Miserable Business Read online
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Print ISBN 978-1-09837-995-7
eBook ISBN 978-1-09837-996-4
It was June 1930 when H.L. Macklan stepped off the steam train in a place where he didn’t belong. As sparse afternoon raindrops began to spit from the sky, he put on the scorched suit coat and dark hat. Being fully aware of the truth of things, it felt good to be alive.
Contents
Chapter 1 Boom
Chapter 2 Roaring
Chapter 3 The Sanctuary
Chapter 4 The Office
Chapter 5 The Dance
Chapter 6 Moving Company
Chapter 7 The Academy
Chapter 8 Sieben
Chapter 9 Dean
Chapter 10 Transition
Chapter 11 The Pain
Chapter 12 Mother
Chapter 13 Torrio
Chapter 14 Blame
Chapter 15 Warehouses
Chapter 16 The Swamp
Chapter 17 The Escape
Chapter 18 Plan Of Attack
Chapter 19 The Cleansing
Chapter 20 Dogs
Chapter 21 The Lake
Chapter 22 The Second Barn
Chapter 23 Fish in a Barrel
Chapter 24 Checkmate
Chapter 25 How Much?
Chapter 26 Matches
Chapter 27 The Trap
Chapter 28 Nightmare
Chapter 29 The Reconciliation
Chapter 30 Spies
Chapter 31 The Fall
Chapter 32 The Confession
Chapter 33 Erased
Chapter 34 Search for Answers
Chapter 35 Gull Lake
Chapter 36 Demise of Demons
Chapter 37 Winds of Change
Chapter 38 Dark Skies
Chapter 39 Visions
Chapter 40 The Boat Ride
Chapter 1
Boom
The young mother lost focus on the Bible verse, stopping mid-sentence. Her attention snapped to the outline of the open window visible through the thin cotton draperies. Another tremor rippled the drape’s lace fringe.
She closed the leather-bound book without marking the page.
Her daughter, tucked beneath the blankets with hands folded, reopened her eyes. “What’s wrong, Mommy? Aren’t you gonna read the prayers?”
The woman cupped her hand over the child’s mouth while she listened to the percussive blasts echoing in the distance. Boom, boom, boom, boom. Water in the nightstand glass pulsed and rippled.
The child twisted her head side to side, tiny tears rolling back on her temples. The mother loosened her clutch over the girl’s mouth.
Staring at the outline of the window, the woman reached and fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp. In the darkness, she took hold of her daughter, sweeping her off the bed along with the blankets, the girl thumping on the hardwood floor.
The child began to sob. “I wish Grandpa was here!”
“Shh, Sarah!” The woman began to quiver. With each short breath, the collar of her nightgown shook with small quakes, her chest rising and falling. Even her forearms and hands moved in tremors as she busied herself tucking the blankets beneath the girl. “I’m sorry, honey, but you can’t make a sound. Bad men are coming.”
Outside, the thunder grew louder with each exchange. Boom, boom, boom. The raging mob battle was hurtling closer.
In the full-length nightgown, the woman scrambled on hands and knees over to the wall, reaching up behind the draperies, pulling the window low, to a level just high enough to still peer through.
Over-powered tires squealed around the street corner, echoing across the neighborhood calm.
The mother couldn’t control her outburst, “Oh God, they’re coming this way!” Her words were buried by the drone of engines rising to speed. Light flooded the room as two mob cars of the latest muscle barreled toward the home.
A dark Chrysler sedan made an aggressive swerve, banging full-on into the side of the second car. Sparks flew in the darkness followed by the distinct flash and sound of a handgun discharge. Boom.
The second car careened off the street, bounding through the picket fence, plowing into the front of the family’s home with an earthquake of wood splinters.
The Chrysler skidded to a stop, shifted to reverse, lurching backward.
With the mob battle spilling onto her property, the woman slammed the window down, swarmed over the child, and drove her face into the bundle of blankets. The mother’s grip paralyzed the girl.
Out on the street, the driver’s door of the Chrysler swung open. Jack McGurn, a man quick to violence when it came to retaliation, slid off the seat with a face twisted in rage and an automatic gun equipped with two handgrips. While his gangster life of excess was beginning to show, the skin on his knuckles still bore the white scars of a street fighter.
Notorious throughout Chicago, no one doubted Jack anymore. Today, he had a reputation to uphold.
He stepped clear of his vehicle and assumed a rigid stance with the weapon held waist-high. He pulled the trigger back and the gun erupted. Boom, boom, boom. He clobbered the crashed car with a judgment of bullets.
The roar of the machine gun mixed with shattering sounds from every window in the home’s first-level parlor pouring glass out onto the floor.
In the bedroom upstairs, the woman and child sobbed with nearly silent screams through the agonizing pounding. The mother, holding both of her hands over the child’s ears, kept her own eyes closed, but couldn’t stop the penetrating flashes of light in the otherwise dark room. Boom, boom, boom.
When the blasting finally came to an end, the two of them were buried deep beneath the bed, sobbing, shaking, and praying not to be discovered.
The mother kissed her daughter’s disheveled hair then brought her mouth right next to the girl’s ear to whisper. “Are you okay, honey?” The frightened child could only nod.
McGurn stepped toward the car wearing an out-of-place gray overcoat. He moved with crouched, deliberate steps like a wolf drawing in close to hiding prey. His overcoat trailed on the ground, as if in obedience, while he approached the back of the pin-cushioned vehicle. He crept along the driver’s side and thrust the muzzle of the gun through a shattered car window. He used it to probe the interior.
Satisfied no life remained, he stood upright again, turned, and used the gun’s barrel to notch the front of his hat up while he considered the house. The first level looked like it belonged in a war-torn village. He’d learned the hard way about doing a thorough clean-up before leaving execution scenes. Under his breath, he muttered, “Let’s see who might be watching from in there.” Jack left the mutilated car, picked his way up the intact portions of the porch steps, and crossed to the entrance. He reached around inside through a broken window to unlock the front door.
In one motion, he pushed the door open while he raised the barrel of the shouldered rifle. From the entry, the pale-yellow city lights filtered in through the shattered parlor windows. Ribbons of shredded curtains cast streaks across the ruins of furniture and peppered walls. The sofa was marred with bullet pox of escaping wool popcorn. The one-time centerpiece of the home was now but a splintered radio cabinet with a broken crystal dial. Jack stepped over the threshold into a maze of glass shards spread out across the floor. Each footstep commenced with a muted crunch.
He poked his head into the various doorways on the first floor and stopped when he reached the base of a wooden staircase leading up to
the second. Jack kept his gun barrel trained on the top of the stairs where a pair of closed doors caught his attention. He thought it was odd the house would be empty at this time of night in the middle of the week. By the looks of the place, he was sure somebody was living here.
Up in the bedroom, with ears still ringing, the woman tried to suppress her sobs while she slid out from beneath the bed, stood upright, and stared at the closed door. She was in shock and trying to comprehend what had happened. Her child was scared. From beneath the bed came a soft whisper, “Mommy, don’t leave me under here.”
The woman got on her knees and poked her head beneath the bed frame. She tried to smile as she whispered. “Sarah, honey, Mommy’s going to look around downstairs for a minute. You’re safe under here. I’ll be right back.”
The girl ignored the response, scrambled out from under the bed, and raised her slender arms in the air. Despite the child being over half the size of her mother, the woman scooped her up. In a complete state of uneasiness, the mother made careful steps to the bedroom door and took hold of the white ceramic knob.
At the mid-level stair landing, McGurn released the gun’s magazine and checked the ammunition. Satisfied, he snapped it back into place with a distinct click.
From inside the bedroom, over the sounds of her squirming child, the mother heard what she thought were almost inaudible clicks of metal coming from somewhere out in the parlor.
McGurn continued his sneak up the steps until an oak floorboard squealed like a rusty hinge.
Inside the bedroom, the woman’s eyes flew open at the sound of the alarm. The color drained from her face. She released her grip on the door handle, squeezed her child, and began backing away. Someone was in her home just beyond the door.
Through the remnants of the first-floor windows, a faint but rising wail of a police car siren echoed in. McGurn stopped and turned toward the direction of the sound. He’d have to get moving immediately if he hoped to leave the neighborhood before the cops arrived. He shouldered his gun and pointed the muzzle at the doors on the upper level. McGurn drew his forefinger back from the guard to rest lightly on the gun’s trigger.
As he squeezed, he swung the barrel of the gun across the second-floor wall from left to right in a single pass. Boom, boom, boom, boom. A line of a half-dozen bullets strafed the wall and splintered the painted wooden doors.
The wail of approaching sirens grew louder. McGurn lowered the gun, turned on the stairs, and began to retrace his footsteps to exit the home. In his haste, each step sent glass skittering across the floor like the shattering of china plates. The dark-colored Chrysler rumbled back to life and disappeared through a lingering haze of gun smoke.
Chapter 2
Roaring
In the shadows of the recessed entry of a two-story brown brick nestled among the buildings on Terrace Street, the single bulb of an electrified gas lamp cast a glow on a sign with faded yellow letters spelling The Granary. This was the place they’d been searching for. A well-dressed man around the age of twenty raised his hands in the air and thumped both his buddies on the back. “I knew we’d find it, boys!”
His friend with the shock of wild red hair turned and poked him in the chest. “What a great idea to bring the girls along!”
At a quarter past nine, a large man stood just inside the door wearing a vested suit and a black hat. Through the hatch, he surveyed the evening guests who’d accumulated outside. He munched on a handful of pretzels. The salt was having its intended effect, and he reached for the bottle of beer stashed under his stool. He listened to the group of twenty-somethings puffing on tobacco cigarettes while they discussed a new sports coupe rumored to take its sleek shape from the design of an airplane. The man had heard enough. He drew back the latch and pulled the thick door open. Light poured out from the entryway. He took a moment to survey the young people eye to eye. They stood frozen, waiting for the verdict. He broke the silence with a nod. “You kids look all right. Come on inside.” Out of habit, he glanced up and down the street as he waved the three couples into the club and swung the door closed behind them. He drove the bolt back into its rightful place and took another glance through the hatch.
From back in the club’s entertainment room, the unmistakable brassy sound of a saxophone player pouring his heart out made the girls smile. The large man turned toward these well-heeled patrons. The young women were wearing low-waisted dresses, bell hats, and each carried a small purse. “You ladies look like you’ve come here for dancing.”
Grins and nods spread across the group.
“This should be a fun night as we’ve got a fantastic jazz band who will take the stage soon. I really like them. They’ve traveled all the way here from the French Quarter in New Orleans!” The man took the final swig from his beer bottle. As he swallowed, he tipped the empty bottle in the direction of the young people and shook it side to side. “Aw, I should tell you kids. Unfortunately, there’s been some sort of delay with today’s shipment. If we run dry, we may be forced to shut down a little early tonight.”
In the summer of 1920, a sense of euphoria was taking hold of the country spirited by the end of the Great War in Europe, surprising new prosperity, and women now having a vote. A sweet perfume was blowing through the air saying, Hurry, don’t miss the best of times!
All of Chicago seemed to have gone mad. Everyone was caught up in the delirious scramble to make it big and, more important, everyone believed they could. Toiling in a factory or the field from sunrise to sunset was a thing of the past. Smart young people were borrowing as much as possible to invest. Best friends whispered, “You can’t lose on Wall Street.” From shore to shore, America was prospering. The stock market kept climbing higher and higher and, astonishingly, had grown tenfold since the turn of the century.
Chicago, in particular, had become the envy of the nation. At the crossroads of America, this was the best place to be. In the shimmer of Lake Michigan, the downtown skyline soared to new heights. Modern buildings were being designed and built with strong bones of iron and skins of impressive granite or even stainless steel. Chicago was taking its place among the world’s commerce centers. The city was rich with Midwest resources, a bountiful workforce, and abundant opportunities. Everyone said, soon this would be the epicenter of the country.
Daily newspapers were a sensation in the city and a conversation starter for everyone who was up-to-date. Crowds swarmed corner newsstands each morning as the press circulation trucks tossed the bundles to the street. Particularly during elections, disasters, crimes, and scandals, newspapers became a valuable commodity. When news was interesting, people horded their daily print like gold coins during a calamity. They often read the paper several times throughout the day to memorize the particulars.
Radio broadcasting now provided the latest news information even to rural communities. As a new form of entertainment, people found listening to the radio was a thrill like going to the movies for the first time, but from the comfort of their home. Families gathered around their radios to listen to everything from jazz and swing music to the wit of Sam ‘n’ Henry. Deluxe radios were a sign of prosperity and most displayed them as the centerpiece of the family parlor.
Nighttime in the city came alive with young people. The downtown filled with the sounds of laughter and singing. Everyone wanted to look like a success with gentlemen in coats and ties and ladies wearing their best dresses with pearls. Keeping up appearances with friends was important. The most popular evening streets all had a club. They’d have music like jazz and blues with live acts, some had dancing girls, and all had plenty of spirits. Regular citizens couldn’t deny the excitement created when defying the law. Drinking beer, gin, or whiskey was like gambling on horse races as storm clouds built in the afternoon sky. Place your bets now because any race could be the last. Rumors had it the government men were coming.
Chapter 3
The Sanctuary
Overtaken by worry, he ran from the shelter of the stockroom into the street where thunder echoed. Boom, boom, boom.
From the sidewalk, he flung the Lincoln sedan’s passenger door open, dove inside, and put the key in the ignition. The mighty V8 roared to life. Hank stomped the accelerator and erupted from the curb in a rolling cloud.
Before he’d even cleared the block, two shooters emerged from the neighboring buildings and sprinted to a dark sedan parked along the street. The chase was on.
The hitmen wasted no time and cut off from Halstead Street through a narrow alley out to Clybourn, which sliced diagonally along the river.
Hank was forcing his way north through the thick evening traffic on Kingsbury Street. At the point where Kingsbury merged with Clybourn, the shooters could see the Lincoln sedan slipping in ahead of them at the narrows.
“There he is!” The man in the passenger seat leaned the upper half of his body out the open window while aiming a rifle. Just as the hitmen’s car bounded out onto Gardner behind Hank, the gunman sent a spray of bullets rippling across Hank’s trunk.
Bullets pierced the car’s seats, making Hank a victim. He swung the automatic out his car window, pointed the gun backward, and peeled off several rounds to deter them from pulling even. While the second car tried to evade the response, Hank swerved off onto Webster Street. The shooters tore around the same corner after him and returned volleys through his front fender and cowling.
Now Hank had the room to make his move. He used the advantage of the big engine to push the car until the speedometer reached seventy miles per hour. The city became a blur.
Block after block, the Lincoln bounced over each cross street. Sparks lit the roadway as he bottomed out in one rough intersection better suited for the clearance of a horse carriage. Hank was putting distance between the vehicles.
Miserable Business