Julie Schaper - Twin Cities Noir

“Don’t underestimate the Bureau, Jake. Dillinger’s dead, Pretty Boy Floyd is dead, Machine Gun Kelly’s in stir. Hoover’s hot to recover his reputation. I tell you, he’s coming after this town. I’m getting out myself. By New Year’s Day I’ll be retired and living down in Arizona.”

“That’s good, Frank. You been on the force, what, thirty-four years?”

“Yeah. I came in with the O’Connor system and I’m going out with its demise.” He rubbed the back of his neck and I could see how tired he was. Then he looked up. “But I ain’t done yet, and if you go after Tommy Macintyre I’ll have to come after you.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less from you, Frank.”

“I love you boys like my own sons. I don’t want to see either of you die.”

“It will work out, Frank.”

“Jesus, I hope so. Come on—I’ll buy you dinner.”

We took the escalator up to the busy concourse, its high ceiling decorated with carvings of stagecoaches and trains. I noticed the women were wearing their dresses ankle length. The flapper look went out with the crash.

Our footsteps echoed on the stone tile floor of the great lobby as we walked toward the depot restaurant. I glanced at the big clock above the baggage claim; it was 6 o’clock on the dot.

We sat in a booth and a world-weary waitress took our order.

“Tell me,” Frank asked. “How was it? Was they tough on ya?”

“It was okay, once I got off hard labor. First a job in the furniture shop and finally one in the library. I think I have you to thank for that.”

Frank shrugged. “Kid, I still don’t know why you didn’t stay in Cuba until things cooled down.”

“Maybe I don’t like rum,” I said, digging into my steak when it came.

Frank snorted. “If you was coming back to deal with Tommy, he had already disappeared. Lot of people thought he was dead,” Frank told me between bites.

“Look, Frank,” I said, pointing with my knife. “This is my country. I shed blood for it in France. I have the medals to prove it. That’s why I came back. It was unfortunate that someone tipped off the marshals when I landed in Tampa, but that’s all behind me.”

“You know, kid, they wouldn’t have been so hard on you if you hadn’t killed that Prohibition agent.”

I put down my knife and fork. “That son of a bitch was on the take. He was supposed to let us run the booze down from Canada. Instead, he opened fire on us, no warning, no nothing. It was the dark of night and I shot back. I ain’t sorry he’s dead. I hate double-crossers.”

My lawyer had made the same argument. He went over my war record and the fact that we were ambushed. He was able to get my charge knocked down from murder to manslaughter. Of course, in court I showed remorse, but that bastard had it coming.

Frank put his hand on my arm. “You got a tough break, kid.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But it could have been worse. Now, since you’re buying, how about some pie?”

Frank ordered the pie—it was apple and damn good. “Looks like you’re going to fill out that suit of yours just fine,” he said.

I just nodded, my mouth full of pie.

“You set up? Got a place to flop?”

I took a swallow of coffee and answered. “Yeah. I’ll be staying with my Uncle Izzy. He has a room for me in back of the pawn shop.”

“That’s good.” He picked up the check, flirted with the cashier, and turned to me.

“C’mon, kid. I’ll give you a ride up to Izzy’s. It’s raining and that linen suit ain’t gonna keep you dry.”

He drove out of the garage and up 3rd Street. “It’s all torn up,” I said.

“Yeah, they’re going to widen it, make a boulevard out of it. Named after that guy from St. Paul who outlawed war. Ain’t that a laugh? You know—Frank Kellogg. Your uncle will have to move his shop over to East 7th with the rest of the pawns.”

Frank pulled up in front of Izzy’s shop and shook my hand. “Remember, Jake, don’t go after Tommy.”

“Thanks for the lift, Frank,” I said, and I got out of the car and went into the pawn shop.

Isadore Goldberg stepped out from the cage when I entered. He looked older but still had the robust body of the wrestler he had been back in Russia. “Nu , Jakey, you lost weight.” He came over and hugged me, his arms like iron bands.

“Hi, Uncle Izzy,” I said, hugging him back. “You look good.”

“Ess hat mir oisegegangen die kayach. My strength’s left me, Jakey.”

“You’re still a shtarker,” I said, rubbing my sore ribs.

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. They’re going to tear down the building soon and I’m going to California to live with your cousin Rebecca.”

We talked into the wee hours of the morning getting caught up. Finally, I began to yawn. In the pen, you go to bed a lot earlier.

Izzy had a couple of rooms in the back of the shop, where a bed was made up for me. As soon as I hit the pillow, I fell asleep.

I took a good look at myself in the shaving mirror. My hair had turned gray at the temples and there were deep lines around my eyes. I stropped my razor, soaped my face, and scraped off two days’ growth.

Izzy had laid out some clothes. Old but clean work pants and shirt, along with fresh underwear, socks, and sturdy brogans. I dressed and went into the shop. Izzy had a customer. I waited while the man pawned his watch. He was well-dressed, but he looked defeated.

When he left, my uncle turned to me. “That fellow used to be a bank clerk, but with the Depression he lost his job. You know, I’m getting out just in time. How many more watches, radios, jewelry can I take in?” He spread his arms, pointing around the shop. “Who’s going to buy?”

I shrugged. “Listen, Uncle Izzy, I’m going up to see Pinsky the tailor. Then I’m going to walk around for a while. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay, Jakey.” He went to his safe, opened it, and handed me a stack of twenties. “You need more? It’s your money.”

“Not now, but thanks for taking care of it for me.”

He spread his hands in a broad gesture as if to say, I’m your uncle, what did you expect?

Before I left, he handed me a leather jacket and a fedora.

I walked up to Pinsky’s on Wabasha and bought new duds—everything from suits to evening clothes. Men’s fashions had changed. The jackets were fitted with wide shoulders; the trousers were straight with wide cuffs turned up. Shirts had attached collars. In the old days, I would have had clothes tailor-made, but Pinsky had some good off-the-rack items and promised he’d have them altered by late in the day.

I ate breakfast at the St. Francis Cafeteria, and then caught the matinee of The Thin Man at the Paramount. It had been known as the Capitol Theater when I went away, but whatever its name, it still retained its elaborate façade of terra-cotta molding and Spanish grillwork. Sound had just come in when I was last at a picture show. Now I was fascinated by the dialogue between William Powell and Myrna Loy. I had read the book in prison, but I still enjoyed the picture. Myrna Loy was the kind of gal any guy in his right mind would want.

I took a streetcar up to the old neighborhood just for old times. I climbed Mount Airy Street to look over the city. Like Rome, St. Paul sits on seven hills. The town had changed despite the Depression. Along with the First National Bank building, the new city hall–courthouse had been built. And the old Victorian buildings along the river bluffs were coming down. I remembered what Frank O’Hara had told me about change. St. Paul was going to eliminate the criminal element. But what hadn’t changed was my unfinished business.

I walked down the hill to the wooden stairway that led me to Canada Street. I stood in front of my old house. My folks had died of the influenza when I was in France. I said a little prayer, then walked to the corner grocery at Grove and Canada.