Gangdom's Doom

CHAPTER XIII MONK LOOKS FOR TROUBLE

MIRE LARRIGAN’S saloon on the South Side was not a good place for innocent bystanders. It was one of the most notorious booze joints in Chicago, run in open defiance of the law.

There was nothing subtle about Mike Larrigan. He was a hoodlum of the old school, a mob master who believed that it was cheaper and better to kill policemen than to pay them hush money.

At the same time, Larrigan, in his hostility toward Nick Savoli, had imitated some of the subtle methods of the big shot. He relied on political pull to protect the saloon which was his headquarters, and he appeared there frequently without fear that the law would annoy him.

Gangsters came and went — that is, those gangsters who stood in right with Mike Larrigan. The others kept away.

The elite of Mike Larrigan’s crew were permitted in the upstairs rooms. The others inhabited the barroom below, looking for opportunities to be summoned into Larrigan’s presence.

The big Irishman was a specialist in the beer-running racket. He supplied many of the South Side saloons, and had direct contact with several breweries.

His henchmen frequently hijacked booze trucks that carried the products of Nick Savoli, but none of these inroads had been directly traced to Larrigan as the source.

Hence, while there was no friendship between Larrigan and Savoli, open enmity had not been declared.

Savoli was in the business to make money, rather than to wage warfare. His organization was compact and firm, ruled by lieutenants and lesser chieftains.

Larrigan, on the contrary, was a loose organizer. Those closest to him obeyed his commands; others were almost beyond his reach.

Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak, as members of Larringan’s tribe, never entered into hijacking. But they had no qualms when it came to sticking up gambling joints that paid tribute to Savoli. They had raided Marmosa’s place with calm assurance.

Schultz and Spirak had gradually begun to allow themselves greater privilege. They were skating dangerously close to thin ice.

In fact, they had already passed the deadline. The big shot had made his first effort to eliminate the two troublemakers when he had employed Monk Thurman to get them.

Savoli was a subtle worker. Monk Thurman was just the man he needed for this job. Only Savoli and Borrango knew that the New York gunman was actually in the big shot’s employ.

Savoli wanted Thurman for later jobs; but if Monk should fail on his first task, the big shot would be no worse off. On the contrary, if Monk should succeed, the deaths of Schultz and Spirak could be easily explained to Larrigan.

SAVOLI awaited results with interest. He wondered if Monk would get busy the first night after he had received instructions.

He doubted that the New York gunman would be foolish enough to actually invade Larrigan’s territory. In fact, he and Borrango had told Monk of Larrigan’s saloon chiefly as a warning not to go there.

Nevertheless, Larrigan’s saloon was the destination which Monk Thurman had chosen for that evening.

While Savoli and Borrango were in the big shot’s luxurious apartment, drinking wine that had come from Canada, Monk Thurman was on his way to the Irishman’s beer joint.

It was about nine o’clock when the redoubtable New Yorker sauntered into the barroom where the lesser lights of Larringan’s mob held forth.

He appeared there as a stranger, and the crowd around the bar took immediate interest in the presence of this tall, stern-faced man whom they had not seen before. Monk ordered a glass of beer, sniffed it, and poured the liquid into a cuspidor.

“This the best you have in the place?” he demanded.

The bartender, himself a hardened hoodlum, glared at the stranger.

“Not good enough for you, eh?” he asked. “Who are you, anyway, coming in here? Want to tell me how to run the place?”

Several of Mike Larrigan’s small-time mobsmen gathered closer to listen to the argument.

Monk Thurman was standing at the end of the bar, his back to the corner beside the door. He paid no attention to the threatening glances of the rowdies who gathered about him.

“I might be able to tell you something,” he said to the bartender. “But there’s no use talking to any one here in Chicago.”

“Where do you come from, tough guy?” demanded the man behind the bar.

“New York,” answered Thurman, in a boastful voice.

The bartender leaned his elbow on the bar, and studied the tall man, with a sarcastic expression on his face.

“There’s a lot of funny guys come from New York,” he observed. “Fellows that think they amount to something. They don’t find it healthy here in Chicago. A lot of them die from lead poisoning.”

“That doesn’t worry me,” responded Monk Thurman. “I’m inoculated.”

“One New York gorilla got fresh a few nights ago,” continued the bartender. “The boys are out looking for him, now. Maybe they’ve got him already. Did you ever hear of him? His name is Monk Thurman.”

“I am Monk Thurman,” said the tall man quietly.

A sudden silence fell over the crowd. The gangsters were too amazed to murmur their anger. The bartender remained motionless, his eyes wide open as he stared at the man.

“I am Monk Thurman,” repeated the man with the masklike face, “and I think your beer is punk. But it’s good enough for this mob of would-be gorillas.”

THE two men nearest Monk leaped forward. Then they stopped, their hands above their heads, as they stared into the muzzles of two automatics. The New Yorker had drawn his guns with an almost imperceptible motion.

“Back up, all of you!” he commanded. “Stick them up — all of you!”

Every gangster in the place moved to the wall. All held their hands above their heads, and listened sullenly to the words that followed.

“So the boys are looking for me, are they?” questioned Thurman, in a sarcastic voice. “What boys do you mean? Those two cripples that tried to hold up Marmosa’s gambling joint? They haven’t found me yet, so I’ll help them out.”

He pocketed one automatic, and brought out a card from his pocket. He tossed the piece of pasteboard to the bartender.

“I’ve got a little apartment,” he said, “and there’s the address. Send them around when they want to see me. I get in about three in the morning. They can find me after that.”

He suddenly pressed the trigger of his automatic. One of the gangsters had tried to draw a rod. The bullet from Thurman’s gun grazed the man’s knuckles.

Then the tall New Yorker leisurely brought out his other automatic and backed against the door. He pushed it open, and slipped out into the night.

“Don’t let him get away!” shouted the bartender.

Three men leaped to the door, drawing their guns as they advanced. They were sure that Monk Thurman would be fleeing down the street, and they were eager for the pursuit.

But as the first man crossed the threshold, there was a pistol shot outside. The gangster dropped with a bullet in his shoulder, and the two that followed him stopped suddenly.

“Go get him!” cried the bartender.

“Nothing doing,” growled one of the mobsmen. “Leave him to Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak. They’ll tail him until they get him.”

A policeman poked his head into the saloon. He looked cautiously around. It was his duty to report any disturbance on Larrigan’s premises, but experience had taught him that discretion was advisable.

“Any trouble, boys?” he asked pleasantly.

“Naw,” replied the bartender. “Some smart gorilla just fired a couple shots and beat it. Don’t know where he is now. Guess he’s a mile away by this time.”

The bartender’s estimate of distance was exaggerated. At that particular moment, Monk Thurman was strolling leisurely along the street, less than a block away. He hailed a taxicab, and ordered the driver to take him to a large hotel in the Loop.

IT was several hours later when the New York gunman again appeared in a realm where gangsters presided. It was after midnight when he walked into Marmosa’s Cafe, and strode up the steps to the gambling den. A man rose from a table at the top of the stairs. It was Steve Cronin, now on his new job.

“Where you going?” he demanded.

“In the gambling joint,” responded Monk.

Cronin stared at the man closely.

“Aren’t you Monk Thurman?” he asked.

“That’s my name.”

“I’m Steve Cronin. Maybe you heard of me in New York.”

“Can’t say that I have. What brought you out here?”

“The coppers were after me.”

“Oh!” Monk Thurman’s voice was contemptuous. “The coppers never get after the guys I run with. We go after the coppers. I’m out of your class, fellow.”

He turned on his heel, and walked toward the entrance to the gambling den. Steve Cronin thrust his hand to his pocket and gripped the handle of an automatic. Then he thought better, and restrained himself.

Monk Thurman entered the gambling den unmolested. He saw Joe le Blanc and Harry Vincent in one corner, and nodded his head in greeting. Then he observed the Homicide Twins, and walked over to them.

“So you’re the fellows that moved out the other night, eh?” he said. “Lucky for you I was around here. When you have any more trouble, just give me a call. You’ll find me here.”

He handed a card to Anelmo. The Sicilian glowered as he received it.

“Who’s the tough guy you got outside?” questioned Monk. “Cronin? Is that his name? He was going to pull a gat on me.

“Well, that makes three of them out to get me. I hear that Schultz and Spirak are tailing me. Maybe I’ll have to call on you two to help me out. Maybe — not!”

HE turned away, apparently indifferent to the anger that appeared on the faces of the hot-blooded Sicilians. Then he spied Frank Marmosa, and shook hands with the proprietor of the gambling den.

“Smart guy, eh?” hissed Genara, to Anelmo.

The other man responded in Italian. The two carried on a low-voiced conversation.

“Do you remember what I said last night?” asked Anelmo.

“Yes, but I said to wait.”

“We have waited long enough.”

Monk Thurman’s remarks had hit home. Genara and Anelmo were men who brooked no ridicule. The fact that Monk Thurman had openly declared to them that others were already trailing him was all they wanted to know.

They knew that Thurman’s position with Marmosa rendered him invulnerable while in the gambling den. They realized that the New York gunman was already being sought by Nick Savoli, who wanted him as a killer.

“It may be too late to-morrow,” observed Anelmo, as he watched Monk.

“I agree,” replied Genara.

At two o’clock, Al Vacchi arrived at Marmosa’s place, ready to collect the big fellow’s share of the receipts. Vacchi was a short, bald-headed Italian, who greeted every one with a broad smile. The Homicide Twins watched him sullenly as he shook hands enthusiastically with Monk Thurman.

“There is no reason to be here longer,” whispered Anelmo.

“Come,” replied Genara.

The Sicilians left the gambling den, which was now protected by Al Vacchi and his bodyguard.

Steve Cronin was no longer at the head of the stairs. He had evidently left at the time Vacchi had arrived.

“Remember the days when we were banditti?” asked Anelmo.

Genara nodded. He and his companion had been the most notorious of all outlaws in Italy, prior to their importation to Chicago. Often had they lain together in ambush, awaiting the arrival of wealthy travelers.

“Tonight,” said Anelmo, “we shall lay another ambush!”