The Year was 1935

Alphonse Gabriel (Al, Scarface) Capone

George Herman "Babe" Ruth Jr.

The year was 1935 and I remember it clearly. Lots happened in 1935.  Franklin D started his New Deal, the FBI caught up with the Ma Barker gang, and Babe Ruth played his last game.  By 1935, Al Capone was no longer the king of the Chicago underworld, but just another inmate at Alcatraz.   It Happened One Night swept the Oscars. And, I celebrated my birthday that year, something I no longer do.  

Capone’s incarceration changed the Chicago underworld.  Capone’s mob, The Outfit, found other leaders, but the smaller Chicago crime organizations flexed their muscles.

1935 was also the year I met Charlene Belvoir, a seductress if there ever was one and so beautiful she could have worked any clubs in Chicago.  Matter of fact, they called her the Queen of Clubs.  The big world could have been her oyster, but instead, she somehow hooked up with Johnny ‘Rat Fingers’ McCone. McCone was a sometimes gambler, full time jerk and he owned a couple of clubs, including this one.

When he found a rat in one of his clubs, he had the habit of catching it by the tail and bashing its head on the floor, hence the unlikely name.

I ran into Charlene a while back, at one of McCone’s clubs, The Black Pearl, a former speakeasy, converted to a dance club, with a well-hidden, and very popular casino in back.   The doorman’s name was Eddie Florence, a hefty guy, tall and sour, as many bouncers are.  But, he always had a smile for me.  I called him Edward, shook his hand and smiled. Most people deserve some respect. “Evening, Edward.  Busy night?”

He called me by name, with a mister in front of it.  He shrugged.  “The usual.”  I got the feeling a smile and a shrug from Edward were reserved for best friends and his mother.  “Sorry, but you know I gotta do it,” he said.  I raised my arms and he patted me down.

The Pearl was luxurious by the standards of the day and always busy, but Edward was right. Tonight it wasn’t overflowing, but there was still the buzz of loud conversation and the crystal sound of clinking glasses and Champagne bottles. 

 Mahogany tables with starched white tablecloths formed a semicircle around the dance floor, and the deep pile chairs were so comfortable you could sit all night.  Heavy maroon curtains draped the walls here and there and where there weren’t curtains, the walls gleamed with mirrors so large you could see yourself coming and going and coming back again. There was a bandstand and if you couldn’t stand the band, there were plush sofas and subdued lighting at the back corners of the room and an equally polished mahogany bar up front, not much longer than a Chicago streetcar.

“Hey handsome,” she said with a voice as smooth as polished ivory.  I was standing at the bar, with a drink in front of me and thought she was talking to me.  Instead, she walked over to Rex Pander, known as the Coppertone Kid, a name he hated. He’d just come in on the train from Miami.

“Wanna buy The Queen a drink?” Charlene smiled that smile that let you know she was ready to deal, although the times I’d been there, I’d never seen her leave with anyone.  The dark shoulder length hair, sculptured body and starling green eyes were out of a Hollywood script starring Humphrey Bogart.  Even Lauren Bacall wouldn’t stand a chance.

The Coppertone Kid was all decked out as always, and his thick, slicked back, dark hair never failed to catch the girls’ attention.  In those days, men wore suits and ties, but not even pimps wore that much gold.  His tie bar, set with a diamond, sparkled.   “No me interesa,” he said sharply and turned to the barkeep, Whistling Sammy Murphy, whom everyone called Sammy.  After his run-in with a speeding cab, he seldom whistled anymore. He didn’t walk too well either and his eyes made you think he was looking at you and the man on the other side of the room.  On a busy night, people liked to watch him pour drinks, two at a time, with one eye on each.

“Seet me oop,” Coppertone said in his very fake Cuban accent. Sammy obliged, but forgot to put down two glasses, spilling a full pour over the edge of the bar.  “Ave joo lost u mind?” Coppertone asked with a snarl. “Now it lucks like I ‘ave done the pee-pee in ma pantalones!” his voice was a screech right into Charlene’s ear, as he looked down and brushed a hand over the spill.

“I can fix that,” Charlene said, turning and grabbing Coppertone’s frank and beans, twisting hard enough to wring out his pants and turn his well-tanned face white.  This time he screamed an octave higher than a cat with a tail caught in a lawnmower.   The Kid tried to push her hand away, but she had a steel grip.

Hearing the screech, Rat Fingers raced to the bar.  “Are you screaming at my girl?” he asked, ignoring Charlene’s twisting fist.

All Coppertone had a chance to do was look up, his face scrunched in pain before Rat Fingers caught him with a left, a right, another left, another right.  The band broke into a rumba fast enough to keep the rhythm and loud enough to drown the noise of an ass kicking. 

When The Kid hit the floor, the band went back to a slower paced version of The Last Roundup with the band’s singer, Wanda, joining in.  Dancers left the floor except for three drunks who kept staggering, oblivious that their partners had scattered like mice.

I noticed Mickey Mike in the back, sipping a drink, observing.  He gave me a wink and a light nod, then looked away.

 Capone’s replacement did a pretty good job of keeping the pieces of The Outfit together, but not a perfect job.  Chicago is a big town and unless you’re got an army, there’s no way to cover it all.  Mickey was the boss of one of the splinters.  Mickey’s real name was Mikowski.  He’s a guy you never want to turn your back on. I know him well.

I’d stepped back a couple of paces, in case Rat Fingers wanted to keep slugging.  It wouldn’t be the first time he finished up on a couple of bystanders.

I’m not saying I can’t hold my own, but Johnny never fought alone, if you catch my drift.  The barkeep already had a bat in his hand.  Edward the doorman, and another beefy bouncer were headed our way.

The Kid stood on shaky feet and sagged against the bar, his arms stretched out for support, looking like his bones had lost interest.  “From now on you keep your hands off my girl!”  As if on cue, Sammy’s bat came down like a butcher’s meat cleaver, missing the Kid’s outstretched fingers, only because Sammy’s eyes saw two sets of hands.  The bat sounded like The Babe had cracked another one out of the park.  Those at the tables ducked, sensing a pistol shot.  Eyes peered cautiously over the tabletops.  The drunks just kept dancing.

Rat Fingers and Carlene by this time had already turned their backs and were walking away arm in arm.  It wasn’t too long before Charlene reappeared, back to entertain customers.  This time she picked me.

“Hey there,” she said in her silky voice.

“Move on, please, without grabbing my balls.”

“He deserved it,” she said and turned her head toward Sammy, “A double shot of rye.” 

“Can I put it in two glasses?”

Must have been something in the air.  Charlene stifled a sneeze and those are catching.  Sammy sneezed, too and used a bar towel to wipe his nose before laying it back on the bar.

I offered Charlene my handkerchief and she said thanks and took it with an eye on Sammy and the bar towel.

It wasn’t until weeks later that I met Charlene again. Just after dusk there was a knock on my apartment door.  I opened it and there she was, looking as breathtaking as always.

“May I come in?” She purred, her sparling eyes warning me this was going to be a long afternoon.

Later on, she smoked, I didn’t, and we shared Bourbon on the rocks, while one of her glorious nipples played peek-a-boo from under my silk housecoat, wrapped loosely around her curves.

Now that we’d shared a good ride, it was time to look the gift horse in the mouth.  “Does McCone know you’re here?”

“You mean so he could kill us both?  No.  I decided to live a little longer.”

I shrugged.  “So? How do you know you weren’t followed?”

“You know Wanda, the singer with the band?”

I nodded.

“She’s occupying his evening.”

“I thought that was your job.”

“I’m playing hard to get.”

“So?”

“ Why am I here?” she asked.  It was a rhetorical question, so I leaned back against the headboard and sipped and waited to hear the answer.  “I’m tired of Johnny.  You saw his temper.”

“The two of you aren’t lovers?”

The phone in my bedroom rang. I excused myself, went into the bedroom, closed the door, and picked up the receiver.   When I came back, Charlene had a quizzical look.  “What do did you mean, when you said to watch yourself?”  I gave her my own quizzical look.  “I overheard,” she said.

“Business.   But, let’s get back to the question about you and Johnny being lovers.” 

“Look, do you want to spend the rest of our time playing question and answer?”

Definitely not.  No more questions.  Not hers, not mine.  

The next day, I strolled a few blocks and gave the boy on a corner a dime for a copy of The Chicago Daily Tribune.  I stopped a few steps later to glance at page 1. The headline was succinct:  Another Gangland Killing?

A deep and penetrating voice behind me asked, “Anything interesting?”  I glanced around to see one of the drunks from the dance floor.  He was still just as burly, but today he wasn’t drunk and sported a clean suit, white shirt and blue tie, and a fedora that barely covered his fat skull.  He may have been sober, but he still had bags under his watery eyes. He flashed a badge so quickly all I saw was the polished metal.  “I think we better talk.”

“Here?” I asked.

“Follow me.”  He led me down the street and turned into a narrow alley, bordered by the dirty brick walls of two tall apartment buildings.   Newspapers scattered, across the alley’s filthy, cracked cement floor, along with a couple of rotting wooden vegetable crates, probably from the small vegetable stand out on the street.  Overhead, wash hung limply on lines strung from building to building.

“Johnny McCone was killed last night.  You know anything about that?”

My mind immediately flitted back to my interlude with Charlene and then to today’s headline.  If I looked astonished, it was because I was. “Never heard anything before you told me.”

“You were in his club last night, The Black Pearl.”

“So were you and not in the best of shape, as I recall.”

I never saw the fist coming. It slammed into my solar plexus and folded me like a thin rug.  “Don’t play wise ass with me,” he growled. 

A blow to a relaxed mid-section can be a death blow.  They say it’s what killed Harry Houdini, and it felt like he’d just killed me.  I sucked for air.  I couldn’t think.  Unlike in the talkies, I didn’t shake it off and pile-drive him in a wall.  I suffered in fruitless, air sucking silence.

I thought I’d pass out until a deep gasp finally brought me back.  I was on my hands and knees.  All I saw were the tips of his polished brown shoes.  “Get up,” he said.

“So you can hit me again?” My voice sounded as weak as wilted lettuce.

“Then stay down.  This is fun for me.”  The kick felt like it broke a rib, maybe two.  I rolled to my side and struggled to stand up.  He grabbed my arm and pulled.  I was barely back on my feet when he twisted my arm behind me.

“So,” he said, “As I was saying, you haven’t answered the question.”

“I already told you!” I gasped, bent at the waist, trying to stop the pain.  “I don’t know anything about anybody getting killed.  Not Johnny McCone, not anybody.”

“I say different.  His girlfriend was at your apartment last night.”

So that was it.  I wanted to ask what else he knew, but I didn’t.

“Turn around,” he said.  I waited for a blow that never came.  His solid footsteps on the cement told me he was leaving.  I didn’t even try to look.

I went home, cleaned myself up, dusted the suit, and put on a fresh shirt and tie.

The Black Pearl was closed. I was hoping to talk to Charlene, but no luck.  

Funny how the neighborhoods in a big city run.  Smart shops and restaurants on one street and a couple of streets over they’re hanging wash out the windows, with mom and pop operations spilling out on the sidewalks.  Today I aimed for the smart streets and specifically Sander’s Café.  

Clean place, with serenely beige walls, subdued lighting and clean white trim on the doors and windowsills.  I sat in a booth, ordered coffee and a sweet roll from a skinny waitress in starched whites, and began to mentally gather the fractured pieces of my day.

“Mind if I join you,” Charlene purred, slipping in across from me.

“How did you know I was here?”

She smiled. “A little bird told me.”

I gave her a look and a shrug that spelled I was tired of games.

“Ok,” she said, her face getting more serious.  I went by your apartment, saw you a block away and followed you.”

“Why?”

“If you’ve got to ask, I might as well leave.”  She started to slide toward the end of the seat.

I put my hand on her arm to stop her. “Don’t,” I said, softly.

Just as softly, she slid back.

I told her about the guy who’d hammered me earlier.  “Charlie Cherry,” she said.  “He works…..worked for Johnny.”

“He showed me a badge.”

“Yeah,” she said.  “He likes to show everybody his damn badge.  It’s a phony.” She shrugged.  “He has high hopes of picking up where Johnny left off.”

“Who really runs The Pearl?”

“You know Tony Resutti?”

“No.”

“Just a very small piece of the pie.”

“And how about Wanda, the girl from the band?”

“She’s fine.”

I should have asked more, but didn’t.

It suddenly hit me between the eyes.  Wanda, whom I only know from seeing her on the bandstand and beefy Charlie could have killed Johnny.  Maybe they’re partners in the romantic sense, maybe a lot of things.

But, why would Charlie Cherry accost me and accuse me of the murder?  Alibi after the fact, or at least the appearance he had nothing to do with it.  Biggest question:  why me?  Lots of people in the club. A wide variety to pick from.

Two days later the cops arrived, with their usual guilty until proven innocent attitude.  The questions flew at me like arrows. My answers just bounced off.

Somehow they knew or suspected about Charlene.  Can’t ever tell with Chicago police.  They toss out suppositions as facts and wait to see how you react.  You know they got nothing when they threaten, but don’t make an arrest.  I didn’t have much of an alibi, but I also had no motive and there was nothing at the crime scene that would have tied me in because I wasn’t there.  At least that’s what I thought until one of them held up a handkerchief with my initials on it.

Either they realized a lot of people had better reasons, or the handkerchief wasn’t on Rat Finger’s desk or maybe it was something I couldn’t imagine.

They left and I immediately wondered whom else they’d talked to.

According to the afternoon Tribune, they’d arrested Wanda.  She didn’t confess, but the headline read, Gangster’s Wife Did It!

Something was distinctly missing in my knowledge bank.  Johnny and Wanda were man and wife?  They practically ignored each other the last night I was at their club.  Johnny walked around with his arm around Charlene, acting as if he owned her.

Maybe he did.  Maybe Wanda didn’t like it.  Maybe Wanda had her own affair going and didn’t give a damn.  Lots of maybes.

I’ve got other bars to go to and besides, The Black Pearl is closed until the cops finish their investigation.  Who knows?  Could be a day or two, or maybe a week.

Meanwhile, the evening was closing in like the rushing tide, and I needed a drink.

Marty’s steakhouse had a nice bar.  Never too crowded and the barkeep, unlike Sammy, doesn’t look at you like he can’t decide which side of your face to look at.

A pianist in the corner tinkled the keys on a baby grand. Cocktail waitresses strutted around in black stockings and one piece, red velvet skirts that belonged on stage at the Bolshoi. 

I sat at a table and waved one of them over.  That’s when The Coppertone Kid sat down. First time I’d seen him since Charlene had told him to turn his head and cough.   “What’s new?” he asked, the fake accent forgotten.

“You heard about Johnny.”

He nodded.  “Good riddance.”  He lifted his icy Manhattan and I did the same.  “I heard the cops know who did it.”  I didn’t say anything.

The next thing I knew, four cops burst in, came straight to my table and put me in cuffs.

The interrogation went south in a hurry.  I barely said anything.  They never raised their voices. No need.  They had a witness.  Wanda swore she saw me kill him with a knife to the throat.  She found my initialed handkerchief on the floor by his desk.  I had the motive.  I was hooked up with his girlfriend.  I had no alibi for when he was killed, which turned out to be the afternoon.  Charlie Cherry pounding me to a pulp evidently didn’t count.  The cops couldn’t confirm that it happened. Charlie had left town.

They figured they had their guy and that was the end of it.  I was in a cell and likely to stay there.

Until Jeffery Thomson, of the law firm of Thomson, Thomson and Baker showed up. The Chief of Police escorted him in, with more sirs given out than you’d hear on a parade ground.  I kept expecting the Chief to drop to his knees and kiss Thomson’s feet.

Thomson had me out of there in an hour, all charges dropped.  I asked who hired him and he just smiled and shook my hand, just as a gleaming gray Cadillac the size of a yacht pulled up.  The liveried driver opened a rear door and Thomson slid into red leather seats. He favored me with a slight wave as the car sped off.

I couldn’t help thinking of anyone I knew who could hire the king of the court, even for an hour, and for that kind of money, why the hell couldn’t he give me a ride home?

Later that day, the cops arrested Rex Pander, The Coppertone Kid, at the train station.  I had no doubt, another Cadillac would show up to put him back on the street and on his way back to Miami.

Charlene showed up late at night, but even fresh out of jail I wasn’t up for a home game, until she convinced me she needed to hit a home run.

Over the bottle of rye she’d brought with her, and this time no housecoat, we played a game of guess who.

I lined up the suspects for her. The Kid, of course, or Charlie Cherry, or Edward the doorman, whom Rat fingers always treated like crap.

“Or maybe it was you,” I said.  “You as much as told me you were tired of him and Johnny didn’t impress me as a man who gave up easily.  In this town, it might have been even somebody who had a beef, even someone I don’t know.”

“Oh, you know, alright,” she said the words with a smile and took a sip of her rye, her eyes never leaving mine.”

“You?”

She shook her head, no.  “Guess again.”

I did and then again. And then we gave up on the guessing games and the rye and decided not to talk much.

The Black Pearl didn’t close.  Mickey Mike took over ownership.  Sammy stayed at the bar because he was too big a draw to let go.  People still came in to watch him pour.  Edward became the manager and still shook my hand.  Charlene married a top-notch lawyer, which answered one of my pressing questions.

The case of who killed Rat Fingers was chalked up as a gangland hit. 

And for reasons unknown, Wanda left awfully suddenly on a train to Miami, with a one-way ticket and a smile.