A historical crime novel
This story is reconstructed based on FBI records.
The stranger had one hand on my door when Paul told me to drive. Blood darkened his shirt below the shoulder. Behind him, a delivery truck stood crooked against a brick wall, its front wheel folded underneath. I could not tell whether somebody had struck him or the collision had done it. This was Cicero in 1925, and a man who waited for explanations sometimes found himself included in the trouble. I put my foot on the clutch. The stranger’s hand slipped.
“Leave him, Nico,” Paul said. “We have a pickup.” He reached across me for the door handle, but I caught his wrist. The stranger fell against the running board hard enough to shake the car. Across the street, two men came out of a passage and stopped beside the wreck. Neither hurried toward him. I opened the door against Paul’s arm. “Then help me lift.” Paul stared at me as though I had asked him to climb into a furnace.
I stepped down into broken glass. The stranger tried to rise and caught my coat instead. He was younger than I had thought, with a narrow face gone the color of dishwater. “Leo,” he said, whether introducing himself or asking me to find somebody, I did not know. I got under his good arm and dragged him across the running board. His heels knocked the curb. Paul finally caught his belt and hauled while I pushed. We laid him sideways across the back seat.
One of the men beside the truck called after us. I heard a name, not a sentence. Paul shut the rear door and climbed in beside me. “You know whose fellow that is?” “No.” “That ought to trouble you.” I drove before he could open the door again. In the mirror, Leo pressed my folded shop rag against his shoulder. Every rut brought a sound from him that he tried to swallow. I turned away from our assigned corner.
The doctor I knew worked above a drugstore and disliked men who arrived without appointments. I had carried his coal upstairs once, which was not friendship but gave me a door to knock on. Paul stayed below while I helped Leo up the narrow stairs. Halfway, his knees failed. I braced him against the wall, felt warm blood reach my cuff, and waited until he could stand. “Don’t leave me here,” he whispered. “First let’s get you through the door.”
The doctor made me hold a basin and then sent me outside. I washed my hands at a tap behind the store. Paul was leaning against the car, studying the stained back seat. The pickup was already lost; we both knew it. Men in Capone’s employ were expected to arrive when wanted, not bring explanations afterward. Since Torrio had yielded control following his wounding, Capone’s standing had grown, and his business reached well into Cicero. My place in it was smaller: I drove, waited, escorted, and tried not to make my passengers wait for me.
“You can explain this yourself,” Paul said. I nodded, which disappointed him more than an argument. We returned to the appointed corner anyway. A shutter was down where a light should have been. Nobody waited. Paul kicked a flattened cigarette package into the gutter, then told me to take him to Frank Bell’s garage. I wanted to return upstairs to Leo. Instead, I started the engine. I had saved a man, but I still needed my wages.
Frank stood inside his garage beneath a hanging lamp. Our missed passenger had found another ride, he said, and would remember needing it. Then Paul asked about the wrecked truck. Frank pointed toward the rear bay, where I recognized its bent front wheel. Someone had brought it in while I was carrying Leo upstairs. “Belongs to Bruno Ressa’s boys,” Paul told me. “Your passenger runs with them.” Frank wiped his hands slowly. “And somebody owes for what happened.”
I asked who had been driving. Frank looked at Paul; Paul looked at me. Neither answered. That exchange troubled me more than the demand. Paul stepped close enough that Frank could pretend not to hear. “You picked him up. You settle their claim. I’m not carrying it for you.” I could have refused. Instead, I asked Frank to keep the truck untouched until I brought Leo to identify it. Frank gave me until the following afternoon. It was not permission to take it.
At the doctor’s door, I found Leo sitting upright, his coat laid over his knees. I told him where the truck was and that I would bring him there when he could walk. His good hand closed around my sleeve. “Did you save me just to deliver me back?”