The Cassidy Posse (31 page)

Clara Bockleman had made a fresh pot of coffee and poured a cup for each of the four men sitting at her table. Kevin O’Day protested that he must leave. The driver of the paddy wagon that had brought them from Joliet would be getting impatient.

“Kevin, you’re uh judge,” said Mike. “Let that sleepy sonavabitch wait. He needs uh nap anyways. He dozed off when we got in that traffic jam up on South Halsted.”

“Well, okay, if you insist,” said Kevin. “It’s just that he mentioned that he wanted to get back to Joliet tonight, and I still want him to drop me off on North State Street before he leaves. He has a family - a wife and two girls. I suppose if I had a family I would want to get back to them.”

“We got to toughen up yer mind if yuh want to get appointed to duh Federal bench. That driver…”

“John,” interrupted Kevin. “His name is John.”

“Okay, John probably wants tuh get back tuh the local pub tonight and snuggle up with a bottle ov hooch. He smelled like a damn brewery.”

“Mike, Judge O’Day is just being considerate,” said Clara. It had come to her attention that her husband’s partner liked to act boorish around her to get a reaction. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. She graciously moved around the table refilling any cup that needed topping off.

“Oh, no more for me, thank you, Mrs. Bockleman,” said Kevin. He stood and took his coat off the back of the chair. “These are really lovely cups. Are these Fostoria?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Clara appreciatively. “They were a wedding present.”

“I been here lots uh times, Kevin, and this is the farst I’ve seen’um,” said Mike wryly. “She’ll get’em out fer uh judge such as yourself but not a poor police Lieutenant.”

A poor police Lieutenant
, thought Henry Bockleman. He didn’t like to hear that. That would have been his next promotion. The one that was supposed to give his fledging family enough money to move out to Roger’s Park. Now that would not happen. He would be lucky to get out of this Sean Daugherty incident with a job much less with a promotion. Ever since he had pushed the inquiry about Nell Quinn’s murder and sent Mike the secretive telegram, he had noticed people working around the apartment house on jobs that really didn’t need to be done. Any detective that lives long enough learns to feel eyes upon him. Concern like this would have to come from very high places.

“Henry,” said his wife, “our guest is leaving.”

Bockleman came out of his thoughts and saw Kevin O’Day saying goodbye at the door. Rising, he walked over to the door and shook his hand.

“Where are you rushing off to?” he asked. “Clara has an apple pie she is just dying to have sampled.”

“Oh, I would like to but I have to get to North State Street before five o’clock. A former colleague of mine is now a federal judge and his office is there. I want to persuade him to take Sean into federal custody. These rascals are very bold, and it would appear they are well connected in Cook County. From what Mike has told me, it looks like they were waiting for him to cross the county line and then kill both he and Sean. Fortunately he saw through their plan and got off in Joliet to see me. If we were to leave Sean in Joliet, whoever is behind this conspiracy would have him transferred to Cook County jail, and I am afraid I would be powerless to stop it. I’m just a Will County civil judge. I told Mike this would be the safest way for poor Sean.”

So it’s poor Sean now
, thought Henry. He looked at the gentle young man that was supposed to be a killer. Why hadn’t he just gone into the wilderness and disappeared? Maybe that had been the plan. Now that he was back, there was probably little chance the powers that be were going to let him get on a witness stand and tell his mournful tale to a jury unless they could stack it without an Irishman on it. That would be a pretty obvious ploy in Chicago. He looked at Sean sitting meekly handcuffed to a kitchen chair. He was a sacrificial lamb.

“Mike, why don’t we just turn Sean over?” he said as they walked back to the table. “We’re going to be in some trouble not following procedure.”

Mike looked at him peculiarly as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Kevin told yuh. Didn’t yuh get that part? He goes into Cook County jail, he dun’t come out. There ain’t nobody knows Chicago poletics better’en me. I think they was tryin’ tuh finish him duh night he escaped. That gun that was under his pillow was empty and too convenient. They weren’t countin’ on Red Alvins being there. After they took off west, somebody got the bright idea ov sendin’ me after him so they could kill us both a thousand miles from Chicago. Just a couple unfortunates that got themselves killed in the middle ov a range war. Too bad. Case closed.”

“But you don’t know that for sure,” protested Henry.

“The hell I dun’t. That crazy Kid Del Rio told me duh whole deal as he was about tuh put a bullet in me head. Then Sean here tells me after the shooting on the train that he saw a huge guy leaving the balcony the night poor Mrs. Carver was killed. I’m thinkin’ the lad is tellin’ the truth.”

Henry sat down and saw Sean Daugherty looking at him with docile, accusing eyes like a puppy that had just been hit. He glanced up at Mike, who was still eyeing him.

“Are yuh in this with me or not, Henry?” Mike said quietly so that Clara, who was in the living room, would not hear. “I just figured you were me partner and I brought him here. If you’re worried about your career, we’d better clear out. I got tuh know who I can count on.”

“Mike, it’s just…” Bockleman struggled for the words, “you don’t know what it’s like to have a family and responsibilities. I mean you’re the famous Mike McGhan always thumbing your nose at the bosses. You get away with stuff nobody else does because you got nothing to lose. Some of us don’t have that kind of freedom.”

Mike began unlocking Sean’s handcuffs and making motions to leave.

“I’ll get out before anybody knows we was here.”

“Sit down,” Bockleman commanded. “It’s too late for that. There have been people watching this place for days. I was in this as soon as you walked in the door.”

“What are you in?” asked Clara pleasantly as she abruptly entered the kitchen. She was looking for a rag to mop up one of her son’s spills.

“I’m in a lot of trouble if I don’t help you clean up these dishes,” he said as cheerfully as he could manage. He brought the cups and saucers to the sink and made an elaborate ceremony out of donning an apron. Mike smiled appreciatively. He watched the young couple as they teased each other while going about a simple domestic chore. He had always figured when a guy got married, he had so much to worry about he not only lost his freedom, he lost his edge. When their son ran into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around his father’s knees, he began to understand Bockleman’s position. A man could get use to coming home to this. It would make him very protective.

There was a hesitant knock on the door that brought him out of his sentimental musings. Bockleman’s son still had him wrapped up, so Mike went to answer.

“It’s Kevin,” came a whisper through the door.

Mike eased the door open and Kevin O’Day slipped into the apartment.

“Thet was quick,” said Mike. “Was Clayton there?”

“Yes and it’s all set up,” he said proudly. “We take Sean to Judge Clayton’s office tomorrow, and he will be placed under federal custody.”

“What about your paddy wagon?”

“Oh, John headed for home as soon as he let me out.”

“How are we suppose tuh get him there?” asked Mike. “It’s not like we can trust anybody duh Chicago police department will send to help us.”

Kevin looked at him and smiled. “We’ll walk.”

Mike moved to one side of the fingerprint-smeared glass door that served as the entrance to Bockleman’s apartment house. As he peered out, he touched the shoulder holster where he carried his service revolver for reassurance.

“Damn fog,” he declared. “Can’t see a thing.”

Bockleman broke the barrel forward on his hinged Smith and Wesson Schofield that he brought out for special occasions and checked to see if it was fully loaded. He had picked up the big, blue-steeled .45 after the shoot out in Kelsey’s tavern. He didn’t think the slugs from his .38 had taken effect quickly enough.

“How much trouble are you expecting?” asked Kevin.

“Hopefully none,” replied Bockleman, “but if we do, I want to have some stopping power.” He jammed the large weapon into its oversized shoulder holster.

“I don’t think we’re going to make it,” said Sean.

Mike opened the door and motioned for Sean to step out on the porch.

“Have a little faith,” he said. “This is just goin’ tuh be a pleasant walk down State Street. We’ve done it many times before.”

They stepped out into the misty morning fog the lake had deposited at their doorstep overnight. The elevated stone porch would normally give a good view of the neighborhood but this morning their visibility was limited. There was a milk wagon across the street making its morning deliveries. A bakery wagon went by traveling too fast for the conditions. A few people, late for work, hustled by, squinting into the fog.

“For we can not tarry here, we must march, my darlings,” Kevin recited tensely as they descended the stairs to the street, “We must bear the brunt of danger.”

“Whitman?” guessed Henry.

“Mr. Bockleman, I am delighted you would recognize Walt Whitman.”

“Yeah, that Henry is always a delight,” said Mike as he handcuffed Sean to his left hand. Bockleman moved up to Sean’s other side and strained to see through the fog as they walked cautiously north towards the river.

“Kevin, you stay back some,” said Mike. “I want tuh make sure my genuine judge witness makes it if somethin’ was tuh happen.”

Their nerves were worn thin as they approached Harrison Street. People came at them suddenly out of the mist and they touched their gun butts each time. Poor visibility was no reason for anyone in Chicago to slow down.

“Let’s take the ‘el’,” said Bockleman.

“What?”

“The new elevated train,” said Bockleman. “The one around the loop.”

“That railroad in the sky,” said Mike. “I thought they closed that damn thing.”

“Only to change it to electric traction. They finished it while you were running around out in Wyoming. I took Clara for a ride on it last week.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be doubtin’ that fer a minute. You always got tuh be in on duh latest thing.”

“Good thing, too. It crosses nice and high right over the river. If we’re running into this many people on the street already, wait ‘til we get to State and Madison, the busiest intersection in the world.”

“The busiest intersection in duh world,” Mike scoffed as his eyes stared into the fog. “What downtown merchant come up with that bit ov blarney? Did somebody sit there all day with nothin’ better tuh do then count everybody that passed by?”

“What if we catch a bridge going up when we get to the river?” Henry continued. “Think of the crowd that will be congregating around us.”

Mike had no argument for this. In both places, they could be compressed by a mob of people. A quick knife could appear from anywhere and do its work without a soul seeing anything. You were just as alone in a crowd in Chicago as a wide-open prairie out West. There would be no witnesses.

“We’d have tuh go out ov our way,” he complained. Just because Bockleman came up with a good idea, Mike couldn’t concede it to him that easily.

“We can catch it at Dearborn. It’s one street over,” said Henry as they headed west.

Mike motioned for Kevin to catch up, and they clamored up the stairs of the elevated platform at the Dearborn Street station. When they got to the top some thirty feet above street level, there were only faint wisps of fog. Bockleman gave out a sigh of relief and treated Mike to one of his knowing “gotcha” grins. Mike uttered some profanity under his breath and began stomping around on the wood planks of the station with Sean in tow.

“This is marvelous,” said Kevin when he caught up with them at the top.

“Kevin, I said tuh stay back, not drop out ov sight.”

The smile disappeared from Kevin’s face and his shoulders slumped. It was just as it was when they were kids on Archer Avenue. He could get straight A’s in school and impress all the adults, but that mattered very little to a kid in south Chicago. Who he really wanted to impress was Mike, and that never seemed to happen. He guessed this was the price one paid for being a tag-a-long. He was only favored with Mike’s company the summer before high school because Mike wanted to impress Abigail Spencer who was working at the library. He would have Kevin read great works of literature and then tell him the main ideas so he could conduct his amorist quest of a college girl six years older than him. Mike was never one to see his limitations.

Their relationship did not change through high school. Mike would have flunked out or quit like most kids on the Southside if it had not been for Kevin’s constant concern. He had actually interceded on Mike’s behalf with Father Cahill so that he passed English. He promised the good father Mike would do the work and then, of course, he did the work for him. There had been little thanks forthcoming, but Mike always showed up at his house everyday to walk to school. It was reward enough, he supposed, that none of the other toughs that fell in step with Mike McGhan as he walked down Archer had the nerve to pick on him anymore. The only one that was allowed to criticize him was Mike himself. They were vulgar, course and profane and for some reason that he still did not understand, he enjoyed every minute of their company. Such were the priorities of youth.