Gods of Chicago: Omnibus Edition (8 page)

Chapter 13

Brand thought about running, but decided to pass on getting shot in the back. The menacing .45 in Nitti’s grip told him that was good thinking. Nitti motioned with the gun, guiding Brand through the foyer and into the shop room in back. Their path took them through bits of glass and scattered ledger sheets. In the shop room, a small furnace burned, giving off radiant heat. A stout chair was positioned facing the furnace mouth. Down to the right, the remains of a machining line sat like a rusting skeleton, draped heavy with cobwebs and blackened here and there by soot. One of Nitti’s heavies stepped up to Brand and grabbed him by the lapels, lifting him off the floor. The thug slammed Brand onto the chair in front of the furnace.

In the firelight from the furnace, Brand caught Nitti’s face looking scared, saw the gangster’s lips shake as he pulled up a chair and laid his .45 on his knee. His goons stood around them, one of them adding coal to the fire, making the air in front of Brand’s face grow hot. The heavy behind him kept his hands on Brand’s shoulders. Sitting there facing his own death, Brand wondered which of the birds around him had been responsible for Jenkins. With his heart heavy with regret and rage, Brand hoped he’d at least have a chance at getting a shot in before they put him down for keeps. Sizing up his opponents, Brand figured his chances were as close to nothing as they could get. The thug by the furnace was a thick-necked bruiser, the kind Brand had learned to give a wide berth when he passed them on the street. He’d have given anything to have that kind of space between them now. The man put on a heavy pair of gloves and hoisted a metal rod to stir the coals, eyeing Brand with a nasty grin the whole time. Sparks rose up into the air above the furnace mouth.

Nitti addressed him and Brand pulled his eyes away from the thug with the metal rod. Nitti’s mouth still shook, but Brand couldn’t be sure the tremors had fear behind them. Tension maybe. Or the remains of the rage that had passed through them moments ago.

“I have spoken with you. Now three times. In just two days. You have a deficit. Do you understand?”

Brand wanted to make a remark about Jenkins evening the score, but Nitti’s face told him to play nice if he wanted to play at all.

“Yes, Mr. Nitti,” Brand said, his own lip shaking now and threatening to rattle his jaw off his face. “I’m into you for a day, I see.”

“You are behind a day. You understand me, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Nitti. I understand. I’m behind a day. I should…”

“You should shut your yap and listen,” Nitti shot back at him. Then he looked to the goon standing behind Brand. “
Mattone. Che fai?
Our guest is cold.”

The bird pushed forward so that Brand’s face was less than a foot from the furnace mouth. Then Thick Neck stuck the metal rod into the furnace again, stirring the coals and causing a spray of sparks and ash to fill the air in front of Brand’s face. His eyes stung and watered.

“Mr. Brand. We. Mr. Capone and myself. We have been quite disturbed with your radio show. We find it lacking in certain qualities.”

Brand felt Nitti waiting for a reply so he nodded, slowly raising a hand up to wipe the tears from his eyes.

“Of course, you must know. Mr. Capone was arrested this afternoon. This leaves me in a position I had not hoped for. As it means my employer is incapacitated. And so I find myself confronted with a difficulty. You.”

Brand turned to look at Nitti and had to blink and shake his head to clear his vision. The gangster kept swimming in and out of focus, like he sat behind a film of quicksilver. Nitti’s eyes ran with threads of glimmering light that split the skin of his face. His jaw stretched, lengthening until his narrow chin formed a knife point under his thin lips. He stood up with a rapid flex of his legs and Brand jerked backwards in fright. He fought to keep from screaming as Nitti towered over him. The point of his chin lowered to Brand’s face and would stab the newsman in the eye if the mobster bent forward even an inch. In the corners of his vision, Brand saw images of Nitti’s victims. The gossamer forms of their bodies swirled in the air, trailing away like embers and sparks rising from the furnace. Brand didn’t see Jenkins, but he did see dead men from rival gangs. He saw coppers and business owners who didn’t play by The Outfit’s rules. He saw women who’d outlived their usefulness as playthings and whose children were nothing more than a burden to the man who’d sired them.

Murder and death swam around Brand’s head, sneaking into his lungs with every breath of smoke and soot he drew in. He opened his mouth to say something. He wasn’t sure what, but he felt a revulsion and rage at everything Nitti stood for and he had to get it out. As the words rose from his throat, Brand felt strong fingers pressing under his ears, forcing him up close to the furnace again. The heat stung his eyes and rivulets of tears ran down his cheeks. Brand’s heart beat a deafening cadence in his ears as he gulped down the words he’d almost spat out.

“Did you want to say something, Mr. Brand?”

“Mr. Nitti, I. . .I guess you think it’s my fault Ca—” Nitti’s fist connected with Brand’s jaw.

“You will refer to my employer with respect.”

Spitting blood from between his teeth, Brand corrected himself. “Yes, Mr. Nitti. I meant to say Mr. Capone. You think I’m the reason Mr. Capone was arrested. I’m just a newshawk, Mr. Nitti. The Governor—” Nitti gave Brand another shot across the face, putting stars in front of his eyes. The gangster cuffed Brand behind the ear and tugged his face upward. “Mr. Brand. Who do you think runs this town?”

The mobster’s question hung there like a clock ready to strike the hour. Brand wanted to turn his head away, but the heat from the furnace stung his cheeks and he didn’t dare turn back to look into that hellish future. He let his eyes drift over Nitti’s face. No knife points stuck out of the man’s cheeks or jawline. No ghosts of those he murdered swam around his head. Instead of rage or even plain old anger, Brand saw what made Nitti’s mouth shake. It was fear, plain and simple. The gangster’s eyes rounded as if terror hid somewhere nearby waiting to strike.

“I asked you a fucking question,” he said, wrenching Brand’s head and slapping him with his other hand.

“What—?” Brand said, before Nitti slapped him again and harder this time. Brand could still taste blood welling up from his lip and now had another flow coming from inside his cheek.

Nitti hit him again, just a light slap though. He grinned and asked “Who is it? Did you find out? Do you know?” The gangster’s lips curled back turning his grin into a sharp-toothed sneer. He grabbed Brand’s head in both hands and stared him point blank in the eye. “Who calls the shots in Chicago City?”

“I’m just a newshawk, Mr. Nitti. I’m a reporter. That’s all. I don’t—”

Nitti wasn’t having any of it. He slapped Brand again and then gave him a shot straight across the face that sent the stars spinning off and replaced them with an empty suffocating black. Brand’s head slumped forward. His ears filled with a ringing and his vision went blank. Bombs and artillery shells had the same effect. It just took a few seconds to shake it off, check to make sure your arms and legs were still on right and you hadn’t grown any new holes in your chest. Brand managed a weak shake of his head. His ringing ears made room for Nitti’s voice and the sound of the shop door opening. A gust of icy wind blew across the floor over Brand’s sodden shoes. He felt his toes curl by reflex and then a shiver forced its way up his legs and into the base of his spine.

Brand felt his head jerked back. His vision remained clouded, but he could see a hand moving in front of his mug and then felt a stinging cold all over his face. He smelled and tasted the ash and oil and dirt of the streets all in a wet mash that scraped his skin. A second handful of snow got shoved up his nose before he shook his head clear and had his vision back. Gasping, Brand looked up and saw Nitti smiling beside him and then reaching out to cup Brand under the ear. He gave a firm shake and dug his thumb into Brand’s neck then let go. The goon with the gloves had the metal rod in his hands again. Then the one behind him pushed Brand’s face at the furnace mouth.

“Mr. Mitchell Brand. I believe you are telling the truth. You know nothing.” Nitti’s lip had stopped shaking. His face was back to normal, feline and fierce with a set that spelled disaster for anyone who crossed him. “But I did not bring you here to discuss things. . .”

What was that, Brand thought. Nitti brought him here. What’d he mean by that?

“My problem with you is one of disrespect. When I am faced with such a problem. I am forced to provide encouragement. The offending party should not make the same mistake twice. For their benefit, I encourage them. You understand, right?”

Brand nodded slowly, thinking about Jenkins again and unable to keep his tongue this time. “Yeah. I understand you. I’m sure Ross Jenkins understood you just fine, too. You could have just told the kid to keep hush. He would’ve listened.”

Nitti’s face dropped from fear to confusion. “Who is Ross Jenkins? I do not know this person. Should I know him?”

“He was one of the kids that worked for me at the Record. Your boys here brought him by my rooms after the gala last night. I get it. You don’t want me snooping around about the hit on Valentine’s Day. So this is where I get mine now. Well?”

The gangster said a few words in Italian to his boys. They shook their heads, all of them. “Mr. Mitchell Brand, I am afraid you offend with your suspicions. None of these men are to blame for any dead children. I, on the other hand, am offended by your disrespect.” Nitti motioned at the man behind Brand and said something in Italian again. Before Brand knew what was happening, the heavy behind him reached down and lifted the newsman’s left arm, twisting it up and separating the fingers. The goon kept Brand’s arm bent behind his back, holding onto it by the wrist.

“As I was saying, Mr. Mitchell Brand. Disrespect. I believe you understand. Right?”

Brand could only nod. His eyes swam with tears and his heart beat a double time tempo.

“You are behind a day. I encouraged you once yesterday afternoon. Then again in the evening, at the gala. I had nothing to do with this boy named Jenkins, but if his death has helped you correct your thinking, then I am glad for it. Either way. I am done encouraging. You are going to stop talking about The Outfit on your radio show.”

Nitti pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and gave it to Brand.

“Write.”

“Write? Write what?”

Nitti slapped the back of Brand’s head, pushing his face closer to the maw of the furnace. “You write a fucking goodbye letter.” Nitti laughed like a rasp drawn across a chalkboard. Brand made to reach for the paper and instinctively tugged on his left arm. The bird behind him held on tight, squeezing his wrist so hard Brand yelled out.

“I’m left-handed! Goddamit!” he hollered, and then collapsed inside and began whimpering. “I’m left-handed,” he sputtered through tears. Brand let his arm hang in the thug’s grip and let his chin fall to his chest as he sobbed from the fear. Nitti was on his feet beside Brand, his hand on the newsman’s right shoulder. He was talking to the bird behind him, whispers in Italian. Brand felt his arm drop from the thug’s grip.

“You may now write the note.”

“I’m supposed to write my suicide note?”

“Suicide note?” Nitti said, his face softening. “No. No, tonight you are going to say goodbye for The Outfit. For Mr. Capone and myself. He is indisposed, I believe is what you will say. I and the gentlemen here are leaving Chicago City. You need to tell the people for us. They listen to you for news. You will give them my news. From your airship radio show. And the people who run this town will hear it, too. I am sure of it.”

Nitti told him that The Outfit was moving to where the violence of other parties would not intrude upon its legitimate business practices. Brand would also say how sad Al Capone was to hear of the Mayor’s death. Between gasps from pain in his freezing foot and the fear that he would be shoved face first into the furnace, Brand got out a report that would cover everything Nitti dictated. He handed the paper to Nitti, who read it and gave it back.

“Now. You’ll go back to your gasbag. You’ll give that little sermon. And then,
te ne stai a cuccia
,” Nitti said and shrugged, dropping his chin down to his chest with a smirk. “You be a good little dog.”

“That’s it?” Brand asked. “You’re not going to kill me?”

“No, Mr. Mitchell Brand. Somebody might kill you. But it won’t be me. Chicago City. She has always been my city. Now, somebody else will own her. I never dance with a woman who has two partners. You understand?”

“I think so, Mr. Nitti. If I get it right, somebody else called the hit yesterday morning. Not Ca—not Mr. Capone. And you’re wanting to be gone before that somebody shows up.”

“Yes, Mr. Brand. And I want that somebody to know I am gone and to believe it. That is why you are alive. Now, I see that your feet are very wet.”

Nitti motioned with his .45 and his goons grabbed Brand before he could make a move. They both gave him a shot in the gut and then a couple slaps around his face. Then Thick Neck held him tight while the other thug got Brand’s shoes and socks off and threw them into the furnace. Together they held his feet up to the furnace mouth, making him squirm as the icy wet on his skin gave way to a searing heat. It didn’t take long before the soles of Brand’s feet were raw and stretched tight from the heat. A stinging pain cut between his toes and his heels felt like they’d been dragged over crushed glass. Finally, Nitti stood up and said “Let him go.” He kept the .45 in his paw and waved it to his goons. “
Andiamo
.” The gangsters flung Brand into the chair and stepped away out of his view.

He slumped to the side, holding a hand over chest as he tried to follow his heartbeat back to some kind of safe haven, something like the shelters he found in the trenches when the shells came in waves. Pain radiated up his legs from the ravaged soles of his feet. His gut twisted with fear. He could hear the gangsters’ footsteps, but couldn’t see them.  Brand risked turning his head to the side and saw movement out the corner of his eye. The goons had shuffled off to the foyer, leaving only Brand and Nitti in the open space of the shop floor. A sudden slap across his cheek sent Brand sprawling out of the chair. His hip and shoulder slammed against the cold concrete and he felt terror rising as Nitti’s feet approached. The mobster stopped only a pace away. He was close enough to drive a toe of his fancy leather shoes into Brand’s eye.