The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Chapter 4: A Missing Witness

Chicago had long since outgrown the Rush Street bridge. Built in the 1880’s, the old swing bridge was a choke point, unable to handle the increase in traffic. By 1910, automobiles and trucks vied with horse-drawn vehicles of all descriptions for a passage across the narrow lanes. What’s more, whenever a boat of any considerable size passed up- or downriver, traffic backed up for blocks on both the north and south sides.

Max leaned against the railing; he faced east, toward the Lake. A steady stream of pedestrians passed him by. The rumbling traffic made the structure shake and groan like an old drunk in need of a shot.

The sky was clear, the temperature mild with a refreshing, onshore breeze. He stood near the spot where Peg had spent the last moments of her life; his eyes fixed on the Lady of the Lake, docked nearby. Earlier, he had boarded the whaleback freighter and talked to the mate.

Bob O’Neill was gone. He was a temporary crew member, having signed on as a replacement for the short Hammond-to-Chicago run. Max asked for a description and got a few details: age, about thirty; medium build; sandy hair; blue eyes; scar over the right eye; tanned complexion; eagle and anchor tattoo on right arm. When Max asked the mate if he knew the deckhand’s whereabouts, the mate said to check with the union.

Max figured Mueller and Mike knew where O’Neill was, but he did not want to ask them. Instead, he would check with Tom Donahue, Max’s contact at the seamen’s union. Time for that, later. For now, he thought about Peg, mostly the good times after he had returned from the Los Angeles job. Their happiness had lasted about a year; Max thought it was love, or something close to it. Whatever it was, the memory of Peg and the way she died had put him in a blue funk; the only way for him to chase the blues was to solve the mystery of her death. No use hanging around here, he thought. He turned and proceeded south, toward downtown.

* * *

Donahue occupied a small office in the union hall. Recently retired from the Merchant Marine with his master’s ticket, he supervised a group that checked members’ qualifications and seniority with the registry and tried to match them with suitable work. Donahue, his wife and two kids lived in Max’s neighborhood; the union boss had joined Max’s band of drinking buddies at Otto’s Tavern on North Avenue, a group whose members performed little favors and services for one another.

The former skipper was on the portly side, with thinning red hair and a bushy, ginger mustache. His right eye tended to squint, and his left cheek exhibited a ruddy birth mark. Donahue’s hail-fellow-well-met manner coupled with a natural-born politician’s willingness to exchange favor for favor fit well with the clique that hung out at Otto’s.

Donahue eased back in his swivel chair while enjoying one of Max’s best Havana Claros. After a few satisfying puffs, he sat upright, set the cigar in an ashtray on his relatively clean desk, and said, “Ah, that’s a fine smoke, Max. You’ve got a gentleman’s taste, for sure. Now, what can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Bob O’Neill, a deckhand on the Lady of the Lake. According to the First Mate, O’Neill signed on for the Hammond-to-Chicago run, and left the crew early this morning.”

“Do you mind my asking what you want with him?”

“Just want to ask him a few questions, that’s all.”

“Would this have anything to do with the girl the cops fished out of the river by the Rush Street bridge?”

“You found out about that pretty quick.” Max grinned. Donahue’s question did not surprise him.

“Not much happens around the docks that I don’t know about. Mueller and Mike Sugrue are working the case. So, I guess you’ve launched your own investigation. Well, it so happens your pals were here earlier today asking the same question, and I’m afraid I’ll have to give you the same answer. I don’t know where O’Neill is, because we have no record of him checking in at the hall. Of course, I’ll let you and the cops know if and when he does.”

A key witness has gone missing, Max thought. I wonder how Mueller and Mike are dealing with it. “All right, Tom. I guess there’s nothing more you can tell me, unless you know something about this O’Neill guy that I don’t?”

Donahue shook his head. “No, but if I get wind of anything, I’ll pass it on to you.”

“Thanks, Tom.” Max smiled, reached into his jacket pocket and produced two more Havana Claros. “Have a couple more of these cigars.” He passed them to Tom’s outstretched hand.

“I appreciate that, Max. If anything comes up, I’ll be in touch.”

“OK, Tom. Any information about the guy would be helpful, his friends or acquaintances in Chicago, places where he might hang out, things like that.”

“Mueller and Mike would want to know all that, too.”

“And I’m sure you’d tell them, if they asked. But would you mind telling me first?”

“I don’t mind, Max.” Donahue gave Max a shrewd smile. “Who knows, but I might need a favor from you, some day.”

Max ended the meeting with a firm handshake and what he thought was a tacit agreement. However, as he left the union hall, he thought something smelled bad, and it wasn’t his Havana Claros.

Proceed to Chapter 5