Some Like it Cold Chapter 1
Some Like it Cool
Chicago, Illinois 1929, the time of such men as Eliot Ness and Al Capone, Federal agent and Mobster battling it out over the law and lawlessness and control over the streets and cities nationwide. Prohibition was at its height, providing the organized crime syndicate with its most profitable business to date; the speakeasy where under the guise of coffee or some other ‘legal’ format, the sale and consumption of alcohol was found and frequented by man. Since such places were hidden to prevent Federal Agents from putting them out of business, many businesses became places of suspect. Even Funeral Homes, especially if they were frequented by many mourners that looked like they just left an Iris Wake.
Mozarella’s Funeral Home had such type of visitors, mainly because it was the front for a speakeasy that was believed to be run and owned by the notorious mobster Acastus ‘Spats’ Kolya. Tonight the joint was hopping with people, the room filled with smoke, the music loud and the girls are tap-dancing their hearts out. The captain of the chorus line looks toward the bandstand, grinned and winked at the best looking man present; John Sheppard, the saxophone player. John winked back. His friend and roommate Aiden Ford, who was thumping the bass-fiddle behind him, leaned forward and taped John on the shoulder to get his attention.
“Say, John - tonight's the night, isn't it?” Aiden asked.
“I’ll say,” John said, while keeping his eyes on the tap-dancer, not really paying much attention to Ford. John Sheppard enjoyed the saxophone, but liked drums more, but knew he wouldn’t be able to lug something that big around and the saxophone was easy to keep track of. Of course being a musician wasn’t his first choice in life, but there wasn’t a lot of options for a kid of a single mother who was down and out in New Jersey, so he learned to play; not only instruments, but eventually people, as he was very aware he was good looking. He wasn’t seeking commitment, just for what he needed to get buy, as that was the way of the world, according to his mother and his father, who split when he was just six. That was the way he learned it by watching those around him as he grew and watched over and over again, people using one another and getting ahead, and how honest folks like his mother and he continued to do without, until there was nothing left. It was a lesson he learned well.
Aiden Ford, not an overly handsome man, but fair in the looks department, continues to play his part, but rolled his eyes at the lack of his friend’s attention. He knows John’s a good guy at heart…deep at heart. But ever since John’s mother died, he plastered on this laid back, good time Charlie façade, and Ford was getting tired of it. But at the moment he had other concerns. “I mean, we get paid tonight, don't we?” he asked.
John stopped playing long enough to take out the mouthpiece from his saxophone, and wetted the reed. “Yeah, why?” John replied, his eyes still on the blond dancer who was giving him the eye and possible more if things went well tonight.
Ford pointed to his jaw, “Because I lost a filling in my back tooth.” Ford opened his mouth as if by showing John his tooth, it’ll really matter to his friend. Then he closes it and plays a bit more of the song. “I gotta go to the dentist tomorrow.”
John turned to look at Ford as if he’s nuts. “Dentist? We have been out of work for four months - and you want to blow your first week's pay on your teeth?”
“It's just a little inlay - it doesn't even have to be gold,” Ford whined, almost begged.
John shook his head, “How can you be so selfish? We owe back rent - we're in for eighty-nine bucks to Moe's Delicatessen - we're being sued by three Chinese lawyers because our check bounced at the laundry.” John played a few notes and then looked aback at Ford and pointed to the girls on stage. “We've borrowed money from every girl in the line.”
Ford looked contrite. “You're right, John.”
“Of course I am,” John smirked, feeling satisfied with the outcome of their conversation.
“First thing tomorrow we're going to pay everybody a little something on account,” Ford added, feeling it’s the least they can do.
John shook his head, “No we're not.”
“We're not?” Ford asked, and then waited for John to finish his part of the song so he could explain.
John had gone back to flirting with the blond on stage, even as he replyed to Ford’s question. “No, first thing tomorrow we're going out to the dog track and put the whole bundle on Greased Lightning.”
Ford stopped playing he’s so stunned. John had never been like this before his mother died. John believed in saving and working for an honest buck. Now it seemed John had done a one-eighty and was constantly chasing the fast get rich quick bus. “You're going to bet my money on a dog?”
“He's a shoo-in. I got the word from Max the waiter - his brother-in-law is the electrician who wires the rabbit,” John told Ford, trying to convince him this was the right thing to do, while keeping eye contact with the blond that might be offering up a nice warm bed tonight…hers.
Ford interrupted John’s concentration by slapping John on the back of the head, but managed himself not to lose track of where he was playing in the jazz song that is still going on. “What are you giving me with the rabbit?” he asked with disgust.
Rubbing his hair, wishing he could get it to lay down flat like the other guys, even if some of the women liked it, he turned a glare at Ford, then pulled out sheet of paper from inside his pocket and unfold it so Ford could read it. “Look at those odds - ten to one. If he wins, we can pay everybody.”
Ford shook his own head, for John was taking stupid risks again. “But suppose he loses?”
John gave Ford his charming-friend-smile, “What are you worried about? This job is going to last a long time.”
“But suppose it doesn't?” Ford asked, for jobs were hard to come by and anything could lead to one losing their employment.
John shook his head, wondering when his best friend became such a Sad-Sack. “Ford-buddy - why do you have to paint everything so black? Suppose you get hit by a truck? Suppose the stock market crashes?”
Ford, slapping the bass, is no longer listening. His eyes have strayed to a man sitting at the nearest table, puffing on the cigar. It isn't drawing too well, so the man reaches under his coat, unpins his Department of Justice badge from his vest. Using the pin of the shining badge, he pokes a hole in the wet end of the cigar. Ford has stopped playing, and is watching the man’s operation with morbid fascination. John, completely unaware, continued talking.
“Suppose Mary Pickford divorces Douglas Fairbanks?” John said to Ford, not noticing that Ford isn’t listening anymore.
Ford nudges John, “Hey, John!”
“Suppose Lake Michigan overflows?” John continued while still not paying attention, letting his mouth do what it needed to do, as he goes back to flirting with the blond dancer.
Ford whacked John on the shoulder, finally getting John’s attention. “Don't look now - but the whole town is under water!” Ford nods toward the man with the Federal Agent badge. John looked. Then, without another word, they both start packing their instruments, knowing it was wise to make a break for it while they still could, as even working in joints like this meant jail time and they didn’t have anyone who could pay bail much less would want too.
Meanwhile, the agent pins the badge back on, and checks his wrist-watch. He does a soft countdown to himself then he glances to the door from the funeral parlor and right on cue a pair of police axes smash through the door. Instant pandemonium breaks loose in the speakeasy. The music stops, women scream, customers, chorus girls and waiter scramble toward the side doors. But they too are splintering under the assault of the police axes. The crowd falls back, milling around frantically.
The man stood up, cupped his hands to his mouth, and roared at the top of his lungs. “All right, everybody - this is a raid. I'm a Federal Agent Caldwell, and you're all under arrest.”
The policemen start rounding up the customers and employees, and are herding them toward the exits. On the bandstand, John and Ford have packed their instruments, and start to fight their way through the melee, toward some stairs leading up and hopefully away from the cops. The quickly find an alcove to hide in to wait for things to settle before trying to slip out. From their position they watch the chaos below.
Caldwell, with a couple of policemen in tow, approached a table where there are five men in suites sitting calmly, with glasses of white liquid before them. It wasn’t hard for John or Ford to determine from their alcove that the man with the white spats on his shoes was in charge and probably the owner of the Speak easy and his entourage his henchmen, which meant they were mobsters. “Okay, Spats - the services are over. Lets go,” Caldwell said.
“Go where?” Acastus ‘Spats’ Kolya asked, looking calm and a tad puzzled to why Caldwell is even talking to him.
Caldwell took a puff on his cigar and blew it into Spats’ face. “A little country club we run for retired bootleggers. I'm gonna put your name up for membership.”
Kolya looked annoyed, but played it calm, “I never join nothin'.”
Caldwell puffed heavily on the cigar again, knowing it was offending the man, “You'll like it there. I'll have the prison tailor fit you with a pair of special spats - striped!” Caldwell began chuckling as did some of the officers around him.
Spats turned to his men, “Big joke,” he dead-paned, and then looked back at Caldwell, his eyes showing he’s had enough of the man. “What’s the rap this time?”
Caldwell smirked, “Embalming people with coffee - eighty-six proof.”
“Me? I'm just a customer here,” Spats replied, trying to look innocent, and failing miserably, for he sports the kind of face that shouted MOBSTER from the day he was born.
“Come on, Spats - we know you own this joint. Mozarella is just fronting for you,” Caldwell replied knowingly…too knowingly.
Spats continued to attempt innocents, “Mozarella? Never heard of him.”
Caldwell snorted, “We got different information.”
Spats narrowed his eyes as he glared at the Federal Agent, “From who? Toothpick Charlie, maybe?”
Caldwell snorted again, “Toothpick Charlie? Never heard of him.” He then picked up Spats' glass, and sniffed it suspiciously.
“Buttermilk,” one of the henchmen said.
Caldwell is a bit annoyed that he can’t get Spats and his gang on consumption of alcohol along with the other charges he’s planning on racking up against the mobster. “All right -on your feet.”
Spats was getting up slowly, looking very annoyed. “You're wasting the taxpayers' money.”
“If you want to, you can call your lawyer,” Caldwell told him.
Spats pointed to his four men, “These are my lawyers - all Harvard men.”
Caldwell chuckled as he and the two policemen lead Spats and his Harvard men out of the club to be placed in the paddy wagon with the rest of the people who were going to be spending the night in jail, complements of the Chicago police
Outside, the police have rounded up the patrons as well as the employees of the speakeasy and are now focused on the large crowd they are trying to get loaded into the various police vehicles, that no one goes back to the alleyway where a hearse is parked, nor do they take the time to look up on the fire escape of the second floor where John and Ford, carrying their instruments and overcoats, have just climbed through a window onto the fire escape, and are inspecting the scene below. Stealthily they climb down the ladder and drop to the roof of the hearse. Then they scramble over the hood and steal down the alley away from the main street and the police. They stop in the shadows to put on their coats as it’s freezing outside.
“Well, that solves one problem. We don't have to worry about who to pay first,” Ford grumbled.
“Quiet - I'm thinking,” John said, trying to figure out what they’re going to do next. Ford was a good friend, but sometimes, he wondered why he put up with the man; well that was simple Ford was easy to manipulate. Plus he made John laugh and was loyal, a rare thing in John’s world.
“Of course, the landlady is going to lock us out - Moe said no more knackwurst on credit and we can't borrow any more from the girls, because they're on their way to jail,” Ford pointed out as the wind blew harder.
John sighed with frustration, “Shut up, will you? I wonder how much Sam the Bookie will give us for our overcoats?”
Ford looked abashed, “Sam the Bookie?” Then it hit Ford just what John was thinking. “Nothing doing! You're not putting my overcoat on that dog!” he snaped at the man. “What’s gotten into you, you never use to take dumb risks like this?”
John looked at Ford with a great deal of seriousness, “What got into me is that I buried my mother in an unmarked grave, since I didn’t have enough money to pay for a proper funeral, and she died in debt.” John took a deep breath, knowing this wasn’t going to get him what he wanted so changed demeanors faster than he change notes on his saxophone. “Besides, I told you - it's a sure thing,” he told Ford, while using his puppy dog expression, knowing it was a sure fire way to get Ford to cooperate.
Ford squirmed, knowing he’ll hate himself in the morning, “But we'll freeze - it's below zero - we'll catch pneumonia.”
John growled softly, wondering if someday he’ll actually manage to have a conversation with someone truly smatter than he was, for it wasn’t going to be today. “Look, stupid, he's ten to one. Tomorrow, we'll have twenty overcoats!”
***************
Toronto, Canada
“I’m not going!” A voice shouted from behind a thick dark oak door.
A lovely blond looking woman folded her arms and turns to the slightly scruffy man standing next to her as they both stand out in the hall. “See what I have to put up with?” she asked the man next to her, looking annoyed and ready to bust the door down with her own two hands.
“Aye,” the man replied. He then banged on the door to be sure he’s got the occupants attention. “You are going or else I will not only declare you unfit, I’ll have you bodily dragged out of here kicking and scream, and wouldn’t the press love a picture of that?” he threatened.
The door suddenly opened and a slightly taller, broader man is standing there looking fearful and angry at the same time. “Carson, you wouldn’t? Jeanie, you wouldn’t…”
“Try me, Rodney,” Carson said, looking fierce. “You’re a mess, Rodney and you need this time off. You get any paler and ghosts will look healthy than you, which is why I’m ordering you to get some sun…aye, you can wear a ton of sunscreen, but you need the vitamin D. And to be sure you get out to the beach, I want you to bring me back a bucket of seashells…hand picked.”
Rodney gaped like a fish, looking at Carson as if he was insane, and looking toward his sister for help, but seeing he wasn’t going to be getting any, lifted his chin in defiance and folded his arms over his chest. “Fine, if I die of too much exposure, or get stung by some jelly-fish or eaten by a shark, I hope you both choke! Or better yet, the Prime Minister puts you both before the firing squad!”
“If you get eaten by a shark I’ll volunteer for it,” Jeanie said, knowing how ridiculous her brother was being. “Now hurry up, the plane is waiting and as you’re fond of saying, time is money, and you are wasting it.”
Rodney trudges passed the two and heads down the hall, looking more like he’s going to his own funeral then vacation. “What am I supposed to do? I mean…it’s…Florida!”
Jeannie and Carson share a smile, “I’m sure you’ll find something to keep you occupied. Besides, you’re there to rest,” Carson replied, patting Rodney on the shoulder.
Rodney sighed heavily. “Fine, when I come back worse than when I left, you’ll both be sorry.”
“Well, glad you’re cheering up, now at lest you’re sure of returning, where moments ago, you were shark bate,” Jeannie grinned.
Carson and Jeanie walk Rodney outside where there is a car waiting for him, his bags already in the trunk. They waved as they watched him slouch into the back seat and pout like a five year old as the car pulled away. Jeanie turned to Carson, some concern on her face. “You’re sure he’ll be okay?”
“Perfectly, lass. I’ve arranged his accommodations personally where I’ve been assured little ever happens. There is no way he’ll be able to get into any trouble…unless he goes looking for it,” Carson replied.
Jeannie sighed sounding nervous. “Well…this is Rodney.”
“Aye,” Carson said and left, a smirk on his face, but things were out of his hands and he too could use a vacation from his high-strung friend and patient. Besides, what kind of trouble could Rodney McKay get into in the short time he was going to be there anyway?
****End of Chapter One****