by John Gardner
“Certain.” Indeed, he was. A couple of bantering exchanges with Carlo the night before had convinced him that the consignment was coming in, with police protection for the last five miles only.
“All right.” Tony Genna took out a small, carefully drawn map of the main state highway leading into Chicago. They had arranged everything. A point some eight miles up the state highway, outside the city limits, was marked with a cross. “See, the road narrows here.” Genna stabbed the paper with his forefinger. “Also there are bands of trees on either side, and a slip road about a hundred yards off, here …” Again the well-manicured finger prodded at the map. “I’ve arranged our own little police force. Not regular cops, mind you. But we’ve got a couple of real cop cars at our disposal. With any luck, they’ll think it’s their regular protection. We pull the cars across the road, and the convoy stops: right?”
Louis nodded.
“And I have men in the trees, along here, on both sides of the road. I would like to do it without bloodshed, if possible. Just get them down from their cabs and truss ’em up. Leave ’em in the trees, here, while my guys drive the whole shebang off up the slip road. They’ll split up when they’ve gone. Each driver will have a separate destination, and we’ll move the load onto our turf over the next few days.”
“And me?”
“You got transportation?”
“I have a car, yes.”
“Then you’ll go wherever you like. I, Tony Genna, guarantee payment to you in full. Fifty Gs, as soon as we’ve checked the loads—and we’ll do that before my boys leave. We do it on the spot. Then you can take off to wherever you please, and no questions asked. But you never heard about tonight if Capone’s men catch up with you. You just decided to skip town. Leave a note if you have to, though I wouldn’t advise it, and I tell you now, I am not going to see my family take the rap for this.”
He had rehearsed some of the men. They were to speak in front of the hijacked drivers, and the guards riding shotgun. Most would have Irish accents, and Hymie Weiss’ name, and the names of two of his cohorts, would be mentioned aloud. “It should be foolproof,” were Genna’s last words on the subject.
They would meet, at the appointed spot, just before three in the morning. “Or as near to three as possible. Three thirty, latest. If you aren’t there, Louis, I’ll call it off, and my brothers’ll come looking for you. Understand?”
Louis understood.
He went back to his apartment and spent the afternoon getting the last of his things together a few clothes, and the great pile of musical scores and recordings. A phonograph could always be bought somewhere else. There were also some books on music, and he took along the little snub-nosed revolver Carlo had given him a few months back, together with packages of ammunition. Just in case.
He had cleaned out the few hundred dollars in his one local bank account. In a few days he would do the same from the out-of-state account. “It was in St. Louis,” he volunteered to Herbie for the first time. “I thought the name was appropriate.”
Now all that remained was for him to bring the car over and find some good excuse to get away from Sophie that night. Already he had decided that he would leave no note for her. “Better a clean break,” he said to Herbie, in the present; and Kruger’s face hardened as he thought, clean break my ass. If Sophie did not know, she would be left hanging; wondering for the rest of her life. He marveled at the coldness of the man.
That night, they were playing the Hawthorne Smoke Stack, and he figured Carlo would be away, engrossed in other matters. With luck he could be out of there by two, or two thirty at the latest. As long as he hit the rendezvous before three thirty he would be home and dry. Hiding the packed valise and the other items stacked in cardboard boxes in a closet, Louis set out to cross town and pick up his car: a black Model T in very good condition.
That night, business was brisk in all departments: drinking, gambling and the trade upstairs with the girls. Sophie was to do three spots, the last one ending around one thirty, which suited Louis just fine.
The problem was that Sophie was in an unusually clinging mood. She had a lot to talk about after they left, she said. So, quite early in the evening, Louis began to set his way of escape by complaining of a bad head. He had been feeling beat up all day, he told her. “Maybe I should get home right after your last show. Go to bed with hot lemon, whiskey and, maybe, aspirin. I feel shivery. Need a long sleep.”
“Oh, Lou, baby, Sophie’ll come back and see you’re okay. I’ll settle you, all warm and cozy.” She appeared to be most concerned about him, and Louis had to pile it on. “Tell you the truth, Sophie, I feel wretched. Think I’ve picked up a bug.” He advised her not to come by his apartment. “If it’s catching, I don’t want you to get it. Anyway, Carlo might drop around. I know he’s in town tonight.”
“I don’t care about Carlo anymore.” She looked at him with bright eyes. “I have things to tell Carlo.” In all, she took an awful lot of persuading, but eventually agreed, saying she would fix things. She would bring Carlo round to his place in the morning. She wanted to talk to both of them at the same time. Feeling uneasy, Louis arranged for one of Carlo’s men to drive her home. He eventually got away from the Smoke Stack at around a quarter after two.
He had parked the Model T a couple of blocks from the club, and drove carefully back to his building, taking another twenty minutes to load the baggage into the car. By three he was speeding out of town, towards the meeting place with Tony Genna, who flagged him down as he slowed, looking for the exact spot.
“The slip road’s back there,” Genna pointed. “Get your heap off the road and out of sight. Don’t forget to turn the lights out, then come down here on foot.”
He could see the patrol cars, pulled up, one on each side of the road, manned by Genna hoods in police uniforms, and he kept his face turned away from them during the walk back to where Tony stood waiting.
“You and I’re going to stay out of sight, in the trees, and watch the fun.” Louis could not see his face, but the tone of his voice was like cracked ice, making him shiver. He could tell that Tony Genna was not smiling and, for a moment, there was panic. Would the Genna family really let him go with the money? Their ruthlessness was legendary and he saw, maybe for the first time, that his life was doubly in jeopardy.
There was a slight chill in the air, and Louis was glad of his topcoat as he crouched, silently, with Genna among the trees. He could not see the other men but an occasional cough or mutter, the flare of a match, or the scrape of a foot, betrayed their presence.
He tried not to squint at the dial of his wristwatch but judged that it was around three thirty before the rakish little roadster that was the scout car came roaring down the highway, flashing its lights, turning off and pulling onto the side of the road behind the squad cars.
The police flivvers started their engines, put on lights and eased across the road, the occupants climbing out, leaving only the drivers in place.
When the engines were idling quietly again, the whole stretch of road lit by the headlamps of the cars, Louis could hear the steady rumble of the trucks. “Should’ve blocked them off at the other end as well,” he muttered to Tony Genna, who cut him off. “Shut your mouth, Lou. They’re big trucks. Nobody’s going to have time to back up or turn around.”
At that moment, the lights of the convoy started to glimmer in the distance, the line of vehicles plodding closer to the ambush.
They slowed as the patrol cars were lighted in their beams. The lead truck stopped. A figure climbed down from the cab and walked towards the police cars. From where he crouched, Louis could hear his voice. He even recognized it. The man was Mush, who had so often acted as muscle in The Barn’s cathouse. “You expecting us?” He spoke loudly, but was relaxed, even though the remaining five trucks had come to a halt at least a hundred yards away from the roadblock.
“Sure, we’re expecting you,” shouted one of the men dressed as a cop. “Bring the other t
rucks on down.”
“Then get your cars out of the way. We gotta make up time. You never did this with the cars before.” There was an edge of suspicion in the man’s voice.
“Hold it a minute,” the fake cop called out, starting to walk towards the figure.
“We’re going to blow it,” Louis said softly and, at the same moment, Tony Genna shouted, “Now!”
Men rose from the trees and began to converge onto the trucks.
The lone man from the convoy now knew something was very wrong. He turned, his head thrown back to shout towards the other trucks, but a burst of pistol shots from the Genna “cops” stopped him in his tracks. His boots struck sparks from the road metal as he seemed to skid on his heels, like an ice skater, body arched backwards, before he hit the ground, twitching.
The cops began to run forward, but already the night was torn apart by gunfire.
The shooting lasted only around thirty seconds, but to Louis it seemed like an hour. The men in the cabs did not stand a chance in the hailstorm of bullets and shotgun loads that ploughed into the cabs. In the far corner of his mind, Louis realized that Genna’s men were totally professional, aiming carefully at the cabs, and not firing stray rounds that might damage the trucks’ cargoes.
Tony Genna murmured a heartfelt, “Shit! That was the last thing I wanted to happen.” Yet there was something about his voice that gave Louis the impression that this was exactly how it had all been planned.
Someone called, “They’re all out,” and the two men rose from the trees to view the carnage. All twelve of Capone’s drivers and shotgun men lay dead, some in the road, others cut to pieces in the cabs. Blood streaked the road surface, looking like oil, black in the lights from both police cars and the trucks.
Tony Genna gave quick orders for the bodies to be hauled out of sight and dumped in the ditches or pushed behind the trees. “I want those trucks on the slip road as fast as you can do it,” he shouted.
Louis stood and watched. He could not take his eyes from the terrible, ghoulish work. Then the police cars began to turn, fully manned, driving up the slip road.
Slowly he walked back towards his car. The trucks were rolling in the same direction, new drivers at their wheels. By the time he reached the last truck, the tarpaulins had been drawn back, and Tony Genna was moving from vehicle to vehicle, with two other men, checking the cargo. He seemed to take his time, but at last he came over to Louis, as the trucks started to move away, their headlights switched off.
“Okay, Pianist.” Genna slid a hand into his pocket, removing a bulky manila envelope. “You want to count it?”
“I trust you, Tony.”
“Trust and respect. They’re the two things that matter. They are also the two things we most often destroy. I’d count it if I were you.”
Louis smiled, in spite of the nausea that rolled around his stomach. He ripped the envelope open and saw a heavy wad of bills inside. “I trust you,” he said again. “Good-bye, Tony, and thanks. You’ll understand if I say I hope I’ll never see you again.”
Genna nodded. “We had some good times at concerts and the opera, Louis. Tonight, the killing I didn’t like. But, thank you, Pianist. Now, I never heard of you. Okay?”
Louis climbed into his Model T, started the engine and backed down to the highway. It was a long drive, first to the St. Louis bank where he cleared his account and took the money in cash, then detouring to the outskirts of New York itself. Apart from the bank, he only stopped to replenish gas and water, or to have a meal.
He left the Model T in a parking lot in Paterson, New Jersey, with all his belongings—apart from money—inside, and walked to the nearest car dealer where he bought a smart little car with a large and very solid trunk. “Red, as I recall: crimson, an early Stutz,” Passau said, as though testing his own memory.
He drove the car back to the lot, piled his things into it from the Model T, and took off towards Washington, D.C.
In Virginia, a couple of days later, after buying new clothes and one or two other items, Louis Packer mentally changed his name for the last time.
“I had decided on this when I got the fake I.D. in Chicago. I was particularly clever, I think. All the usual stuff on one of the sets had no names filled in. I did it, Herbie, in a small hotel. Funny,” he gave a humorless laugh, “the place was not far from where we are now. A little farther south, but quite close. History runs in circles, don’t you think?”
“I always believe that.” Herbie held the Maestro in his eyes, which were hard and unforgiving. “So, you became Louis Passau, huh?”
Louis Passau was born in that small Virginia hotel. Locked in his room, he took Tony Genna’s envelope and spread the money on the bed. Tens, twenties, fifties and hundreds. A lot of hundreds.
As the cash lay fanned out on the coverlet, he saw something strange. One piece of paper, the size of a bill. He drew it out. Neatly typed on the paper were the words, “Never trust anyone. You are five dollars short.”
“So Louis Passau was on his way,” Herbie said, clearing his throat. “Where next?”
“Next? Oh, we’re coming up to the beginning of my life. To the point where it all starts in the biographies and interviews. That moment I seemed to appear, fully grown, out of the womb of Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles. Where I came into being in a puff of smoke, and took over, at the last moment, from Maestro Androv to conduct the visiting Manhattan Symphony Orchestra. Poor Androv. He was taken very ill, with gastric trouble. But you know that story, Herbie. It’s in all the official accounts.”
“So is your first marriage and other stuff. But it’s a few years away, Lou. What did you do directly after Chicago?”
“What do you think I did, Herb? Shout my mouth off all over America saying I ripped off the mob? That I was free for conducting engagements? I had never conducted an orchestra in my life. No, Herbie. I went like a fox. I went to earth, and I stayed in my earth for quite a long time. Remember, I was terrified. There was certainly a price on my head. I holed up, Herbie. I holed up where nobody could find me and, during that time, apart from myself, only three people in the entire world knew my new name, and knew where I was.”
“Let me guess …” Herbie began.
“No guesses. For the next few years, only Rachel, Rebecca and David, in Bavaria, knew where I was and how to stay in touch. We exchanged letters the whole time, and that, in a way, eventually led to another disaster.”
It was like closing a book. Ending a chapter in his life that had never yet been told to any other human being.
“He’s not going to take me any further for at least another day,” Herbie told Pucky Curtiss as they prepared a light lunch.
“Isn’t it better to press him? Make him go on, now that you’ve reached a weigh-point in his life?”
“Normally, yes. But, however willing old Lou seems to be, it’s taking a great deal out of him. I think he’s pleased to have been able to share this much with another human. I said it before, Pucky, is like making his confession to a priest. Always is with defectors. They get a load off their minds. Going to take him a day at least to come to terms with it.”
Pucky, peeling tomatoes spooned out of boiling water, gave him a pained look. “What did he look like in there, when he was talking about the ambush?”
“What he look like? Like Louis Passau. What you mean, Puck?”
“On the tape he sounded cold, as though he also pulled the trigger that night.”
Very quietly, Herbie said, “It’s my guess that he did. If you want the real truth, you’d have to put his story under a microscope, and we haven’t any time for that. Is my guess that he started the shooting. My guess that, if he could’ve got away with it, he would’ve killed Genna that night. He wanted no witnesses left alive. There was really only Genna in the end, because, as he was telling it, he made movements to show how he kept his face away from all the Genna hoods. Yes, Maestro Passau is the epitome of unscrupulous corruption. His soul must be riddled with
cancer. Like a Gruyère cheese, his soul, Pucky. Shot through.”
During the rest of the afternoon, they left the tape running and Herbie merely chatted with Passau. He went back over the Chicago days again, occasionally asking questions which linked that time to the present. Towards the end of the afternoon, he asked, “What’s it like to conduct an orchestra, Lou?”
“Great power, Herb. Very great power. Real power. Better than anything a mortal man can experience.”
“Yes, but what is it really? What is it technically?”
Passau thought for a few moments. “Well, it’s certainly not like that great British Maestro, Tommy Beecham, said, ‘It’s easy. All you have to do is waggle a stick.’”
“I don’t want to know about Sir Thomas Beecham. I even saw him conduct once, Maestro. I want to know what you believe symphonic conducting is. Could it be what some Russian once said, ‘a black art’?”
Passau thought for a moment, and then talked at length.
Later, Big Herbie said to Pucky Curtiss, “This man you can’t trust. This is obvious, I know. But we have to be extra careful, for he’s a thief. He steals people’s ideas and uses them like some composers plagiarize the music of others, or novelists plunder plots and characters from fellow authors. You hear what he said about conducting?” He did not wait for an answer. “He said, ‘When you are conducting a great work—opera, ballet, a symphony, rhapsody or concerto—you have to be the composer This is my music, you must say. This is part of my body—it belongs to me.’ Now, Puck, you know who he was making a quotation from? He quoted from another Maestro. Carlo Maria Giulini. Maestro Giulini said that. I read the book. Was edited by a man called Jacobson. Excellent book.”
“That’s why they put you on this job, Herb. Art Railton told me you knew music like the back of your hand.”
“Back of my hand, my ass. I know enough music to play three instruments, Pucky.”
“Really?”
“Ja, the turntable, the tape deck and the CD player.”
But Pucky Curtiss was faraway, and very concerned about what was happening to her.
