Chapter 12 - The Trap at Twenty-Second
The bitter February fog hung low over the South Branch of the Chicago River, turning the towering mountains of scrap metal at the Twenty-Second Street Iron Yard into jagged black silhouettes against the gray sky. The stench of coal sulfur and stagnant canal water hung heavy in the damp air.
Willa walked briskly along the wooden boardwalk, her woolen boots crunching on the frozen cinders. She could hear the rhythmic, scuffing footsteps twenty paces behind her—the man in the gray fedora. He had trailed her from the Rookery, keeping a careful distance through the crowded loop before quickening his pace as she crossed the river into the desolate industrial ward.
Her heart pounded against her ribs like a sledgehammer, but she kept her chin up, clutching the thick manila envelope under her arm so the red wax seal was clearly visible beneath the hem of her wool shawl.
She turned sharply into the narrow canyon between two towering walls of discarded railway iron. The path was a dead end, terminating at the rusted hull of an abandoned gravel barge moored to the rotting pilings.
She stopped and turned around.
The man in the gray fedora rounded the corner, slowing his steps as he saw her cornered. He was thick-necked, wearing a double-breasted tweed coat with deep pockets, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat. A wet cigar stump rolled between his yellow teeth.
“You’re a hard girl to catch, Miss Doyle,” the man rasped, his voice sounding like rusted hinges. “Smart girl like you ought to know better than to go snooping through the Alderman’s private papers.”
“Alderman Vance doesn’t own the city records,” Willa said, keeping her voice level, planting her feet firmly on the frozen ground. “And he doesn’t own the lives of the forty-two people who died when that dome came down.”
The man laughed, a dry, coughing sound. He pulled his right hand from his coat pocket; the dull gunmetal of a snub-nosed revolver gleamed in the twilight. “Vance owns everything south of the river, honey. Including whatever dirt you’ve got in that folder. Hand it over, and maybe you get to walk back to Bridgeport with both your kneecaps working.”
“She won’t be handing you anything, Moran.”
The voice didn’t come from behind Willa. It emerged from the deep shadow cast by the towering crane twenty feet to the left.
August Sartori stepped out of the darkness, followed silently by three men in dark suits, their hands tucked inside their long coats. August wasn't holding a weapon; his hands were relaxed at his sides, but his eyes carried the lethal, absolute calm of a predator that had already closed the trap.
Moran spun around, his revolver swinging toward August, his face draining of color. “Sartori. This is ward business. You got no call sticking your nose in the Alderman’s affairs.”
“The Alderman’s affairs dropped three tons of wet limestone three inches from my mother’s head,” August said softly, taking a slow, measured step forward. “That makes it family business, Moran. And in this town, family business always comes before municipal contracts.”
“Back off!” Moran shouted, his hand trembling as he cocked the hammer of the revolver. “I swear to God, Sartori, I’ll drop you where you stand!”
From the shadow of the gravel barge, a sudden, sharp *crack* rang out.
Moran screamed, dropping the gun as a bullet tore through the fleshy meat of his right shoulder. He fell to his knees on the frozen cinders, clutching his bleeding arm, gasping for air.
Russo, August’s lieutenant, stepped down from the barge deck, sliding a smoking Colt automatic back into his shoulder holster with mechanical precision.
August walked over to where Moran knelt, stopping inches from the wounded man. He crouched down, his overcoat brushing the dirt, and picked up the dropped revolver by the barrel, turning it over in his hand before casually tossing it into the icy river. The splash was swallowed instantly by the fog.
“Tell Vance that his invoices are in my safe,” August whispered, leaning close enough that Moran could see the cold fire burning in his pupils. “Tell him Miss Doyle is now the chief municipal auditor for the Bridgeport reconstruction. And tell him that if another one of his collectors steps within three blocks of the Rookery, I won't send you back with a shoulder wound. I’ll hang you from the boom of the Twenty-Second Street crane by your own watch chain.”
Moran nodded frantically, teeth chattering from shock and cold. “I’ll tell him… I’ll tell him, August. Jesus, please…”
August stood up, turning his back on the broken man as if he were nothing more than another piece of rusted scrap iron. He looked at Willa, his expression softening by an imperceptible fraction.
“You held your ground,” he noted, his voice calm.
“My grandfather told me that bullies only charge when they see your heels,” she replied, though her knees were trembling violently under her skirts.
May you like
August reached out, taking the manila envelope gently from beneath her arm. “Come, Willa. My mother has supper waiting on Aster Street. It’s time we showed you what we’re going to build in Vance’s front yard.”
***
