Authors: James Thayer
By seventeen, Flannery had sufficient outlaw credentials to join the Hymie Weiss mob. Weiss was a notorious gangster embroiled in territorial warfare with Al Capone. For a year Flannery rode shotgun on Weiss's liquor trucks. One could survive as an enemy of Capone for only so long. Weiss's life ended abruptly on October 11, 1926, when he unhappily stepped in front of ten machine-gun bullets.
Paddy Flannery's young career floundered. Much as a Japanese samurai became a wanderer when his lord was killed, Flannery drifted from gang to gang. In the years that followed Hymie Weiss's death, Flannery was called on numerous times for his muscle. He was a competent strong-arm man, but he lacked a vital ingredient needed to rise to the surface in a tough occupation—shrewdness. He was reliable, but he never took the initiative. He was a follower in an era when Irish gang leaders in Chicago were scarce.
To supplement his meager underworld income, he took part-time jobs, usually as a truck driver or a warehouseman. His tendency to punch out his bosses on the slightest pretext guaranteed his work history was a transient one. In fact, Flannery had never held a job for more than two months.
Flannery sipped his coffee and leaned back on the bench praying the nitro call wouldn't come through. A rotten job. Any job was a rotten job. Particularly when he didn't know who had ordered him to take it. It was a mystery, and Flannery's mind was not adept at solving mysteries.
Three weeks ago he had reached into his apartment mailbox expecting to find the usual nothing. He didn't know that many people who knew how to write. But there was an envelope addressed to him, which had neither a stamp nor a return address. Inside was two hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills and a brief instruction printed on note-pad paper: "
STEAL A 1935 FORD TONIGHT AND LEAVE IT NEAR INTERSECTION OF WESTERN AVENUE AND THIRTIETH."
It was the easiest two hundred Flannery had ever earned. He had been tempted to keep the money without doing the work, but he thought whoever had given him the two hundred might want to start a regular business. Two hundred bucks was a lot to pay for a hot car. That night it took him fifteen minutes to find a 1935 Ford. Using skills learned with the Irish Bulls, he hot-wired the car's ignition and drove the car to the intersection, where he waited two hours, hoping his new business partner would show. He gave up at midnight and took a taxi back to his apartment.
Three days later Flannery found another note in his mailbox: "
PICK UP BLACK LUNCH BUCKET UNDER MAILBOX AT 2400 NORTH CLARK STREET AT 2:00 P.M. OCTOBER 29. LEAVE IT AT NORTH CORNER OF WATERTOWER PARK AT 4:00 P.M. DO NOT OPEN BUCKET."
Attached to the note were ten twenty-dollar bills.
Flannery did exactly as he was told. He was sorely tempted to open the lunch bucket, which was not locked or sealed, but anything that might irritate his benefactor, whoever that might be, was out of the question.
Flannery began to check his mailbox four times a day, and he gazed at it from his apartment window. He never saw anyone other than the mailman, who left only envelopes addressed to "Occupant."
On Monday following the lunch-bucket delivery, the third note appeared in Flannery's mailbox: "
APPLY FOR JOB
AT GUY FAWKES POWDER COMPANY. TAKE ANY JOB OFFERED."
Five hundred dollars accompanied the note.
In 1942, when most young men were in the service, jobs for laborers were easy to find. When the powder company plant manager, Henry Harter, asked Flannery what kind of work he was willing to do, the Irishman replied, "Anything."
"Does that include being a nitro hauler?" asked Harter.
"Sure. I'm willing to do anything. I need the job."
Flannery went to work a week later. After his first trip to the nitro hut, during which the dangers of nitroglycerin were carefully explained, Flannery wished he had been more selective during the interview.
On his third working day, he found two hundred dollars and more instructions: "
BECOME ACQUAINTED WITH PLANT MANAGER'S SECRETARY. FIND OUT WHEN SHE TYPES THE EXPLOSIVES-DELIVERY SCHEDULE, LEAVE THIS INFORMATION IN MAILBOX AS SOON AS POSSIBLE."
For the first time since the mysterious notes began to appear, Flannery hesitated. Stealing a car and making a puzzling delivery were easily accommodated by his larcenous life-style. An explosives-delivery schedule, however, smacked of something truly dangerous. He wanted to protest, but to whom? His mailbox?
The hesitation lasted only a few seconds. He had made eleven hundred dollars in less than two weeks. This was the big league, which had been so elusive. This was his break. He would now be making the big bucks. Flannery decided to follow the instructions to the letter. The decision would cost him his life.
As Flannery swirled the last of the bitter coffee in his mouth, he thought of another terrible part of his job: meeting the boss's daughter. Nancy Harter was thirty-one and
had worked in her father's office at the powder company for ten years. She was a true spinster—never married, always looking, never succeeding. She had grown accustomed to the role. Her life was regulated by routine. She rose at exactly the same time every morning, did exactly the same job every day, and went to bed at 10:30 every night. Weekends made her uncomfortable, because the regulation of her job was absent. Sunday evenings were the worst time of the week for Nancy. It was then she realized another week had passed and nothing had changed. It was miserable, yet it was comforting to know the following week would pass just as this one had, with no interruptions, with nothing to disrupt her schedule. She let nothing ripple her life.
Not that Nancy Harter was completely unattractive. Her hair was a rich brown and hung midway down her back. She had bright green eyes that were just beginning to develop lines at the corners, which on anyone else would have been called laugh lines. She had beautiful, even teeth, but her chin receded a bit too much. Nancy wore clothes that were invariably three or four years behind fashion and were what her mother called "nice and prim."
Whatever chance Nancy's pleasant appearance gave her was strangled by dullness. She had the spontaneity of a wristwatch and the wit of an on-duty telephone operator. She made even her father yawn.
She was her father's secretary and receptionist. She took his dictation, typed his letters, drew up schedules and purchase orders, and got his coffee. Her desk was in the cubicle outside his office. It had a glass-and-wood partition between it and the plant floor.
Two Thursdays ago, Nancy had been staring at the wall clock, waiting for the minute hand to reach the noon hour, when she was startled by a sharp rapping on the glass pane. She turned, to see one of the nitro haulers, wearing a white coat and an awkward smile. She assumed he was there to
present a grievance, which she would jot down and later give to her father. When she opened the cubicle door, though, the nitro hauler said, "Hi, I'm Paddy Flannery," and nothing more. The Irishman had a square-jawed, handsome face marred by a snaggle tooth. His wavy black hair hung over his left ear to cover a V-shaped nick suffered in a knife fight years before.
She waited for him to add his complaint, and when he did not, she said strictly, "Well?"
"I seen you working through the window here, so I thought I'd drop by to say hello. That's all."
"Oh." She paused, not knowing how to continue. "Well, hello."
He leaned against the door frame and tried to look casual. "What're ya working on?"
"A letter."
"You must be pretty good at it."
She nodded.
"What else do ya do?" he asked.
"Whatever's in this pile." She pointed to the in-basket.
Judas Priest, Flannery thought. This is going to be harder than I planned. "Say, it's lunch hour. Why don't we go down to the lunchroom and grab a bite?"
"Oh. Well, I usually eat here. And I just bought a hard-boiled egg."
Flannery swallowed a yawn and pursued, "You need a change of scenery. Come on." He tried to smile, but the tail end of his yawn rudely twisted it out of shape.
She had eaten lunch with him that day, one of the longest hours Flannery had ever put in, and had done so three or four times in the subsequent two weeks. They had talked about the weather, her job, his job, and the weather again.
Flannery swallowed the last of the coffee and walked to the pot for a refill. Anything to lessen the headaches, even
wretched coffee. He was thinking of asking the mailbox for a raise. After all, he had done precisely what it had ordered. A day after he met Nancy Harter, he had put a note in the box that said that she typed the dynamite-delivery route for the following day immediately after lunch each day. He grimaced as he thought of those lunch hours. She made his food taste bland. He fervently hoped that whatever the mailbox had in store for him would happen quickly. He didn't know how much more of Nancy Harter he could take. He was just about to pour the coffee when the nitro call sounded. He hung his cup on the hook and walked slowly to the cart. His stomach began to spin again.
That night after work, Paddy Flannery found the last note he would receive: "
WITHOUT FAIL, TOMORROW NOON ATTACH THE ENCLOSED BLACK PAPER TO SECRETARY'S TYPEWRITER AS INDICATED IN INSTRUCTIONS. RETURN TO HER OFFICE AFTER SHE HAS TYPED THE DELIVERY SCHEDULE AND REMOVE THE BLACK PAPER. DEPOSIT IN MAILBOX AFTER WORK."
Enclosed in the envelope was a 9½-by-3½-inch piece of what looked like very sheer carbon paper. Attached to the paper was a sheet of instructions and five hundred dollars. The Irishman retreated to his apartment to study.
The following noon, Flannery knocked on Nancy's cubicle window. With considerable mental effort last night he had determined there was no way he could attach the carbon paper to her typewriter roll without her knowing it. He had therefore devised a plan which to him sounded foolproof but which would need all the charm he could muster.
"Hi, Paddy." She smiled. His innocuous presence on an occasional lunch hour was now part of her routine. Plus, he gave her an excuse to display her teeth, which she knew to be her best part. "How's the weather outside?"
"Fine," he replied, and mentally added: For God's sake,
like it always is when you ask. "Say, I brought you a little gift. Not much, but you might like it."
"Oh, really, what could it be?" She blushed. In her ten years at the powder company, no one had given her a gift. This was a first.
"Well, 's nothing, really." He fished in a brown paper bag and produced the black paper with a flourish.
She squinted at it for a second and said, "A piece of carbon paper? You shouldn't have. How thoughtful."
"No, no. It's much more than that." He held it closer to her so she could see it was not just carbon paper.
"It looks like carbon, Paddy."
"No, it ain't. It's typewriter-key cleaner. All you gotta do is put it around your typewriter, and it'll clean the keys as you type. Couldn't be handier."
"My keys are clean. They're always clean."
"Well, you got typing this afternoon?"
"Sure, lots of it."
"What're you gonna do right after lunch?"
"The delivery routes for the dynamite."
"That'll be enough typing to try this cleaner out. Why don't I save you the trouble and attach it."
Without waiting for a protest, he leaned over the typewriter and pressed the sticky edge of the paper onto the roll. He smoothed the edge with his fingers and then twisted the carriage knob. Just as the instructions said it would, the paper wound around the roller. Flannery pressed the adhesive on the bottom of the paper. It was almost invisible.
"Just like the salesman promised," Flannery said as he stood. "Easy to get on. You can try it out when we get back from lunch. Do just whatever you do after lunch, and you'll see your keys get cleaner as you work."
"I don't see how this stuff works," Nancy said as she bent
closer to the typewriter. "I hope you didn't pay much for it."
"Hang the expense, I always say. Let's go to lunch."
Nancy commented on his jubilant mood during lunch. "It's nothing. Just the nice weather," Flannery explained. In fact, he was gloating over his success with the typewriter. Rarely had he carried off anything that required mental stealth. Here he had just duped Nancy into making his latest five hundred dollars a snap. Another person was doing his work. He had arrived in the big league.
Flannery walked her back to her cubicle after lunch and repressed the urge to stand over her while she typed. He waited inconspicuously near one of the mixing vats and watched her study a Chicago street map. Apparently she chose the truck routes at random and then typed them onto the sheet, which the escort and truck drivers would pick up the following morning. Varying the routine to the train depot was a security measure imposed by the federal government, the major purchaser of Guy Fawkes explosives. She bent over the map, typed a few keys, and returned to the map. This procedure continued for a few minutes, until she twirled the roller and yanked the paper from the carriage. Flannery hurried to the cubicle and tapped on the glass.
Nancy favored him with another smile and then peered at the schedule she had just completed. Flannery came through the door, and she said, "You know, this type doesn't look any cleaner."
"Let me see." Flannery stuck out his hand.
"Oh, no." She hastily jerked the schedule to her bosom. "I can't do that. This is secret. I've got to put it right in the safe. Here, I'll type something else out on another piece of paper."
"No," he said quickly. "Don't bother. I'll take your word for it that my present ain't workin'. I'll take it back. Those bums tried to con me."
Flannery carefully peeled the black paper off the roller.
He folded it and put it in his wallet. "I'll get my money back for this, you can count on that."
"Well, thanks anyway, Paddy. That was nice of you."
"No problem. I'll bring you an apple or something next time. Tomorrow lunch?"
"Wonderful."
That afternoon the nitro carting seemed less ominous than usual, because Flannery's mind was occupied with his success. His newly discovered importance, that importance that comes when one realizes a new talent, would be profitable. This money was only a beginning. He needed to let the mailbox know how competently he had managed this assignment. He could be trusted to handle something like this daily. Enough of this honest-work shit.