A Valentine's Day Story

The year was 1929 at the end of the “Roaring Twenties”, a time of rising expectations and euphoria following the end of World War I. With it came Prohibition, the law that banned the manufacture and sale of alcoholic beverages. It was a Pyrrhic victory for the temperance movement. Enforcement of the law proved to be impossible

?Bootleggers, rum-runners, Appalachian moon-shiners, and traditional makers of bath tub gin bubbled to the surface. The contenders for the fruits of these activities included the mobs, mostly the Italian mobs, the Irish mobs, and the Jewish mobs, but there were others. The Chicago Police and Judges found there was a little in it for them. And why not?

?The decade roared with the new music coming up the Mississippi river from New Orleans, Memphis and St Louis. Jazz, with its siblings Ragtime and the Blues, was “hot” and denounced by matrons across the nation.?In Speakeasies and Night-clubs, the flapper reigned supreme, with her stockings rolled to just below her knees, and her garters making brief appearances as she did the Charleston. The stock market went up and up, driven by ordinary citizens who could buy a piece of a dream for little or nothing down and a lot of blue smoke.

?I was in the fifth grade at the time, a kid that took many a sting from the nuns who were trying to teach me something besides looking out the school room window and drawing pictures of birds. Walking home from school that February afternoon I passed old man Stiller’s news stand where I occasionally worked for a few hours a week. Stiller was out front at the curb when he spotted me.

?“Hey kid, come ‘ere a minute,” he croaked. “I wanna talk to ya,” He looked kind of washed out, hacking and shivering. His scarf was pulled close around his neck. He always called me Kid even though he knew me since I was in diapers.

?“Look Kid, I’m awful sick and I gotta go home and get in bed. Willie’ll be here by five. Could you take over until then?”?He caught his breath. “There’s an Extra coming out. The Trib driver just came by and told me. It’s a big one. He didn’t say about what but we’re gettin’ a hundred of ‘em by five. When Willie comes, you can scram on home.”?

?“I’ll have to ask my Ma first. If she says OK I’ll be right back.”

?“Make it as soon as you can, Kid. I’m dying.”

?It had snowed heavily the day before and banks of the gray stuff were piled in heaps along the curbside. The afternoon sun had thawed enough to make little ponds and rivulets in the gutter. Darkness would turn them to ice again.

My mother dressed me in long under-wear below my corduroy knickers, told me to wear my rubber overshoes and wrapped a scarf around my neck. Swollen glands were going around that year. Grabbing my ear muffs, I left for Stiller’s news stand about four blocks away.

?Old man Stiller was looking bad when I arrived.

?“Kid, I gotta go or I’ll die right here. You’re on two-bits an hour as of now. Any tips you get are yours. Just account for the papers when Willie arrives.?

?“Are you sure that Willie will be here soon? My Ma wants me home before dark.”

??“Sure, sure, Kid. He’ll be here any time now.

?He turned to leave, then reminded me, “Don’t forget, when the papers come you gotta yell as loud as you can: ‘EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT!’

?He gave me a look like he was talking to a donkey, but right then he had a hacking fit. He turned and disappeared into the late afternoon dusk, hunched over with his collar held tightly about his neck.

?Alone now, the first thing I did was stoke the dying embers in the old oil drum that kept us from freezing. I found some coke and sticks of wood and hoped for a blaze. Besides keeping me warm, it was good for business. A hot fire drew customers. About five thirty, the Trib delivery truck rolled up to the curb, the driver yelling, “Come and get-em!”

?As I neared the truck, the driver looked at me though slit eyes and asked, “Where’s Stiller?”

?I told him he was coughing up a lung and had to go home.

?“So where’s Willie his boy?”

?“Mr. Stiller said he’ll be here soon.”

?“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Are you outta diapers? OK, I can’t wait. Go to the back of the truck and grab four bundles. Come around and sign your name on this delivery sheet.”

?“Uh, I don’t know if I should do that,” I replied, thinking of the money I’d owe if nothing sold.

?“You want-em or dontcha? I’m in a big hurry?”

?So, I took four bundles, signed the sheet, and put them in the stand. I cut the binding on one of the bundles and looked to see what the big story was. Gang warfare had broken out. Seven of Bugs Moran’s North Side gang were plugged by two men with Tommy guns wearing policemen’s uniforms. Nobody doubted for a moment it was Al Capone, even though Al and his lieutenants were at the very moment of the killings playing cards in Miami. Bugs Moran himself escaped. Bad luck for Scarface.

?I grabbed four copies of the paper, holding one aloft and carrying the others under my arm I made my first banner call.

?“EXTRA! EXTRA!?READ ALL ABOUT IT. GANGLAND KILLERS SLAY SEVEN.”

?The first customer to come up was known in the neighborhood as a minor underworld figure, a numbers runner and race track tout. People called him Blackie D. My mom always walked between him and me when we saw him at church.

?He grabbed a paper and asked, “Ain’t you da kid dat serves Mass sometimes at Saint Peter and Paul’s Church down da street?”

?“Yes Sir.”

?“Da last time you held da plate for the Priest at Communion you dinged me in the troat wit dat plate. Don’t do dat no more, okay,” he said with a slight smile.?

?“Give me two of dem papers, kid” he said and handed me a silver half dollar. “Keep da change”

?When Blackie read the headlines, his face went ashen and he almost ran away. No one saw Blackie after that. We figured he was given a pair of concrete overshoes and now rested peacefully at the bottom of Lake Michigan.

?The news stand became hectic as people headed for the warmth of the oil drum. Radio stations were telling what they knew, and more they didn’t. The news wires made it their top story. I was soon overwhelmed with customers and finally said to just take a copy and leave the money in the cigar box in the stand.

?By now it was completely dark. Still no Willie. I had no way of contacting old man Stiller because most of the stores were closed and I couldn’t leave the stand. Soon a Chicago Daily News truck pulled up and the driver asked if I wanted any of their extras. The pile of Tribs was almost gone so I took two bundles and signed the sheet after looking in the cigar box hoping we could cover the papers.?

?I was still there at nine thirty when the last show at Pete’s Nickelodeon let out and a big crowd came over to buy copies. It was ten thirty when the last trip of streetcar #5 came clanging down the tracks and stopped at 92nd street. Out stumbled Willie Stiller, much under the influence of John Barleycorn. When he saw me he sobered up fast.

?“Where’s Pops?”

?“He’s sick and asked me to cover until you got here.”

?Willie’s eyes widened. “Look Kid, it wasn’t my fault. The cops raided the bookie and took me along with the rest of them. Don’t matter, he’s going to give me hell if he finds out.”

?Willie looked through the stand. There were only ten Tribs and eight Daily News left.

?“OK, Kid, here’s the deal. Let’s figure the money. I pay you off and you can go home. End of story.”

?“You dad said that I would get twenty five cents an hour and all the tips.”

?“Sure, Kid,” he said as he looked at the distributor sheets. “Let’s see. 138 copies at fifteen cents each.?That comes to twenty dollars and seventy cents.” He paused. “You signed for all these?”

?My heart started beating hard. “I only did what your Pop told me.”

?“Hey, calm down We’re straight. Here’s your two bucks for eight hours work.”

?“Gee, Thanks,” I said, relieved. Then I saw what was left in the box, and Willie saw I saw.

?“Good thing your Pop didn’t have to worry about you getting nicked by the cops,” I said.

?“How old are you, Kid?” He paused and handed me what was left: two more bucks and a box of change.

?I ran home to find my mom crying with worry. After she gave me a whack, she hugged me. I showed her the bills and then we counted the change. Five dollars and ninety cents, along with the two dollars it came to seven dollars and ninety cents. A factory job brought home forty cents an hour. She got down on her knees and thanked the Holy Virgin for getting me home safe and for the money.

?Nobody guessed that the killings would start a drive against police and political corruption in Chicago. And nobody would have guessed that in October the stock market would collapse, banks would fold, people would lose their jobs and factories would close, or that the resulting Great Depression would deepen and last for six more years.

?For this kid from the south side of Chicago that February 14th, 1929, the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre made things turn out pretty good.

By and in memory of my father, Donald M. Gorey, 1919-2004.