Gods of Chicago: Omnibus Edition (15 page)

Chapter 25

Tuesday morning, Brand struggled to leave his rooms. The door opened just fine. The hallway was where he’d left it the night before, and the only fog in his head was from too much sleep instead of too much booze. Even his feet felt better this morning. But his heart sank and his insides twisted when he thought about where he was headed. The ache in his gut grew worse with every step down the sidewalk to the Record offices.

He still refused to think of the building as anything but the Daily Record. Brand told himself the minute he called it the ministry of anything that would be the last time he breathed Chicago City air. Until then, he’d go on sucking it in and blowing it out with the rest of the saps under the thumb of the Governor’s
new leadership
. But that didn’t mean he had to follow the rules like a schoolboy. Like he had yesterday, and owing to a stop for a new pouch of tobacco, Brand got to the building a little later than expected.

Crane was going in when Brand reached the corner, so he hung back until the G-man was well inside. It wouldn’t help having another ass chewing for breakfast, and especially when it would be his ass on the platter. Brand shot a quick glance at the mooring deck on the side of the building. The Vigilance was still gone and her absence made his guts sink even lower and twist even harder together. The newsboys’ airbikes hung off the trapeze, but Crane would probably have them towed out to scrap soon enough.

Brand went up the steps to the building and flashed his press badge at the soldier by the door. The other soldier dropped the barrel of his rifle across Brand’s path and demanded a photo identification card. Brand dug it out of his wallet and held it up by his face. The soldiers nodded at Brand and stepped aside for him to enter. He went straight up the stairs to his office and plunked himself at his desk, wondering how long he had before Crane stepped in and gave him both barrels before telling him to beat it.

It was nearly eleven o’clock before the Minister of Hokum Peddling poked his head in. Brand’s sour gut hadn’t improved, and before he could think twice, he felt himself giving Crane a bent eye. “Yeah?” The G-man’s face went dark, and Brand came up out of his shoes. “I mean, hello, Minister Crane. What can I do for you?” He stood and rested his fingertips on the edge of his desk.

“Briefing, Brand. I’m only coming to tell you special because we haven’t outfitted your office with a receiving unit yet.”

“What’s wrong with the intercom I’ve got?” Brand asked, nodding to the box on the wall next to his desk. He wondered if this
briefing
wouldn’t turn out to be his dismissal.

“Old equipment,” the G-man said, waving a hand at the intercom. “Come up to the newsroom now. We’ve received some disturbing information to process and distribute.”

So maybe he wasn’t being put off the job today. But
process
and
distribute
? Not exactly words Brand associated with the news. Of course, he didn’t think of the news as
information
either. You had
truth
and
lies
,
facts
and
embellishments
. If you called something
information
, you might as well call it hooey. It certainly wouldn’t get people tuning into Brand’s radio broadcasts if he started off saying he had
information
to share.

All of these thoughts danced and argued in Brand’s head as he followed Crane up the hall to the lift. They rode in silence to the sixth floor newsroom and when they emerged Brand almost threw up at the sight. On every wall a poster had been hung proclaiming
The Dictates of Journalistic Etiquette
. Suttleby came up to greet his boss as Brand and Crane stepped off the lift. “I just finished getting the posters up, Minister Crane.”

While Crane and Suttleby flapped their jaws, Brand took in the first few lines of text on the poster Suttleby clutched with his sausage fingers. Brand hadn’t paid much attention to the page Suttleby’d handed him yesterday, but he’d seen enough to know that journalism, as Brand knew it, wasn’t a concern of the new Minister for Public Information. What he read on the poster now confirmed that thought and then some.

All information is of prime importance.

The Ministry for Public Information is charged with filtering that information which can be detrimental to the public good.

The Ministry for Public Information is likewise charged with ensuring the efficient and accurate communication of that information which can be most beneficial to the public good.

Brand stopped reading at that point. He’d seen and heard enough. But what could he do about it? Crane called to the gathered newsies, many of whom were new faces for Brand. They all had the same crew cut and dark grey suits, making Brand think they must have been sent special by the Governor’s office.

“All right, everyone,” Crane said, calling the briefing to order. Brand noticed every face but his had already turned in Crane’s direction. “Brand, that means you, too,” Crane added.

“Oh, yes, Minister. Just acquainting myself with the new faces around here. I see I’m in good company, just not company I’m familiar with.”

“Yes,” Crane said, “and there’ll be time for introductions after the briefing. Now,” he continued, turning to address the room. “We have two reports that need distribution, and I want them handled by Brand here and. . .” Crane paused, scanning the room. “Franks. Let’s have you take this one. Some tramps found dead by the riverside. Seems they froze to death last night,” Crane finished flicking a quick glance in Brand’s direction. Brand kept his face stony and focused his eyes on a poster above a desk against the far wall. He swallowed the bile that rose when he remembered it had been his first desk as a cub reporter at the Record.

Crane held out a sheet of paper with the now ubiquitous symbol of authority stamped at the top of it. One of the nondescript newsies strode up with a marching purposeful step, accepted the page, and returned to where he’d been standing.

“Brand,” Crane said, holding a second page in Brand’s direction but still looking out at the room. Brand stepped a few paces up, took the page and stayed put, reading the print while Crane went on about following
The Dictates
and
confirming all redactions, amendments, and clarifications
through him prior to broadcast.

Brand’s hands shook as he read. A young man, aged nineteen, had been killed last night in an alley in the Old Town neighborhood. The young man’s mutilated body was found by his mother, Lila Gordon, when she stopped by a butcher’s shop in the morning. The page of notes included strikethroughs and annotations, and one line of blacked out text. Brand mustered the last of his restraint and fought down his gorge for the second time that morning.

“Hey, Crane,” he said, moving to stand only inches from the G-man’s left side. Crane rotated on his heel and brought his gaze around to Brand like a cannon.

“As I’ve already instructed you once, Brand, my full title is Minister of Public Information, and you will address me as Minister Crane, Minister, or Sir. Any of those will do. Anything else may result in your being sequestered.”

Brand stood back, stunned at the vehemence of Crane’s protest. He was going to challenge the G-man on the changes in the report, but decided to err on the side of leaving the building a free man. At least for now.

“Right. Minister Crane. I wanted to ask about the omissions in this page of notes here. Am I right in assuming I’m to broadcast a report based on what isn’t struck through or blacked out? Because that doesn’t seem like much. And these notes here on the margin. Looks like the news about a guy getting torn to pieces is being changed into a tale of a drunk woman seeing pink elephants.”

“That’s correct, Brand. I don’t see what the problem is.” Crane said as he bent his face into a devil’s grin.

Brand felt he’d earned a turn at vehemence, but he held it in. He’d had enough and wasn’t going to risk his only chance at a sucker punch. Probably the only chance he’d ever get. If the page he held was the news from here on out, then Brand was about to give his last broadcast as a newsman in Chicago City. At least he’d be the one who made the call.

“Sure thing, Minister Crane. Just wanted to clarify. Like you said just now. I’ll take this down to the broadcast booth then?”

“That’s right, Brand. And then come up to my office. We need to discuss your role here now that we have a full compliment of staff. You won’t be on the microphone as often as before, but the people still expect to hear your voice. We’ll have to find a suitable place for you. Carry on.”

Brand lifted a limp hand in mock salute and stepped into the lift, not bothering to see if Crane returned the gesture or had noticed it at all.

Chapter 26

Emma sat still while Eddie reached across the dark wood of the table, resting his hands on hers. Candlelight reflected around their clasped hands, like a halo within the table’s surface. Emma let her eyes dance across the table, following the movement of the candle flames and gas lamps that flickered like a scattering of stars over water. She followed the light out around the room. It glowed in the wood panels that covered every wall, ringing the space in a thin golden band that resisted the darkness. Emma felt her shoulders twitch each time a candle flame wavered, as if the candle going out might let the surrounding darkness get that much closer, making the threat of it consuming her that much greater.

“Where do we go, Eddie? We can’t stay here waiting for that old gypsy to come back. Who knows when he’ll get here? The coppers—”

“The coppers are after us, Lovebird. They’re gonna be after us just the same, whether we’re down in this speak or up on the street. My money’s on us being safer underground so long as it’s daylight up top. We got a few hours until the curfew. Then we can see. Besides, you heard the man. Nagy gonna put me to work, like he said. Probably have me help him cut shoe leather like last time.”

“I thought you played down here in the speak,” Emma said, confusion wrinkling her brow.

“I do. But other times, like when it’s daylight and Eddie Collins needs some spending money to buy something nice for his girl. Times like that, I come down and help around the place, maybe do a little work for Nagy’s friends and neighbors.”

Emma felt her thinking about Eddie shift as he spoke. He’d always been her jazz man, the horn player she’d fallen in love with. But she’d never asked him what he did during the day, or if he even had work other than playing gigs at speaks around the city.

“What kind of work, Eddie? What have you been doing?” Emma asked. Eddie’s face twisted up in a defensive sneer and his eyes bent with hurt, so Emma tried again. “I mean, you said you did these things for me, so you could be good to me. But I don’t need you to do anything but be the man I love. Eddie and his band and his horn. Eddie at night, with his arms around me. Eddie who doesn’t need me to be a little rich girl like all the other rich girls. I just want to know what you’ve gone through. And to tell you that if you did it for me, and if it was tough on you, that you don’t need to do that anymore.”

Eddie’s face softened while she spoke, and he stretched both arms across the table to clasp his hands over her shoulders. They leaned together and kissed and Emma felt her sorrow and worry dissipate in the heat from her lover’s lips. Eddie leaned back and Emma wanted to pour herself across the table to follow him. Their eyes met and she knew her worry had been for nothing. Whatever work he’d done it hadn’t been that bad. Nothing like the dirty and dangerous work in the stockyards, railyards, or factory lines where most of Eddie’s neighbors made their pay.

Emma smiled at her lover and opened her mouth to speak when a shuffle of footsteps overhead broke in on their quiet tenderness.

“Guess old Nagy came back, hey?” Eddie said, shifting his chair back so he could stand. He froze in a half crouch with his hands on the table when gruff voices filtered down through the cracks around the trapdoor, invading their hideaway. The voices were muffled, but Emma knew well enough who was speaking. Only a copper’s voice can cut the air like a gunshot, and especially when that copper is on the hunt.

“That’s her car, all right,” Detective Wynes said in the garage over Emma and Eddie’s heads. “Radio in. We’ll have it towed out of here.”

Emma heard a second voice grunting in reply, then footsteps as someone left the garage. She stood, slowly, making sure not to jostle the table or chair. Even a scrape against the earthen floor might be heard through the trapdoor.

Wynes spoke up again. “You search the shop. I’ll handle the car and garage.”

A third voice replied this time before Emma heard the telltale footsteps of the speaker leaving the garage. Wynes was up there alone. She had his gun still, and her father’s revolver. Could she take him before the other two coppers came back? Eddie must have guessed her thinking because he came to her side and clamped a hand over her wrist. Emma realized then that she’d already half-lifted the revolver from her pocket. She let the heavy object drop from her fingers and met Eddie’s gaze. His eyes flared caution and begged restraint as he turned his head back and forth in a tight arc.

Emma felt her lip quiver with fear, and her eyes welled. The trapdoor had to be covered somehow, otherwise Wynes would be down here already. What would they do if Wynes found it though? She’d have to shoot it out with him. But he was a copper. She’d stared over the barrel of her gun and into his eyes just that morning. In that moment, with snow melting into her shoes and freedom waiting in the car behind her, Emma believed she could shoot Wynes down if she had to. Now though, with the cellar’s promise of security rapidly peeling back and away, Emma knew she wouldn’t get the gun out of her pocket before Wynes could plug her. This was the end of her run, and Eddie’s, too.

From above them, the sound of Wynes opening her car doors came through the boards of the trapdoor like the normal noises of a house. Someone in another room opening a cupboard or closet. Sounds of domesticity, not of violation or threat. Wynes got into the car, his weight making the springs creak. Emma heard him rifling through the vehicle, getting out and walking around to the back. He popped open the boot and Emma heard her bag tossed onto the floor of the garage. A scuffling and shifting in the earth over their heads as Wynes kicked the bag open and threw their belongings around. Some muffled cursing.

“Where is it, Miss Farnsworth? Where’s my damn gun?”

Emma clapped her hands over her mouth and bit back the scream in her throat. Did he know they were in the cellar? Was the trapdoor uncovered all this time? Eddie gripped her by the shoulders and slowly walked them both to the back of the cellar space, where they hid behind a heavy table. After a quiet moment with no further sounds from above, Eddie stood and made to lay the table down, shifting it against his hip and sliding its weight down his leg. Emma watched her lover without any thoughts for what his actions might mean. He was setting the heavy table down, putting a solid block of wood between them and the cellar entrance.

Eddie crouched behind the table, his back to Emma while she folded herself into the corner. They stayed that way for a stretch of anxious, silent minutes. Emma expected with every breath to hear the creak of the trapdoor and the stamp of heavy feet on the wooden steps. Muffled voices came from above and Emma snapped her eyes to the ceiling. Wynes was talking to someone else again, but this far from the trapdoor made his words indistinct and all the more threatening, like night sounds in a quiet house.

A motor started. They were driving her car away instead of waiting for a tow vehicle.

“We’re sunk,” she said to Eddie, no longer worried about being heard. “Sunk, and it’s all my damn fault. I’m so sorry, Eddie.”

He turned to face her, warm eyes glowing in the dark cellar. She watched the glimmer of reflected flames dance in his eyes and felt the comfort of home and hearth warm her skin. “Ain’t sunk anymore than we’re caught, Lovebird. Not yet at least.”

Emma would always remember what happened next as an act of divine intervention. The sound of wood scraping on wood came from across the cellar as the trapdoor was uncovered. Then the creak of the hinges followed by shouts for her to come out. She cowered in the corner, clutching Eddie to her side as he ducked below the table he’d overturned. Shouts from above mixed with a cry of alarm, and footsteps raced out of the garage. Emma’s eyes rounded in terror as the panel beside her slid away to reveal a tunnel entrance.

Nagy’s wrinkled face poked out from the tunnel. He waved them into the darkness beside him with one hand and held the other to his lips, cautioning silence. They moved fast, Emma keeping her eyes on the cellar steps as she followed Eddie into the tunnel. Nagy worked a handle set in the wall and the panel slid back into place, concealing the passage once more.

“We go to
Bee-rosh
,” the old gypsy said. “Come.” He lifted a crank torch from his belt and illuminated their earthen escape route. Eddie gripped Emma’s hand and she stayed close to him, hanging her free hand on his shoulder.

“Who’s Biros?” Eddie asked when they’d gone a few steps.

“Friend,” Nagy replied and kept shuffling forward, cranking light out of the slender tube he held before him. The tunnel was straight, that much Emma could tell. But which direction they’d taken from the shop and how far they had to go were mysteries she had no answers for.

“Is it far?” she asked, hoping the answer would be
No.

“Only far enough,” Nagy said with a chuckle. “Biros is tailor. Across street from Nagy’s house. Makes clothing for
Mawd-yars
and Roma here in Village.”

“Who?” Emma asked without thinking. She realized her mistake as soon as Nagy spoke his reply.

“Us. Gypsies,” he said, letting the last word fly from his tongue like a wad of spit. As if he noticed Emma cringe at the sound, Nagy laughed softly into the dark earthen passage. “Biros is good gypsy. Good Roma. He make you new clothing. Replaces ones policeman threw around Nagy’s garage.”

The mention of the police brought Emma’s mind back to their flight and the reason for it. She couldn’t help but feel guilt and shame for putting Nagy in the copper’s sights. His shop would be trashed, no doubt. Detective Wynes had enough of a reputation that Emma felt sure the man would do everything but set the cobbler’s building on fire.

“Mr. Nagy,” she said in a whisper.

“Yes,” the old man said, drawing them to a halt and turning to face Emma and Eddie. The glowing filament in his crank torch stayed lit briefly and then died. He turned the handle to keep the space around them illuminated as he spoke. “What does Eddie Collins’ girl, his Lovebird, want to say to Nagy?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Nagy. I’m sorry for making trouble. For you. It wasn’t Eddie’s doing. He was just trying to help me out of a fix I got myself into. I don’t know how I can make it up to you now and I’m sorry. You’ve been kind and—”

“Is no need for sorry. Not from Eddie Collins’ girl called Lovebird. Governor maybe should apologize. But he won’t. Nagy knows this. Nagy does not worry. Is the same in old country.”

“What do you mean?” Emma asked.

In reply, the old man pulled a crumpled wad of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. He gave the crank torch to Eddie, who worked the handle to keep light on the page Emma opened up and read. At the top, the Governor’s symbol reminded Emma of bulletins and orders that she had read in her father’s office. The text below, however, sent an icy shiver through her chest and down to her gut where it wormed its way in and then through every bone in her body.

Citizens of Chicago City are advised of the implementation of Eugenic Protocol 421. Persons meeting criteria for internment under EP421 are advised to report to the nearest containment and dispersal facility immediately.

These actions are in accord with the Governor’s Guidelines for Eugenic Enforcement.

Below these words was a list of the oldest neighborhoods in the city, including this one. Eddie’s, too. Below the list of neighborhoods, and under the words
eligible for internment
, were groups of people living in those neighborhoods.

“What is this?” Emma asked. Her eyes welled as she read the groups named in the list.

Negro

Italian

Gypsy

“Is like in old country,” Nagy said again, shrugging. “Government wants to change city. So government first removes unwanted parts. Then government builds new city on top of old one. New city brings new people. Government makes who comes, who goes. Who stays, who doesn’t.”

“But. . .I don’t understand. Where are they going to build? Chicago City doesn’t have that many abandoned districts. Maybe a handful, but—” The truth hit Emma in the gut and she nearly buckled under the strain of knowing what was to come.

“Nagy already says, yes?” The old man somehow managed a feeble smile, casting a hellish irony over his words. “First, government removes what government does not want.”