“Was this it—the time you were most afraid?”
“Not quite yet. Not the most. But I was afraid. She was only about three feet away from me, too close to miss.”
“Why was she doing that?”
“She was crazy, hysterical, screaming, saying things like, ‘Let him go. I love him. You can’t take him away. I won’t let you.’
“For what seemed like a long moment, I could think of nothing to do. I had both hands on the husband and my gun was in my holster.”
“Mom, what did you do?”
“I knew I had to distract her. I pushed her husband hard and he fell to the ground. She shrieked, dropped the gun, and went to his side. She was asking his forgiveness when I snapped the cuffs on her, too.”
Meg stared at her. “Then what happened? Was that it?”
“Not quite.” Claire looked for a place to pull over. She needed to stop to tell the end of the story. She pulled onto a field road, cornstalks rustling in the slight wind. She looked over at her daughter, so happy and easy in her life. A beautiful, healthy girl. How she loved her.
“Then I heard a noise upstairs. I left the two of them sitting on the living room floor and bolted up the stairs to see what was up there. I found a baby sitting in her crib. I almost fainted when I saw her. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move.”
Claire reached over and pushed back her daughter’s hair, then said, “She reminded me of you, my own baby home asleep. I’ve never felt such pure panic.”
“I don’t get it. Why?”
“Because there was a hole in her bed, a gunshot hole that had blasted through her mattress and into the ceiling of her room. All I could see was this smiling baby.”
I
t was dusk as the train rounded the bend and I saw the skyline of St. Paul for the first time in five years. It looked different. I turned to the Pullman porter leaning next to me on the half-open car door. “What’s that big building with the red neon ‘1’ on the top?” I asked.
“Why, that’s where the money’s at. That’s the First National Bank. Thirty-two stories high, they built it in ’31. You’d think there was no Depression on, looking at that, would you?”
“I guess not,” I replied. The train slowed as it approached Union Depot.
“You’re Jake Kane,” he said. “I recall you from the old days.”
“Leonard Charles,” I said, suddenly remembering. “We played baseball together at Mechanic Arts. Class of 1917.”
He nodded. “I heard you got sent up. Nice to see you home.”
I thanked him. As the train pulled to a stop, he swung down with a step stool in his hand and placed it next to the bottom step.
I followed him, carrying my valise with my meager belongings.
“Warm,” Leonard said. “For November, that is.”
But I was cold. I was wearing the same tropical suit the marshals had nabbed me in when I walked off the boat from Havana in 1929. After spending the last four years in Leavenworth, I was glad to be home. I had unfinished business.
I took out my sack of Bull and started to roll a smoke. “Have one of mine, kid—it’s your old brand, Sweet Caporals.” I looked up to see Frank O’Hara.
“How ya doing, Frank,” I said, taking the cigarette. “You look like you put on some weight. The police business must be good.”
“It ain’t bad,” he replied, patting his stomach. “I see you lost weight. That suit is a little loose and probably too light for St. Paul.”
“I guess so. So what brings you down here, Frank?” I asked, bending to light my cigarette from his cupped match.
“You, Jake,” he said, shaking out the match. “We got a wire that they sprung you early.”
“Good behavior. If you dicks got the word, the whole town probably knows by now.”
He chuckled and nodded. Then his demeanor changed. “Jake, the rumor is that you’re gunning for Tommy Macintyre. They say you have a score to settle with him. Talk is, when he disappeared for a year, he left you holding the bag.”
“You shouldn’t listen to rumors, Frank.”
“Kid, I think the world of you and Tommy; I know how you guys kept Frank Jr. alive after he got gassed in France. I’ll never forget it. They called you the Three Musketeers back at Mechanic Arts High.”
I nodded. “Lot of water under the bridge since then. And by the way, how is Frankie? I got a letter from him in the can. He says he’s a new papa and living in Arizona.”
“Yeah, the climate out there is good for his lungs. He’s in the radio business, there’s a big future in radio. Owns two stores in Tucson.” Frank pulled out his wallet and showed me a Kodak of a baby. “That’s the grandkid. Francis X. O’Hara III. Handsome kid, huh?”
“Looks like his mother, not one of you ugly micks,” I laughed, remembering Frank Jr.’s pretty wife, Beth.
“You got that right, boyo.” But he became serious again. “Listen, Jake, this town’s changing. The kidnappings of William Hamm and Edward Bremer brought that on. The rules have been broken. Dutch Sawyer’s on the run, they nabbed his old lady in Cleveland.”
Harry “Dutch” Sawyer had been the number-one fixer in town. He, his predecessors, and the cops kept the O’Connor system going for more than thirty years. John O’Connor had been police chief at the turn of the century. With the city fathers’ tacit approval, he created an arrangement where criminals could seek haven in St. Paul as long as they checked in with the police and kept their noses clean when in town. There were fewer bank robberies and for the most part “honest” citizens were left alone and safe. That didn’t stop us homegrown boys from running our own rackets. Hell, Prohibition made us fortunes.
“Jake,” Frank said, “since Repeal, things have changed. The papers are getting religion, going after corruption. The G-Men are all over the place. Hoover is going to shut this town down.”
“Hoover’s an asshole, Frank,” I said, taking a drag off my smoke. I hadn’t had a tailor-made cigarette since 1929. “Look how his agents shot up Little Bohemia over in Wisconsin going after Dillinger. They shot three innocent bystanders and killed one. They’re the laughingstock of the whole country.”
“Don’t underestimate the Bureau, Jake. Dillinger’s dead, Pretty Boy Floyd is dead, Machine Gun Kelly’s in stir. Hoover’s hot to recover his reputation. I tell you, he’s coming after this town. I’m getting out myself. By New Year’s Day I’ll be retired and living down in Arizona.”
“That’s good, Frank. You been on the force, what, thirty-four years?”
“Yeah. I came in with the O’Connor system and I’m going out with its demise.” He rubbed the back of his neck and I could see how tired he was. Then he looked up. “But I ain’t done yet, and if you go after Tommy Macintyre I’ll have to come after you.”
“I wouldn’t expect any less from you, Frank.”
“I love you boys like my own sons. I don’t want to see either of you die.”
“It will work out, Frank.”
“Jesus, I hope so. Come on—I’ll buy you dinner.”
We took the escalator up to the busy concourse, its high ceiling decorated with carvings of stagecoaches and trains. I noticed the women were wearing their dresses ankle length. The flapper look went out with the crash.
Our footsteps echoed on the stone tile floor of the great lobby as we walked toward the depot restaurant. I glanced at the big clock above the baggage claim; it was 6 o’clock on the dot.
We sat in a booth and a world-weary waitress took our order.
“Tell me,” Frank asked. “How was it? Was they tough on ya?”
“It was okay, once I got off hard labor. First a job in the furniture shop and finally one in the library. I think I have you to thank for that.”
Frank shrugged. “Kid, I still don’t know why you didn’t stay in Cuba until things cooled down.”
“Maybe I don’t like rum,” I said, digging into my steak when it came.
Frank snorted. “If you was coming back to deal with Tommy, he had already disappeared. Lot of people thought he was dead,” Frank told me between bites.
“Look, Frank,” I said, pointing with my knife. “This is my country. I shed blood for it in France. I have the medals to prove it. That’s why I came back. It was unfortunate that someone tipped off the marshals when I landed in Tampa, but that’s all behind me.”
“You know, kid, they wouldn’t have been so hard on you if you hadn’t killed that Prohibition agent.”
I put down my knife and fork. “That son of a bitch was on the take. He was supposed to let us run the booze down from Canada. Instead, he opened fire on us, no warning, no nothing. It was the dark of night and I shot back. I ain’t sorry he’s dead. I hate double-crossers.”
My lawyer had made the same argument. He went over my war record and the fact that we were ambushed. He was able to get my charge knocked down from murder to manslaughter. Of course, in court I showed remorse, but that bastard had it coming.
Frank put his hand on my arm. “You got a tough break, kid.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But it could have been worse. Now, since you’re buying, how about some pie?”
Frank ordered the pie—it was apple and damn good. “Looks like you’re going to fill out that suit of yours just fine,” he said.
I just nodded, my mouth full of pie.
“You set up? Got a place to flop?”
I took a swallow of coffee and answered. “Yeah. I’ll be staying with my Uncle Izzy. He has a room for me in back of the pawn shop.”
“That’s good.” He picked up the check, flirted with the cashier, and turned to me.
“C’mon, kid. I’ll give you a ride up to Izzy’s. It’s raining and that linen suit ain’t gonna keep you dry.”
He drove out of the garage and up 3rd Street. “It’s all torn up,” I said.
“Yeah, they’re going to widen it, make a boulevard out of it. Named after that guy from St. Paul who outlawed war. Ain’t that a laugh? You know—Frank Kellogg. Your uncle will have to move his shop over to East 7th with the rest of the pawns.”
Frank pulled up in front of Izzy’s shop and shook my hand. “Remember, Jake, don’t go after Tommy.”
“Thanks for the lift, Frank,” I said, and I got out of the car and went into the pawn shop.
Isadore Goldberg stepped out from the cage when I entered. He looked older but still had the robust body of the wrestler he had been back in Russia.
“Nu
, Jakey, you lost weight.” He came over and hugged me, his arms like iron bands.
“Hi, Uncle Izzy,” I said, hugging him back. “You look good.”
“Ess hat mir oisegegangen die kayach.
My strength’s left me, Jakey.”
“You’re still a
shtarker,”
I said, rubbing my sore ribs.
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. They’re going to tear down the building soon and I’m going to California to live with your cousin Rebecca.”
We talked into the wee hours of the morning getting caught up. Finally, I began to yawn. In the pen, you go to bed a lot earlier.
Izzy had a couple of rooms in the back of the shop, where a bed was made up for me. As soon as I hit the pillow, I fell asleep.
I took a good look at myself in the shaving mirror. My hair had turned gray at the temples and there were deep lines around my eyes. I stropped my razor, soaped my face, and scraped off two days’ growth.
Izzy had laid out some clothes. Old but clean work pants and shirt, along with fresh underwear, socks, and sturdy brogans. I dressed and went into the shop. Izzy had a customer. I waited while the man pawned his watch. He was well-dressed, but he looked defeated.
When he left, my uncle turned to me. “That fellow used to be a bank clerk, but with the Depression he lost his job. You know, I’m getting out just in time. How many more watches, radios, jewelry can I take in?” He spread his arms, pointing around the shop. “Who’s going to buy?”
I shrugged. “Listen, Uncle Izzy, I’m going up to see Pinsky the tailor. Then I’m going to walk around for a while. I’ll see you later.”
“Okay, Jakey.” He went to his safe, opened it, and handed me a stack of twenties. “You need more? It’s your money.”
“Not now, but thanks for taking care of it for me.”
He spread his hands in a broad gesture as if to say,
I’m your uncle, what did you expect?
Before I left, he handed me a leather jacket and a fedora.
I walked up to Pinsky’s on Wabasha and bought new duds—everything from suits to evening clothes. Men’s fashions had changed. The jackets were fitted with wide shoulders; the trousers were straight with wide cuffs turned up. Shirts had attached collars. In the old days, I would have had clothes tailor-made, but Pinsky had some good off-the-rack items and promised he’d have them altered by late in the day.
I ate breakfast at the St. Francis Cafeteria, and then caught the matinee of
The Thin Man
at the Paramount. It had been known as the Capitol Theater when I went away, but whatever its name, it still retained its elaborate façade of terra-cotta molding and Spanish grillwork. Sound had just come in when I was last at a picture show. Now I was fascinated by the dialogue between William Powell and Myrna Loy. I had read the book in prison, but I still enjoyed the picture. Myrna Loy was the kind of gal any guy in his right mind would want.
I took a streetcar up to the old neighborhood just for old times. I climbed Mount Airy Street to look over the city. Like Rome, St. Paul sits on seven hills. The town had changed despite the Depression. Along with the First National Bank building, the new city hall–courthouse had been built. And the old Victorian buildings along the river bluffs were coming down. I remembered what Frank O’Hara had told me about change. St. Paul was going to eliminate the criminal element. But what hadn’t changed was my unfinished business.
I walked down the hill to the wooden stairway that led me to Canada Street. I stood in front of my old house. My folks had died of the influenza when I was in France. I said a little prayer, then walked to the corner grocery at Grove and Canada.
The lady behind the counter recognized me and asked if I had been away. I smiled and nodded and bought a pack of Sweet Caporals, a Coca-Cola, and a Hershey’s bar. I walked over to the Franklin Grammar School where I first met Tom Macintyre and Frank O’Hara Jr. Not much had changed.