+J.M.J.+
My Funny Valentine, or St. Valentine's Day Massacre
By "Matrix Refugee"
Author's Note:
WARNING: There's no actual violence in this chapter, but there's plenty of gore, since this deals with the infamous St. Valentine's Day Massacre. For the historical content of this chapter, I'm indebted to Laurence Bergreen's biography of Al Capone (itself an excellent read, and the book was also part of Max Allen Collins's research material when he wrote the original graphic novel, The Road to Perdition). Almost of itself, the copy of the book I got from a local library opened to a photo of the aftermath of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. For those of you who desire a visual reference, here's a very useful page (you'll have to cut and paste the link into the address line of your web browser: drat ff.n for stripping HTML tags along with a lot of other formatting tags in the course of chapter uploads!):
http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/USAmassacre.htm.
The picture is in the middle of that page. It's credited to a "John Miller", but I bet that's a misreading of a faded signature on the back of the original photo, a signature that really reads "H. Maguire" (Ha! Ha! I just had to say that).
Disclaimer:
See Chapter I. I had NOTHING to do with the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, either.
IV: The Picture Thou Hast Made
Following the Murphy bed mishap, Maguire didn't sleep well. Bridie's presence beside him in bed, even for a few minutes, had ignited something in him. Much as he wanted her the hell out of his apartment and out of his life, he caught himself not wanting to send her away, either. She seemed genuinely interested in him, not just as a source of income or as a bedfellow, or even as someone to screw with, even if she had grabbed him when he tried to scare her away.
Was this love? Was this what the popular songs described? Was this the thing the holiday just a sunrise away was all about? It wasn't like he'd never been involved with anyone before, far from it. But it was never like this. Nothing fazed her much. She wasn't trying to fix him up, either. And she'd called his photographs art, for God's sake! How many people had called his work that?
He woke just after sunrise, too keyed up to stay put much longer. Something was bound to happen today. He could feel it in his bones, or maybe that was just the cold gnawing at him as he washed up and dressed.
Bridie still lay fast asleep as he passed through the front room on his way out. He paused and knelt beside her, listening to her breathing in her sleep. Should she stay…?
His impulse was to lean down and kiss her, but he steeled himself against it. Sentimentality was something he couldn't hazard, not with his profession (pick one). He got up and went out, walking as quietly as he could, closing the door softly behind him.
Cappy and Ruby were just opening the restaurant when Maguire arrived, relieved to get out of the biting cold air outside.
"Well, we're up early today," Ruby said. "That intruder drive you out?"
"No…" he admitted, wishing he hadn't drawn the syllable quite as long as he had.
She looked him in the eye. "Wait, is that a soft edge to your voice I hear? You falling in love with her?"
"Listen, she's got nowhere to go, and I've got room in my apartment for a few days at least till she can get the cash to go home to her family in Rock Island."
"Aaaawwww, you couldn't have picked a better time for it, fella."
"For what?" he asked, adding an "as-if-I-didn't-know" edge to his tone.
She grinned at him, setting a cup of coffee in front of him. "You got it bad for her, fella. There's a heart hiding under that unromantic exterior."
"All right, I have a heart. I just don't wear it on my sleeve like every other idiot. It's safe behind my ribs where it belongs."
"And for someone in the kind of profession you've chosen, that's a necessity," Ruby said. "You keep it there, camera-boy. But let her inside. I ain't met her yet, but I bet she's good for you if she's gotten around you in this short amount of time."
"Even still, life goes on," he said, adding sugar to his coffee. "There's a city of a thousand vices out there all clawing at each others throats, ready to draw blood. St. Valentine's Day or not, the blood's gonna flow."
"There's the Maguire I know," Ruby said, cuffing his shoulder. "Don't let some little skirt make you lose your edge."
Fortified with three cups of coffee and his usual breakfast, Maguire set out onto the street. The frigid wind hit him full force as he turned a corner—they sure didn't call it the "Windy City" for nothing—but it only quickened his blood, getting his resolve up.
After he took a few nothing shots—a break in on a side street, a fist fight among teenagers—and after he stocked up on film, he headed to Needaker's office to pick up his check. Something was in the air on North Clark Street. He could taste it.
Blood: he could smell it, almost taste that weird metallic tang of blood mist in the air, a scent he knew well, one way or another. Something big was gonna go down, and it would go down soon. The city had been much too quiet lately. Even Nitti hadn't called on him lately, though his secondary employer had hinted once that there something was going to happen that could be a photo opportunity, but he couldn't say more.
As he drove by the S.M.C. Cartage garage later that morning, about half-past ten, the sun shone dimly behind the thin icy clouds obscuring the blue of the sky. The lighting had a weird cast to it, almost as if through a veil.
Gunshots broke out: the ratattattatta of machine gunfire and the separate cracks of handguns split the air. He slammed on the brakes and pulled the car over. Keeping low, he peered over the sill of the passenger side window. A dog howled, wolf-like in the sudden stillness that followed.
He reached for the small Leica in his camera case and quickly loaded the film by sense of touch, keeping his eyes on the scene.
Three cops emerged from the building, following two guys in overcoats, hands in the air. The cops hustled them to a cop car standing at the curb. He snapped a shot. What was this? A bootleg sting? What would he find inside? Something wasn't right.
The cops bundled their catch into the back of the car, jumped in the front and sped away, siren wailing.
There was just something odd about that, but he couldn't say what it was. After about fifteen minutes, waiting for any signs of life, he got out tentatively.
A few people in neighboring businesses and boarding houses had come out onto the street, attracted by the commotion: office workers, mechanics from a machine shop nearby, a few passersby. But from the "what is it now?" looks on their faces, Maguire could tell a lot of them were only too accustomed to the things that went on in the city. The crowd started to drift away almost as quickly as it had come. And the dog kept howling.
As he tried the front door, which was unlocked, another cop car pulled up, the officers getting out almost lackadaisically. One of them, a young fellow, eyed him suspiciously and started to move in on him, but another, Houlihan, whom Maguire had met several times at may other crime scenes, pulled the youngster back.
"Let him alone, Ryan," Houlihan mumbled. "He's in press."
They let him accompany them into the building. The tang of gunpowder and cordite flavored the air of the small, sparsely furnished office they entered first. The dog barking got louder and more frantic, interspersed with yelps of terror. Maguire opened the door between the office and the garage, which stood slightly ajar.
The stink of blood hit their nostrils. Maguire stepped in, camera ready.
A runnel of red flowed across the concrete floor almost to their feet. His gaze followed it to its source.
Close to the bullet-pocked far wall, scattered across the concrete floor, seven bodies lay sprawled, seven men. Maguire recognized them as members of the Moran gang, who'd been trying to cut in on Capone's business. He'd kept tabs on them only on account of his own associations and as reference against future developments, like this one right at his feet.
It looked like something out of a movie. Pools of blood had stagnated in the hollows of the floor. Flecks of brains showed white against the gray concrete. One corpse lay against the wall, parallel to the base, face down. Three lay sprawled awkwardly on their backs. Another had slumped against a chair near a table at a right angle to the wall. The seventh, closest to the door, had lived long enough to crawl towards it, as if trying to escape.
The dog they'd heard, a German shepherd, lunged at the end of a chain tied to an exposed pipe on the near wall, to the left of the door, still yowling horribly, the whites of its eyes showing.
"Oh…my…God…." Houlihan said, his jaw slack.
Maguire climbed up on a tall workbench nearby, focusing carefully. The seventh corpse went out of the frame a little, but not enough to ruin the picture God, this stuff was red hot.
More cops were coming in. Ryan yelled out above the voices and the dog's howls, "Will someone shut up that damn dog?!"
Another cop drew his service pistol, about to shoot the animal.
"For the love of God, there's enough blood here," Maguire yelled. "It'll ruin the picture—and the poor dumb thing had nothing to do with this!"
Another young cop undid the dog's chain, talking to it soothingly. The second it was freed, the animal ran out the door as fast as it could.
Maguire filled one roll of film after another, taking shots of the police examining the scene, then moving out onto the sidewalk to get a few shots of the crowd's reaction. Another steadily growing crowd now replaced the bystanders who had dispersed earlier. If only that first crowd knew what they'd missed…
He appeared to be the only representative of the fourth estate, but then he spotted Trohan, a reporter from the City News Bureau approach, pushing through the crowd. Mike Fish, another photographer, was at his heels. Thank God Cunningham was nowhere to be seen.
"Hey, Maguire!" Trohan called. "I figured I'd find you here after Pastor gave me the tip."
"I happened to be in the neighborhood when I heard the shots," Maguire called back as he removed the last of the film from his camera. "I better warn you before you go in there: it's a goddamned slaughterhouse in there."
"I thought you specialized in them," Trohan teased. "So what are you doing out here?"
"I came out for a breath of fresh air and to get a few crowd reaction shots," Maguire said. "Be careful where you tread in there: I got more brains on my shoes than all my old girlfriends put together had in their heads!"
Well past noon, the coroner's men showed up to cart away the bodies; one guy had somehow lived and had already been taken to a hospital nearby. God, what a morning! No one had nothin' on him. He caught himself wishing Cunningham had shown up.
And speak of the devil…here came the cub himself, pushing through the crowd, puffing and blowing like a whale, sending billows of steam from his nostrils, his premature jowls trembling.
The kid elbowed his way through the crowd to the door, obviously without a single clue what was in there, waiting for him. Maguire counted the seconds…
Thirty seconds later, Cunningham tottered out, his face almost bright green, his hand clasped over his mouth. He ran to the alleyway and stumbled around the corner, dipping his head out of sight behind an ash can. Even at that distance and over the murmur of the crowd, Maguire heard the kid retching. He choked back the derisive laugh that rose to his lips. Well, you got your big one, fella. Whaddya think?
Cunningham hobbled back along the sidewalk, pasty-faced, a gobbet of bile stuck to the lapel of his overcoat. He limped past Maguire's car, then paused, turning his face to meet Maguire's gaze.
"Maguire…how can you stand taking pictures like that?" the kid asked, dry-voiced.
"Simple: I grew up on a cattle farm. We slaughtered our own beef. So, I just say to myself, 'It's slaughtering day', and I just set to work."
"You're lucky," Cunningham said, and wobbled away into the crowd.
Maguire packed up the last of his gear and hurried home. He had an hour's work ahead of him and he wanted to get the jump on Fish and the others.
When he got back, Bridie was nowhere to be found in the apartment. Her bags stood packed by the door and she'd left a note saying she'd gone out to do a few errands before she tried wiring her uncle again, but he set that aside. He had his work to do.
By three, he had assembled a collection of the best shots for delivery, when he heard her knock at the door. He practically ran down the hall to answer it.
Bridie stepped in from the outer hall and caught him in her arms, around the shoulders.
"Oh, thank God, you're in one piece!" she cried. "I heard about the shooting on Clark Street and I started to worry about you."
"Aw, I can look out for myself," he said, as she released him.
She looked him in the eye. "You were there," she said.
"I was the first newsman in the whole city on the scene. I just about beat the cops there," he said. "C'mon, I'll show you the shots I got."
He laid them out on the table for her perusal: The doubtlessly phony cops speeding away; the gruesome tableau; the police finding Gusenberg, the seventh guy, still breathing; the dog darting out of the garage; the reaction of the crowd of bystanders: some blank-faced with shock, some outraged, some horrified, a few smugly self-righteous; John H. Lyle, the temperance pioneer showing up, ready to turn this incident into grist for his own mill.
"It's as bad as they say," she said. "You struck gold today. But what a day for it to happen."
"It gives an angle to the story," he said. "Besides, these punks had it in for them: they were trying to tussle wit' Capone. Y' just don't DO that an' live to tell yer grandkids about it."
She slipped her arm about him, across his back. "I'm happy for you, but I can't help feeling sorry for those men."
Maguire shrugged but he didn't push her away. "Have it your way." He slipped from her hold slowly. "I'd stay and tell you the whole tale, but I gotta deliver these shots before my competitors get the jump on me."
"Before you go, I'd better tell you something," she said, her gaze dropping.
His heart thudded into the soles of his shoes. "What?"
She looked at him. "I wired my uncle again. He wired back, said he'd send the money tonight. He wants me back home in Rock Island."
The warmth that had permeated his humming nerves and veins suddenly cut out. The chill of the room crashed over him.
"Then you're leaving?" he asked.
"First thing tomorrow morning, most likely."
"It's up to you…but if I had my druthers, I'd ask you to stay. You've cost me a few headaches, but there's something more here. I just can't put my finger on it."
"You fallin' for me or something?" she asked, dead serious.
He hesitated for just a split second. "Hell, yes," he said, pulling her to him. He tilted her face up to his and kissed her. She stiffened under his touch, then quiesced.
He let her go. She caught her breath, her eyes looking up into his. "You better go deliver your shots," she said, husky-voiced.
The newsroom was an anthill of activity when he got there: typists pounding out copy, reporters coming in with more details. He passed them all by, heading straight for Buchner's office.
"Here's the blood dog himself," Buchner said, rising behind his desk. "The story is you were there when the bullets were flying. Some say you got shot in the melee."
"No such luck, though there's some who wish I had." Maguire handed over the envelope. "These were the best I could do," he added, understating.
Buchner took the envelope, opened it, and took out the 8X10s. For a moment, his broad, non-descript face kept calm as he leafed through them, then his eyes bulged and his jaw fell open. He looked up at Maguire.
"My God," he said. "It's as bad as they say. Weegee would die for shots like this."
Maguire shrugged one shoulder. "I took 'em as I saw 'em."
As he headed out, Maguire noticed Cunningham's spot at the copy desk stood vacant, and they'd need every hand they could find on a day like this. He went out. He had to get back to Bridie.
Concluded in the next chapter….
Afterword:
One more link, this one blackly goofy: I ran across this when I was looking online for the visual reference. Someone in Chicago came up with an alternate Valentine's Day party theme. I can't tell you more: you gotta see dis page!
http://www.mamohanraj.com/Massacre/massacre1.html
I think I might even annoy the local "Golden Oldies" radio station I listen to when I'm writing my fics by calling them on Valentine's Day and asking them to play Paper Lace's song "The Night Chicago Died". Enuffa dis mushy love stuff!