  “Don’t lie to me, Saul. You’ve gotten yourself into some sort of mess. This I know.” He pointed a finger at me. “Some guys came down to the packing plant, poking around, asking questions about me. They weren’t the usual schlemiels, you know, from the South Side.”

  I nodded, a sinking feeling in my stomach telling me where this was going.

  “One of the guys said they were from the North Side, members of Moran’s gang.” Dad looked at me. “What have you done Saul, getting involved with a bunch of thugs and killers? And don’t tell me it’s nothing. I’m your father. I know you think you can handle this, but you can’t.” His voice was rising and he had to force himself to keep quiet. Obviously, Mom and Sarah didn’t know what was going on and he wanted to keep it that way. “Listen, Saul, I don’t know what you are doing, but these guys mean business.”

  “Did they threaten you?” No sense in trying to deny any of this now. Dad didn’t know exactly what was going on, but he that knew something was up.

  Dad waved at me in denial. “Nah. They were poking around, asking when I worked, where I lived. But these guys were real yolds. A couple of North Siders out of their territory, asking questions of a bunch of Jews and Italians who know who runs this side of Chicago.”

  Dad sounded proud, but I was still concerned. “Look, Dad, just because nobody talked doesn’t mean these guys didn’t get what they wanted.”

  “Bah. They didn’t, but you’re right. They will eventually.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “Tell me what happened. I’ll speak to Albert at work. He can help you out.”

  I knew that Albert was Alberto Corzetti, the head of the meat packer’s labor union at the plant. Everybody knew that the unions were in close with the gangs, if not outright run by them. My thoughts leaned to the latter. It was tempting to run to Dad to have him fix my problems, but this would effectively be running to Al Capone, just the man I didn’t want to get involved.

  “Look, Dad, there’s some stuff going on, but it’s no big deal. I can handle it.”

  “You can handle it?” Dad gave me a skeptical look. “You got that shiner on your face and that bruise on your neck by ‘handling it’?”

  “Yes.” I insisted. I had to give Dad something. “A couple of days ago I was near the garage where Moran’s men were killed.”

  “What?” Dad yelled.

  “What’s that, David?” Mom called from the kitchen.

  “Nothing, Miriam.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s nothing. That sounded like something.”

  “If I say it’s nothing, it’s nothing. Go back to your cooking.” Dad glared at me and spoke in a loud whisper. “You were at the massacre? Oy.”

  “No—I wasn’t at the massacre.” I wasn’t about to tell Dad what had happened to me just an hour ago. He’d go nuts if he knew that I’d been in the actual building. “But I was in the street and saw the car drive away. I guess Moran wants to know if I saw anything.”

  “So why are they nosing around the packing plant? Moran’s gotta know that you don’t work there. Why doesn’t he come to your work?”

  “I don’t know. A couple of his guys came by on Friday and asked me if I saw anything. I told them I didn’t.”

  “And they didn’t believe you? Doesn’t this Moran know that my son is no liar?”

  Dad was starting to get mad, which was both good and bad. Good, since it was distracting him from the real issue. Bad, because I was afraid that he would insist on heading up to The Parkway and giving Moran a piece of his mind. As much as I would have enjoyed seeing Moran getting chewed out by my father, for Dad’s safety I needed to calm him down.

  “I’m sure he does. Maybe he just wants to make sure. I mean, he had seven of his guys gunned down.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Dad seemed to relax a bit. “That’s not how you got that shiner, I hope. Trying to convince Moran you were telling the truth?”

  “No, Dad, I didn’t get this from Moran or his goons.” Dad seemed convinced, and he should have bee
n. I was telling the truth.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Sarah yelled from the kitchen.

  “I told you to go tell them, not yell it. Now every nebish and chiam yankel in the neighborhood will be coming to dinner,” Mom chided Sarah loud enough for everybody else in the neighborhood to hear her too.

  I got up and headed to the dining room with Dad as Sarah and Mom continued to argue. Dad took Mom’s side of the argument as soon as he entered the dining room. It sure is nice be home for a home-cooked meal.

  Chapter 16

  Dinner was excellent—it was way better than anything that I could ever have come up with on my own. Sometimes I wonder why I ever left home. Of course, the constant yelling between Mom, Dad, and Sarah was a good reminder of why I had left. They—and I—had argued about all sorts of things, from what was going on in the neighborhood, to ward politics, to why I hadn’t been at Temple in over a month. This was all well and good, as most of the time my folks’ attention was on other things, or my sister, both of which suited me just fine. Sarah didn’t like this attention, so she took a jab at my new girlfriend, and that triggered Mom into giving me the “third degree” about my love life.

  Apparently, Mrs. Rabinowitz had told Mom everything that she knew about Moira. Granted, that wasn’t much, but it was enough to set Mom on the scent. I spent the last half of dinner trying to fend off her probes and attacks, while Sarah just sat there and smirked at me. Honestly, I would have rather gone back and dealt with Mr. Brown.

  I managed to escape by explaining that I needed to get some rest before going in to work. Working a night job does have some advantages, and I hadn’t told a lie to my parents. I should have headed home and gotten some sleep before heading to work, but instead I was now walking north along Broadway, having gotten off the L at Wilson station. It was after eight p.m., it was bitterly cold, and I was really tired. I really should have gone home after dinner and gotten some rest, but I was still driven with the need to find Moira. I had to find her in order to make my plan work, and that was the only way that I could help protect my family.