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BY SOME MIRACLE, FREDDIE’S hesitant telephone request to arrange a meeting with Big Mike McDonald had met with a favorable reply. A day later, the hour of that appointment had arrived, and Freddie stood on the corner of Clark and Monroe streets, gazing with serious trepidation at the four-story edifice that dominated the northwest corner of the intersection. It was McDonald’s favorite spot to hold court, even though it had the air of a derelict office building with no sign of movement on the street level. This made quite a change from the building’s activity in its heyday. Known as “the Store,” it had been the most famous gambling palace in the entire city of Chicago. While the first floor of the establishment had once housed a legal cigar shop and liquor distribution business, the second floor was devoted to games of chance for high rollers that ran 24 hours a day, seven days a week. The third floor consisted of the Palace European Hotel, which amounted to little more than a glorified rooming house for out-of-town gamblers, while the top floor held the family living quarters of the Store’s owner—Big Mike McDonald. Also known as King Mike or simply the Boss, he had ruled Chicago behind the scenes for decades with the absolute power of an oriental potentate.
Freddie mentally reviewed the list of facts that he knew about the man. McDonald began his criminal career while still a fresh-faced boy, working trains on the east coast as a candy butcher—the youngsters who sold sweets, newspapers, and sundries to passengers. McDonald proved more enterprising than his fellows by selling phony raffle tickets and half-empty boxes of candy to unsuspecting patrons. Looking to expand his reach, he experimented with various other bunco schemes before setting his sights on Chicago in 1854.
At the time of his arrival, most games of chance were held in the shantytown known as the Sands. When then-mayor Long John Wentworth burned down this den of iniquity in 1857, gambling became decentralized. McDonald struck upon the audacious idea of a permanent gambling location in the heart of the downtown business district. When one of McDonald’s cronies worried that they wouldn’t be able to attract enough business to such a huge operation, McDonald said, “Don’t worry about that. There’s a sucker born every minute.” While that phrase was later attributed to circus impresario P.T. Barnum, those words were first uttered by the Boss.
Not content to limit himself to gambling, McDonald found other ways to bilk unsuspecting individuals and institutions. During the Civil War, he talked men into joining the army to collect a $300 enlistment bounty. The new recruits would desert and enlist under a different name elsewhere. McDonald pocketed half the bounty and organized a ring of bounty jumpers who operated throughout the country. His powers of persuasion must have been considerable since bounty jumping was a hanging offense.
After the war, McDonald expanded his gambling operation but realized that he needed political influence to stabilize the profits from his various enterprises. Therefore, he struck upon the idea of getting a friendly candidate elected mayor and thus began his career as a Democratic Party kingpin. Election after election, his political machine reliably delivered the Democratic vote, and grateful politicians rewarded him with fat municipal contracts.
Aside from his political endeavors, McDonald also organized a network of hoodlums and thieves to do his dirty work. Bunco artists and pickpockets robbed unsuspecting visitors to the city while the Boss’s thugs intimidated small business owners into paying protection money. When the law threatened to intervene, blackmail became a handy way to influence city officials to see things Mike’s way. Rival bosses who coveted a share of McDonald’s business simply disappeared and were never seen again. Despite his shady dealings, McDonald maintained his own peculiar code of ethics. He was heard to say, “Stick to your friends and keep your word.” By all accounts, he followed those precepts to the letter.
King Mike eventually rose to such prominence in the city that the second floor of the Store was viewed as the unofficial city hall. Whenever somebody had a problem or needed a favor, the common advice was, “Check with Mike.” In 1891, the reform city government finally succeeded in shutting down the Store, signaling the end of the gambling palace’s glory days, as well as King Mike’s reign. The casino floor of the building had been converted to office space for the Democratic County Campaign Committee, where McDonald still presided as an elder statesman.
At the age of 56, McDonald didn’t object to the changing of the guard because his attention was diverted elsewhere. By the end of 1894, he had divorced his first wife and married an ex-vaudevillian Jewish divorcee who was 31 years younger than he. The couple maintained an active social life and spent a good deal of their time engaged in the amorous pursuits of newlyweds. The result was that King Mike no longer cared to rule Chicago with an iron hand.
Freddie contemplated all these unsettling details about McDonald’s character as he prepared to enter the old lion’s den. He prayed that the rumors about McDonald mellowing with age were true. The man possessed a famously vicious temper, made worse by drink, and had beaten any number of people who displeased him over the years, including a 60-year-old woman. The reporter gulped in trepidation as he crossed the street and walked through the entrance.
Contrary to his expectations, nobody barred Freddie’s access to the building. The first floor was entirely deserted. He looked around until he located the stairs leading to the second floor. As he ascended, the reporter muttered imprecations under his breath aimed at Evangeline. She had sent him down some strange avenues of inquiry in the past. His forays into the red-light district on previous cases carried the risk of embarrassment, but none involved a physical threat to his life. Today might turn out differently. He paused to catch his breath at the top of the stairs and was accosted by a street tough wearing a bowler and a vest who had just emerged from a nearby office.
“You got business here?” The tough glared belligerently.
Freddie straightened his tie and tried to sound confident. “Why, yes. I have an appointment with Mr. McDonald.”
“Do you, now.” The tough sized him up and appeared unconvinced. “Stay put while I check.” He stalked down the central corridor to an office at the far end.
Freddie could see him poke his head through an open doorway and could hear the rumble of an indistinct response.
The tough returned a few moments later. He jerked his head, indicating that Freddie should follow him. “This way.”
The reporter scanned the offices on either side of the corridor as he passed. All the doors were shut. Voices raised in agitated conversation could be heard emanating from many of the open transoms. Freddie winced when he heard a slap followed by a muffled scream coming from behind one door. He concluded that the day-to-day business of the Campaign Committee was transacted with the help of fisticuffs.
The tough halted in front of McDonald’s office. Grabbing Freddie by the shoulder, he unceremoniously shoved him through the door and stepped back a few paces. “You want I should stay, Boss?”
A well-dressed gentleman seated in a wing chair studied the reporter and chuckled. “No. This one won’t give me any trouble. Will you, Mr. Simpson?”
Freddie cleared his throat nervously. Trying not to stutter, he replied, “No, sir.”
“Take a seat.” McDonald gestured to a wing chair angled to face his own. The two seats were separated by a round occasional table. Turning to his bodyguard, he said, “Wait in the hall. I’ll call if I need you.”
The tough nodded and backed out the door.
Freddie glanced around the office and was surprised not to see a desk or bookshelves. The room seemed to function as a small parlor to receive visitors rather than to conduct any serious business. His attention settled on the man seated to his right. Given McDonald’s formidable reputation, Freddie had expected a titan. Instead, he saw a paunchy middle-aged man whose handlebar mustache was rapidly turning gray and whose head was rapidly going bald. He looked like any other well-to-do captain of industry in the city except for one feature—his eyes. There was a feverish intensity to McDonald’s gaze. Freddie reminded himself that the man was a gambler by profession. That meant he liked to take risks. Perhaps, he even felt a compulsion to take them. Spectacular losses might fuel his need for excitement, even more than spectacular gains. He certainly liked dangerous women. His first wife, Mary, had been charged with attempted murder, and his second wife, Dora, was just as emotionally volatile and adept at dispending swift justice with a gun. The Boss apparently didn’t mind putting himself in harm’s way. These insights did little to allay Freddie’s anxieties.
At the moment, McDonald appeared intent on putting his guest at ease. With a bland smile, he asked, “Will you have a drink with me, Mr. Simpson?”
Sensing the dire repercussions of a refusal, Freddie responded with alacrity. “Of course. I’d be happy to.”
McDonald called out, “Thumbs! Fetch whiskey and two glasses.”
The tough down the hall appeared in less than a minute with the drinks. Setting a bottle and glasses down on the table, he vanished without a word.
While McDonald poured, Freddie tried to make small talk. “Thumbs. That’s an interesting nickname. Why do you call him that?”
Handing Freddie a glass, McDonald grinned wickedly. “You really don’t want to know.”
“Absolutely.” The reporter back-pedaled. “None of my business anyway.” He held up his glass. “To your health, sir.”
“And to yours,” Big Mike replied. He downed the contents of his glass in one gulp, observing Freddie sip more slowly. “At least you’re no teetotaler.”
“No, sir. You can ask Doc Hennessey to vouch for me on that point.”
“Hennessey.” McDonald nodded approvingly. “Me and him go way back. He’s a good man.” The Boss poured himself another glass and settled back in his chair to gaze at his visitor speculatively. “So, I’m asking myself why one of Medill’s newshounds wants to meet with me.”
Freddie nervously gulped down the rest of his drink and placed his glass on the table. “Uh... you... uh... know that I work for the Tribune?”
McDonald cocked his head to one side. “It’s my business to know everything that goes on in this town.”
“Exactly!” Freddie saw an opening and pounced. “That’s why I’m here.”
The Boss seemed intrigued by the unexpected response. “Go on. I’m listening.”
“I haven’t come to see you as a reporter. What we say is strictly off the record. You see, I also do some investigating work as a sideline.” Forestalling the inevitable question to follow, Freddie held up his hand. “Before you even ask, I’m not connected with the police. They’ve come to hate me and my associate because we solve cases they can’t.”
This remark earned a hearty guffaw from McDonald. He refilled Freddie’s glass. “Then, me and you have that in common, at least. Years ago, somebody came around asking for donations to bury a copper. You know what I told him? ‘Here’s ten bucks. Bury five of ‘em!’”
Freddie had heard this quip before through the rumor mill, but he laughed politely anyway.
Taking a slower sip from his glass, McDonald asked, “What are you investigating?”
Freddie leaned forward confidentially in his chair even though nobody was within earshot. “An item was recently stolen from the Field Columbian Museum. I was wondering if you might know anything about that.”
In a split second, McDonald’s expression turned fierce. “Are you calling me a thief?”
“No, sir!” Freddie drew back in his chair and objected emphatically. “I only came to you because it’s like you said. You know everything that goes on in this town.”
“That I do.” The older man relaxed. “Just so long as you aren’t calling me a thief.”
“I would never do that!” Freddie’s tone was so earnest that it had the desired effect of mollifying the Boss.
McDonald gazed at the ceiling as he pondered the matter. “I heard some of the boys talking about a ruckus by the museum a couple of nights back. The deliveryman got stabbed, right?”
“Yes, he did. What’s puzzling is why anybody would want the thing that was stolen. It was a small golden statue of an Egyptian queen. There were far more valuable items in that shipment, but the thief wasn’t interested. He only took the statue.”
“That is a puzzle.” McDonald rubbed his jaw. “The bigger puzzle is why you’d think I would want to help you figure it out.” He treated Freddie to a piercing stare.
The reporter tried not to blink or look away from the frosty glare. He kept his tone conversational. “Because I remember a story that I heard about you during the year of the World’s Fair. It was said that you sent down word to all the confidence tricksters and pickpockets in town. They were to keep out of the fairgrounds. Any mark was fair game until they walked through the gates, but not after. You said that you didn’t want Chicago to lose standing in the world. That it wouldn’t do to have millions of people come to the Exposition and then go home and say that this wasn’t a safe town to visit.”
Freddie paused to assess how McDonald was taking his story.
A slow smile spread over the Boss’s features. “You’ve got a head on your shoulders, sleuthhound. I’ll give you that.”
The reporter continued his explanation. “When I heard that story, it struck me that you must care about Chicago’s reputation. Everything left over from the Exposition is housed in the Field Museum now. Its director and curators are trying to make the institution the equal of the great museums of Europe by collecting new artifacts from all corners of the world.” He paused and leaned forward to drive his argument home. “It stands to reason that they can’t elevate the museum’s status if somebody starts pilfering their prize exhibits.”
McDonald seemed to be adding up a column of figures in his head. Calculating odds. After a minute’s silence, he nodded his head decisively. “You studied your mark.” Giving Freddie a somewhat kinder gaze, he added, “You might have had the makings of a fine grifter if you hadn’t gone the other way and followed Medill.”
Before Freddie could offer a protest, Big Mike continued. “All right, then. I’ll look into this matter for you.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. McDonald!” Freddie didn’t have to feign enthusiasm. “Here’s my card.” He handed the crime boss his contact information. “You can get word to me anytime.” Eager to end the interview, Freddie sprang out of his chair.
“Just a second, sleuthhound.”
The reporter froze in his tracks.
“None of my boys had anything to do with the museum job. That much, I already know. You’re looking for somebody new in town.”
“New?” Freddie echoed the word uncomprehendingly. “Whoever stole the artifact had to know when the shipment was delivered and exactly which item to take. Who would have the kind of pull to arrange something like that besides one of your crew?”
McDonald raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I plan to find out. Nobody fleeces the sheep in Chicago besides me and my boys. This is still my town.” He directed his attention past Freddie and bawled, “Thumbs!”
A second later, the tough rounded the corner. “Yes, Boss?”
“Escort this gentleman from the premises.”
Thumbs gave an evil leer and began cracking his knuckles in anticipation of a dust-up.
“Politely!” McDonald warned. “Mr. Simpson is a new friend of mine.”
The tough appeared crestfallen but obeyed. “This way,” he murmured despondently to Freddie.
Once outside the building, Freddie exhaled in relief. He checked that all his limbs were still attached. He failed to note that the slight tremor in his hands didn’t subside until he was safely back at his desk in the Tribune newsroom.