Gods of Chicago: Omnibus Edition (16 page)

Chapter 27

Aiden didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. So he sat up on his bed letting a dim glow come into the window from the searchlights. Chicago City never looked so bleak and cold and dangerous to him as it did that night. Digs had been torn apart by a monster. Aiden knew it had been a monster. Not even a copper’s ironwork hound would make the kind of noises he’d heard in the alley. And the pictures he’d seen on Mr. Brand’s camera box.

The camera.

As soon as dawn broke, Aiden scampered out of the house to retrieve the camera from where he’d hidden it last night. He snuck back inside and was halfway up the stairs when his mother’s voice came to him from the hall above.

“Aiden? Is that you? Why are you outside so early?”

She was coming around to the landing. Think fast, Aiden. Get your tongue working. Say some—

“Getting an eye on the street, Ma. Figured I should make a good start finding work again,” he called up to her. Aiden turned around and went into the kitchen to get the coffee going. His father wouldn’t be up yet. His job at the Field Museum didn’t start until noon, but it went all the way through to curfew. Cleaning up the place took a lot of time. His mother would be out the door in a couple hours though, heading to her reception desk at the museum.

Aiden stashed Mr. Brand’s camera box in the pantry, behind some cans, and grabbed the canister of coffee beans. He crossed his fingers that his mom wouldn’t start thinking about dinner until after she got home. She came into the kitchen as Aiden was pouring the coffee.

“I’m glad you’re taking this seriously, Aiden. Losing a job now. . .” She busied herself getting the cream and stirring it into the dark liquid in her mug. She looked around the table and sighed, then stood up. Aiden realized he hadn’t put the sugar on the table and dashed for the pantry.

“Thank you, Aiden. There’s no need to act like a servant though. Your father and I just need you to find work.” She stirred sugar into her cup, sipped from it, and set the cup down. “We can’t afford to send you to the university. The bank foreclosed on the Milton’s place last week. And with the curfew, your father can’t work the swing shifts he used to. We’re holding on here, but money’s still tight.” Aiden’s mother looked him in the eye. “You have to be helping out.”

“I will, Ma. I promise.” Images of Digs in the alley threatened to send Aiden crashing into his mother’s arms, wrapping himself around her like a child instead of the young man he was growing into. One more year and he’d be old enough to enlist or maybe try for work with the maritime outfits. He could almost see himself on a steamship. Maybe even one of the new Tesla boats. He’d wear a thick scarf and cap like the guys he’d seen at the docks, a pea coat, too.

Even in these fantasies, all Aiden Conroy could hear were the sounds in the alley.

His mother went back upstairs to get ready for work. Aiden told her he’d be hitting the streets straight away. She said he should pack a lunch but he said he was going for a job at a lunch counter or grocer’s because if he got one they usually feed you. Not much, but enough to keep you going for your shift.

Later that day, Aiden left yet another grocer’s with his hands still idle, bringing the day’s tally to eight lunch counters and five grocers without a single bite. He trudged through the wet streets, kicking at low drifts of snow and wrapping his coat tighter around him every time a gust came up. Aiden carried Mr. Brand’s camera box under his coat so that his anxious fingers wouldn’t be tempted to fiddle with the knobs and dials again. He’d thought about going by the Record to see if he could catch his boss there. But Aiden remembered that Crane, the G-man, he’d told him and Digs never to show their faces around the place again.

Digs wouldn’t be. Aiden knew in his gut that he shouldn’t either.

He stepped into a soda fountain and spotted a couple of birds in dark suits standing at the counter. Something about the guys gave Aiden the willies but good. He backed out of the place quiet as a mouse and hot-footed it over to the next block.

The streets were quiet for a midday hour. Wagons trundled by. Bicycles streamed past. But fewer than usual. The last few days really put a clamp on Chicago City’s mood. The city had been under the weather since Valentine’s Day. That massacre business over on Clark Street. People were talking about it like it was a phony story that Mr. Brand cooked up to sell papers. But those guys in suits had bought every copy Aiden had. Same as happened to Jenkins and Digs that day. Aiden’s heart skipped a beat.

Jenkins and Digs were both dead. He hadn’t got the skinny on what happened to Jenkins, but Mr. Brand had said it was bad news. The Outfit was involved; they were sending a message. Aiden had heard what those guys would do to a fella when they wanted to send a message, and he’d seen what happened to Digs. Aiden felt a stabbing terror twist his guts. Was he next on the list? A few blocks farther along and the pain in his belly turned to hunger. He hadn’t eaten anything all day and regretted not taking his mother’s advice. Could he keep anything down though? It was worth a try. Better to eat now than to go home with no job and an empty stomach to boot.

At the next corner, Aiden stepped into another lunch counter. He didn’t bother asking about work and ordered an egg salad sandwich with the change he had left over from the sawbuck he got on Valentine’s Day. The chilly coins in his pocket stung his fingertips, and Aiden couldn’t help but think the sensation was from the coins being the Devil’s own money. His sandwich came and he forced himself to take a bite. He had to eat, otherwise he’d be a shivering wreck when he got home. The guy at the grill switched on a radio set and told Aiden to eat up. He tried to return the smile, but Mr. Brand’s voice came from the radio and Aiden nearly spit out his first bite.

. . .of ill repute. That’s what you’d all call a whorehouse. Mrs. Gordon was a prostitute who used to work for Al Capone’s Outfit. It seems. . .

When Mr. Brand’s voice cut out, Aiden set his sandwich down and stared at the radio set, willing it to come to life, for his old boss to come across the airwaves and tell him the scoop. Give him something to go on. A second later, a whiny voice that sounded like it was coming from inside a tin can crackled out of the set.

This is Franklin Suttleby, with the Ministry for Public Information. Citizens of Chicago City are asked to disregard that last broadcast. It was unauthorized and contained no factual evidence or details. We now return you to a repeat broadcast of last night’s episode of Flatbush Ranch, which will be followed by a repeat of your favorite drama, Uptown Rooms and Downtown Dollars.

Aiden nearly choked on the food in his mouth when the door opened and two guys in suits came in. They went straight to the cook and started asking questions. Aiden caught the words
kid
and
newsboy
and slowly got off the stool and dashed out the door. The suited guys gave a yell and came after him. At the first corner, Aiden went right, slid into an alley behind a drugstore and came up against the grill of a delivery van. The driver braked hard and shouted from inside the cab, shaking his fist. Aiden made his way past the van and grabbed at the door when he got around the back. The driver slowly edged into the street. By the time he got moving, Aiden was tucked in the back of his box and holding the door closed.

He rode in the van for what felt like a dozen blocks, maybe more, until the crunch of gravel told him the driver had pulled up along the riverside. Aiden decided to hop out as soon as the van stopped. He popped the door and nearly hit someone who had been reaching for it. Following his momentum, Aiden tumbled from the van box and came face to face with a surly looking guy in a flat top bowler and heavy coat. The guy smelled like moneybags and looked the part, too. He shouted something at the driver, who had come out of the cab.

“That’s the kid tried to get run over. Hey, kid!” Aiden had already hot-footed it into a maze of houses facing onto the north side wharves. His neighborhood was only a few blocks over. He’d make it home. He kept saying it over and over. He’d make it home. He’d be okay.

Aiden did make it to his street and he had his home in sight. He stopped moving and hid behind a neighbor’s fence. A long black sedan was parked in front of his house. Two men in suits came down the steps. Behind them Aiden’s mother and father were led by another man who held a fancy looking rifle and wore a uniform, just like the guys standing out front of the Daily Record now.

The men bundled his parents into the sedan. “Kid’s not here,” the soldier said. “I checked the whole place. He must still be on the street.”

“Wait here,” one of the suits said. “He might come back.” The soldier went back into Aiden’s house while the other two drove away with Aiden’s parents in the sedan. Aiden stayed down until the sedan turned at the corner and drove out of sight. His parents were being arrested. Those guys weren’t with The Outfit. None of them were. Even the guys who bought the papers on Valentine’s Day. They were G-men. Had to be. Nobody else had pea shooters like that one waiting for him inside his house.

What should he do?

As if in answer to his silent question, the curfew bell rang out through the cold afternoon air. It couldn’t be time yet. The sun was still up, even if it was hidden behind a heavy dark cloud. It had to be a mistake. Aiden searched the sky. Patrol boats circled the neighborhood, their sleek gray cylinders passing through billowing white clouds from nearby smoke stacks, highlighting the ships even more against the thick cloud cover above. Aiden risked a glance at his house. The front door stood open and a trail of cigarette smoke filtered out. The gunman was standing just inside the door. Tucking Mr. Brand’s camera box tight under his arm, Aiden buttoned up his coat and moved out of his hiding place. With some careful duck and dodge tricks he’d seen Digs pull, Aiden made his way around houses and yards until he was on a dirt track between the two oldest homes in his neighborhood. The Miltons had owned one of them. It was still empty. Should he try to hide out there? Would the G-men start searching for him? Would the monster that killed Digs come after him at night?

Every car that passed on the main road put Aiden’s nerves on edge. He forced himself to keep moving along the track and out onto the street at the other end. The thought of what he would do once darkness fell nearly paralyzed him, but he kept on, making for the quieter roads far away from his Old Town neighborhood.

He’d made it a few streets away from his house when a metallic clicking startled him. He ducked into an alley behind some waste barrels. He had to squat in a snow drift, but the barrels were the only cover he had. Two crabs scuttled along the pavement, heading in the direction of his street. A clanking followed them and Aiden squeezed himself tighter behind the barrels. He held his breath and prayed the ironwork hound wouldn’t come down the alley. The machine clanked along the sidewalk and stopped at the mouth of the alley. Muffled voices carried down to him and Aiden stayed still. His feet grew numb in the snow drift. An icy chill crept up his pants. He wanted to move like nothing in the world could be better, but the fear of getting caught kept him frozen like a statue. Aiden’s heart thundered, and he shrank down when he heard the crackle of a bullhorn echoing from above.

“Citizens, curfew under Civic Order one-one-three-eight is now in effect until oh-five-thirty hours. Officials from the Ministry of Safety and Security are searching for known fugitives. Citizens are advised not to interfere in official actions. That is all.”

The ironwork hound clanked away and the muffled voices followed. Aiden risked a glance and immediately ducked back behind the barrels. A G-man stood at the mouth of the alley holding one of those fancy rifles. The sound of a car motor put Aiden’s stomach in a knot. He remembered his parents being put in the car and taken away. Would the G-men arrest him, too, or just kill him? Like Jenkins and Digs had been killed? A car door opened and closed then the car drove away. Aiden peered out and saw an empty sidewalk.

Running down the alley, Aiden kept throwing looks over his shoulder in case they’d been waiting him out. But nobody came tearing after him. Overhead, patrol boats kept circling. Every so often the ships broadcast the same announcement about curfew and fugitives. Aiden slid into a narrow alley that branched off the one he’d been in. He made it a few steps before he drew up short and nearly flew back out the way he’d come. He was in the alley where Digs got it. The cellar window seemed to wait like the mouth of a waste chute. Aiden froze when a car motor roared down the main alley. A sedan raced past where he’d been standing moments ago. The car stopped at the far end of the alley, then drove away with a squeal of tires.

Seconds later, the car pulled up at the other end of the narrow branch where Aiden hid. Just the end of the bonnet stuck out where he could see it. Doors opened and closed and feet crunched on gravel. The G-men seemed to be heading back to the street along with their ironwork hound. Its clanking steps echoed into the narrow alley and sent tremors of fear into Aiden’s throat.

He edged deeper into the alley, moving fast and stepping in the line of snow that ran down the length of one building. It froze his feet even more but kept them from from scraping in the gravel of the alley. The sedan hadn’t moved. The clank of the hound came closer. At the window, Aiden pawed through the snow. The stick came out in his shivering pink fingers. He worked it against the window frame like he’d seen Digs do. The window gave a creak as it opened. Aiden looked up and down the alley at the slivers of light at either end. No movement. No shifting shadows or bulks of men and ironwork hounds coming into the space. Up above an airship flew by, broadcasting the same message that spelled doom for Aiden. He slid into the cellar and closed the window behind him. He couldn’t latch it, and the G-men would be there soon enough.

Aiden looked around the cellar. Crates of apples and shelves of root vegetables lined the space. At one corner a short flight of wooden steps led up to a door. A band of light glowed from beneath the door. In the opposite corner, another door was set into the wall. Aiden went to it, remembering that Digs had said about the tunnels in the old city. The door was barred. Aiden lifted a stout wooden timber off two hooks and set it on the floor. He tried the handle but the door wouldn’t budge. Footsteps overhead told him that McCoy’s Grocery was still occupied. Probably by the old man himself. Maybe he’d come downstairs? Aiden ran his hands around the door in front of him, feeling for anything that might be holding it closed. His fingers brushed across a notch in the doorframe and he probed at it. Something clicked in the wall and the door popped open a bit. He pulled it the rest of the way against old hinges that squeaked and groaned in protest.