In the City by the Lake Read online

  In the City by the Lake

  Taylor Saracen

  Contents

  Untitled

  Acknowledgments

  1. March 1929

  2. October 1929

  3. December 1929

  4. April 1930

  5. July 1930

  6. December 1930

  7. April 1931

  8. October 1931

  9. December 1931

  10. March 1932

  11. July 1932

  12. December 1932

  13. April 1933

  14. August 1933

  15. December 1933

  16. February 1934

  17. April 1934

  18. October 1934

  19. December 1934

  20. February 1935

  21. June 1935

  22. October 1935

  23. December 1935

  24. February 1936

  25. April 1936

  26. July 1936

  27. October 1936

  28. December 1936

  29. February 1937

  30. June 1937

  31. September 1937

  32. December 1937

  In the City by the Lake

  Taylor Saracen

  13 Red Media Ltd.

  * * *

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  IN THE CITY BY THE LAKE

  Copyright © 2018

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of 13 Red Media Ltd. is illegal and punishable by law.

  Cover: Emily Irwin

  Editing: Jill Savoia

  To those who were themselves in a world that wished they were someone else, and to those who could not be, the hateful may hope your stories die with you, but those who love will make sure they never do.

  Acknowledgments

  I know I am lucky because listing everyone who means something to me would fill this page. Instead, I will simply say to my family, friends, and boss, thank you.

  * * *

  To Mr. Dennis Howie, without you I would have never known that I process the world differently than others do. Thank you for being an extraordinary teacher in and out of the classroom. I don’t think you knew how profound your influence was. I will never forget you.

  * * *

  For the beautiful lyrics:

  “The Song is Ended” Irving Berlin

  “Dream Lover” Jeannette MacDonald

  “Willow Weep for Me” Ann Ronell

  1

  March 1929

  My Chicago was full of enemies, but I often wondered if the metropolis itself was the most dangerous. I hated feeling small, yet I continued to walk the narrow alleyways of a city that sought to diminish me. Hulking skyscrapers stretched to the star-dusted clouds, demanding I shrink beneath them, but I refused. Instead, I lengthened my spine and minded my posture, walking with a purpose. I made men believe I was seven feet tall, though I stood only five feet, eight inches. The extra foot and a half was my confidence, stacked on my toughness and capped with the recognition that the only way to intimidate others was to be who they wished they could be, unapologetically.

  Carrying my Colt M1911 gave me another ten inches, each one locked and loaded to remind anyone who crossed me how big I was, how much of me there was to fear. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t worried from time to time that it wouldn’t work, that the way I held myself and the gun I toted wouldn’t be enough. That one day people would realize I was scared. After all, there was so much to be terrified of.

  As I passed crowded restaurants on Michigan Avenue, full of diners who were, more likely than not, better than me, I felt a pang of jealousy. What an easy life they led, which allowed them to laugh and carry on gaily on a Friday night in their furs and Ritz suits. My life wasn’t so simple, but that was my own doing. To complain about the consequences of my actions when mostly I reaped what I sowed would be hypocritical, to say the least.

  Hypocrisy itself never failed to amuse me, even when the natural byproduct of frustration was left in its wake. As far as I was concerned, Chicago was filled with hypocrites, the “do as I say, but not as I do” crew—dishonorable men who claimed to live by the honor code of the street. I would know; I was one of them. Perhaps that was why I had to find some levity in hypocrisy, so I didn’t bore myself. It was so easy to want to do better in theory, yet so difficult to follow through in practice. It was much more convenient to settle into being morally corrupt and depraved. After all, they say you become the company you keep.

  Prohibition hadn’t done much for the city other than turn it into a breeding ground for organized crime, with each outfit looking to profit on black market alcohol distribution. The depravity that Prohibition had strived to eradicate had flourished, making the city more progressive and freer than it had been since my family moved to the States from the town of Yaroslavl in 1913. I was five years old at the time, and I thought that America was everything they wanted us to believe it was, a land of hope and fulfilled dreams, where a man’s hard work and his dedication to a better life paid off. The buildings were new, and the roads were paved with asphalt and opportunity. With time, my father found himself in the same dishonorable business he’d been wrapped up in in Russia but having fallen further down on the rungs of importance.

  I blamed my uncle. Grygoriy had moved to America a few years prior and spoke of the promise of her cities in a way that made it nearly impossible for my widowed father to resist. I was a boy then, but as a man now, I understand how seductive the song of temptation can be. Though I became adept at avoiding the draw of sin while being thrust into the world of pansy parlors, I knew there was a weakness in the mind of desperate men. After all, I wrestled with it too, and sometimes I lost, even though in those moments it felt like a triumph of sorts —until the shame set in, which it always did.

  The belles in Towertown would have thought of me as green, but I knew I was one of them. From the moment my dick could function it had chosen sides, and as much as I fucking hated it for it, it didn’t stop me from getting sucked off by a bitch on his knees in an alley. Temptation.

  While America found herself in the midst of boy-on-boy revolution, the Russian mafia held tight to its macho patriarchal disposition, shunning the progress of their new land in favor of the conservatism of their homeland. My outfit wanted nothing to do with the belles unless there was a fiscal benefit. Lucky for me, there was.

  Since I was the youngest in the outfit, at the ripe age of twenty-one, I was tasked with running booze to the Towertown crew, forging working relationships with the aunties who ran the clubs while engaging in physical dalliances with those who frequented them. Still, I was discreet. I wanted them to believe they disgusted me. I needed them to fear that I would turn on them so they would pay my fees on time and give me the reverence a man in my position deserved. If they had known who I was, they may have refused their dues and used my weakness for male flesh against me. I could not afford it and neither could they. The racket the pansy clubs had going was epic. With their crowded dance floors, drag shows, and c
ontinuous flow of liquor, they represented a shift in values, but above all, they were a profitable endeavor. None of the businessmen I dealt with were naive, even if they were queens.

  Instinctively, I picked up my pace while crossing the intersection of Dickens and Clark, venturing a glance toward the warehouse where seven men affiliated with Bugs Moran’s North Side Gang had met their exceedingly bloody demise a month earlier. Word on the street was that it had been guys from Capone's Chicago Outfit handling the Tommy guns that shot their bodies full of holes. It was a blatant message to any gang trying to take a piece of the underworld pie that the Italians intended to indulge in it all and then wipe their plates clean.

  What got to me was the fact that Moran’s boys were lured to the warehouse with the promise of stolen cut-rate whiskey via the Purple Gang. I don’t know if they weren’t aware that the Purples were affiliated with Capone or if they were so hot for the product that they didn’t care. Either way, I would have gone too. Getting my hands on cheap booze like that would have drawn me in, and I would have ended up a part of the mangled heap. Lucky for me, we Russians were small potatoes compared to the big boys who found themselves on the Outfit’s radar. Even more advantageous was that traditional Italian values seemed to have them avoiding the liberal and debouched Towertown altogether, at least for the time being.

  Tapping the paper of my fag, I watched smoldering embers of ash flit down toward the asphalt, disappearing into the onyx surface, engulfed by the street. I took another drag, grateful the nicotine set forth to calm my frayed nerves, spurred into action one puff at a time. I never considered myself skittish, but the Outfit’s massacre didn’t seem like a one-off event, and I was on the wrong side for safety.

  While the South Side Italians were focused on the North Side Irish, it was clear to see that they wanted the whole city for themselves and if it were up to Vlad, we West Side boys would eventually be making enough noise to draw their interest. According to the boss, expansion was the only way to rise up and pull bigger cuts. I wanted the money, of course, but I preferred to keep my head on my neck and my body sans bullet holes.

  Just as I had numerous times since retrieving a hundred dollars from the contact in Lincoln Park, I patted the back pocket of my slacks, ensuring my wallet was still resting where it belonged. I didn’t question the tasks that were set out for me to complete, choosing not to be distracted by the details. Instead, I focused on getting shit done and I did it well.

  Walking around with a great deal of money on me wasn’t ideal, but being that I was already on the North Side, I decided that, in the interest of time, I would head to The Gallery on State to take the alcohol order for April. I had a couple of days before I had to get it in, but there was no reason to delay. Plus, there were always ways to alleviate the stress and tension of my day in Towertown. I knew it would make sense to get myself a dame to take care of some of my needs; after all, if I closed my eyes tight enough, any hole would do. But I craved something more than a woman could give me, and settling for partial pleasure wasn’t appealing.

  Dodging a putrid puddle of vagrant’s piss, I walked to the L stop and leaned against the brick wall as I waited for the train to arrive at the platform. There was quite a crowd, excited voices chattering as the weekend finally bloomed before them. Still smoking my cigarette, I felt as alone as I was. It wasn’t that I wanted to talk to them to begin with, the opposite really, but I found it aggravating that they didn’t want to talk to me. I preferred to be the one doing the rejecting rather than being rejected, so I kept quiet, not wanting someone to get the impression that I was trying to engage and find it necessary to brush me off. Plus, people mostly frustrated me with their overthinking and underdoing. I liked being alone anyway.

  The train ride to Towertown was full of giggling. A gaggle of cheery dames sat behind me, tittering and tattling about what their night was going to bring, and all I could think about was how disappointed they were going to be when they realized the fellas they would be seeing wouldn’t be into their type. It was strange that the pansy parlors were still popular with the straight-laced suburban types. It really was illuminating how boring being boring was.

  Disembarking from the L, I walked fast toward The Gallery on State, suddenly craving the shiny lightness that swirled around the space, a beacon of hope in an otherwise dark night. I wished I liked it less, that I could be one of the guys who would fight not to get a Towertown establishment on my rounds, that I could be different than I was.

  No matter how many times I walked through the discreet entry of The Gallery, I never stopped being in awe of what a savvy son of a bitch Abraham Walters was. Abe probably never leaned against a wall and wished he’d become one of the bricks. The belle relished in the attention that was poured over him, and in return, he showered his group of bitches with similar affection. The Gallery fizzed and sparkled with passion, be it toward life or one’s fellow man. The place was alive—a living, breathing, rising and falling tit-less chest.

  When I walked through the door, security fell back at my stride, understanding who I was and the importance of my visit. I couldn’t deny that I liked the power, the value. It was something I lacked so profoundly in my everyday life, my West Side Story as told by the Russian mob, my family. Ownership of my own life was a fantasy, and my story was a tragedy, or at the very least, a drama.

  “Abraham,” I greeted, reaching my hand out toward Abe as he smiled at me from behind the bar. He was attractive with his warm brown hair and caramel eyes. He gave me faith that in two decades, time may remain gracious to me, allowing me to keep my looks while garnering glances from the type of people I wanted attention from.

  “Viktor,” he said, knowing damn well I didn’t want to be called by my proper name. “How about Viki?” he teased, making me wonder if I had shot him a look of warning. “Let’s set on Vik.”

  “Better,” I grinned. “Do you have any time to talk?”

  “I can make time for you,” Abraham assured, wiping his hands on his suit pants unceremoniously.

  The way he looked at me should have bothered me, but it didn’t. Abraham collected beautiful things, and he regarded me like I was one of them, even if I wasn’t one of his acquisitions. I peeked over my shoulder toward the stage, focusing on a man dressed as a woman singing a slow and sultry song. The gold sequins on his gown didn’t make him more feminine, yet he held the microphone stand like a broad, aching and warm. There was nothing in him as her that attracted me—after all, if I wanted to be with a woman I would have sought the real thing—but I could tell by the way some of the belles were looking at him that they found him to be a prize.

  “She’s amazing, isn’t she? Ms. Misstic,” Abraham noted as he led me through a relatively quiet corridor to his office.

  “I hate to break it to you, Abe, but your she is a he.”

  “Not when she’s in drag she’s not.”

  “Is that what they call it? Drag?” I asked. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it, but it never stopped being confusing to me.

  “That’s what they call it,” he confirmed, sitting down at his desk and gesturing for me to take the seat across from him.

  “I don’t get it.”

  Abe shrugged, nonplussed. “It’s not for you to get, right?” From the look in his eyes, I could tell he was on to me, that maybe some queen talked, but I chose to ignore it. He pulled out his ledger and I waited for him to run the numbers as I took in my surroundings. Abraham’s office was plain, a stark contrast to the explosion of peacock feathers in the main room. I wondered which aesthetic he related to more. Something told me the artist was a master at understanding how to make money. “We’re going through Club whiskey like it’s water.”

  “Lucrative,” I noted.

  “For both you and me. The more I order, the cheaper the pints, right?” The Cheshire cat lifted his eyebrows, his smile fading when I laughed heartily in response.

  “It’s not 1919, Abe. The more you order, the more expensiv
e it is. I don’t know if you realize, but the shit’s not easy to get.” I gave him a wink and he nodded, resigning to the fact that his efforts were for naught.

  “I need one and a half times what you got me this month.” He glanced down at his paperwork. “We tore through the thirty cases. Can you get your hands on more than that?”

  “I can get my hands on anything I want to get my hands on,” I replied confidently. Vlad’s distributor was golden and the big boss was pressuring us to move more booze.

  “Is that right, Viktor?” Abraham asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, amused.

  I cleared my throat, committed to staying on topic. “I’ll get you a pallet. Sixty cases should keep your queens good and sloshed.”

  “And we’re holding steady at ninety a case?” Abe questioned.

  “That’s the rate. That’ll mean you owe me …” I worked the numbers in my head, urging my face to keep it together when I came up with the total: “fifty-four hundred.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Is it going to be a problem for you?” I challenged.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “You got quite a racket going here, Walters.”