Max Collins - Chicago Lightning

“How is that possible?” Florabel asked.

“Ah, I got a instinct for danger-I didn’t even see them two guys, but I sensed ’em right before I heard ’em, and I dropped to the sidewalk right before they started shooting. I crawled onto the stairway, outa range, while their bullets were fallin’ all around.”

“Punks,” Cohen said.

“If they’da had any guts,” Herbert said, “they’da reloaded and moved in close, to get me-but they weaseled and ran.”

Fred came over to the table, and-after some small talk-said, “It’s almost four, folks-near closing time. Mind if I have one of the parking lot attendants fetch your car, Mick?”

“That’d be swell, Fred.”

I said, “Fetch mine, too, would you, Fred?”

And as Rubinski headed off to do that, Cohen grabbed the check, fending off a few feeble protests, and everybody gathered their things. This seemed like a good time for Didi and me to make our exit, as well.

Sherry’s was built up on a slope, so there were a couple steps down from the cashier’s counter to an entryway that opened right out to the street. Cohen strutted down and out, through the glass doors, with Neddie Herbert and the six-three Cooper right behind him. Niccoli and Stompanato were lingering inside, buying chewing gum and cigarettes. Florabel and her husband were lagging, as well, talking to some woman who I gathered was the Mocambo’s press agent.

Then Didi and I were standing on the sidewalk just behind Cohen and his bodyguards, under the Sherry’s canopy, out in the fresh, crisp night air…actually, early morning air. The normally busy Strip was all but deserted, only the occasional car gliding by. Just down a ways, the flashing yellow lights of sawhorses marking road construction blinked lazily.

“I love this time of night,” Didi said, hugging my arm, as we waited behind Cohen and his retinue for the attendants to bring our cars. “So quiet…so still….”

And it was a beautiful night, bright with starlight and neon, palm trees peeking over a low-slung mission-style building across the way, silhouetted against the sky like a decorative wallpaper pattern. Directly across from us, however, a vacant lot with a Blatz beer billboard and a smaller FOR INFORMATION CONCERNING THIS PROPERTY PLEASE CALL sign did spoil the mood, slightly.

Didi-her shoulders and back bare, her silvery gown shimmering with reflected light-was fussing in her little silver purse. “Damn-I’m out of cigarettes.”

“I’ll go back and get you some,” I said.

“Oh, I guess I can wait…”

“Don’t be silly. What is it you smoke?”

“Chesterfields.”

I went back in and up the three or four steps and bought the smokes. Florabel was bending over, picking up all the just-delivered morning editions, stacked near the cashier; her husband was still yakking with that dame from the Mocambo. Stompanato was flirting with a pretty waitress; Niccoli was nowhere in sight.

I headed down the short flight of steps and was coming out the glass doors just as Cohen’s blue Caddy drew up, and the young string-tied attendant got out, and the night split open.

It wasn’t thunder, at least noGod’s variety: this was a twelve-gauge boom accompanied by the cracks of a high-power rifle blasting, a deadly duet echoing across the pavement, shotgun bellow punctuated by the sharp snaps of what might have been an M-1, the sound of which took me back to Guadalcanal. As the fusillade kicked in, I reacted first and best, diving for the sidewalk, yanking at Didi’s arm as I pitched past, pulling her down, the glass doors behind me shattering in a discordant song. My sportcoat was buttoned, and it took a couple seconds to get at the nine millimeter under my shoulder, and during those slow-motion moments I saw Mickey get clipped, probably by the rifle.

Cohen dropped to one knee, clawing at his right shoulder with his left hand, blood oozing through his fingers, streaming down his expensive suit. Neddie Herbert’s back had been to the street-he was turned toward his boss when the salvo began-and a bullet, courtesy of the rifle, blew through him, even as shotgun pellets riddled his legs. Herbert-the man who’d just been bragging about his instincts for danger-toppled to the sidewalk, screaming.

The Attorney General’s dick, Cooper, had his gun out from under his shoulder when he caught a belly-full of buckshot and tumbled to the cement, yelling, “Shit! Fuck!” Mickey Cohen, on his knees, was saying, I swear to God, “This is a new goddamn suit!”

The rifle snapping over the shotgun blasts continued, as I stayed low and checked Didi who was shaking in fear, a crumpled moaning wreck; her bare back was red-pocked from two pellets, which seemed not to have entered her body, probably bouncing off the pavement and nicking her-but she was scared shitless.

Still, I could tell she was okay, and-staying low, using the Caddy as my shield-I fired the nine millimeter toward that vacant lot, where orange muzzle flash emanated from below that Blatz billboard. The safety glass of the Caddy’s windows spiderwebbed and then burst into tiny particles as the shotgunning continued, and I ducked down, noting that the rifle fire had ceased. Had I nailed one of them?

Then the shotgun stopped, too, and the thunder storm was over, leaving a legacy of pain and terror: Neddie Herbert was shrieking, yammering about not being able to feel his legs, and Didi was weeping, her long brunette hair come undone, trailing down her face and her back like tendrils. Writhing on the sidewalk like a bug on its back, big rugged Cooper had his revolver in one hand, waving it around in a punch-drunk manner; his other hand was clutching his bloody stomach, blood bubbling through his fingers.

I moved out from behind the Caddy, stepping out into the street, gun in hand-ready to dive back if I drew any fire.

But none came.

I wanted to run across there and try to catch up with the bastards, but I knew I had to stay put, at least for a while; if those guys had a car, they might pull around and try to finish the job. And since I had a gun-and hadn’t been wounded-I had to stand guard.

Now time sped up: I saw the parking lot attendant, who had apparently ducked under the car when the shooting started, scramble out from under and back inside the restaurant, glass crunching under his feet. Niccoli ran out, with Stompanato and Fred Rubinski on his tail; Niccoli got in the Caddy, and Cohen-despite his limp bloody arm-used his other arm to haul the big, bleeding Cooper up into the backseat. Stompanato helped and climbed in back with the wounded cop.

Fred yelled, “Don’t worry, Mick-ambulances are on the way! We’ll take care of everybody!”

And the Caddy roared off.

Neddie Herbert couldn’t be moved; he was alternately whimpering and screaming, still going on about not being able to move his legs. Some waitresses wrapped checkered tablecloths around the suffering Neddie, while I helped Didi inside; she said she was cold and I gave her my sportjacket to wear.

Florabel came up to me, her left hand out of sight, behind her; she held out her right palm to show me a flattened deer slug about the size of a half dollar.

“Pretty nasty,” she said.

“You get hit, Florabel?”

“Just bruised-where the sun don’t shine. Hell, I thought it was fireworks, and kids throwing rocks.”

“You reporters have such great instincts.”

As a waitress tended to Didi, Fred took me aside and said, “Real professional job.”

I nodded. “Shotgun to cause chaos, that 30.06 to pinpoint Cohen…only they missed.”

“You okay, Nate?”

“Yeah-I don’t think I even got nicked. Scraped my hands on the sidewalk, is all. Get me a flashlight, Fred.”

“What?”

“Sheriff’s deputies’ll show up pretty soon-I want a look across the way before they get here.”