Twin Cities Noir (5 page)

“No,” Rothman said. “It’s an irony. When Isadore was a kid he beat up goyim who picked on Jews. He took pleasure in kicking their mick asses.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Okay, neither did I,” he said.

The rest of his group resumed arguing, to my great relief. Now it was my turn to lean in so I could hear what he said.

“What brings you here, McDonough?” he asked. “You didn’t come all the way from St. Paul to find out how Isadore Tilsen got his nickname.”

“I’m here on behalf of someone you know. Margaret Thornton.”

“Sure. We collect money for her.”

“So I hear. But why? I thought you fellows, you know, you lefties, liked Lloyd Jensen.”

“Lloyd Jensen and Walter Thornton were both Farmer-Laborers. They stood squarely with the working man, and their differences didn’t matter to us.” He gestured toward his bunch. “Jensen’s widow will be well taken care of, and Thornton’s shouldn’t go begging either.”

He was no Uncle Slap when it came to malarkey, but he was right up there with any Tin Cups hoocher, and that’s saying something. It inspired me to boldness.

“Margaret thinks Harry Ford paid Tilsen to murder her husband. Myself, I hear Jensen had a lot of friends in this part of town. Maybe one of them hired him.”

“Lloyd Jensen grew up in the neighborhood. Many men in this room knew him personally. They liked him, they liked his politics. You could ask if anybody hired someone to kill Thornton, but it couldn’t have been Isadore. The jury found him not guilty. What’s the matter, you don’t you trust our legal system?”

We were nose to nose, but nobody seemed to be taking any notice. In Tin Cups and other venues with which I’m familiar, going nose to nose was the penultimate gesture before fists flew, but Rothman didn’t seem belligerent. He was just making a point.

“Can’t stop people thinking though,” I said. “Tell me, and this is another thing I’m just curious about, why did those two fellows you broke up almost come to blows?”

“They were arguing. Trotskyism or Stalinism.”

“What’s that about?”

“Trotsky doesn’t compromise on world revolution. Stalin talks about Socialism in one country. No question he’s warped the Soviet workers state to fit his own ideological deformity, but some of us wonder if that’s what’s required to fight fascism. The question is—what do the times call for? What is historically necessary? That’s what Meyer almost punched Sherman about.”

“Doesn’t seem worth fighting over.”

“There are two schools of opinion on that, McDonough. Some call it a trivial matter, others believe that perceiving historical necessity and acting to further it is a high calling.”

“You should hear what us micks fight about,” I said. “Nowhere near as elevated…Is Tilsen here?”

Rothman pointed him out through the smoke. “Come with me, I’ll introduce you if you like.”

Tilsen and a couple yeggs were yakking with each other on the far side of the room. They were positioned between a cluster of fellows in broad-brimmed hats and long coats and a group of more worldly looking men. We picked our way through, Rothman nodding to some, edging by others so as not to interrupt.

Tilsen was a big guy, late forties, with sloping shoulders and a thick neck. Rothman tugged the sleeve of his suit coat, and said something in his ear. Tilsen pulled a wad out of his pocket and counted off some bills.

Rothman motioned me over. “This is Martin McDonough,” he said. “Martin, meet Isadore Tilsen.”

His yeggs kept their hands in their pockets and their eyes on mine. He had big, hairy knuckles, reddish hair going gray at the temples, gold teeth. He didn’t offer his hand, just nodded. “You know Louie?” he said. “Louie wants to change the world.”

“Well, uh, it needs changing,” I replied lamely.

“You think?” He nodded. “Nice meeting you, Mr. McDonough.”

I was dismissed.

“He’s a man of few words,” I said on the way back to the radical caucus.

“He’s short with the goyim, doesn’t trust them,” Rothman replied. “He’s a big puppy with his fellow Jews though. When he was a kid he used to beat up the local shaygus for a favor.

He wasn’t much of a scholar, so that was how he earned respect.” He seemed in a forthcoming mood so I popped the obvious question. “What was that business between you and him, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Not at all. We usually collect ten or twelve bucks for Margaret Thornton, but we like to give her thirty. Isadore makes up the difference.”

“Why is that?”

“You’d have to ask him,” he said.

“No thanks. But I do thank you for everything.”

“My pleasure. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll rejoin the discussion. Stay awhile. Have another glass of wine.”

I did. The wine was awful, but not so awful I couldn’t drink it, and it gave me a chance to sneak a few looks at Tilsen. He and his boys were deep in some kind of conversation. With each other.

It was still raining when I left. I almost ran over a dog in downtown Minneapolis. The streets were deserted except for a few men sleeping in doorways. I nearly got lost trying to find St. Paul, but eventually made my way back to my Rice Street haunts.

Slap thought it unlikely I’d find a bride at Tin Cups, and upon reflection I had to agree. Women had started coming in unescorted after Prohibition—many a shanty-Irish lass, even a few kraut dames from St. Albert’s—but they weren’t the kind you’d bring home to Mom. There was a likely looking group of frails sitting at a table when I walked in, Maggie Quinn among them. She glanced up from a pig’s foot she was gnawing and gave me the eye, but I paid her no mind. Margaret Thornton was in my thoughts, and I was there on business.

Jimmy Brennan was at his usual spot, on the inside curve of the second horseshoe, hard by the well, where only the most determined barman could fail to spot his empty glass. Jimmy was a percentage copper, on the take from two Rondo Street pimps, and possibly some petermen as well. At least, they seemed to have great success blowing safes when Jimmy walked the beat. He had a nose full of popped veins and shrewd little eyes. The way to his heart was through his wallet, so I saved him for special occasions.

I put a twenty on the bar. “What’s your pleasure?” said the bartender.

“A nip of the Irish,” I replied. “Top shelf. And one for my friend here.”

Jimmy nodded, as if to say it was a start, but only just.

The good stuff was dear at Tin Cups. The change came to less than nineteen dollars. I tapped my finger on the notes. “Give me some information and I’ll leave these when I go, Jimmy.” He nodded again. I cut to the chase. “Slap doesn’t think Harry Ford paid to kill the Thornton kid. How about you?”

He chuckled. “Lotta people think Slap is retired, but I get the feeling he still has a job.”

“Why’s that?”

“He ain’t goin’ without.”

“They held a benefit for him, remember?”

“Yeah, I was there. Musta collected about, oh, nine hundred bucks. You could live for a year on that.”

“What are you driving at?”

“Slap carries water for Harry Ford.”

I can’t say something of that nature hadn’t crossed my mind, but blood is thicker than water, so I didn’t disguise my displeasure. “You saying Slap is bent?”

“Hey, the man has to live. You sell what you got, to whoever is buyin’. I’m puttin’ two and two together, that’s all.”

“Four.”

What?”

“Two and two is four. I learned that in the first grade.” I tapped the bills. “Information, please. If all you have is theories I’ll keep the cash, and if all you have is theories that insult my family we’ll be stepping outside.”

“Okay, okay, relax. But that sheeny torpedo would’ve squealed unless he was paid to shut up. Somebody put a bundle down, and who but Harry Ford has that kinda money?”

“Another theory.” I knocked back my shot, and picked up the bills.

“Hold it,” he said. “The name Wicky Hanson mean anything to you?”

It did indeed. Harry Ford was known for hiring ex-cons, one more feather in a cap festooned with plumage. Most of them were nobodies, but Hanson’s reputation preceded him when he came to work on the Warren assembly line. He’d been a Thompson-gunner for Capone in Chicago.

“What about him?”

“He’s another guy lives beyond his means. He’s learnin’ to crack safes, but he still works the old trade occasionally. He was in on the Thornton hit. He knows Ford, he knows Shay Tilsen. Maybe he put’em together.”

“Any chance he’d talk to me?

“He owes me a favor. You could buy it.” He glanced down at the bar. “Not for eighteen bucks though.”

A fight broke out on the other end of the bar, but we didn’t let it distract us, and soon struck a deal. I’d be ashamed to say how much it cost in view of the fee arrangements on this matter. Jimmy said he’d be in touch. I ignored Maggie Quinn again on the way out. I’d decided to pay a call on the widow Thornton soon, with an update and a dozen roses.

I phoned Slap to tell him how things were going. “Jimmy B. says he can put me together with a member of the Thornton hit squad,” I told him. “I didn’t find out much in Minneapolis. Met Lou Rothman, but he had nothing to say.”

“You didn’t see who Tilsen talks to?”

“His palookas. Nobody else. Only interesting thing, he gave Rothman some cash for the widow. Maybe he feels guilty.”

“He just handed the money over without a word, did he?”

“A few words.”

“So he talked to somebody.”

“That was nothing. Hell, he said a few words to me when Rothman introduced us.”

Slap sighed audibly. “Well, press Wicky Hanson hard, Martin. He might have something.”

“How do you know it’s Hanson I’m seeing?”

He laughed. “Jimmy B.’s helping Wicky with his schooling.”

Not much gets by Slap.

I didn’t work the next few days, just waited for Jimmy’s call, and planned my meeting with Margaret. There was a picture in my mind of her soft blue eyes, her cute freckled nose, and an expression on her face that was all yes. As it turned out, that picture was pretty accurate.

I’d decided to surprise her Sunday afternoon. I thought she and her mother would be finishing dinner around 3 p.m. That left a few hours of daylight, and I prayed for a nice afternoon. I thought we’d drive over to Como Park, maybe stop by the lake. I bought a dozen roses and kept them in the icebox Saturday night. Jimmy B. called that evening and said I could meet Hanson the next day. I told him I was indisposed.

“Christ, Martin, I thought this was important,” he said.

“I’ve got something else going. What about Monday?”

“The guy works for a living.”

“Maybe Harry Ford’ll give him the day off. You know I work nights, Jimmy—anywhere he wants, Monday evening.”

Sunday dawned mild and sunny, a September morn in November. Jimmy called about the time both of us should’ve been at Mass, and said to meet Hanson at Chan’s, next evening around 7:00. I had to write it down I was in such a tizzy. This is very unlike me, I thought. I started slicking up for the occasion about noon, and looked my Sunday best when I pulled in front of the Gallagher residence a few minutes before 3:00. I was about to step out of the bucket, when the front door of the house opened and Margaret walked out arm in arm with Lou Rothman.

I processed this as quickly as possible under the circumstances. All I could think of was ducking those roses before they spotted me, but that was unnecessary. They only had eyes for each other. Hers were exactly as I’d pictured them. They walked past me in the general direction of Como Avenue. Margaret looked back when they reached the corner, probably to see if her mother was watching, then kissed him on the cheek.

I cursed the Sunday closing laws, and headed for the back door of a blind pig where a colored man sold me a bottle of something like whiskey. I made good enough use of it that I had a terrible hangover when Monday came. I also had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with imbibing. Worse yet, although our pitifully one-sided romance was kaput, my business with Margaret was far from finished. She still wanted to know who was behind her husband’s murder. The best I could do was suck it up and come out of this with my reputation intact.

Sorry as I felt for myself Monday evening, I still had some pity to spare for Walter Thornton. He’d stepped out of his flivver anticipating his wife’s lovely face and welcoming arms. Instead, the pockmarked mug of the man across the booth from me ushered him into the next world.

“I could use a drink,” said Wicky Hanson.

“So buy one,” I replied.

“Jeez, I thought you wanted info.”

“I do, and I already paid for it,” I said, but what he told me almost made me sorry I’d been so short.

Hanson cautioned that Tilsen didn’t confide in the non-Jews he occasionally hired, so all he knew was what he overheard. But he had sharp ears and a good memory. He explained that the mood among the five torpedoes on the hit was about what you’d figure—tense and silent on the way, relieved and talkative afterward. Tilsen was the wheel-man.

“There was this one mockie in the front seat next to him,” he said. “Wasn’t no dropper, even though he looked like one—hard guy with a fag in his mouth—but there strictly to finger Thornton. So we’re waiting, car pulls up, guy opens the door, finger-man says, ‘That’s him,’ jumps out, and motions us to follow. We step out and I overhear the mark say to the finger-man, ‘Meyer, what’re you doing?’ And he says, ‘Sorry, Walter, I’m an agent of history.’ Then we start blastin’ and his wife runs out screamin’. That’s about it.”

“You’re sure his name was Meyer, and that’s exactly what he said?”

Hanson nodded.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. When we’re drivin’ away, we’re all laughing and crackin’ wise, even Tilsen. He turns around and says, ‘May not look that way, but we changed the world today, boys.’ Then he nods to this Meyer character. ‘Make sure you tell him we said that,’ he says.”

I put my head in my hands and thought hard. “That it?”

“Well, Jimmy B. says you want facts, not theories.”

“From Jimmy. If you’ve got a theory, go ahead.”

“It’s just that the finger-man probably wasn’t the guy ordered the hit. Tilsen told him to tell someone about this changin’-the-world joke he made. That’s who was behind it.”