6

1.

Well Done, Sly. Well Done.

12 Years Later

Cold. Goddamn, what a cold day. A small coal stove in the corner did all it could to warm the frigid warehouse. But wind whipped through the open cargo doors and chilled Sly to the marrow. After all, it was December in St. Paul.

The sweat under Sly’s flat cap had frozen since the last shipment. Whenever he stopped rolling barrels for more than a minute, his dark curls froze to his head.

A train had just arrived. Another of Dapper’s workers ran outside to take care of paying off the engineer leaving Sly to prepare the boxcar for unloading. The train’s belly was chocked full of hooch. Looked to be a big haul and that meant a big wage. Sly smiled and rubbed his hands together. Sly loved money.

After setting the plank ramp from the cargo door to the ware-house floor, he positioned the barrels at the box car’s door just right, then eased them down the ramp, being sure never to lose control along the way. A five-hundred-pound barrel could do a lot of damage, espe-cially if you wound up under it. Splinters by the dozen bore into Sly’s hands. He had become real good at using his teeth to pull them out.

Hauling moonshine off trains hijacked by his boss “Dapper” Dan Hogan kept Sly from freezing solid. And he was paid good. Good

D. B. Moon 7

enough to keep him out of the breadlines. A man like Sly who couldn’t read so great—truth be told, not at all—could make a solid living dur-ing Prohibition. All a guy needed was a strong back and enough balls to pull his gun if he ever needed to get out of a scrape. Sly really loved money.

This train had been “rerouted” from an illegal distillery somewhere up north in Stearns County and was supposed to end up in Chicago. The load caught Dapper Dan’s attention because it was big. He didn’t bother with cars or trucks—he hijacked booze by the trainload.

And that meant someone down the line was going to miss that much hooch. Many a Chicago mobster were none too happy with Sly’s boss. Ruthless men like Capone and the deadly DeLuce. Outside of St. Paul Dapper would have feared for his life. But St. Paul had a system in place, established by former chief of police John J. O’Connor. The “O’Connor system,” built from the top down by mayors and cops, pro-tected guys like Dapper. Even the Mob thought twice about shedding blood in the streets of St. Paul. Mobsters and gangsters alike lived by one rule: violence was bad for business.

St. Paul allowed big dreamers with low morals the opportunity to take advantage of certain loopholes—such as doing a little rerouting—knowing no cops or competitors would come after them. Prohibition was more like a candy store with no one minding the counter. Sly would tolerate the cold and the risks as long as wads of cash kept filling his splintered hands. The last thing he wanted was to trade all that fresh lettuce for stale bread. Never again.

Sly rolled the final barrel over the grit and sawdust on the wood floor and into position with the others, then he got right to the task of chewing and pulling splinters from his hands using his front teeth like tweezers.

* BOOM *Dust and cobwebs fell from the ceiling and the barrels even wa-

vered a bit. Through his worn work boots, Sly felt the floor quake. And he swore he heard screaming.

That was an explosion—Sly knew the sound all too well.He flew outside. After skidding to a stop, Sly soaked in the fiery

8 He’s Either Dead or in St. Paul

scene. Dapper Dan’s Paige Coupe was engulfed in flames and pumping out fat, angry smoke that choked out the bright blue sky. Sly slid across the ice and snow toward his boss’s car. A body was splayed out on the hood. Burning.

No reason for Sly to risk his neck for a lost cause. But his empty pockets pushed him closer to the flames. He raised his hands to block the heat. Fire crackled and blistered across Sly’s palms causing him to slow to a shuffle. Flames roared and meat sizzled. If he didn’t act now, he would not be getting paid for all the barrels he had just unloaded.

Sly leapt into the black smoke. He yanked Dapper off the hood, back through the metal frame of the windshield, and into the driver’s seat. Two hunks of flesh peeled from Dapper’s hands when they hit the steering wheel, left dangling in the ten o’clock and two o’clock position.

Sly grabbed Dapper under his armpits. Smoke thick as boiling oil clogged Sly’s eyes, throat, and lungs. He hacked until his chest hurt, but managed to drag Dapper about thirty feet from the burning car.

Dapper’s legs continued to burn. His sock garters bubbled and melted into the skin on his calves so Sly tossed handfuls of snow over them. The flakes turned to water and then bubbled against the wounds, as did the snowdrift Sly had set Dapper in.

The man moaned and wheezed and gurgled, but couldn’t talk. Sly crouched down and cradled Dapper’s head like a newborn baby. The whites of his eyes glowed against charred, black flesh. They were glossy and scared and full of agony.

Agony. The flames. Sly couldn’t stop the flames. Fireballs con-sumed a bridge. Timbers shattered. Screams cut through the rural Wisconsin afternoon. The train sank. Everyone died. Agony had held tight to Sly’s hand and smiled.

Now Dapper smiled wide and bright. The flesh around his face cracked like burnt chicken skin, revealing raw, pink flesh underneath. “I’m so proud of you, son,” he said.

Sly pulled back, not understanding how Dapper could be smiling. He looked completely at ease, as if resting on a lounge chair waiting for a busty waitress to deliver a cocktail. Smoke still rose from Dap-per’s face. The air stunk like overcooked meat and almost made Sly

D. B. Moon 9

gag. Curiosity pulled Sly in closer, though. He blinked hard. Dapper had closed his eyes. His smile had disappeared. Dapper trembled in Sly’s arms.

The shock of seeing his boss on fire must have gotten to him. Yeah, that’s it. The heat and action all played with his head. Sly waved off the smile as just seeing things—After all, his boss now lay in his arms, wheezing like a flattening tire, smoldering like a log, his head tilted back and one foot in the grave. Okay, make that both feet and sinking fast. No way would he live through the day.

Any money Dapper had on him burned up along with his pockets, so there was no need to rummage. The hopes of climbing the ranks within Dapper’s organization had just gone up in smoke. Time to find a new boss.

10

2.

Gangster Barbeque

A lot of smells defined St. Paul: coal smoke, car exhaust, piss, gun-powder, corruption. The stink clung to your clothes, you took it home to your wife and family—the same people you’d taken an oath to pro-tect from the stench. You couldn’t scrub hard enough to wash it off.

There were two ways to make big money during Prohibition. One was as a gangster, the other as a cop. But how much money you made as a cop depended on which side of the law you enforced. And if you could tolerate the stench.

What interested St. Paul Police Chief August Murnane most on this frigid December day in 1928 was the luscious smell of burning gangsters. He negotiated the slick streets toward thick black plumes that billowed between downtown buildings. As he approached Dapper Dan’s warehouse, Murnane slowed to bump over a double set of well-used railroad tracks. When he hit the brakes, the police cruiser slid on an icy patch, finally coming to rest in a snowdrift. As soon as Murnane opened the door, the stink of burnt rubber tires and smoldering human hair slithered up his nostrils and wouldn’t let go. Another hit ends in a bad-guy barbeque. Nauseating, but oh, so satisfying.

The call had come in that Gangland boss Dapper Dan Hogan had had some car trouble. As Murnane tromped in for a closer ex-amination, he could still sense the heat from the burnt car. All the windows of Dapper’s Paige Coupe were blown out and the interior

D. B. Moon 11

was no more than a charred mess of charcoal seats and wire framing. While the fire department rolled up hoses and tucked them back on their trucks, white smoke curled in the whirling winds. The driver’s side door lodged askew in a snow pile more than ten feet away. Hunks of Dapper’s cooked flesh still dangled from the steering wheel.

He got what was comin’. Play with fire, eventually you get burned.Officers had cordoned off the area with rope and were milling

around mumbling about whodunit and who’d most likely be next. They acted more like a sewing circle than police officers.

Murnane spotted a rookie and called out. “Hilliard.”“Yes, Chief.” Hilliard came closer, writing in his notepad as he

walked.“What do we got?”“We got one well-done bad guy. Ambulance took him away al-

ready. You just missed him.”“Ambulance?” Hilliard might be a rookie, but a school kid could

tell the difference between an ambulance and a hearse. “Don’t you mean a hearse?”

“No, sir. He’s alive.”“Hogan lived through this?” Murnane re-examined the carnage.

Dripping water began to form icicles all over the husk of what used to be a real swanky car. Dapper was one tough son of a bitch.

“He’s alive, but he’s not long for this world. Poor guy looked like one of my wife’s pork chops. Surprised someone would bump him off though. I mean, everybody likes the guy, he’s a real darb,” Hilliard said.

“Any witnesses?”“We got one guy.” Hilliard used his pencil as a pointer in the gen-

eral direction of a young, lanky thug leaning against the building. The guy held a lit cigarette down at his side and pondered the burnt-out car—like he might share the same fate someday.

“Well, bring him here.”Hilliard waved the young man over. Murnane watched the kid

close in. He sure didn’t look like much: typical lowlife gangster hope-ful. Probably trying to work his way up the ranks in Dapper’s orga-nization. The kid was dressed for the Minnesota winter. Thick wool

12 He’s Either Dead or in St. Paul

overcoat burnt badly at the cuffs, clodhopper boots, and a blackened wool flat cap. Murnane wondered why the kid’s jacket was wide open and his boots were unbuckled. While still holding a cigarette, the kid ran his thumbs under grey suspenders before hitching up his sagging pants pitted with burn holes.

The buckles flopped and clanked as the kid approached. He stopped in front of Murnane, wiped a snail trail of snot across his fore-arm, then sucked his cigarette down to the cracked skin on his soot-covered knuckles.

“What’s your name, kid?” Murnane asked.“Sly.” Smoke seeped from the kid’s nose and mouth when he an-

swered.Hilliard checked his notepad. “Says here his name is Sylvester

Hobbs.”“People call me Sly.”“Like your mom, maybe?” Murnane asked.Sly shuffled in place, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “How about you tell me what you saw.”“I didn’t see nuthin’.” Murnane savored the young gangster’s darting eyes and quick

twitches.The kid’s sleeves smoked a little and his face was coated in soot.

“You wanna play tough? This could happen to you.” Murnane pointed at the black metal skeleton. “Now tell me something useful.”

“Actually, Chief, he might be telling the truth. Said he was in the building when he heard the explosion. Came out to find Mr. Hogan on fire and hanging halfway through the windshield. Mr. Hobbs here pulled him to safety and used snow to put him out.”

“Well, Mr. Hobbs, looks like you’re the hero of the day. I’ll notify the papers.”

“I said, call me Sly.”The defiant little asshole wore on Murnane’s thinning patience.

“Did Dapper happen to say who did this?”“He wasn’t much in the mood for talkin’.”Murnane lifted one side of his mouth. Sly had moxie, that’s for

D. B. Moon 13

sure. Murnane hated gangers with moxie. Then again, he hated any gangster with air in his lungs. But cops and gangers worked within the same system. Every time the system rubbed Murnane raw, he pictured his wife and kids out on the streets. Standing in the breadlines, feeling the cold through the holes in his shoes—he’d be goddamned if that was in his future. Someday he’d get out from under the system. Some-day the dirt would wash off for good and he could look his wife and kids in the eyes without being coated in guilt. For now he went with the system because he knew damn well how his bread got buttered.

“Tell Officer Hilliard how best to get a hold of ya’. And stay in town. We may need to talk to you again. Mr. Hobbs.”

Sly sneered at Murnane. The kid took a final drag, heaved his chest outward, and held in the smoke. He flicked the butt, causing a shower of orange sparks cascading like a small firework, into the smoldering car. Cigarette smoke hissed from his nostrils as he turned and walked back into the building. One more smell Murnane would take home to his family.

“Asshole,” Murnane said. “You want me to go after him, chief ?”“No. Leave him. Something tells me we’ll be seeing him again

soon enough.”Out of all the gore and misery that surrounded him, it was the kid

that raised the hair on Murnane’s arms. Sly’s parting played out again amid a tornado of other thoughts and crept down Murnane’s spine. Something about that kid stood out. Like the kid had the Devil in him.

A voice deep inside nagged at Murnane—the next time he crossed paths with Sylvester Hobbs, there would be blood.

14

3.

Dark Descent

Oh God, please help me get into this gang. I know I’m not a praying man and I’ve done some bad shit, but if you do me this favor I’ll think about going to church. You have my word.

Sly stood before two men he’d never met, but knew their grim reputations all too well. The Boss sat behind an oak desk. A single floor lamp cast thick shadows throughout the dark office. The Boss’s eyes glistened and studied Sly. Another man sat in the corner watching in silence, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth.

The air was dry, the kind of dry only winter brings, and it made Sly’s skin itch. The faint scent of urine sullied the room. Sly bathed about as often as he went to the dentist, so he figured if the stink was coming from him, he best keep away from the desk.

“What’s your name, kid?” the Boss asked. His baritone voice rum-bled through the dark.

“Sylvester Hobbs, but people call me Sly.”“Sly, eh? How old are you?”“Twenty-one, sir.”The Boss addressed the cigarette ember glowing in the dark to

his left. “What do you think?” A sigh cut the silence the question left behind. The ember illuminated the man’s harsh face framed by matted hair.

“Eightball, what do you think?” the Boss asked again.

D. B. Moon 15

Eightball slouched in his chair, seemingly more concerned with his dwindling cigarette than the current gang status of one Sylvester Hobbs.

“Maybe,” Eightball said.Eightball pinched the cigarette between his thumb and index fin-

ger. He sucked hard, holding in the smoke and narrowing his eyes at Sly.

The Boss turned his attention back to Sly. “So you’re here because you want to be part of our organization,

is that right?”Sly shifted his weight from his left foot to his right, then back

again—a nervous tic he carried since childhood. “Yes, sir. Very much.” Sly kneaded his checkered flat cap at waist level in front of him. A

thick tuft of hair flopped into his eyes, which he quickly combed back between his bony fingers.

“You worked for Dapper Dan, is that right?”Sly nodded.Dapper Dan Hogan had talked a lot about the Boss. The Boss was

Dapper’s best customer. Sly was privy to many dealings because Dap-per loved to talk big about himself and others—including the Boss. As a result, Sly had a clear picture of how deep the Boss’s pockets really were.

The Boss leaned forward. “He was a good egg. Too bad his car got blown up with him in it. Occupational hazard, I guess. So now your former employer is dead and you need work.” The Boss set his pudgy hands on the desk. “How long did you work for him?”

Sly attempted to count backward, and he was already plenty bad at counting forward. His face crunched and his eyes rolled up as he fought inside his head for an answer.

The Boss slapped a folded St. Paul Pioneer Press newspaper on the corner of the desk. “You need to take a look at today’s date, genius?”

Sly looked down at the newsprint. It may as well have been chick-en prints in the mud since he couldn’t read.

“What is today?” Sly asked. He knew it was 1929, he knew it was

16 He’s Either Dead or in St. Paul

January, but didn’t know the day. He shifted his feet and fought to count the months and years he worked for Dapper, not counting the month since he was blown up.

The Boss said, “It’s January twenty-third, like it says right there.” He pointed at the paper. “You know it’s January, right?” The Boss chuckled.

“I’m reminded every time I step outside, sir.” Sly wanted this job something awful. If the Boss didn’t accept

him, he would be out on the street. Sly figured his best bet would be working for one of Dapper Dan’s competitors, unloading, stacking, and guarding shipments of booze off the Midway train line again. He was tired of lifting oak barrels full of alcohol in a warehouse that froze in winter and sweltered in summer, combined with the constant fear of being hijacked or arrested. He felt a bigger and better future was wait-ing within the Boss’s organization. The risks would increase, but so would the rewards.

Sly cleared his throat. “I guess, around a few years, I guess . . .” “That’s a lot of guessing.” The Boss leaned back. The moaning of

overworked chair joints filled the shadows. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll send you on a little assignment and see how you do.”

Sly’s heart jumped while he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He held his emotions in check by squeezing his lips together and holding back a smile.

“Yes, sir. I won’t let you down.”“To be honest, I don’t like you. You remind me of a panhandler

without the confidence.” Sly stopped fidgeting. “You don’t agree with my assessment?” the Boss asked.Sly sharpened his glare enough to convey a hearty Fuck you.“Eightball may look like something out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, but

he’s proven himself to be a tough son of a bitch.”Eightball stood but stayed in the corner.“You, on the other hand, just walked in off the street looking for a

job. Now understand, I’m real sorry about what happened to Dapper, but I don’t know you from Adam except what Dapper told me before

D. B. Moon 17

he died—and that wasn’t very much. For all I know you could be a fed. So if you want to work for me, you have to prove yourself first. Now you can stop giving me that tommy gun stare.”

Sly raised his eyebrows and tucked away his “tommy gun stare” for another day. Swallowing his pride felt worse than swallowing a broken bottle.

“So like I said, I have an errand I want you to run. You and Eight-ball are going to intercept a package and bring it here.”

“What package?” Sly asked.“Setup money from a Chicago Mob boss trying to expand his

business. Mobsters don’t take us gangsters seriously and think they can push us around and take whatever they want. They don’t like or respect us, and we sure as hell don’t like them. Anyway, Eightball will fill you in on the rest.”

Eightball came closer to the light where Sly got a better look at him. Sly had a hard time guessing how old Eightball was under all that matted hair and scar tissue, maybe midtwenties. His face backed up his reputation for brawling. His sporadic teeth resembled a piano keyboard and his nose bent toward the southeast.

Eightball crushed out his hand-rolled cigarette in the crystal ash tray on the Boss’s desk and exhaled with authority, never taking his sunken eyes off Sly.

“When do we go?” Sly asked.Eightball walked around the Boss’s desk at a slow pace, his eyes

studied Sly along the way. The urine stink followed him.“Maybe,” he said. “Tomorrow afternoon,” the Boss answered. “Take him to the Out-

house, Eightball. I’ll tell them you’re coming.”“C’mon kid, let’sss go.” The letter s whistling through Eightball’s

missing teeth. Sly followed Eightball down creaking stairs. They came to the

small entryway Sly had passed through on his way in. Sly reached for the door.

“Wait.”“What is it?” Sly needed some fresh air. Eightball smelled like a

18 He’s Either Dead or in St. Paul

pissing post.“It’s colder than a well digger’s ass out there.” Eightball removed

a stained and ragged stocking cap from his hip pocket and stretched it over his head.

“Okay, ready.”Sly pushed the door open and squinted into the blinding after-

noon sun. The January air felt anything but warm. It bit Sly’s skin, burned his lungs, and made walking along the streets of downtown St. Paul miserable.

“Are you sure we want to go to the Outhouse?” Sly remembered Dapper mentioning the Outhouse by saying, “Sly, if you ever find yourself in that place, sit by the door so you can get out fast when the shooting starts.”

Eightball walked briskly, his hands stuffed in his tattered pockets. “It’ll be fine. Yeah, it’s a shithole, but there hasn’t been a murder in weeks. The liquor might have killed some folks, but that’s the chance you take, am I right?”

“Why do they call it that, anyway?” Sly wondered how such a bad place earned a worse name.

“You’re right. They could have called it the Shit hole just the same.”Sly had darkened the doorway of more than his fair share of blind

pigs. They catered to the poorer, more unsavory, drunks. The owners frequently cheated Prohibition by bringing in an animal, usually a pig, and charging patrons a fee to see it. With the fee came a free drink. Each time customers paid, they got a peek at the pig and another shot of crudely distilled alcohol. Sly didn’t like the four or the two-legged animals at any blind pig he’d ever been in.

While Sly didn’t like pigs, he resented speakeasies. Even if Sly could afford to drink at a speakeasy, they wouldn’t let him in because of his shabby clothes—and shabbier attitude.

Speakeasies were classier establishments that beat Prohibition by selling illegal liquor to anyone who knew the correct password at the door. Sly usually couldn’t find the door, and on the rare occasions he did, he never knew the password. Speakeasies catered to the type of folks who could handle their liquor in a high society way. With a belly

D. B. Moon 19

full of good bathtub gin or high-grade Minnesota Thirteen, the speak-easy patron burst into song while the blind pig patron would likely pull out a knife.

Ice and snow crunched underfoot and cars honked and sputtered through the streets. The wind sliced through Sly’s torn clothes exploit-ing any shortcut to exposed flesh. The cold easily poked through the holes in his shoes.

Sly followed Eightball along slippery, but bustling, sidewalks. Thick coal smoke and car exhaust filled Sly’s nose and stung his eyes—the smells being one of the most charming parts of St. Paul.

Eightball ducked down an alley and stopped at a small wooden door secured by large wrought iron hinges. He knocked three times.

Then paused. Another knock.Then paused. Finally, he knocked two more times.The eye slit opened. Thwack.“The Boss sent us,” Eightball said.A muffled voice responded, “Bullshit.”“Goddamn it, you horsse’sss assss. You know who I am.” “Don’t know who he is though.”“He’s new. Now open the goddamned door.”“What’s the password? Say Sally serves sarsaparilla on the Missis-

sippi, and we’ll let you in.”“You asssess. It’s fucking freezing out here. Open up!” Eightball

pounded his fists on the door.Sly heard breathy chuckles from the other side of the door. “Password, please.”“I’m going to kick the shit out of every one of you! Mark my

words! The Boss is going to hear about thisss.” Eightball kicked the door like it owed him money.“Okay! Okay! Settle down.” Eightball clenched his fists and leaned in toward the door when

the heavy iron locks clanked open. Before the door opened an inch, Eightball thrust his shoulder into it, barging inside.

It took three men to hold Eightball by the arms. He flailed and spit curse words at a man who was a solid wall of muscle, stood six

20 He’s Either Dead or in St. Paul

inches taller than Eightball, and was twice as wide. Eightball showed the same tenacity as a starving lion.

“We were just having a lark. No big deal. Settle down.”When they released Eightball’s arms, he pointed as if his finger

were the stinger on an angry hornet. “Don’t fuck with me, Walter.” His breath pushed in and out of him like a fireplace bellow. He removed his hat and shoved it back into his hip pocket. “You buncha horsess’ asssess.”

A large rack piled high with current newspapers and stacks of magazines filled the wall in front of Sly. Walter waved him toward the shelves. Sly had to duck to avoid the single incandescent bulb dangling by a frayed wire.

Sly scratched his head. “Is this it?” It is the size of an outhouse—but no hooch.

“Walter, get the door. Make yourself useful for once.” Eightball said.

Once Eightball calmed down, he stopped hissing. Walter smiled and shoved the rack. It glided on rails in the floor

like a miniature train car, exposing another door. Walter bent down and opened the second door, revealing a staircase. Eightball crouched and started down the dimly lit stairs squeezed between rust-stained sandstone walls. He stopped after two steps and looked over his left shoulder.

“You coming or what?” Sly unplanted his feet and followed. He cleared the doorway and

started down the dilapidated stairs, Walter slammed the door behind them. Sly heard the rack sliding back into place and felt the vibration on the stairs.

The wood planks bowed when he stepped down. He was unsure what the darkness held at the bottom of the stairs, but it sure as hell didn’t look inviting. Apprehension was a feeling he had never under-stood very well, until now.