Miserable Business (eBook)

Chapter 3
The Sanctuary

On a sultry night in 1923, Hank Macklan, the leader of a liquor transport, abandoned his post counting cash stacked on a whiskey crate. Bullets began to rain down intending death on his men outside where they were about to unload a truck. Hank had to help save his men.

Overtaken by worry, he ran from the shelter of the stockroom into the street where thunder echoed. Boom, boom, boom.

From the sidewalk, he flung the Lincoln sedan’s passenger door open, dove inside, and put the key in the ignition. The mighty V8 roared to life. Hank stomped the accelerator and erupted from the curb in a rolling cloud.

Before he’d even cleared the block, two shooters emerged from the neighboring buildings and sprinted to a dark sedan parked along the street. The chase was on.

The hitmen wasted no time and cut off from Halstead Street through a narrow alley out to Clybourn, which sliced diagonally along the river.

Hank was forcing his way north through the thick evening traffic on Kingsbury Street. At the point where Kingsbury merged with Clybourn, the shooters could see the Lincoln sedan slipping in ahead of them at the narrows.

“There he is!” The man in the passenger seat leaned the upper half of his body out the open window while aiming a rifle. Just as the hitmen’s car bounded out onto Gardner behind Hank, the gunman sent a spray of bullets rippling across Hank’s trunk.

Bullets pierced the car’s seats, making Hank a victim. He swung the automatic out his car window, pointed the gun backward, and peeled off several rounds to deter them from pulling even. While the second car tried to evade the response, Hank swerved off onto Webster Street. The shooters tore around the same corner after him and returned volleys through his front fender and cowling.

Now Hank had the room to make his move. He used the advantage of the big engine to push the car until the speedometer reached seventy miles per hour. The city became a blur.

Block after block, the Lincoln bounced over each cross street. Sparks lit the roadway as he bottomed out in one rough intersection better suited for the clearance of a horse carriage. Hank was putting distance between the vehicles.

His mind flashed back to Halsted Street. How many of his men were down back there?

With the accelerator pressed to the floor, Hank focused on the rearview mirror. The headlamps behind him faded, but the searing heat in his abdomen wasn’t going away. Hank slapped the gun down on the seat beside him. How are these thugs still getting our delivery routes? We change them every week!

Easing his grip on the gun, Hank reached across to work his shirt loose from his trousers. The pain came from his left side with blood bubbling out just above his belt line.

As the car forged ahead, the motor began to ping and clatter. Steam erupted from the sides of the engine compartment leaving an unnatural haze in the car’s wake. Inside, the fetid smell of hot oil and overheated metal began to turn the air toxic. Hank coughed and choked but was even more concerned about a sudden drop in his speed. Something was wrong under the hood.

Despite the burning in his left side, Hank trained his eyes on the roadway while he kept himself propped up against the interior of the door. His hand trembled as he reached to twist the mirror in his favor. He took a corner at Willow Street and drove the messed-up Lincoln into a dated neighborhood. He cut the motor and rolled the sedan into the shadows near a large tree. Thankfully, Chicago had never been good at street lighting. The radiator kept on steaming from an assortment of bullet holes.

The street was as still as midnight. Hank stared beyond the windshield at the pale glow coming through stained-glass windows. As he opened the car door, empty brass shell casings rolled off the running boards and scattered on the ground.

Hank limped across the sidewalk and labored up the stone steps to make his way inside the old church.

Two elderly widows dressed in black were leaving the sanctuary. They paused near the granite holy water font to wait for Hank who was leaning over it. He muttered an apology and dipped his right hand in the cool water. A crimson stain radiated out from his thick fingers. One of the widows cinched her grip on her friend’s arm and pulled her friend away. Hank took a seat among the empty pews.

Father Whelan, a middle-aged Irish priest with wavy chestnut hair and graying sideburns, made his way from the confessional booth to the dark figure seated alone in the back of the church. As he approached, there was a sense of urgency in his native brogue. “I’m taking confessions tonight and I can hear yours if you like before I close up.” Hank lifted his head from the seat back of the pew in front of him. The priest recognized the familiar face, but his smile soon faded. Hank rose, turned away from the holy man, and headed back toward the entrance.

Hank paused at the door, easing it open a crack. A police car passing on the street slowed alongside the wounded sedan, shining a spotlight. Brake lights came on and both doors of the police car flew open. An officer emerged from the car, a gun in hand. Parked over a puddle of brass, the Lincoln was peppered with bullet holes. He twisted the driver’s door handle and pulled it open. He holstered his sidearm and reached inside. From the car’s seat, he took the submachine gun by the front grip and backed out with it raised in the air like a trophy.

Inside the church, a voice came from the shadows. “You know Henry, your father used to talk to me about things when he was alive. We could talk, too, if you like.”

Hank slid his hand inside his suit jacket, reaching for a holstered thirty-eight caliber pistol. Drawing the revolver, he turned toward the priest, thrusting it into his stomach.

Father Whelan winced and grabbed at the gun with both hands. “Why Henry? What have I done to you?”

Hank froze and stared at the white collar of the priest’s shirt. His hand began to tremble. He eased his grip on the revolver and moaned, “I can’t do it!”

Father Whelan exhaled a deep breath. His heart was pounding as he held the pistol that could have taken his life.

“My name is Hank! People now call me Hank.”

A doubting look came over the holy man’s face, and he shook his head. “Are you sure your name isn’t The Hammer as in triggerman? I’ve been told it’s your nickname now.” Father Whelan looked down at the gun. He noticed the thick blood on his hands.

Hank groaned.

“Henry, you’ve been shot!” The priest took a small step back and noticed a dark stain showing inside Henry’s suitcoat. “Where are you hit? Maybe, I can help.”

Hank reached over and took the pistol back before he slumped against the wall.

The priest stepped to the door, locked the heavy bolt, and turned the lights off inside the church. He hugged Henry beneath his arms and helped him walk. In the dim light of the church candles, they made their way toward the priest’s study off one side of the altar area. “Henry, you may not know this, but when I served as a chaplain during the war in Europe, I was also a stretcher-bearer. I patched up many gunshot wounds back in those days. I keep an old bag with medical supplies here at the church.”

Hank turned his head to consider the man laboring to help him.

As they limped into the complete darkness of the study room, Father Whelan supported Henry with one arm and swept his other over the top of a wooden table, knocking various books and papers off. He helped Henry take a seat on the table’s edge. “Stay here now. I’ll be right back.” Hank rested while the priest retrieved a burning candle and a pile of white worship cloths from the sanctuary. He stepped to a set of wall cabinets and collected a kerosene lantern along with a tattered leather postal bag. The priest set them down next to Henry. He lit the old oil lamp and moved it around next to the wound.

“Let’s get you out of your coat and shirt, so I can see the damage.”

Hank struggled to slip his coat off.

“The pistol holster will have to go too.”

Hank stared at the priest. He wondered whether the holy man was merely attending to injuries or trying to take his weapon.

The priest used one of the linens to dab away the thickening blood around a pair of bullet wounds. White cotton cloths turned red as he worked his way into the torn flesh. The holy man strained to examine the wounds. “Based on what I can see, Henry, everything down there looks like blood. Are you packing a four-leaf clover? It doesn’t look like you have serious internal damage.”

The stoic look on Hank’s face didn’t change.

“I’m not a surgeon, but I can stitch things shut to stop the bleeding. I’ll pray for healing. Within a day, you’ll need some bromine to fight wound fever. The fever is what got most...