Indy hadn't given the offer much thought. Not until now. He'd always figured he'd move back to the States again; he'd just never known when. Maybe he could join one of the university's digs this summer and start work in the fall. It wasn't a bad plan, and besides, it would be good to see Shannon again, and to find out what sort of "higher" help he was getting. He didn't think that Shannon had turned to religion. He wasn't the type. But then what was he talking about?
The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he was ready to go back. It would be swell living in Chicago again. Maybe he'd even find a girlfriend.
He carefully folded up the letter, returned it to its envelope, and stuck it in his pocket. Heavy clouds were moving in and the view of the city was turning gray and hazy. It was time to go home, he decided, and for the first time in years that meant Chicago.
Jack Shannon leaned against a sooty brick wall at the end of the alley behind the Nest. As the truck motored past him, he glanced at his watch and saw it was two minutes past three A.M. The Nest was closed, but the important business of the day was about to begin.
Both the alley and side street were clear of any suspicious activity, and Shannon hoped the men waiting at the backdoor of the club were ready to unload. He wanted the truck out of here in five minutes or less. Crouched a few feet behind him was another member of the organization, and hidden in the shadows across the alley were two others. At the opposite end of the alley, Shannon's brother Harry and three of his men guarded that entrance. They all had tommy guns tucked close to their sides and were ready to use them. Restocking the nightclub's supply of booze was no routine matter. It wasn't the cops who presented the danger. They were well paid. It was the competition for territory that caused the problems, and right now things were as hot as they could be.
Shannon tried to stay calm by thinking about the woman he'd met earlier this evening before he'd come to the club. Her name was Katrina and the name seemed to fit her personality. He was intrigued by her, and he was looking forward to seeing her again. It had been a long time since he'd met a woman who had made such an impression on him.
Maybe it was because she was so different from the women he was used to seeing at the club. They all had short hair and wore baggy, fringed dresses and layers of beads. They flaunted their cigarettes, snapped their gum, made wisecracks, and drank white lightning when they weren't on the dance floor doing the wicky-wicky-wacky-woo. That was fine, but he'd been around the flappers so much that he fantasized encountering a repressed-Victorian type who would swoon in his arms rather than blow smoke rings across a bar.
Then he'd met Katrina. Her silky blond hair probably fell to the middle of her back when it wasn't tied on her head. Her clothes were conservative, a high-necked blouse and a long skirt. Yet she didn't seem prudish. She had openly greeted him, her blue eyes studying him curiously as he shook her soft hand. He was sure he'd sensed a longing that was ready to erupt.
But he'd met her at the church just before his Bible class, and it was hardly the place to make a pass. She'd talked about her father, who was meeting with the reverend and who was going to speak at the church in a couple of days. They were planning an expedition to Turkey, where they would search for Noah's Ark.
He'd watched her with such intensity that he'd barely heard what she was saying, and when he'd asked a few questions to keep the conversation alive, she'd finally shook her head and laughed. "I already told you that. Aren't you listening to me?"
"With all my heart," Shannon had replied.
Then the reverend and her father had emerged from the office. She'd smiled coyly and walked off to join them.
She was probably snuggled in bed right now, deeply asleep, while he stood here in the alley with a tommy gun, waiting for trouble. He almost laughed at the contradiction that his life had become. Except it wasn't very funny.
"Hey, look." Richie, the heavyset man behind Shannon, nudged him.
"I see it."
A black Packard was moving slowly down the side street approaching the alley. Just then the truck revved its engine and pulled away from the backdoor of the club; it was coming their way.
"Oh, no," Shannon muttered under his breath.
The Packard had almost slowed to a stop and the truck was picking up speed. He snapped off the safety button. His finger tensed on the trigger. Then the driver of the Packard saw the truck. Shannon raised his weapon, waiting for a window to roll down. But the Packard moved past them and pulled to the curb just as the truck roared out of the alley. It jumped the curb and turned away from the automobile.
The front doors of the Packard swung open and two men in long, dark coats and hats stepped out. Shannon swiveled his gun, still expecting to see machine guns poke out of the coats.
"Don't shoot!" Richie said aloud. "That's Benny Boy."
"What's he doing here?"
"What do you think? Hey, Benny!"
The man turned, wobbled a moment. Then he smiled and doffed his hat, revealing slicked-back hair that was parted in the middle and a thin mustache. "How ya doin', Richie? You goin' upstairs to stick your wicky, too? C'mon."
Of course, Shannon thought, finally relaxing his grip. The bordello next door was open all night.
3
The Nest
Three Weeks Later
Chicago
As the train pulled into the Union Station at Jackson and Canal streets in downtown Chicago Indy watched the throng of people moving this way and that on the platform. The platform was like a huge stage and everyone was performing a part in some incomprehensible play with neither beginning nor end. The dialogue usually ran together with everyone talking at once. Occasionally, an individual's performance would stand out for a few seconds, then the actor would disappear into the masses.
In a sense, the city was an extension of the platform, Indy thought. It was much more complex, of course, with literally thousands of scenes being acted out simultaneously. There were stars and a massive supporting cast everywhere you went. Chicago was a noisy play with the dialogue punctuated from time to time by the staccato fire of tommy guns from the mob, the braying of cattle heading to slaughterhouses, or the grinding and shrieking timbre of industry. Chicago was discordant and harmonious, drama and comedy, and it played continually around the clock.
Indy had never thought of the city this way when he lived here, but he hadn't spent a night in Chicago for eight years, and he felt like an outsider. He didn't belong anymore. He was an actor without a role. At least for now, he thought as he disembarked from the train.
He'd spent nine days at sea, then had traveled by rail the last three days. It was midafternoon and he felt tired and disoriented. He decided to look for a hotel near the train station and rest awhile. He walked a few blocks over to Sixth and Michigan and found himself outside of the Blackstone. It was famous, luxurious, and expensive. He'd never stayed here, or even thought about it. Rich people from out of town stayed here.
"May I take your bag, sir?" asked the doorman. He was a young Negro, who was dressed like a general, but stood barely over five feet.
"My bags? Oh, no thanks. I don't think I'm going to stay here."
"Why not? Aren't we good enough?"
Indy laughed. "Your hotel's just fine. It's my pocketbook."
"So what? Why not treat yourself for one night? You won't regret it."
"Sounds like you're getting a commission."
"No, but I don't want to work here all my life, either," the doorman said. "I want to get into sales "
"You'd be good at it."
"You mean you're going to stay here at the Blackstone?"
"I wish I could."
"Tell you what. I can get you a suite for the price of a single. What do you say to that?"
"I don't need a suite, and why would you do that for me?"
"Why? Because I know I can do it, and I can see that you're the type of guy who would benefit from my inside information, if you know what I mean."
What the h
ell, he thought. It wasn't such a bad idea. He'd been given severance pay equaling two months of his regular salary. He'd splurge for a day or two, then he'd find cheaper lodging. "All right. You convinced me."
"Great. My name's Frankie. If you need anything, just let me know."
Frankie opened the door for him, and Indy stopped in his tracks. The elegance was literally breathtaking. His feet sank into the thick carpeting. Massive, intricate chandeliers glistened from the ceiling. The walls were covered with rich woodwork, and there were delicate marble statues everywhere.
He moved to the registration desk and asked for a room. The clerk smiled and told him he was getting the last one available, a single room on the second floor. "A single?" Indy asked.
The clerk gave him a baffled look. "You are alone, aren't you?"
"Yeah."
A couple of minutes later, the clerk moved off to get Indy the key. But when he returned, he looked upset. "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, there's a problem. The room I gave you is already taken. Just a few minutes ago, our guest decided to stay another night. We're completely booked... except for one room, but that one is a corner suite."
He laughed, amazed at how Frankie had known exactly what was going on. Then he realized the clerk wasn't offering him any discount. "I can't afford it. I'll have to go somewhere else."
The desk clerk looked disappointed. "Just a minute, please."
He disappeared into an office. Indy watched a middle-aged woman draped in furs and jewelry walk by with two poodles. Two steps behind her was a man in a top hat and tails, carrying an ebony cane with a gold handle shaped like a lion's head. Indy idly wondered how the pair dressed for the evening.
"Mr. Jones, I've talked to the manager and you can take the suite for the price of a single room. Our apologies for the mix-up."
"No problem." Just the kind of mix-up I could get used to, he thought.
"I'll help you with your bags, sir." It was Frankie again.
"Thanks. How did you know what was going to happen?"
Frankie laughed. "When you work at the door, you pick up things. Lots of things."
"So why aren't you at the door?" Indy asked as they waited for the elevator.
"I'm just helping you out."
I bet, Indy thought, and wondered how much change he had. It was payoff time. Same old Chicago. Everyone from the mayor to the hotel doorman had a racket.
A couple of minutes later, Indy was ensconced in an immaculate corner suite with two queen-size beds. He'd tipped Frankie more than he'd expected to pay for a room, but he didn't mind. He was glad the kid had convinced him to stay here; he never would've done it on his own. He flopped down on the bed and within seconds was sound asleep.
In another room of the Blackstone, Katrina Zobolotsky stood in front of the window and brushed her long blond hair. She watched the people moving along the street three stories below. She didn't care for Chicago. She preferred San Francisco, her home for the past six years. But then, her impressions of Chicago had been soured by the presence of the watcher.
She absentmindedly ran her fingers over the velvet drapes and wriggled her toes in the thick carpeting. In her twenty-four years, she had never stayed in such luxurious accommodations. She felt like a princess, but also like a prisoner. She knew he was out there somewhere. Waiting. She and her father couldn't go out without drawing his attention, and he seemed to be everywhere. They would spot him across the street standing in a doorway, only to turn the corner and see him again ahead of them. Waiting. Watching. How he did it she didn't know. Her father was ready to believe that the devil was on their trail, and she didn't blame him.
Maybe it had been a mistake coming to Chicago. But if that were true, then maybe everything was wrong. She couldn't let those kind of thoughts get in her way. She had to believe that what she was doing was right, and that it would all work out.
She turned away from the window and rapped at her father's door. It was dinnertime, and she was sure everything would look better after she ate something. She wanted to believe that. She needed to believe it.
As Indy came awake a phrase was running through his mind over and over again. D is for duir.... D is for duir.... D is for duir. D... D... D.
"All right. All right," he muttered in his sleep. He'd been away from London and the university for two weeks, but this Celtic stuff was still running through his mind. He blinked his eyes open and looked around. It was dark outside, but the curtains were open and light from the street was shining into the room. He still felt tired, and he had an urge to turn over and go back to sleep. But instead he found the light switch to the lamp next to his bed and tugged on the chain.
He walked over to the radio, twisted the knob, then lay back down. He'd wait until he heard the time before he decided what to do. He didn't feel much like going out, and he could always see Shannon tomorrow. The radio announcer was reading the news and Indy caught the end of a story about federal agents discovering a still in a warehouse a block from city hall in Cicero, a town just outside of Chicago. Then the announcer turned to the national news.
"It's been two and a half weeks now since Charles Lindbergh made his historic flight from New York to Paris and we're hearing more bits and pieces about what it was like on that long and lonely air voyage," he said. "Many of us have wondered how Linbergh managed to stay awake for the thirty-three and a half hours that it took, and now we have an interesting answer. According to a friend of the Lindbergh family, the pilot has remarked on more than one occasion that he felt at times as if he were not alone in his airplane. There was someone else in the compartment with him, an invisible presence, who was guiding him and helping him stay awake."
Indy threw his legs over the side of the bed as the announcer chatted on. He called room service, ordered a steak dinner, and headed to the shower. If Lindbergh could stay awake for the entire trip across the Atlantic, he could damn well stay awake this evening to see his old friend.
By nine-thirty, he'd eaten, dressed, and was ready to go out. As soon as he stepped through the revolving door, a taxi rolled up to the front of the hotel and Indy slid into the backseat. "Take me down to Thirty-fifth and State."
The taxi driver, a Negro in his fifties, peeked over his shoulder at Indy. "Are you sure that's where you wanna go, sir?"
"They're still playing jazz down there, aren't they?"
"Yes, sir. That they are," he said, and drove off.
The area along State Street was known as a vice district as well as the home of much of the jazz that was played in Chicago. It was a Negro neighborhood and was just a few blocks from the Irish, Lithuanian, and Polish neighborhoods, which surrounded the nearby stockyards and packing houses.
Indy gazed out the window as the cab motored along the busy street. He hadn't been here since his college days, when he and Shannon had spent many nights in the neighborhood slipping into the "black and tan" clubs, as the ones catering to mixed racial audiences were called. Usually, they'd ended up at rent parties, where Shannon got his first opportunities to play his cornet with real jazz musicians.
Now jazz, or at least a watered-down version of the gutsy stuff, was being accepted in Chicago and all over. The first movie where the actors were actually talking had just come out; and it was called the Jazz Singer, and starred Al Jolson. It was the Jazz Age now as much as it was the Roaring Twenties.
The sidewalks were crowded and he could hear music filtering into the streets from the clubs. As they neared Thirty-fifth, he recognized several cabarets with familiar names: the Dreamland Cafe, Paradise Gardens, the Elite No. 2, and LaFerencia. Then he saw the New Monogram Theatre and next to it was a building with the words THE NEST lit up in red lights above the door.
"Right here. This is where I'm going."
"You enjoy yourself at the Nest," the driver said as Indy paid his fare. "But watch out in that place. Anything can happen there."
"Thanks for the advice," he said, leaving the driver a tip.
Indy crossed the street,
and as he approached the nightclub two policeman looked him over. "Upstairs," one of them said.
"The nightclub's upstairs?" he asked.
"For you it is," the cop answered.
At first Indy didn't understand, then he realized they were telling him that the second floor was for whites. He entered an alcove and was about to climb the stairs when the door suddenly swung open and a Negro couple moved past him. He heard a sultry piano and caught a glimpse of a dimly lit and crowded nightclub: small tables with candles, a stage with green and red lights, a dance floor, and a haze of smoke. He decided to see if he could spot Shannon and catch his attention.
He stepped through the door, but a burly Negro in a coat and tie immediately moved in front of him and pointed to the stairs. "There's plenty of seats upstairs, sir."
"Thanks. I'm looking for Jack Shannon, the cornet player."
The man gave Indy a second look. "You can look at him from right on upstairs. Mr. Shannon is onstage."
Indy handed the doorman two bits, enough to buy a square meal. "Tell him Indy's here from London. Upstairs."
The man nodded. "I'll see that he hears."
The second floor was a horseshoe-shaped balcony with the tables bordering the railing. Indy passed several occupied tables before he found an empty one. The view of the stage was good, so he sat down. Even though the character of the place was similar to the bohemian boites in Paris, the second-floor patrons wore dark suits with hat brims pulled low, rather than natty sweaters and jauntily cocked berets. But maybe dressing in mobster garb was the craze these days in the Windy City. There was no doubt about the women. They were attired in flapper outfits: short skirts, long strings of beads, hose rolled down to their knees, and unbuckled galoshes on their feet.
Indiana Jones and the Genesis Deluge Page 3
