Макс Коллинз - True Crime

Floyd was the last to come in, with his hungover partner Sullivan in tow, the little-man-who-wasn’t-there at dinner, an average-looking guy in a dark suit, wearing sunglasses and a fedora, despite being indoors. They took seats across the room, near the door, where I couldn’t quite see ’em.

It was a little warm, a little stuffy in the room, with all these men crowded in, most of them smoking; no cigars in the crowd, at least. There was a breeze tonight, coming in the half-open windows, and it was appreciated. Most of the men were in shirt sleeves; I wore the lightweight white suit, gun tucked under my arm. If I was going to play in the World Series of crime, I figured I ought to have my bat along.

Karpis, in a white shirt buttoned to the neck and baggy brown pants, stood with folded arms, slouching a little. He was, like me, wearing his window-glass wire-rims. “I guess everybody knows our objective.”

Nelson laughed, but bitterly. “We’re going to snatch the big fed. The loud-mouth son of a bitch who calls us yellow rats from behind a goddamn desk. We’re going to snatch him, haul in the big dough, and then fuckin’ kill him.”

“ No ,” Karpis said, pointing a finger at Nelson like a kid in his class. “We don’t kill him.”

“Why?” Nelson said. It was almost a whine.

“Because,” Karpis said, “he’s more trouble to us dead. Better we embarrass and disgrace and humiliate the bastard, and then cut him loose, than have him be a dead hero for the feds and press to rally ’round.”

From across the smoky room came Floyd’s voice. “I agree. The son of a bitch likes to call us ‘vile’ and ‘vicious’ and ‘mad dogs’ and that. Kill him and we make him look right.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Nelson said evenly.

Floyd said, “That’s just handin’ Hoover’s attorney general boss more ammunition against us. Then he just sticks another son of a bitch in Hoover’s chair, and what’s to gain? The days ahead is gonna be hot enough.”

Karpis took over. “George, listen. Sure, picking Hoover for our mark comes partly out of wanting to even scores with the son of a bitch. Make him look bad, make him look stupid, put him on the spot. Of course. But the real point of this, the main point, is to grab a public figure so important the government’ll cough up some real dough to get him back. The fact it also makes the feds look sick is just frosting on the cake.”

Doc Barker was sitting next to me; he seemed impatient as he said, “Quit chasing your tails, fellas. I ain’t convinced yet this is even gonna come off. I’m not in unless somebody can show me how this fool thing can really work.”

Fred Barker nodded, said, “Yeah. Yeah, me too!”

Karpis said, “That’s why we’re here, Doc.”

Doc said, “From what you told me before, I take it you’re planning to snatch Hoover right on the street, right in front of the feds’ own office building.”

Jesus.

“Last time we tried something in the Loop we damn near got our asses shot off,” Barker was saying.

“That’s not fair, Doc,” Karpis said. “If we hadn’t got in that accident, we’d been in the clear.”

“Bull shit . You got in a accident ’cause of traffic, and then them cops swarmed on us like flies on shit.”

“The basic plan was sound, Doc. We can make it work this time.”

“You’re going to use the same plan as for the post-office heist?”

Karpis smiled a mildly embarrassed version of his ghastly smile. “Well, yes, sort of, as a stepping-off point anyway — the Banker’s Building is right across from the post office, where we made the other hit. Direct across. We can build on that same plan, and learn from our mistakes.”

Doc was shaking his head. “Learn from our mistakes? What you should learn from that post-office flop is not to pull jobs in the Loop. City jobs are a bitch in general. Now, in the country, shit, you can hit a place, drive like hell, know your back roads and you’re home free. But in the city, fuck.”

Karpis was getting worried. “Come on, Doc, keep an open mind...”

“You got traffic to deal with, cops on every block, one call and the word’s out to hundreds of radio cars... shit. And a plan that went bust one other time. Creepy, I’m surprised at you.”

Nelson said, “Doc, you knew what this was about coming in — why bitch now?”

Doc said, “I’m all for snatching Hoover. Its a sweet way to get even and get rich. Understood? But why not snatch him at the track — he likes the ponies, you know — or at the train station, when he comes to town, or leaves.”

Karpis said, “Those are city jobs, too, Doc.”

“Yeah, sure, but they’re easier to deal with than the goddamn heart o’ the Loop. Don’t forget — I was there, on that post-office heist. I saw the fuckin’ bullets fly.”

“Doc,” Nelson said, an edge in his voice. “Why don’t you let Karpis lay it out for us?”

Karpis laid it out.

He pointed to the map as he spoke, using a grease pencil to trace various routes.

They had inside word that Hoover was coming in tomorrow morning to spend a day at the Division of Investigation’s Chicago bureau, giving the boys in the trenches pep talks and confabbing with Purvis and Cowley. Of more interest to Karpis, however, was Hoover’s evening dinner date with State Attorney Courtney and the Chicago police commissioner. This was a pass-the-peace-pipe powwow initiated by Hoover, seeking to build more cooperation between the feds and the local cops; my guess was the state attorney and the police commissioner were going along with the meeting in order to ask for Purvis’ ouster. The cops had covered the feds’ trail any number of times (the Probasco “suicide” fall, for one thing) and all they’d got in return was bad-mouthing in the press by self-aggrandizing Little Mel. So a meeting was in order.

None of this was anything Karpis went into; these were simply thoughts that flitted through my brain as he stated that Hoover was planning dinner with Courtney and the commissioner at seven o’clock at the Bismarck Hotel. Shortly before seven, a car from the state attorney’s office was to pick up Hoover at the Banker’s Building and escort him to the Bismarck.

“Where’d you get that kind of inside dope?” a smiling Nelson asked.

Karpis smiled his awful smile. “Friends in high places,” he said, and let it go at that.

My guess was attorney Louis Piquett had sniffed this piece of news out; he had plenty of lines into Courtney’s office.

Karpis’ basic plan was simple if cunning. The state attorney’s car was distinctively decorated: a black Hudson with one red and one green headlight, and a red star on the spotlight. Karpis had arranged with “our favorite underworld garage, in Cicero” to have another Hudson similarly decorated — and, in addition to police siren, equipped with such accessories as bulletproofing, shortwave radio and a sliding panel in the doors through which guns could be fired.

Karpis planned to have this car pick up Hoover.

The real state attorney’s car, in a city parking garage near City Hall, would have a convenient flat tire, delaying the Hoover pickup a few minutes — long enough for the ringer to make the pickup instead.

Karpis was drawing on the map, saying, “If the pickup goes smooth, our Hudson just continues on down Clark to Jackson and turns west — like we were heading back to the Bismarck. After that we switch cars.”

Nelson said, “We’ll have a extra car stashed? Where?”

“In a loading dock in this alley,” Karpis said, pointing to the map. “It’s after work; deserted. We stuff Hoover in the trunk of the second car, and drive away, nice and easy.”