FRANK JAGGER GANG WARS

Copyright (c) 2020 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner

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FRANK JAGGER

GANG WARS

By R. Peterson

Albert “Machine Gun” McGooganheimer’s face was splashed all over the front page of the Chicago Tribune. The photo showed him walking out of a restaurant that he owned on River Street and smoking a fat Cuban cigar. A good looking dame was attached to each arm. There was about a dozen cops and three white-faced ambulance attendants framing both sides of him. Six men wearing expensive fifth-avenue zoot-suits and brandishing Thompson sub machine-guns lay in small lakes of their own blood. They had all been shot very- dead by Machine Gun’s bodyguards. Albert was smiling … I could see why.

McGooganheimer had a last name that folks would die for … and many of them did. He was orphaned at the age of nine by the death of his Jewish parents Joseph and Eisra Heimer and adopted from the Our Mother of the Light Orphanage on Center Street by A Scottish whiskey merchant named Sean McGoogan and one of his many wives. Albert grew up on the mean streets of the windy city … and lived to tell about it. He decided that he liked both of his last names. If anyone thought this was funny … they didn’t for long.

I opened the big drawer in my desk and pulled out a half-full bottle of Old Forester Bourbon Whiskey.  I had just poured my second shot, when I heard light footsteps coming up the stairs. I was sure it was Linda. She was here to collect her dough. I’d hired the wide-eyed farm girl to be my secretary, mainly to keep her from pulling tricks in the double-beds that were always above every speakeasy. It was Saturday. We didn’t work weekends. I was here because I remembered the booze … and was running on empty.

Linda Farmgirl didn’t knock; she worked here. “You couldn’t find a better place to get drunk?’ She shook her head. Linda was tall, almost five foot nine, but her extra-long legs still touched the floor. Her button-up, pinstriped dress looked painted on … and her golden hair glowed like a halo.

“I won’t be here very long,” I told her, opening my top drawer and handing her an envelope. “I’m just making sure my tank is full … before I take off.”

“It feels a little fat,’ she said tearing the envelope open. “I hope it’s not filled with ones!”

I looked around the office in a greatly exaggerated fashion. “Who … me?”

            “There’s two hundred bucks here,” she said as she stuffed the dough in her purse. “I’m only supposed to get fifty a week!”

            “The next time you walk through that door, I want you to be naked,” I told her.

            “Strip for an old rat like you?” she grinned. “How about I just remove one earring?”

            “Make sure it’s your left ear,” I told her. “That’s the one that keeps me dancing.”

She picked up the newspaper lying on my desk. “Looks like McGooganheimer threw another party at his restaurant,” she said reading the headlines.

“I heard people were dying to get in.” I couldn’t resist the sarcasm.

            “My little sister, Beth, works in one of his clubs,” Linda said. “The word is, Machine Gun’s only daughter has been abducted by a rival gang. Your best customer has been putting feelers out trying to find out which mob has her.”

            “By feelers you mean .45 Caliber whiskers-of-lead poked into dark alleys and basement speakeasies by Thompson sub machine guns?’

            “Kind of catty … but correct,” she told me. “I’m surprised he hasn’t collected on that two grand retainer he gives you every year.”

            “I’m a lover not a fighter,” I said reaching for my coat. I reached for Linda too … but she danced easily out of my reach.

            “You’re getting slow,’ she said just before the door closed. She smiled and blew me a kiss. “Better watch your back!”

-------2-------

            My coat was off and flung over my left shoulder. I had just crossed the Dearborn Street Bridge and turned right on South Water. There was no wind and it was warm … why take a cab? This was a dangerous mixture for 1929 Chicago. I stepped away from the curb just as the bulletproof, cemetery-lawn green, 1928 Cadillac Town Sedan skidded to a stop. At almost the same time two goons wearing expensive suits and smelling of cheap booze grabbed me from behind. “The boss wants to see you,” the smiling one said as he stuffed me into the back seat.

            “Albert Mcgooganheimer doesn’t know how to use a phone?” My ears rang for another twenty seconds after I stopped seeing stars.

            “This is personal,” A mid-level hood named Chester “Pugs” Dolan said. “The boss likes his fish fresh-caught.”

We had barely gone ten blocks and were stopped at a red-light on West Randolph when I saw the gun-barrels poke out of in the mud-splattered black Ford that pulled up next to us.

I hit the floorboards a second before Pugs threw himself on top of me. It sounded like two freight trains crashing on an overhead railroad trestle as guns on both sides traded insults.

The money McGooganheimer paid for the heavy steel-plated Cadillac was not wasted. The Ford was fast but after a high speed chase during which gunfire from both cars sent pedestrians fleeing off the sidewalks in all directions, the model A rolled over with two shot-out rear tires on River Street just before the docks. Five police cars arrived, with sirens wailing, moments after we did. Half the Chicago cops worked for Al Capone … the other half worked for my favorite client and they never made trouble with each other. Two of the squad cars blocked off the street in both directions. The other cops helped Pugs and his boys douse the Ford with gasoline before they fired it up and rolled it off the docks. Not all the goons in the bullet-riddled Model A were alive when it splashed into the water, but enough were to let the world know … they didn’t like the cold.

-------3-------

            Albert McGooganheimer sat next to the pool at his Fullersburg mansion. Servants in white dinner jackets brought drinks as he bid me to sit down. The twelve year old Scotch was as smooth as a baby’s bum, not that I’ve kissed many. “Chicago is at war,’ he said. ‘In case you haven’t noticed.”

            “I’ve noticed,” I told him. “You appear to be winning!”

A young girl, dressed in almost nothing, brought a large bowl of mixed nuts and Albert began to crack the walnuts with his bare hands. “Appearances can be deceptive,” Albert said. “My business has suffered greatly from the recent territorial unrest.”

            “I know you’re a busy man,” I said. “Why did you bring me here?”

            “I believe my associates gave you a two-thousand dollar retainer earlier this year,” McGooganheimer said. “I require services in part of that payment.”

            “If you need someone killed, I don’t come that cheap,” I told him.

Albert laughed. “I’d never have a cook weed my garden,” he said. “You’re too valuable.”

            “Thank you,” I told him.

            “Every month or so I have a freighter called the Albatross that crosses Lake Michigan,” Machine Gun said. “It’s usually loaded with about ten thousand cases of Canadian whiskey that I pay for in advance.” Albert reached for a Brazil nut … and then studied it closely. “I’ve had several shipment seized by the feds. By the time I pay them for the return of my goods my profits are greatly reduced.”

            “Times are tough all over,” I told him.

            “I have one of my men on board the Albatross. He’s the ship’s cook and his name is Finny,” Albert said. “There has been a far greater than normal number of casualties on this vessel lately and the captain is always looking for replacement seamen.” Albert cracked the Brazil nut between his thumb and first finger. “I want you to sign on with this vessel and find out all you can from Finny. Report back to me when The Albatross docks again in two weeks.”

Chester “Pugs” Dolan and some of his boys drove me back to the rooming house I was living in. All the way home I kept thinking. “I can barely handle a row-boat!” I knew saying no was not an option. Nobody who wants to live ever says no to Machine Gun Mcgooganheimer.

-------4-------

            The Captain’s name was O'Sullivan and the Irish were not easily fooled. “You mess me up lad and I’ll pull out every hair,” he said tugging at my four day old beard. I was given the worst jobs on the boat: cleaning up the sick from the new crewmembers and making sure the toilets flushed properly. The first time I met Finny, he spit on the crust of bread he gave me then waved me past the soup. “I don’t like you,” he said. “You’re apt to lose a lot of weight.”

The second night crossing the lake I was pulled from my bunk. “Who sent you?” the captain asked as his men beat me. I knew it was useless to answer, all it did was make the end come sooner and I was beginning to enjoy every breath. I passed out from the pain. When I awakened I was sitting on the deck with both feet in a tub of cement that was nearly dry. My hands were tied behind my back and a cable attached to my wrists slowly lifted me off the planking. “I’ll ask you one last time,” O'Sullivan said. “Tell us who your contact is on this vessel and you have my solemn word on my dear mother’s grave that I’ll let you walk free on shore.”

            I asked through gritted teeth if his mother had worked in a brothel and if he knew who his father was. The lake water was colder than I expected. The pressure grew as the weight of the concrete about my legs pulled me steadily down. It’s true, my entire life passed before my eyes … every second of pleasure … every moment of pain. I heard my mother calling me to supper. A dog was barking. I could not hold my breath any longer. Lake Michigan is deep … I was only halfway to the bottom when my lungs burst and a cloud of bubbles exploded and rose toward the surface. Then there was only an eternal … and somehow restful darkness …

TO BE CONTINUED …