Gangland Stories, August-September 1930
YOU CAN’T WIN.
That notice has been printed in every street car, subway, and elevated train for the past three years. For the criminal, from the big diamond in the shirt kind down to the little petty larceny crook, finds that in the parlance of the upper world that “Business is falling off.” That it is true. YOU CANT WIN.
At first the police did not know how to cope with these new rackets.
They were used to two-story men and safe crackers, not the kind of people that had the guts to work rackets that would tax the finest of brains, to say nothing of brawn — men that had gangs and worked with machine guns. But now all that is changed. The police of every town, large and small, knows how to cope with these people, and so today the pickings are not easy, for every place is guarded and for every machine gun that the gangster has, the police have three.
A great deal has to be said in regard to the gangster cooking his own goose and spoiling what might have been a swell feed for him. He fought with his partners in crime, they murdered right and left. Taking a life was nothing more to them after a while than licking a postage stamp. They fought among themselves and killed each other. The ones that they killed off were generally the ones with the brains, and, as it happens in every game that is not on the up and up, they began by losing ground. The minute that happened the police, always on the jump for a break, came in, and the gangster, the racketeer and the petty crook found that the little subway signs were right.
YOU CANT WIN.
Faithfully yours,
Harold Hersey
The “Eyes” Have It
By Chuck Wrigley
Gangland Stories, August-September 1930
No one even saw the draw. All anyone could remember was that a flat ugly weapon seemed to sprout from the palm of the Chi Kid’s hand. “Dogs” sighed and fell to the floor, two bullets in his skull through the eye sockets.
“Dogs” Miller, first lieutenant to Martin Farrell, overlord of New York racketeers, was strutting his stuff before the big crowd gathered in Fat Siler’s speakeasy on Eleventh avenue.
“Dogs,” thus nicknamed because his were the largest feet in Gangland, was both drunk and disorderly. But therein lay one of the reasons for the existence of Fat’s place. Fat was unofficial fixer between the underworld and the powers that be. In return it was agreed between gang leaders and officialdom that his speakeasy should be recognized as neutral ground. It was the unwritten law that there should be no gunplay there and that the area for a block in each direction must be kept free of ambushings and stand-up gun fights.
It followed, then, that Dogs was “putting one on” in a place where even the bitterest enemies parked their grouches outside.
The liquor had been flowing freely for hours. Now, with the hands of the clock standing at 11:30, Dogs was becoming both maudlin and boastful. Sober, he was quiet and retiring, a man who possessed the respect and friendship of even his rivals.
He flipped his gun from its holster and pointed it waveringly at one or another of the patrons, meanwhile mouthing bloodcurdling threats of what he might do if the notion struck him.
The others, secure under the house rule of “No shooting,” grinned cheerfully as they turned negligent shoulders toward him. Even guns must have their play-times and Dogs, one of the squarest and best of them all, was merely letting the booze talk.
The buzzer at the door shrilled its call. Parker, head bartender, flipped open a slot and held a low-toned conversation with the newcomer. Those nearest him heard the words: “Wait a minute.” He turned to a speaking tube connected with Fat’s private office and blew a shrill blast.
“Bimbo callin’ himself ‘Chi Kid’ is here t’ see youse,” he bellowed. A low mumble came in response. Turning, Parker released the magnetic door catch and admitted the stranger.
“Fat’ll see youse in a few minutes,” he said. “Got somebody wit’ him right now. What’ll youse have?”
The stranger chose Scotch, ginger ale and a strip of lemon peel. For a few moments he stood sipping his drink, oblivious to the curious glances of the other patrons. They saw a man of less than medium height, slight, well dressed, and wearing a derby hat and spats.
Only a predatory beak of a nose and deep-set, Indian black eyes, marked him as different from ten thousand others of the same description.
Presently, his drink consumed, the stranger hooked his stick and one arm over the edge of the bar, turning an inquiring eye on his fellow patrons.
It was fated that Dogs Miller should be the one to attract his attention, for at the moment he was bellowing at the top of his voice and had his gun out.
Their eyes locked, the vacuous, bleary ones of the drunk and the burning, black ones of the visitor.
“Well, look (hic) whosh here!” Dogs ejaculated. “Li’I Lor’ Faunl’roy himshelf — ankle awnin’s, cane ’n ev’thing. Whass shay fellersh — wan’ me shoot hish spats off?”
It was the Chi Kid who answered for them. He turned and barked a single word—
“Don’t!”
It was a command, not an appeal. Dogs’ eyes hardened at the tone. There was no one to tell him that the Chi Kid was a congenital killer — that the gunmen of Chicago and Cicero feared the brittle temper of this little man as they feared neither their fellows nor the police.
“Whazzis?” Dogs demanded blankly. “Li’I squirt givin’ orders (hic) ’roun’ here, huh? Aw-ww-wright! Now watch ’em spats!”
With the words the muzzle of his weapon wavered toward the visitor’s feet. The others, recognizing it for one of Dogs’ “sandys,” looked on smilingly. In another moment he would burst into drunken laughter and order a drink for the house.
No one’s eyes saw the draw.
All that anyone remembered afterward was that a flat ugly weapon seemed to sprout out of the palm of the Chi Kid’s right hand.
It barked twice, one report blending into the other. Dogs sighed wearily and collapsed to the floor. Had he lived, he would have been blinded — for each of the heavy bullets had entered his skull through an eye socket.
The Chi Kid, feet outspread, froze in a posture of defense. His eyes darted from face to face, alert for possible reprisals. No one moved. A thin film of smoke drifted upward, level with the top of the bar.
The killer’s hand stole behind him and caught at the door handle. Then, as Fat Siler, bellowing angry protests, leaped from his private office at the end of the bar, Chi Kid slid through the door and out to the street.
Thus it was written that, for the first time in years, the officers of the homicide squad and newspaper reporters were summoned to Fat’s Place for the story of a killing. An armistice had been violated.
The police investigation profited little. No one would admit knowing anything about the slayer or the cause of the killing. Out of the welter of internationally opposed descriptions, the police chose one which flung wide the dragnet for a roughly dressed stranger, taller than medium — probably a Swede or Norwegian.
But over the mysterious grapevine telegraph of the underworld went the news:
“A cannon calling himself Chi Kid knocked off Dogs Miller in Fat’s Place tonight. Mart Farrell will want him.”
“Hey, Mart! I want off tomorruh aft’noon an’ night. Me an’ de twist’s goin’ to Coney. Oke wit’ youse?”
Paddy Bowers flung down his cards as he spoke and turned to Mart Farrell — “The square guy who never broke a promise.” Paddy was Mart’s chauffeur, and for the last hour he had been losing steadily “throwing jacks” with Chimp Janos, Mart’s wrestler bodyguard.