The Beer Wars

My name is Mark Wallace, and I am not a son parents should be proud of. I began stealing hubcaps at age fourteen and advanced to armed robbery. I am serving thirty years to life for a botched jewelry store robbery where the owner died. Then I was introduced to Dr. Marsh, who was looking for a human subject with nothing to lose, for his time machine. He arranged with the warden to take several years off my sentence if I agreed. Here was his proposal.

To test our machine, we have chosen Chicago during the 1920s, a relatively recent era that should not involve you in any risky situations. You’ll receive sufficient funds to stay in a pleasant hotel and experience the sights and sounds of Chicago during that thrilling period.

It didn’t take long for me to rationalize that going on a paid trip to Chicago was a far more appealing choice than remaining in my prison cell. “Doctor Marsh, when do I start?”

They outfitted me in the clothes worn in Chicago in the 1920s and provided me with a suitcase containing a change of clothes and one thousand dollars in cash. I looked like a gangster from the movie ‘The Untouchables’. They would recover me at 11:45 on Sunday morning if all goes as planned. The door closed, the switch flipped, and off I went to Chicago.

Western Avenue in Chicago was a busy place to be standing with a suitcase. The first thing I had to do was find a place to stay. A black four-door sedan pulled up beside me, and the man in the front seat told me to climb in the back. Being a car enthusiast, I admired the car. Looked like a Cady or Packard. Hard to say. A lot more impressive than the Model T Fords that blanketed the road. I got in, and the man next to me offered his hand, saying he was Albert Anselmi. The man in the passenger seat leaned over and shook my hand.

“My name is John Scalise, and the driver is Mike Genna. Sal, we welcome you to the outfit. Hymie Weiss sent us to pick you up, but we did a minor job on our way. I hope we are not late?”

I was confused and didn’t know how to respond. We were speeding up Western Avenue when I spotted a police car pursuing us. Anselmi scribbled a number for me to call if we became separated. At the intersection of 60th Street, we came to a screeching halt. The gangsters jumped out, and a gun battle ensued. Bullets flew everywhere, and I ducked behind the front fender.

Mike sustained a leg injury and couldn’t flee with Albert and John. The gunfire ceased after several cops were wounded or killed. I helped Mike, and he hobbled to a store less than a block away. He told me to leave him and make my way to Hymie. I ran down 80th Street to a drugstore on the corner of Artesian Ave. I called the number Anselmi had given me. A rough voice answered, “This is Frank. What do you want?”

“Albert Anselmi gave me this number and told me to reach out to Hymie in case of any problems.”

“What happened that you need to talk with Hymie?”

I told him what had happened, and that they had picked me up downtown shortly prior to that.

“Are there booths at the drugstore?”

I told him there were booths, and I would wait until someone came to pick me up.

I ordered a root-beer float and waited. Could not remember the last time I had one of those. It seemed close to an hour before a black sedan pulled up in front of the drugstore. A tall, muscular man entered the store. He saw me sitting in the back of the room and motioned for me to follow him. I didn’t know where this was going, but it seemed rather exciting after being locked in a 5x8 cell. We rode in silence for several miles before he spoke.

“My name is Peter Gusenburg. You spoke to my brother, Frank. I don’t believe we got your name?”

I thought for a moment. “Just call me Sal.”

“Teddy Chirchirillo said you had done an excellent job for him in New Orleans last year. I understand they still haven’t found the body. Did you meet with Teddy or his brother?”

“I don’t work that way. All contacts are placed through the person I work for. No names other than the victims are ever mentioned. Teddy didn’t want to meet with me because he is having problems with the police. Gators are hungry in the New Orleans swamps, and there are thousands of them. Bodies disappear down there all the time.” I thought that sounded pretty good on the spur of the moment.

Earl “Hymie” Weiss sat at the bar of his club when we entered. He picked up his beer and moved to a table, inviting me to sit down. At first glance, Hymie did not seem like a gangland killer and boss. Around my age and a small man, five foot seven and a hundred and fifty pounds. A certain wild intensity in him, cold and sharp, sent a chill down my spine. I did not want to cross this man.

“You may wonder why we sent for an out-of-town hit man, since the Northside Gang has a membership of close to one hundred. It is only a close-knit group of five or six that I trust to carry out a sensitive hit. We have been getting bad press from a newspaper writer, which has irritated me to no end. I need him shut down with no connection to us. You do the job and take the next bus out of town. I don’t want his body to show up for at least a couple of weeks. He will be missed right away.”

It will be difficult to put one over on this man with the hard, cold eyes. “Can you provide me with some information about this man? Where he lives, his daily routine and possible bodyguards. Both a car and a handgun will be necessary for me. I will need some time tomorrow to purchase a few items that I need. I can take him down tomorrow evening as he returns from work. Dispose of the body on Saturday and leave town no later than noon on Sunday.”

“Why not do it all on Saturday?” Peter asked.

“I could, provided he works on Saturday or if you have some other routine he follows on the weekend. I don’t want to get involved with a wife and kids. That can be messy.”

Peter’s brother Frank, along with a fellow they addressed as Bugs, joined the group. Bugs was a good-looking man about the same age as all the rest of us. He had a solid, well-built physique, along with a charming smile and a distinctive cleft in his chin, which he displayed when he introduced himself to me.

“He is correct,” Bugs said. “Our man who has been doing surveillance says Randy takes his kids to the park or boating every Saturday. On Sundays, they all attend church. Friday evening is our best chance to nab him.”

Hymie took the floor again, leaving no doubt who’s in charge. “Frank, get a list of what he needs and take him to the Allerton. Did your man in New Orleans tell you how much the contract’s for?”

“He said he worked that out with you. I owe him twenty percent.”

Hymie pulled an envelope from his jacket. “Here is fifty percent. You get the rest when the job is done.” He got up and hurried out of the room. The others watched him leave. “It’s not you, frank said. He has severe migraines.”

Frank seemed a congenial fellow. On the ride to the hotel, I learned about his family. He and his brother grew up in Chicago, the children of German immigrants. The boys started with petty crime and grew to be enforcers for the North Side Gang during Prohibition. He boasted that next to Hymie, he was the most feared hitman in the gang. Frank read over my list and laughed. “Is this all?”

The brand-new Allerton Hotel presented a magnificent sight. On the 700 block of North Michigan Avenue, the twenty-five story Italian Renaissance structure appeared impressive. I checked into a room on the fifth floor, showered, changed clothes, and went to the dining room. I checked the envelope and found five thousand dollars in large bills. Ten thousand for killing a newspaper columnist is not a paltry sum.

I stated before that I had been in jail for what seemed like forever. The booze and gals seemed everywhere, and I behaved like a boy in a candy store. I can’t remember her name or what she looked like, but we had a great time. She left before I woke. It had been a long day.

Frank appeared right on time, and we waited just down from the bus stop. Ragland Winston Smyth worked for the Highland Park Press as a photographer and editorialist. The winner of the Silver Star in World War One for bravery made him a natural to fight Chicago crime. The criminal forces in Chicago were just as lethal as German soldiers, only more selective. It’s my job to silence his typewriter. Reggy limped as he stepped off the bus. A war wound? I exited the car, and Frank drove away. I stopped in front of Reggy, my pistol in hand. “Reggy, my friend, please come with me. I don’t wish to leave your children without a father.”

He studied me for a few seconds and probably smelled my hangover.

The two of us strolled to the T-Model Ford, which had been generously provided for me by Hymie’s associates. “You drive. I’ll tell you where to go.” I omitted the fact that I did not know how to operate a Model T. I directed him to Touhy Avenue and parked the car close to Lake Michigan. We walked to the beach, where a man stood holding a small outboard boat. I gave him two hundred dollars and the car keys. He nodded and left. Reggie had second thoughts about getting into the boat. “I won't shoot you and throw your ass overboard. I will explain later. It’s getting late, and I’m hungry. Can you take us to Evanston Beach in this thing?”

“Yes, but dinner will be cold.”

A sense of humor just before you might acquire a bullet hole in your head. That’s a good one, Reggie. “Let’s go then.” As we traveled, I cut several sections of the rope and left them in the boat. The rest I threw overboard.

The sun had set when we arrived at the beach just over the Chicago line. We got out of the boat and left it adrift.

“Aren’t you going to tie it up? No telling where it will float.”

“That’s the point, Reggie. Come on, let’s get some food.” We found a pizza place on Forest Avenue. I explained why we were here as we drank beer and ate some good Chicago pizza.

“You mean to tell me you’re a hired hitman from the North Side Gang, here to assassinate me? Why not complete the job? Is it because of my kids? You don’t seem like a family man to me.”

“The reason is of no importance. I will be gone from your world on Sunday. As soon as Hymie realizes he’s been duped, they may send other hit men like the Gusenberg brothers. Believe me, both of us will be in danger. I have a room at a nearby hotel where we will spend the night. I suggest refraining from targeting the gangsters in your newspaper. Either that or leave town with your family. Think about it tonight. Check with your family in the morning and make your decision.”

I awoke in the morning to find Reggie had skipped out on me. I checked my watch. In four hours and I would be back in my coy cell, provided I lived that long. I stepped outside into the bright morning sun. A newsstand with the Highland Park Press headlines stood right in front of me. HIGHLAND PARK NEWSMAN KIDNAPPED. ESCAPES BEFORE HE CAN BE ASSASSINATED. I bought a copy and returned inside to read the article. The crazy bastard must have gone back and written the article as soon as I went to sleep. Jesus. If Hymie and the boys read this, my life won’t be worth a plugged nickel. I returned to the room and grabbed what belongings I had, crammed them into my suitcase, and headed for a bus stop. The pistol I jammed in my belt. Might come in handy. I took the Foster Avenue bus and got off at Sheridan Road. In front of me, a large cemetery filled the area. What better place to hide for three hours?

Lady luck’s against me again. Someone important must have died, and the place swarmed with mourners and cops. Skipping the cemetery, I crossed over some railroad tracks and started walking down Ridge Avenue when bad luck struck again. Hymie must have had an all-points bulletin out for me. A black sedan screeched to a halt, and three men poured from the car, pointing in my direction. Not in my best interest to see what they wanted, and I took off at a dead run for some apartment buildings across the street. I dropped my suitcase and ran up a flight of stairs, down the hall, back to the first floor and out the rear door into a narrow alley. I had almost reached the end of the alley when I came face to face with one of Hymie’s men. He stared open mouth before I raised my pistol and I shot him twice in the chest, ending any thoughts he had of glory. Still two hours and twenty minutes to go. Could things get any worse? Actually, they could. I began running down Ridge Avenue when I saw a large church. Ascension St. Francis, the sign read. The door was unlocked, so I ran inside. A young fellow in a black robe was cleaning the floor between the pews.

“May I help you?” he said in a calm voice.

“There are some gang members hot on my heels, who have every intention of killing me. Is there someplace I could hide for a few minutes?”

The young man motioned for me to follow him to a back room. He unlocked the door, and I stepped inside. The door locked behind me. Five minutes later, a commotion began outside the room. Angry voices ordered the young man to unlock the door. He persuaded them that only Father Cramer had the key. I could hear them cursing as they left the church. It was dark and stuffy in the room. I tried the door, but it remained locked. Fifteen minutes later, I heard the lock turn, and the door opened. Two burly men in blue confronted me with grim determination. I handed them the pistol, and they cuffed my arms behind my back. We remained silent during the ride to the station.

The 42ed precinct on the corner of Addison and Halsted is a fine-looking structure in the Classical Revival style of architecture. Inside, they took me to a holding cell without going through the booking process. Jails and processing procedures are my specialty. They removed the cuffs and took my watch. I glanced at it as they slid it off. Forty-seven minutes to go. An older man, who introduced himself as Detective Ferrel, entered and sat opposite me at the small table. He asked whether I would like something to drink. I said, a beer, and he laughed. Maybe these guys weren’t so bad after all.

“Are you the hit man from New Orleans that kidnapped and threatened to kill the newspaper guy?”

I gave him my very convincing expression of puzzlement. “I’m afraid I don’t have the slightest idea what you are talking about. That was not the answer he wanted.”

Ferrel’s pleasant look vanished. “Ryan, get your ass in here.”

Ryan had to be a twin of Arnold Schwarzenegger. He wasted no time in expressing his feelings toward wiseasses. My feet became airborne as he forcefully pressed me against the wall.

“Perhaps you did not understand the question from Detective Ferrel?”

I become furious. Fortunately for Arnie, my feet still swung in thin air or I would have taught him a thing or two. I noticed he held me with only one arm. Not a good sign. “Alright,” I said, “put me down, and let’s have a civilized conversation.” For the next ten minutes, I gave them a line about how the Governor sent me to save Reggie’s life. I considered it a fine tale, given the limited time I had to think about it. It didn’t go over as well as it thought it would.

Arnie picked me up again and threw me against the wall with such force I thought I might die right there from asphyxiation. They both left the room, not bothering to close the door. On the way out, I overheard Detective Ferrel tell my friend Arnie to take me on a one-way ride. Standing in the corner, I hoped it would take a while before Arnie would come to take me out. Wrong again. Arnie returned, grabbed by the neck and marched me down the hall and outside to lock me in the paddy wagon. It was a remarkably short ride before we stopped and Arnie unlocked the door. He stood with his mouth open, looking at the empty space. The return trip to Dr. March was quite smooth.