Gods of Chicago: Omnibus Edition Read Free Page A

chute before he got his head back on straight enough to write a bulletin about the hit. He flicked his eyes at the picture on his desk as he wrote, taking in all the bloody details and trying to imagine what could have happened in that garage. Seven men torn to pieces inside of two minutes, and not without a fight. Brand heard the telltale chatter of Tommy guns and the heavy reports of shotguns in his memory. He remembered the screams, too. Whatever had happened, Brand had the proof on the desk before him. Chicago City had a lot more to fear than Al Capone’s triggermen.
    Just his luck it was Wynes who told him no pictures. The G-men wouldn’t have thought twice about snagging the photo viewer, and that’d be the end of Brand’s hot story. He took a drag off his cigarette and looked at the photo once more before flipping it face down. A more poisoned prize he couldn’t imagine. After another lungful he stabbed out the cigarette and switched on the mic.
    Ladies and Gentlemen of Chicago City, this is Mitchell Brand aboard the Airship Vigilance with a special bulletin. Today, the fourteenth of February, our city was witness to one of the grisliest crimes in history. Seven men, slaughtered in the Brauerschift garage on Clark Street. It looks like Al Capone has upped the ante, and this reporter wonders what the next play will be.
    A special afternoon edition of the Daily Record will have a full report on the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. Stay tuned, Chicago. And stay in touch.
    Brand shut off the mic and went to the cabin door. The Record’s loader automatons moved stacks of the special edition out of the press room. Their little two cycle engines chuffed and rumbled as they carried the wrapped bundles across the mooring deck. Brand waited until the gearboxes were finished and then called to his three newsboys. They waited by their airbikes that hung off the deck like rowboats on a pier.
    The newsboys played a game of knuckles. After the required three rounds, a tall boy named Ross Jenkins held up a hand with only his index finger extended. He let his chin fall and then laughed before running over. A dozen years ago, Brand had watched kids as old as his newsboys fall face down in the mud after playing knuckles. Most of them would stay where they fell, just a few feet from the trench where Brand was hiding with his camera and steno pad, looking at the notes he’d made during their interview. Some of the fallen boys would squirm a bit before going still. And a few he’d never forget had screamed until their blood ran out. Brand felt his face tighten from the memory and he made a quick adjustment before Jenkins got too close.
    “Yessir, Mr. Brand, sir!” the boy said with a smile. His big eyes brightened as he looked up at Brand. Like the whole crew of newsboys, Jenkins admired Brand and was ready to do anything he asked. They gave him the respect a soldier gives his sergeant. For Brand, it was like having a trio of sons he would never have to watch die, and that suited him just fine. His mouth curled up in a grin as he looked at the other two newsboys. An Irish kid named Aiden Conroy, bright of eyes and ready as anything to try his hand tinkering with the Record’s equipment. The kid liked to follow the gearboxes around the deck sometimes, just watching them move. The third newsboy was a kid from the streets named Pete “Digs” Gordon. They called him Digs because he followed his mother’s work around the city and so never had the same house week to week. Jenkins stood waiting for his orders; Conroy and Digs went back to throwing dice. Brand greeted Jenkins with his eyes and the grin still on his face.
    “Is it my day to try the mic, Mr. Brand, sir?”
    “Slow down, Jenkins. Looks like you win, but it’s still not the mic.”
    The kid’s face fell into his shoes. Brand would have given them all a shot at airtime, but his boss, Chief, had put the kibosh on that idea. That didn’t stop the newsboys from pulling