Back in Glasgow, the
atmosphere at the station was just as tense as ever. Ed and Bob sat at their table, suddenly
finding their favorite card games almost impossible. The station agent and dispatcher remained at
their desks, staring down at their surfaces.
Steve was totaling up some figures from the ticket sales that month;
Howard was grinding a pencil into the polished mahogany surface of his desk. The last time he’d done that had been the
time his baby girl caught pneumonia. It
hadn’t been fatal, but it might’ve been.
As for Marilyn?
She was sitting in the
middle of the double-sided bench. Her
spot was nearly in the center of the room—a pretty uncomfortable place to be
when armed gangsters have taken over, but there was no better alternative. To lean against a wall would have required
too much motion. Instead, Marilyn tried
to remain as still as possible.
She felt like squirming,
though. One of the gangsters sat at the
south end of the bench; another sat at the north end. A third had a table pulled up to Ed and Bob’s
table—he carried two pistols, trained on both of them. A fourth stood right next to the dispatcher,
and a fifth leaned calmly against the wall to the right of the station agent,
shucking sunflower seeds with his teeth and staring straight at the door to the
parking lot.
None of these paid much
attention to the girl. It was Kane that
made her feel uncomfortable. He paced
restlessly around the bench, pausing now and then to fix his eyes right on
Marilyn. Usually, at these moments, he’d
snicker a bit. Watching the girl wait
for her father to die didn’t bother him in the least…if anything, it only
served to make him happier.
After about ten minutes
of silence, he paused once again and winked at the girl. “You ain’t scared, are you?”
Marilyn stared at the
floor.
“Well, you don’t have a
thing to worry about. These boys are
ruthlessly efficient. We pulled our
first job in Chicago back in ’48. Bank robbery
on the North Side. One of the most
brilliant plans I’ve ever seen.
“It was the day the
armored car came to pick up the money, and security was tighter than a
drum. Six armed guards waited outside
the bank, all with machine guns. You
couldn’t so much have touched the guys in the car as they pulled up to pick up
the money.”
Kane laughed. “Wasn’t a problem, though. We were in a beat-up old Nash just up the
street. As a getaway car, it’d have been
useless. The police didn’t bat an
eyelash at it. Maybe they would’ve if they’d
seen us pull on our gas masks, but by then, it was too late.
“We lobbed ten canisters
into the midst of the crowd. It knocked
out the couriers, the guards, and some members of the crowd—we weren’t really
particular about them. I think the Tribune gave us credit for twelve deaths
the next day—not bad for a first-time job!
The gas threw up quite a cloud, and no one saw us drive off with the
armored car.
“They sent the cops after
us, but it was too late for that. We had
their beats down—knew just when and where they’d be—and we stuck to two streets
that wouldn’t get patrolled again for another three minutes. Pulled into an abandoned repair shop,
transferred the money to an ice cream truck, and puttered calmly back to
headquarters—selling three cones on the way!
No, they weren’t poisoned. That
would’ve been funny, but it’d have put the police on our trail.”
Kane continued pacing the
room.
“We didn’t stick with
bank robberies, though. Eventually, we
moved into something perfectly suited for a gang district. The protection racket. Only, we improved on the concept. Most gangs hound small store owners, people
that don’t have much money, extracting tiny sums in a business that needs a lot
of collectors. Not us! We focused on something a little more exclusive! Dentists!”
Bob dropped his
pipe. “Beg pardon,” he said. “I could’ve sworn you said dentists—”
“There’s nothing wrong
with your hearing, Santa Claus!” Kane smirked at the old man. “I said dentists. There’s a lot of fights in Chicago. A lot of fights lead to a lot of tooth
problems, and a lot of tooth problems lead to a lot of dentists! You’d never guess how many there were, unless
you went looking for them.
“In fact, that’s exactly
what we did. We made appointments, had
our teeth examined, then gave them the diagnosis. Pay up, or shut up—for good. And we didn’t sully our hands with any of
that kid’s stuff most mobs do—drive-bys, firebombs, that sort of thing. No, we were artistic with our stings!”
“One of the dentists who
was reluctant to pay was rather old.
He’d just had back surgery, and the pain had been getting to him. When he was found dead in his office, entire
bottle of acid consumed, the cops called it suicide. Who were we to argue with the police?
“There was another
one…Snodgrass was his name. Nearsighted
fellow. Glasses an inch thick—we
measured after he died—and he couldn’t see more than twice that distance
without them. He didn’t notice, one day
when he was stepping into the elevator shaft, that the car hadn’t come up to get
him. Might’ve died instantly, if his
practice hadn’t been on the twentieth floor!
“After that, we didn’t
really have trouble with dentists.
Collecting from them didn’t take much time, so we started something else
profitable. Drugstore holdups! Between the pillboxes and the matchboxes,
there’s quite a bit of that green stuff.
Here, we were extremely ingenious with our plans. Whenever we stuck up a store, we only sent
one man to do the job. Each time, it was
a different one, and each time, he stuck up the store a different way. That way, the police wouldn’t be able to
establish a suspect, or an M.O. Instead
of looking for a gang, they’re looking for six different holdup men—most of
whom were either masked or disguised. Most of whom. They won’t trust the few descriptions from
the times we weren’t masked.
“We plan our actions, we
execute perfectly, and we don’t leave any clues behind. Most importantly, we stay in our own
territory. It’s not because that’s what
we’re supposed to do—it’s because you stay out of trouble in your own
territory. Other gangs generally leave
you alone in your own territory, because they know you’ll retaliate. They know that because if you cut into
theirs, they’ll retaliate against you.
We stay off their turf, they stay off our turf—everybody’s happy. It’s most effective for our organization.”
Neil frowned. “If that’s the case, then why do you want to
kill Malone?”
“Because that alley cat
don’t play by the rules!” Unchecked fury
came over Kane’s face. “Just because the
West Street Gang’s Chicago’s toughest doesn’t mean they can go play around
wherever they want. We respect them—we
stay out of their space—and what do we get for that? Two banks held up in our territory! A protection racket—on our drugstores! They always collect just before we hold ‘em
up! They even shot one of our dentists!”
“I don’t see what you
have to complain about,” the dispatcher murmured. “Gangsters don’t exactly follow rules.”
Kane fixed him with a
withering glare. “We DO have our own
set, wise guy. Contrary to what you
might think, a gang’s not entirely without honor.”
You
could’ve fooled me! Marilyn thought, but she kept it to
herself.
Brrring! Brrring!
Everyone jumped at the
unexpected noise. The telephone sat on
the dispatcher’s desk, right next to the radio he usually used to keep track of
the different trains on the line. He
stared at the phone, as if the object was something from another world.
Brrring! Brrring!
Wise turned to Kane. “What do I do?” he asked.
“What do you think?” Kane
hissed. “Answer it, you fool! Say exactly what you normally would, and no
word about us, or I’ll kill that girl faster than you can say Missoula…”
Wise picked up the
phone. “Hello?”
“Howard!”
Wise cringed at the
familiar voice. “How are you, Jim?” he
asked.
Marilyn stiffened.
“Couldn’t be better!” Mr.
Dawson said over his end of the conversation.
“This is one of those nights you just never want to end. We’re making great time, Howard. Just stopped off for water in Saco—Dick’s
handling that. [Dick Harlan was the
fireman with the crew.] Anything coming
that we’ll have to pull over for, or can we just make a straight run into
Glasgow?”
It was the toughest
moment of Howard Wise’s life. He’d known
Jim Dawson for over fifteen years.
They’d worked together, shared many a laugh, even gone hunting and
fishing on occasion. Wise ranked Dawson
as one of the finest men he’d ever met.
He couldn’t just give him the all clear!
But if he didn’t, Kane
would shoot Marilyn. Wise had to think
of something, and fast!
No doubt, Dick Powell
would have quipped his way out of this.
Humphrey Bogart would’ve taken all the guns away somehow. John Wayne—well, you don’t really think
anyone could put one over on the Duke, do you?
But Wise wasn’t a Hollywood star.
He was Howard Wise, dispatcher.
When it came to telling trains where to go, Wise was a master at
following the rules and helping the Great Northern move like clockwork. He wasn’t good at coming up with something at
the spur of the moment. There was nothing
he could do!
“Nothing’s on the line,
Jim. The Empire Builder’s very late.
You’ll beat it by an hour, at least.”
“That’s all I wanted to
know, Howard.” Something died within Wise
as he heard those words. “Thanks for the
information. Oh, by the way, is Marilyn
there?”
Brown snuck a glance at
the bench. Kane had his gun pointed
straight at Marilyn’s head.
“No.”
“Oh. Well, if she shows up, tell her Daddy will be
home soon.” In the background, Wise
heard a shout. “They’re done with the
water. I’ve got to go. See you soon, Howard!”
“See you soon, Jim!” Wise slowly took the receiver away from his
ear and placed it back on the telephone.
Then, he suddenly buried
his head in his hands, like he was about to cry.
“Ha, ha, ha! Very good, dispatcher!” Kane twirled the machine gun in the air,
catching it in his left hand on the way down.
“You deserve an Academy Award for that little performance right there. He’ll never know what—”
A bright light suddenly
shone on the station agent, and thin-lined shadows moved slowly over the
wall. Headlights! A car was pulling up to the station!
Kane’s face was bathed in
white light as the smile left his face.
He tossed his gun to the other cohort with a machine gun, sticking his
right hand into a bulging pocket.
“Hide those!” he
hissed. “Keep the door covered. If that’s the police…”
The door swung open.
