Joe found a
photograph from the Roaring Twenties hidden in the drawer of an old desk.
Apparently taken at a sporting event it showed a woman – Julia – looking
straight at the camera, although the focus of the camera was really a man
sitting close by; the infamous Scarface.
Joe agreed
to do what Julia wanted: she wanted him to ‘ice’ his wife. They made their plans.
Julia gave him a gun and then….
Well, you
can read what happens next in Part Four of Snorky’s
Moll. Enjoy!
* * *
SNORKY’S MOLL
By N. G. Edwards
'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,
And that hath dazzled my reason's light;
Proteus, of Julia, The Two Gentlemen of Verona: II, iv
PART FOUR
Three days
later the Bears played host in a pre-season against the Packers, hoping to
avenge their 21-34 defeat at the tail of the previous NFC regular. My future
late-wife’s boyfriend was a new draft bought in to try and stiffen the defense,
and Celia would be attending the game as his guest. Julia’s plan was for me to
tail Celia from the hotel she was staying at, follow her into the stadium and
wait for a suitable moment when I could get close enough to… do it, then make
my escape in the inevitable panic. Julia would be waiting at a prearranged spot
on Museum Campus Drive. It all sounded straightforward when she explained how
it would work. What could go wrong?
The first part was easy. Triple-I had corporate
hospitality passes, of course, and it was a simple matter for me, as a still
remembered face, to pick one up from the C&CB the day before the game. The
game was to kick off at six-thirty and I’d already found out where Celia was
staying. Three forty-five found me in a taxi outside her address, waiting for
her to leave for the venue, which she did in her own cab at four o’clock. I
instructed my driver to keep us out of sight which, with hindsight, was
unnecessary. I knew where she was going so I could as easily have got there
early and just waited. To tell the truth, though, I enjoyed that little
cloak-and-dagger play. It added to the sense of fantasy that had woven itself
around me and helped, I think, to gird my psyche against the grisly act I was
about to commit.
Soldier
Field is an immense landmark. I read up about it – I figured I ought to. Originally
called the Grant Park Municipal Stadium, it was renamed in 1925 at the request
of the Chicago Gold Star Mothers. The place was the venue for many famous
events, including the ‘long count’ between Dempsey and Tunney in ’27. Renowned
as the home of the Bears, in fact it wasn’t until ’71 that the team moved
across from Wrigley Field to take up residence under Jim Dooley.
Crowds were already gathering when I arrived,
ready for the box offices to open. Skirting these I headed straight for the VIP
entrance, spotting Celia as she passed within. I hurried after her, conscious
of the unaccustomed weight nestling in the small of my back, but I pulled up
short when I saw security guards hovering. They were scanning visitors – even
the VIPs – as they approached the lobby. A sign of our age, of course,
following the dreadful events of 9-11. Everyone was conscious of the threat to
our great nation and searches were a commonplace occurrence, even when going to
a ball game.
I should have expected this but I didn’t. I was
totally without experience when it came to criminal acts (at least, outside the
boardroom) which is why security before the event never even crossed my mind. I
guessed it hadn’t crossed Julia’s mind, either; at least, not that she
mentioned – hardly surprising, I suppose, as this sort of scrutiny would have
been unheard of in her day, outside a presidential visit. I tagged onto the
rear of a party and hoped that I might be overlooked. Not everyone was being
frisked. The guards were exercising some discretion in choosing their victims,
or maybe they were just working on a quota; either way I was unlucky. I was one
of those who were targeted.
“Hands out to the sides, sir,” I was told. The
man scanned my sides and legs with a device that looked like a spiral stove
plate attached to a handle. “Turn around, sir,” he instructed. Sweating profusely
I realized there was no way I was going to get away with this. I was about to
make an excuse and try to back out when there was a commotion down the line.
There came a shout and I caught sight of a young man with greasy hair, dressed
in faded denim, dashing away. Why he was running I’ve no idea but the guard
looking after me decided he’d find more fun joining a co-worker in a chase than
continuing to check out a middle-aged man whose heart was racing harder than it
had for a decade. I was in the clear. I dabbed at my forehead with a
handkerchief, silently prayed my heart would survive the stress, and moved on.
The lobby and bar of the United Club were
packed. Concierges ushered, waiters toted drinks, pretty hostesses with bright,
plastic smiles mingled, while the affluent – and in greater numbers the
aspiring affluent – sauntered to reserved tables or otherwise milled about
looking rich and important. Celia was on the far side, attended by her beau and
a few other notables of the footballing fraternity. How many people were there
I’ve no idea but hundreds, easily. I figured this had to be my best opportunity
and locating a convenient place where I could make my final preparations
without drawing any attention, pulled on a pair of colorless latex gloves and
swiftly transferred the Colt into my jacket side pocket, next to the
photograph. The moment had arrived.
Ever since I’d left the hotel I’d mentally
played out this scene over and over, all the time with an echo of Julia’s words
when she gave me my final instructions.
Just take it easy, she’d said. Don’t do anything stupid like
shout or run. Get as close as you can and put the gun to her head. Two bullets,
okay? Then drop the piece and turn and walk away. Everyone else will be
panicking and you can use that as cover. Nobody’ll hardly notice you. You’ll do
great, baby. I know you will. Remember I love you.
Breathe. She’d forgotten to tell me I had to
breathe and I was only half way across the room when I remembered to do so
myself. My muscles were aching with the stress of my mission, and every forward
step I took was like my feet were made of lead. The sounds of the crowd grew
louder, but duller at the same time, scores of conversations merging to an
unintelligible roar that filled my ears. Not far now. There she was, Celia,
clear and sharp while everyone around her was blurred, a tableau of faceless
manikins fawning around a demon goddess who basked in their worship. Nearly
there. Time to lift up the gun. Why was my arm so heavy? As I pulled back the hammer
all other noises ceased and the world became a silent similitude of reality,
where movement was so slow as to be almost unnoticeable. But now the goddess
was turning, slowly, recognition dawning on her face. I could see the gun in my
hand and marveled at how steady it was, light reflecting from its cold,
efficient metal barrel. The manikins were beginning to move also but they would
be too late to interfere. I placed the muzzle against her forehead and squeezed
the trigger. Her eyes were wide, her mouth opening but the only sound was the
explosion of the bullet as it smashed through her skull. The weapon recoiled,
sending my second shot high. But it didn’t matter; the first missile had done
all that was necessary. My arm descended, the pistol slipping from my fingers.
Why was Celia still standing? She wasn’t. She was collapsing, slowly and
delicately, like a snowflake falling on a breathless winter’s day.
I watched her death with a dreadful
fascination. Almost I couldn’t pull myself away but then a different movement
caught my eye. I forced myself to turn. Julia. Why was she here? Why wasn’t she
waiting outside as we’d arranged? And why was she looking like that, a gout of
blood pouring from the side of her head? The world was beginning to catch up
and her fall was quicker than Celia’s had been. As she dropped to the ground
another figure was revealed behind her, a broad figure with a hard face and
dead eyes looking out from beneath a fedora. He carried a gun that seemed
identical to mine. And it was pointing at me.
I turned as the shot was fired, and felt the
agony of ripping flesh in my arm. Time resumed its normal cadence and I ran,
one with a host of others screaming and shouting to get away from the violence.
I think there was another shot but I just kept running and didn’t stop until I
was out of the building and away. When I finally staggered to a halt I crumpled
to the street and threw up. There was no sound of pursuit. I threw up some
more.
Twelve
months have gone by. I’d done what I set out to do, what I’d been urged to do
by the promise of a woman in a photograph. Celia was dead. And so was the
promise.
My arm had healed up. The bullet had passed
through leaving only tissue damage, and it was a simple matter to find a doctor
who’d treat the injury without prying as to how the wound had come about. After
a while a scar was all that was left to physically mark the event.
The local rags were full of the story at the
time, of course. It even made the nationals after somebody in the criminal
investigation team revealed that the gun used to kill Celia carried only the
prints of Al Capone. I figured that the police would come question me once they
learned who Celia was and I figured also that it wouldn’t be easy to explain
away the bullet hole. That’s why I decided I should get away, turn myself into
someone else, someone who wouldn’t attract the attention of law enforcement.
I was rich and with my wealth I was able to buy
a new life in which to hide from the misdeeds of my first. In fact I’ve changed
my identity three times since that signal day. Not especially to evade the
police, although certainly they were looking for me. No. You see, others were
hunting me, also, and when they came close I took no chance and moved on.
Julia had said it was impossible for her to
commit the murder, which was why – and maybe this was the sole reason, if I’m
brutally honest – she said she needed me. My best guess is that there was some
law of the universe or – why not? – God that restricted interaction between the
planes of her existence and mine. But if that were the case, why was it that
the other pistol’s shot had been able to find its target? Me. I can only
surmise that either Julia had lied to me – which for some reason I still find
hard to believe – or else my physical association with Snorky’s moll had
blurred the separation between our realms, allowing direct action to occur. I
don’t know, and probably never will – at least, not in this life. All I do
know is that my existence is now a torture of fearful waiting, running, and
constantly looking over my shoulder.
That’s why I said existence – it could never be
called a life.
It’s cold,
this morning. From the window of my rented room I can see an old-fashioned
black sedan parked across the street. There are four men inside. I think
they’ve found me.
END
* * *
©2014 by Nigel Edwards. All rights reserved
Copyright of Cover Images remains with their originators: http://www.retrokimmer.com/ and http://4.bp.blogspot.com/
Also by the
same author:
Badger’s
Waddle, published
by Greyheart Press
The
Cookie Tin,
published by Greyheart Press
The
Cookie Tin Collection,
published by Greyheart Press
Garrison, published by Greyheart Press
Ferryman, published by Greyheart Press
Waif, published by Greyheart Press
The
Tower, published in
the anthology Shoes, Ships and Cadavers by NewCon Press
The Last
Star, published in
the anthology Looking Landwards by NewCon Press
And The
Scrapdragon series, written for young people age 10 and up, but suitable
from age 8 and available on Kindle:
The
Scrapdragon Book 1 - An Adventure Begins: A Tom-Tom Burrow Adventure, published on Kindle
The
Scrapdragon Book 2 - To Find A Sorcerer: A Tom-Tom Burrow Adventure, published on Kindle
The
Scrapdragon Book 3 - Bullies And Monsters: A Tom-Tom Burrow Adventure, published on Kindle
The
Scrapdragon Book 4 - Fear & Courage: A Tom-Tom Burrow Adventure, published on Kindle
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