1927 – A White Knight
Police Report of Incident in the Lagoon Club, Chicago South Side, November 1927
The following is a preliminary report of a fatal shooting that took place in the Lagoon Club on the night of November 11th, 1927. The Lagoon Club is a nightclub that is reportedly believed to be owned by associates of Mister Alphonse Capone. It has been alleged, although never proven, that alcoholic beverages are served at this establishment.
Even on Chicago's South Side, the Witch of November can cut through a man's bones. A hard, cold, wind that sliced mercilessly and sent ships out on the lakes to a grave. Stolen by the Witch of November was the epitaph of many fine ships and seasoned crews. On land, it chilled the blood and caused bones to ache in all but the youngest and fittest. It was the nights that the Witch rattled the streetlights and sang in the overhead wires that made William glad that his work kept him inside. When his door opened and the guests arrived, he felt the cold, but not the biting wind. That was something to be grateful for. At 68 years old, William knew his time was about done and pneumonia was as likely as anything else to carry him off. He didn't feel his age, that was a mercy, but the Witch of November would do for an old man regardless of how well he felt.
"Good evening, Mister Stuyvesant. A pleasure to see you again Sir. And welcome to the Lagoon Ma'am." One of the things that made William a good doorman was tact. His friendliness towards the guests never caused contentions. This was a good case in point. Stuyvesant was a regular at the club and had brought several ladyfriends, none of whom was likely to be Mrs. Stuyvesant. If there was a Mrs. Stuyvesant which was uncertain. Referring to them all as Ma'am was absolutely safe.
"Bad night out there William. There'll be freezing rain by dawn, you mark my words."
"Yes Sir, glad to be in here I am. May I take your hat and coat? And your fur, Ma'am. Its a beautiful one if I may be so bold. Never seen the like of it here." The woman flushed with pride and nestled closer to Stuyvesant. He, in exchange, winked at William. It never did a mans prospects with a lady any harm to have the value of his gifts so publicly confirmed. William took the overcoats and hats and placed them in the coatracks. The special rack, the one that was shielded from the draft of the door and placed in the shadows where a casual sneak thief might overlook them. Although, no sneak thief in Chicago would be so stupid as to rob a club run by Capone's South Side Syndicate.
"Thank you William. Have a good evening, and stay indoors if you can." Stuyvesant put a twenty into the ornate jar that held the tips. Technically it was William's jar, but the money in it was divided out between all the backstage staff that didn't get a chance to earn tips directly. Well, half of it did, the other half went to the management, and most of that was kicked upstairs by them until what was left reached Mister Capone himself. A drop in the flood. The exception was when Mister Capone visited the club. Then, he and his escorts would fill the jar and all of it would go to the Lagoon staff. Mister Capone was a hard man, so they all said, but he knew the value of loyalty and how to gain it.
William closed the door and dropped the locking bar. It would hold an unscheduled and unexpected raid, if ever such an unimaginable thing happened, for only a minute or so and William was expected to get in the way of the Police entry for a few seconds more. That was why he had the job as doorman. Even a hardened police officer would hesitate slightly before knocking down an inoffensive and obviously harmless old man. Every few seconds counted and if it all went right, by the time the police got in, the illegal cocktails would have vanished and been replaced by cups of tea.
The incident started when three associates of Mister Moran, a rival businessman from the North Side, arrived at the Lagoon Club. Relations between Mister Moran and Mister Capone and their associates are tense and there is much business rivalry between them. The visit of the three Moran associates to the Lagoon Club must therefore be regarded as extremely provocative and this undoubtedly had a strong influence on the events that were to follow.
William was about to settle down with a hot coffee and a sandwich from the kitchens when there was a banging at the door. He sighed slightly, for it was good coffee and a good sandwich, Mister Capone insisted that those who worked for him shouldn’t be short-changed or given second best. The staff at the Lagoon Club got food as good as the customers and they didn’t have to pay for it. He looked through the peephole in the door. Three men in overcoats, suits and gray fedoras. Almost a uniform and William would have known what they were even if he hadn't known them by sight. Gunmen, working for Bugs Moran.
He opened the door and let them in. It wasnt unusual for Morans men to visit a Capone club, or for Capones gangsters to sample the pleasures of Moran's establishments. There was an outright war going on between the North Side Mob and the South Side Syndicate but that was business. Not personal and the rules dividing the two were strict. A Capone man visiting a Moran place, or vice versa, was safe, a guest like any other. They could boast of their bravado to the women with them but they and their associates knew the truth. There was no risk in visiting a place owned by the other side. Of course there were rules for such visits, and one of them was that the visitors should leave their guns outside. William saw the bulges under the arms of these men and knew that rule was being broken.
He knew the apparent leader of the trio. Sean Mahoney. One of Morans more senior associates. The other two he knew by sight but not by name. "May I take your coats sir?"
Mahoney threw his coat at the old man. The others placed theirs on the counter. William hung them up and saw Mahoney starting to head into the club. One of the other gangsters cleared his throat and looked at the jar on the counter. "I ain't giving money to Scarface." Mahoneys voice was carried and the second gangster guffawed. The third, the one who had cleared his throat quietly put the money into Williams jar.
"Sorry about that fella." There was no sympathy or fellow feeling in the hard eyes but there was an apology. William knew why. Mouthing off to a rival gangster showed bravado and courage, not smart perhaps but brassy. Doing so to an old man in a menial job was just petty and a bit cowardly. The apology was as much for the vulgarity of attitude as for the words and deeds themselves. Mahoney had let the side down, betrayed the image.
"Come on Mikey, times wasting." Mahoney called out from the door. Mikey grimaced again and joined them.
Inside the club, Stuyvesant saw the three men enter the main room. Like William, he knew immediately what they were even if he wasn't sure who. They weren't Capone's men, he knew that, and that didn't really leave much choice.
"Honey, check out the three men who've just come in. I think they're Moran's men."
The woman looked over her shoulder at the three. "Ohh does that mean there’s going to be trouble?" Her voice was excited, throaty with anticipation. Stuyvesant sighed quietly to himself. If more people understood what bullets did to human bodies, they wouldn’t be so keen to see shooting.
"No. The mobsters visit each others clubs all the time. It's no big thing. Some of them like to make out it is but its all show. If this was a low class dive, one or the other gang might toss a gasoline bottle in or hose the place down with tommy guns but that's really rare. A high-class place like this, there's no way. Too many important people here. There's politicians, police and two judges within four tables of us. Probably more I can't see. If any of them got hit in the crossfire, there'd be hell to pay. The law would drop on everybody and stay dropped until everybody involved was locked down. They call it the Big Heat and neither Mister Capone nor Mister Moran want that."
"Tea or Coffee Sir?" A waitress, wearing an outfit that left little of her charms to the imagination, was waiting.
"Tea please, for two." Stuyvesant smiled at the girl who made a careful bob in reply and hurried off.
A few seconds later, she reappeared with a tray containing a teapot and two cups. She quickly set the table. "Shall I pour Sir?"
Stuyvesant nodded and the girl reached into her costume and pulled out a flask, filling the two cups with gin. The tea service also contained a bottle of tonic water. The teapot, of course, really did contain tea. That was the secret, if the police arrived, all the guests had to do was drain their cups, fill them with tea and the entire room was as innocent as the day was long. It was, of course, a Chicago midwinter which made the days appropriately short.
Stuyvesant glanced back at the three new arrivals. They were sitting at a table near the bar, being served their tea. Only he also spotted the bulges under their jackets and knew that they’d come armed. Which was against the unwritten rules. A faint tick of worry started to crease the back of his mind. Two of the gangsters he dismissed as inconsequential, just out for a nights fun. The third, well Stuyvesant ran his own business, a big one, and he’d been around a long time. He recognized the type, smooth, oily, arrogant, obsequious and, under it all, a cowardly bully. The sort of man who never left his boss’s posterior unlicked or a showgirl unbruised.
According to the statements gathered from witnesses, there was no hostility displayed during the early part of the evening.
"Floorshow starting soon William, I'll be on in a few minutes." William looked around and smiled at the girl standing in his coat room. Jane Andrews, from Kansas. Like so many runaways who’d left an impossible home life to take their chances in the big city, shed found the city to be a harsh and unforgiving place. William had found her out the back of the club, searching through the garbage for food. He'd brought her in, given her a meal and talked the manager into giving her a job sweeping floors. Shed made it from floor-sweeper to showgirl by her own talents and hard work. Many girls would have forgotten the lowly doorman who’d taken pity on her but she hadn't. They'd stayed friends, each finding in the other the father and daughter they'd never really had.
"Different costume tonight Janey?"
"You bet William. Deedee is away sick so I'm filling in for her as one of the solos. Mister Nitti says if I do well, hell put me in as a regular solo. Isnt that great?"
"It sure is. Uhhh, be careful Janey, won't you." Afterwards. Unlike the chorus line dancers, the solos were supposed to come down from the stage and mingle with the guests. They weren’t expected to do anything other than add a little zing to an evening by having a drink or two at a guests expense, let him be seen with a showgirl close up. Only some customers didn’t realize that and expected a lot more. Then got mean when they found they weren't going to get it.
"I'll do that William. The other girls have given me some pointers and they've promised to look out for me. Like a little bird you know, get watched by the mother birds until my wings are strong enough to fly by myself." The two laughed, then the showgirl went back to the stage.
According to witnesses, the incident started with an altercation over the sexual favors of one of the dancers at the Lagoon Club, a woman of uncertain background using the stage name Star Lyte. Her real name is Jane Andrews, the club records showing her as being 18 years of age.
The floor show was impressive. It had started with a black torch-singer, a stunningly beautiful woman with a haunting voice who'd put out a string of numbers. Some of them were old standards, others were new to Stuyvesant and he guessed these were the ones she was reported to have written for herself. A great talent, one that would go far if she stayed away from drink and drugs. The last song had faded into a dance number as the chorus line took over. A smart line, well-drilled and keen. Capone paid good money for his acts and got the best. Then, the chorus line had broken up and a series of girls had come out and done a series of solo dances. One of them was painfully inexperienced, he guessed it was probably her first time on her own. The audience sensed it as well and went out of their way to give her a big hand.
Later (and several pots of tea) later, the girls came out to meet with the guests. By now the band was playing and Stuyvesant was out on the dance floor with his partner. As they turned, he saw the thug in the corner grab one of the showgirls. A turn later, he realized it was the new girl, the one who’d just done her first turn solo. Damned bad luck for her.
Jane Andrews was terrified. She loathed the man in front of her, his smell, the way the skin under his eyes was sweating as he looked at her. Most of all, she loathed the aura that surrounded him. An evil aura, one that made her skin crawl and her breath come short. He'd grabbed her arm when she'd passed, squeezing far harder than necessary and started making proposals to her. Wanted her to leave the club with him and his friends for a private party. She'd protested, said it was against club rules (which it was) and that she was on again later (which she wasn't). He’d got angrier and angrier at her refusal and started swearing at her. The club guard had started to close in but one of the gangster's friends had tripped him.
Then the man had hit her, knocking her back into the arms of a member of the group. She couldn't see who but he’d grabbed her arms and held her while the man had taken another swing. She'd turned her face, taking the blow on her cheek, rather than her nose and mouth and that had made him angrier still. He'd got something from his pocket, something yellow-brass and evil.
At this point one of the club employees intervened leading to an exchange of gunfire.
"Hold it right there! Let her go!" William had seen what was happening from his room. He could see the bar from there and when Jane had been knocked backwards, he’d paused for only one thing before running in. He'd stopped running, took a deep breath to steady himself and started walking up the center of the room towards the men around the girl.
"Keep out of this old man. Ain't none of your business." Mahoney looked at the old man and suddenly he stopped. Something was different, something strange. Mahoney had killed before, many times. Always a shot to the back of the head of an unsuspecting victim or a long burst of tommygun fire from the back of a moving car. Never against somebody who was prepared to fight. Now, Mahoney realized he was in that American tradition born on the western frontier, a walk-down between two armed men that only one would survive.
Stuyvesant was watching and trying to maneuver himself between his date and the developing fight. The gangsters carried guns, he knew that so what could an old man do? He got his answer much faster than he expected. The gangster who'd hit the girl turned around and started to draw his pistol. Then, everything seemed to go into slow motion. Everything except the old man. He appeared to be moving at normal speed while everything around him slowed down. He drew a large, old-fashioned looking revolver. Stuyvesant was the only man in the room who recognized it. A Smith and Wesson Schofield Russian Model. Then, he saw something else, something he’d never expected to see outside a movie or a carnival. The old man was fanning his gun, his left hand blurring over the top of the revolver.
Chicagoans were used to rapid fire, the hammering of a tommygun was almost a city anthem. But even a tommygun gave a series of independent distinct shots. The sound from the old Schofield was a continuous roar. Mahoney's gun, an M1911A1 automatic, hadn't even cleared his jacket when he was hurled backwards against the bar. The man holding the girl threw her to one side and he tried to pull a gun from the waistband of his pants but a shot from the Schofield caught him just under the ribs and he went down also. The third man went spinning around his arm hanging uselessly from a shattered shoulder.
The dead man was one Sean Mahoney, aged 22, a known associate of Moran and reportedly a member of the North Side Mob. James OHare, aged 19, was hit in the stomach and is critically injured in the General Hospital. His wound is feared to be mortal. A third man, Michael Delgado, aged 21, was hit in the shoulder and is also in critical condition although his wound is not thought to be life threatening. Mahoney was robbed, apparently in an attempt to make the incident appear to be armed robbery.
William straightened, the heavy Schofield in his hands. Almost without thinking, he broke the action, reloaded the cylinder and closed it again. Over by the bar, the man who’d hit Janey was dead, four bullets in his heart, so close the holes were almost touching. The man who'd held Janey was writhing on the floor, holding his ruptured stomach. The third man, the one who'd apologized to him earlier, was sitting down, one hand on his shattered shoulder. William had switched his aim at the last second when he'd recognized him.
To William, the only person who mattered was Jane. He went over to her and lifted her face, feeling the bones gently. The way she'd moved her head had protected her nose and jaw; her teeth were undamaged and the cheekbone was unbroken. William felt himself relax. Her face would be bruised, her mouth swollen and her eye blacked but she'd recover. It would be a long time before she could work, nobody paid to see a showgirl with a bruised face, but she’d be all right. He went to the dead man, took his wallet and emptied it. The money was a little bloody but still negotiable. He tucked it into her hand. She smiled at him, still stunned by what had happened.
The identity of the gunman is unknown. It is believed he may have been a professional assassin brought in from New York. This being the case, it is most unlikely the case will be solved and it is recommended police efforts be placed in investigations with a higher probability of success.
Jane smiled up at her friend. "Thank you." William smiled down at her and started to walk away. "William you can't leave. You'll die out there. The Witch is blowing."
He smiled back. "I have to leave Janey. There’ll be hell to pay for this. You look after yourself you hear me?"
She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "Who are you?"
I'm William, Janey, you know that. But when I was a Kid, they called me Billy."