Triggermen Unknown

The garage was a simple building, squat and sparse, with two entrances and attached to a warehouse with enough room to store and maneuver a large quantity of alcohol, which was its primary purpose. The two broken down cars lined up on one side were just for show. Although May was paid good money to keep the delivery trucks in top shape.

In addition to the main space, there was a small office, but it was seldom used for anything unless one of the boys was lucky enough to score a dame but unlucky enough to have anywhere else to go with her.

The owner of the garage, Adam Heyer, a middle-aged man with a mousey bit of hair and a head for numbers, wordless pulled a gasper from his pocket and handed it to Pete along with a lighter.

"Heyer," Pete said after lighting the cigarette and taking a long drag. "Where's Bugs?"

"Ain't here yet," said Reinhardt Schwimmer, a wraith of a fella who was more posey than member. Besides occasionally useful information about booze deals, he was mostly a rube. "Weinshenker, either."

"I got eyes, doc." Pete's retort was a dig. Reinhardt was an optician by trade. Though he often claimed to be an optometrist, he didn't have any more medical training than the rest of them.

"Lay off, Goosey. Everyone knows you're the eel's hips." The last man in the circle, who sat polishing an automatic pistol with a rag, was Albert Kachellek, and his voice was a plate of tote oma. He was a muscular German, a real German, not a bohunk like Frank and Pete. Born in Krojoencke, he was an enforcer just like the Gusenbergs, with a tattoo of a naked dame on his left forearm that he could make dance by flexing his arm. He was also Bugsy's second-in-command, and he hated Pete almost as much as Pete hated him.

"Albey, it's not yet noon. Early for you. Shouldn't you still be sleeping on top of some dope fiend?" Pete hadn't made it very far in school. He'd never learned about fear.

"Your mother was busy last night. I got to get my beauty sleep." Albey leaned back in his chair, took a puff on his ciggy and then put his arms behind his back as if had just hung the moon. Men like Albey and Pete were dangerous, but they were without principle, attack dogs to be caged until the need to set them on the hunt arose. They might mouth, but they were barred from anything beyond baring teeth unless their rope got slacked.

Frank was different. He was his own hound, not the type for idle barber, and not the kind to get his fires easily stoked or easily doused. In all the world, there were two things that could breach his stone heart, and Albey had just touched on one of them.

For a stout fella, he was deceptively quick. Up and away from the dog before anyone even thought to pay him a look, he just seemed to appear in the circle, his .38 free of its holster and pressed firmly into Albey's forehead.

The garage seemed to hold its breath. Highball had ceased his pacing and John looked up from under the hood of the truck, a black streak of grease across his face, and gave a worried expression.

When Frank spoke it was without passion or excitement. "You gabbing about mothers, Albey?"

The German, who had gone cross-eyed looking down the short barrel of the snubnose replied with deliberateness, holding his hands out to the sides, grabbing air. "What's got into you, Frank? What's got you on a toot? I was joshing."

"Don't throw shade on my mother. Ever."

Pete, standing next to his brother, laughed his hollow laugh, like a crow cawing into an empty can of beans. "Damn, Frankie. How long's it been? You still crying over spilled milk?"

With no more emotion than he would show putting out a snipe, Frank snatched the pistol from Albey's lap, cocked it with a jerk, and spun it until his finger was on the trigger and the muzzle was an inch from his brother's temple. Cross-armed and fully-loaded he spoke to Pete while never taking his eyes off the German in front of him. "I'll take no lip from you on the subject either, grosser bruder."

"Just calm down, Frank." Albey said slowly. The other men remained hushed, Heyer and May looked like they might upchuck, and Schwimmer seemed as if he might gum up his pants.

Pete rolled his eyes. "If that truck of hooch doesn't canter up soon Frankie'll end this turf war himself over some chippy we barely remember. Capone won't have to lift a mitt."

"Pete...." Frank's voice was soft but dangerous. He emphasized exactly how dangerous by quickly moving the pistol and firing a shot into the window of one of the broken down Jalopys. Pete yelled in pain from the proximity of the discharge to his ear, and made a move to get puggy with his little brother, but the pistol was back in his face a second later derailing any further aggression. After nearly jumping out of his skin at the sound of the gunshot, Albey attempted to rise and the younger Gusenberg sat him back down with the tip of the revolver, forcing the muzzle into his flesh with enough force to leave an "o" mark.

"That really hurt, you maroon. Jesus! I think you busted my eardrum." Pete held his finger up to his earlobe to check for blood.

"Good."

Albey's normally impassive face was now showing real anxiety. Sweat had formed on his temples and you could have driven a rattler through one eye and out the other. "You two are both whacky. Goddamned crazy Gusenbergs."

Pete was laughing again, only this time a lot louder due to the ringing in his ears. "You certainly got the sand, little brother. Alright, you've had your little ing-bing. But that's the crop. Let's break it up before you get us all put under glass."

"Apologize. Both of yous." Frank showed no sign of abating.

A great, booming voice called out. "What is the skinny in here? I'm a tiny bit late and the Gooses start shooting up the place?"

The men turned their heads slightly to see who had walked through the alley entrance, sure not to take their eyes completely off one another. Albert Weinshank, as tall as Albey and broader than Frank, was standing in the doorway wearing a new grey overcoat, so fresh it didn't have wrinkles yet.

"Hey, Gorilla," Frank said nonchalantly. "These mugs and I are just having a discourse about manners." Albey held his hands up as if to say, don't make any sudden moves and spook him. Pete merely shrugged and twisted a finger in his ear.

"These cretins taking pokes again?" Gorilla was a club owner and had a manner about him, gregarious and friendly, that made him well liked by everyone. Even most of the South Side Gang liked Gorilla. "Who they spittin' plague at now?"

"My mother," Frank answered. Pete seemed about to add something sharp, but a glare from his brother silenced even his courageous yap.

"Boys," Gorilla walked up and held his large arms wide. "First rule of wearing iron: don't talk about politics, religion, or stock. It just ain't kosher."

Each man grudgingly nodded their agreement.

Gorilla continued. "And you, Frank, you'd use that roscoe against your constituents? Burn powder over some gum bumping? That'd be a shame, wouldn't it?"

Frank nodded his head in the affirmative once, still bouncing his eyes from Albey to Pete.

"So, if you gets an apology from these mooks you'll stow the gat?" Gorilla was making sweeping gestures with his hands and stepping from man to man looking them each in the face.

Frank nodded again.

"Well?" Gorilla held his fingers out to the offending men.

There was a short pause where everyone just looked around, and then, in unison, "I'm sorry."

Gorilla swept both fingers toward the man with guns. "Frank?"

Slowly, eyes still bouncing, the younger Gusenberg lowered his aim, ready to bring the guns back up if either man took to violence. The thought occurred to both men, but in the end, they let it dangle. A collective sigh of relief traveled around the room as everyone, from John May to Frank himself was glad no more shells dropped. Only Highball seemed disappointed, and he let out a yip to tell everyone not to stop playing the fascinating new game.

Gorilla clapped every man involved on the back and hugged him close to his mammoth chest. "There we go, there we go. We all pals again? Everything Jake?"

There were reluctant nods all around. Pete grabbed a handful of Weinshenker's coat. "You just shear this off? Bet it's still warm from the sheep."

Gorilla gave a good-natured grin. "Just like with booze, I go right to the source."

"Bugs has one just like it, don't he?" Frank asked. "I thought you was him at first when you walked in."

"Now that's how rumors get started. I got no desire to squat on the boss's stool." It was true. Gorilla would rather be popular than powerful. It was a healthier preoccupation.

"Where's the whiskey?" Albey finally found his voice. "Where's Bugs?"

"Bugs is on his way, and the hooch should be here."

The alley door burst open and two uniformed police officers, one young with a dark complexion and the other older with a mustache, rushed into the garage, each carrying a shotgun. "Reach, boys. You're under arrest."

Highball took to barking. The gang groaned and looked toward Frank. "Listen coppers," Albey said. "About the thunder, that was just a mishap. No harm done."

"Up against the wall," one of the officers ordered.

"What did I tell you, Frankie," Pete said pointing a finger at his own nose.

Moving slowly and not without recalcitrance, the gangsters lined up facing the far wall, hands above their heads. Pete threatened a kiss at one of the cops and was repaid by having his face slammed roughly against the exposed brick.

"No need to get hard-boiled," Gorilla said. "We all know this is a nickel show. You ain't going to stick us with nothing."

With urgency and efficiency, the members of the North Side Gang were frisked and unburden of their weapons.

"Careful with that," Frank growled as one of the cops, the older one, tossed his .38 behind him on the ground.

"What's the rap?" Heyer asked. "You can't just come in here sporting buzzers and start roughing us up."

"You too," the younger copper pointed at John May who had thus far only been standing by the truck.

"He's just a mechanic," protested Albey. Nevertheless, in a few seconds he was lined up and frisked the same as the others. They even took his wrench. Highball, agitated before, went crazy at seeing his owner detained, and strained against the rope that secured him to the truck, snarling at the officers and barking loudly.

When the whole gang was lined up, the mustached cop demanded that they put their arms behind their backs. To his partner he said, "get the bracelets."

"Are you whacky? You mean to cinch us, too?" Heyer sounded both outraged and confused. "You're taking us all to the hoosegow? For what?"

Pete took the news even more poorly. "Go ahead. Put me in the freezer, and when I beat this paper and dust out of there I'm gonna find you and rip those elephant ears right off!"

Buoyed by the bluster of his friends Schwimmer added a clip. "Yeah, and I'll tear your peepers out."

Frank remained silent, head pressed against the scratchy brick. Something felt wrong. A life of bloodshed had left him attuned to such things. His instincts were sharp, so were his senses. If the others hadn't been so loud, if Highball hadn't been barking, he might have heard the two additional men that entered with the younger officer, walking on cat feet, sporting steady steps and a practiced gait. He would have recognized the way they walked. Frank had that same walk.

As it was, however, he only realized their presence just fast enough to take the full assault head-on as the first shots flew from the Thompson sub-machine guns, passing through friends, flesh, and bone before impacting against the brick wall..

The two newcomers sprayed the men from left to right and back again. One spit lead from a fifty round drum, the other from a twenty round clip. They saved no shells.

John May caught two in the wrist and four up his right arm on the first pass. The return saw two more pierce his chest before a .45 slug took his face and lodged in his skull, leaving him so disfigured that it would take his brother James over an hour to positively identify his body. Heyer's knees were shredded before he dropped down to take twelve more in the abdomen. Albey got lucky at first, eight rounds of flesh wounds to the arms and legs before a stinger put a hole in his liver the size of a tennis ball. Gorilla took four in his large rump and three in such close succession that they left his right arm dangling by a tendon. The one that went through his mouth on the way back was just icing. He was already gone. The twenty five bullets that passed through Reinhardt, including a shotgun blast from one of the "police officers" left him in such bad shape that he would have to carried away on two stretchers to keep his body together. Peter Gusenberg took two through the neck, killing him instantly. Nine more slugs shook his lifeless body after it hit the ground. But Frank got it the worst.

Not because he was shot the most. He took fourteen shells, less than Reinhardt. And not because he was the most disfigured, John May held that distinction. Frank was shot once in shoulder, twice in the right arm, four times in his right hip, once in the back, twice in the buttocks, and four times between his calf and right ankle.

No, Frank was the unluckiest because he lived.

When the Tommy's hit empty, every member of the gang lay dead, except Frank, who was alive enough when he slumped to the floor to see the horrified face of George Ziegler--smoke wafting from the barrel of his gun--staring at Frank and then down at his machine gun and back, as if trying to figure out how he'd shot a bullet clear up to Detroit.

Frank wasn't supposed to be there, and, by the look of his mangled form, he wouldn't be for long. Especially if anyone but George realized he hadn't been killed in the hail of bullets.

None of the other attackers realized that Frank still lived. They laughed and clapped backs and admired their handiwork. The younger Gusenberg was a portrait of blood, gore-spattered from his own injuries and those of his friends, a horror to behold, his breathing so shallow that no one would have noticed, not unless that shallow breathing meant everything to the person watching. Which, of course, it did to George.

The lovers locked eyes for an instant. Both frozen by circumstance. The slightest indication, even a stray movement, from either would doom them both. Neither said a word. Neither made a sound.

Highball howled, long and hard and ugly. He howled like nothing had ever howled before. It was grief and anger and guilt expelled from his throat at the greatest volume he could offer. He howled when the killers turned to go, the two dressed as cops walking behind the other two who held their hands up in surrender with shotguns pressed into their backs, as if being arrested. He howled when the murderers passed unmolested through the gathering crowd outside, got into two different get away cars and sped away. He howled when one of the roomers from across the street walked into the garage to see what all the commotion was and walked out just as quickly, face white as a sheet. He howled when the cops arrived, then the meat wagon with its blaring siren. He howled when one of the real officers said, "this one's still breathing," and then loaded the gravely wounded man into the ambulance and took him to the hospital. When they took him off to the pound Highball was still howling. He never stopped howling again.

Frank never made a sound, but his lips mouthed the words of a silent song.

Wenn der Beltz em Loch hat-

stop es zu meine liebe Liese

Womit soll ich es zustopfen --

mit Stroh, meine liebe Liese

****

Hours later, a detective in a trench sat beside Frank Gusenberg's hospital bed. The thug was beyond help. It was a miracle he'd survived as long as he had. Moran's best assassin would never see the evening.

The detective asked the questions again. "Tell me who did this, Frank. Tell me who shot you." There was no answer. The gangster hadn't said a word since his admission, least nothing in English. "Was it Capone's men? Did they line you up against the wall?" Not even a nod to acknowledge the obvious. "Your brother is dead. You're dying. Do you know that, Frank? These men killed your brother. They've killed you. Tell me who shot your brother. Tell me who shot you."

Frank looked at the detective and gave the saddest of smiles before uttering the last words he would ever say. "It was nobody. Nobody shot me."

No matter how he was pressed, he would say nothing further. Frank Gusenberg died in the late afternoon, St. Valentine's Day, 1929.

****

That evening, on the other side of the city, a group of hatchet men drank gin and bragged in loud voices around the kitchen table of a hotel suite about the job they'd just pulled. All except George Ziegler who sat somber as a statue, his taste for gin curiously absent, staring at the silver gift with the gold bow that the delivery boy had brought. He'd been staring at it for the better part of two hours.

"What's with the present, Shotgun?" One of the others asked him eventually.

"It's my birthday."

"Well, happy birthday! Todays is double happy, then, even if we didn't get Bugs. I swore it was him in that grey coat. Aren't you going to open it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because yesterday's spoiled."

*

Thank you for reading my story. I hope you liked it. As I said earlier, this is a contest piece, so I'd truly appreciate your votes. Even more, however, I'd love your feedback. I come here to improve my writing and discuss the craft with my fellow authors and readers. You are my patrons and my teachers. Please share your thoughts with me.

A special thanks to my muses on this one, stlgoddessfreya and patientlee. The first for always challenging me (Happy birthday, schatzi. Knowing you puts ink in my veins.) and the second for reminding me that the greatest failure we can experience as writers is to stick to the safe corners of our imaginations.

If you are curious about the true events that inspired this story, I offer you this synopsis.

Chicago's gang war reached its bloody climax in the so-called St. Valentine's Day Massacre of 1929. One of Capone's longtime enemies, the Irish gangster George "Bugs" Moran, ran his bootlegging operations out of a garage on the North Side of Chicago. On February 14, seven members of Moran's operation were gunned down while standing lined up, facing the wall of the garage. Some 70 rounds of ammunition were fired. When police officers from Chicago's 36th District arrived, they found one gang member, Frank Gusenberg, barely alive. In the few minutes before he died, they pressed him to reveal what had happened, but Gusenberg wouldn't talk.

Police could find only a few eyewitnesses, but eventually concluded that gunmen dressed as police officers had entered the garage and pretended to be arresting the men. Though Moran and others immediately blamed the massacre on Capone's gang, the famous gangster himself claimed to have been at his home in Florida at the time. No one was ever brought to trial for the murders.

Byron Bolton, sometimes sidekick and valet to Frank Goetz aka "Shotgun" George Ziegler, confessed some years later that he had been the lookout, and that Ziegler and another hired gun had joined to out-of-town thugs dressed as police officers in the killings. According to Bolton, the plan had been only to lure a few of the North Side Gang, particularly Bugs Moran who escaped death that day on account of being late, but when confronted with seven men had no choice but to murder them all and quickly escape. Especially surprising, was the presence of the dangerous Gusenberg brothers, Frank and Peter, who were reported to be out of town that day on business.