Tasting the Apple
Book 2 of the Bootleggers’ Chronicles series
Sherilyn Decter
Copyright © Sherilyn Decter All rights reserved
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property and prohibited.
Tasting the Apple is a work of historical fiction in which the author has occasionally taken artistic liberties for the sake of the narrative and to provide a sense of authenticity. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, dialogue, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Print ISBN: 978-1-9990014-2-1
EPub ISBN: 978-1-9990014-3-8
Edited by: Marie Beswick-Arthur www.mariebeswickarthur.com
Cover Design by: JDSmith Designs www.jdsmith-design.com
Chapter 1
T ake a look. A quick look. See the pretty lady, arms and legs flying faster than her fringe? The feathers in her hair dancing, the sequins glittering, the band tearing up the stage with that razzmatazz jazz? Look close: Betty Boop mouth a cherry red, cheeks flushed pink. Beneath the short, bobbed hair, her eyes glitter. Is it excitement? Is it the bathtub gin they serve behind the bar? Or maybe, just maybe, it’s panic. Dance faster, doll, dance faster. You don’t want to get left behind; the night is young.
Take another look. See the fella in the corner? Broad shoulders, broad lapels, wide tie. Do you see that bulge by his arm? He’s packin’ heat and supposed to be listening at the door. A quick knock, a secret password, and you’re in. Look real close. See those eyes beneath the brim of his fedora? Always moving, always casing the joint. They’re narrowed. Is it boredom? Is it lust? Is it calculation? Don’t blink; it could be over in an instant.
Look again. Past the dame on the dance floor, past the goon at the door, outside the speakeasy, just down the dark street. See those two cops talking to the fella with the flasks under his coat? They’ve been caught in the cone of the street light. Two bits a drink, bub, two bits a drink. Look closer. Whaddaya see? A criminal? Two criminals? Fear? Greed?
Philadelphia. 1926. Six years into prohibition. Take a look, then look away. Nuthin to see here, folks. Moonshine and illegal hooch is washing down the streets of the city. From the mayor on down to the poor sap on the street, everybody wants a taste.
One last look. Can you see him? Behind that fella at the door of the speakeasy? Behind that moll on the dance floor? Behind those cops on the street? Behind that schmo with the tin flask and a cup?
There. Can you see him, now? You’re looking for a guy in the shadows, the glowing tip of his cigarette. He’s the man with the hooch, with the look-away bribes, with the tommy gun, with the swagger. Take a look, but not too close. He’s the bootlegger and he’s got a sweet deal—just for you.
* * * *
In 1926, there are 16,000 speakeasies for the two million residents of Philadelphia. Crime, thanks to tommy guns and faster cars, is exploding—literally. Citizens are beginning to panic because of the violence, and politicians are using their bully pulpits to get ‘tough on crime’. The tip of the spear of these efforts are the city’s finest, the police.
Detective Tony Giordano is one of the few Italians in Philadelphia’s police force. Tall and dashing, with a killer smile, he comes from a long line of Giordano men who offer protection. Unlike his family who are members of the Honored Society known as the Cosa Nostra, he had decided, at a young age, to go in a different direction than Pops and Nonno. He wanted to see what life looked like from the other side of the street.
Ah yes, the other side of the street—which, it turned out, was not so good. As a cop, the money in his wallet was a pittance of his gangster brother’s thick wad. Certainly not enough to afford the car and clothes that make the man. So, he planted one foot on each side of the proverbial street, taking the policeman’s motto to serve and protect to an entrepreneurial level his family would be proud of.
In the grand tradition of Philadelphia’s finest, he’s a cop on the take.
Captain Copeland stops by Tony Giordano’s desk. It’s neat and well-ordered, much like Tony himself. He looks at his captain; only a flicker betrays his distaste at Copeland’s slovenly appearance. Taking advantage of the recent directive allowing police detectives to wear street clothes, Tony is dressed in a brown windowpane-checked three-piece suit, the pant leg creases sharp enough to slice bread. His silk tie is a glorious purple, and there’s a crisp black fedora perched on the back of his head. He’d rather die than wear the soiled uniform his captain wears, complete with food stains and missing buttons.
“Giordano, its Wednesday. Aren’t you supposed to be working the street? My pockets are feeling a bit light. Maybe see about fillin’ ‘em? Swing by and pick up Gus and Fingers and see what you can do about it.”
“Sure, Cap. I was thinking that it was getting around that time of the week myself.”
Behind the wheel of his brand new Studebaker, Tony feels like the king of the world. He pulls up and toots the horn outside the warehouse where notorious gangster and racketeer, Mickey Duffy, operates most of his business. He’s called ahead and talked to Fingers. Wednesday. Collection Day. His favorite day of the week.
Gus and Fingers stroll to the car. There is no mistaking the men for anything but the gangster muscle they are. The flashy, pinstriped zoot-suits, black and white spats, the swagger, and a telling bulge beneath the left arm, all broadcast gangster. Being obvious is a good thing when you want the world to be anxious when you’re around.
“Morning, boys. Feel like making some deliveries?”
The two men laugh. “Always. The truck’s loaded. Who do you want to hit first? We got regular deliveries scheduled at a couple of different joints.”
“How about the Kit Kat Klub? That’s always on the regular Wednesday run. Then Monty’s? Maybe finish up at O’Toole’s place on Broad Street and then go for lunch?”
“Sure. Give us a half hour head start, and we’ll meet ya at the Cristal for grub,” says Gus.
Tony cruises to kill a half hour. Working with Duffy’s crew always gets him hankering about the life he didn’t choose, reminding him of his pops and brothers back in the Big Apple—made-men and wise-guys all. Ah, to be a gangster; the wild freedom—a man hankers after that. It would be a shame if shaking down speakeasies and gin joints is as close as he ever gets to living that life.
While Tony cruises up and down ‘Regret and If Only’ Streets, Gus and Fingers head to the Kit Kat Klub with their weekly liquor delivery. The manager helps them unload the cases of gin and whiskey and hands over a nice thick envelope.
“This is the second time we’ve been here this month. Try and hang on to this shipment, eh Sam?” Fingers slaps the manager on the back.
Sam grimaces. “Hey, if Butler would lay off with the padlocks, I’d be having a great month, revenue-wise. But that guy keeps shutting me down and hauling my inventory away. I figure the next retirement party they got going for some cop will have an open bar stocked with all my booze.”
“Oh, I hear ya, Sam. I hear ya. See ya next week.”
Gus and Fingers repeat the process at Monty’s at the same time that Tony strolls into the Kit Kat Klub. He pulls out his badge and flashes it at the bartender.
“Go get the manager. I’m inspecting the place for illegal liquor.”
Tony and Sam go into the back room where the Duffy delivery is still sitting in the middle of the floor.
“Well, lookie here. I do believe you have illegal liquor, Sam. I am going to have to confiscate it and padlock the joint.”
Sam sighs heavily. “Detective. I am hoping we can come to some kind of understanding. You know as well as me that the charges a
re a revolving door. You haul me into court, and then the judge gives me a fine, and I’m out tomorrow. How’s about I pay the fine direct to you? It would save me a heap of time and trouble. Much more convenient for us all.”
“But I’ll still have to confiscate the booze,” Tony says.
Sam nods, resigned. “Of course you would. Wouldn’t expect anything else. Waddaya say? Deal?”
They shake on it. Sam helps Tony load the booze into the trunk of the Studebaker. He slips a nice wad of cash into Tony’s breast pocket, tapping it farewell. Sam heads into the Kit Kat Klub to call Duffy and make arrangements for another shipment, for any day but a Wednesday.
At the next two speakeasies, the shakedown’s repeated. No one is alarmed. No one is offended. It is how business is done in Philadelphia in 1926.
* * *
The three fellas sprawl in the booth at the Cristal, roaring with laughter. Between the beer and pastrami, Tony cuts the money five ways: a taste for the two bosses, Copeland and Duffy, and the rest for their own hard work. Later, he’ll follow the boys back to Duffy’s warehouse to help restock the booze that will be sold again, maybe even back to the Kit Kat Klub. There’s a reason why they’re called racketeers; it’s such a nice, tidy little racket.
Chapter 2
T he handsome Russian lieutenant gazes down at the helpless woman supine before him. She trembles. His eyes smolder with desire. He is tall, dark, brooding. His Cossack uniform, ripped from his muscled body, lies scattered on the carpeted floor of the Czarina’s palace bedroom. She doesn’t struggle, caught by his magnetic eyes. He lowers his head, her lips part…
“Oh, Rudy,” Edith says. She breathes his name.
“Shh,” Maggie says.
“Oh, shh yourself.” Edith never takes her eyes off the screen until ‘The End’ flashes, and the theater lights come on. The Eagle is Rudolph Valentino’s latest silent movie to hit the theaters. The lineup to get tickets had been around the block.
“Oh, isn’t he just the dreamiest?” Maggie is standing, eyes shut. Raising a languid hand to her forehead, she pretends to swoon.
“Oh, you goof. Come on, let’s go grab a coffee before I run you home.” Edith slips into her fur coat, then links arms with Maggie.
Leaving the movie theater, adjusting to the afternoon light—despite the gathering clouds—the two women are a study in contrast. Edith Duffy, a tall, sleek beauty in her early thirties, has that pampered languidness that wealthy women often get. Her movie companion, Maggie Barnes, a few years younger, is not quite so well-turned out: a cloth coat to Edith’s fur; sensible shoes rather than satin pumps; a plain brown knit hat compared to Edith’s saucy garnet number that sports a jaunty feather.
Maggie is solid; some would say dependable. She’d cringe at that; aspires to something more glamorous. Where Maggie is steady, Edith is flamboyant. Where Maggie is cautious, Edith is devil-may-care. Where Maggie carefully counts out her pennies to pay for the movie, Edith throws a tenner onto the counter, picking up the tab. Maggie looks forward to the day when she’ll be able to treat Edith. There’s a running tally in her head, keeping track of the obligation.
The two gals couldn’t be more different or closer. Some days it feels like they’ve been through the wars together, and in many ways they have.
Six years into it, Philadelphia is entrenched in the anarchy of Prohibition. Bootleggers have turned a city, once known as a place that had a week of Sundays, into a playground for gangsters and racketeers. Washington should have known that you can’t tell people, especially those in Philadelphia, what to do. If they want a drink, then they’ll find someone to sell it to them. The fact that it’s illegal is merely an inconvenient technicality. Moonshiners brew it. Rum runners import it. Bootleggers and speakeasies sell it. And cops and politicians all look the other way for a small fee. Lawlessness bleeds into all areas of life because, if you’re comfortable being a lawbreaker so that you can enjoy an afternoon tipple or a night on the town, then it’s easy to slide just a wee bit further down that slippery slope. The fact the slope is sometimes slippery with blood? Well, it’s not happening to me, bub, so look the other way.
Maggie loves coming to the pictures. The Stanton is one of Philadelphia’s magnificent baroque movie palaces: ornate plaster and golden flourishes. The moment when the lights dim and the heavy, red velvet drapes sweep open always makes her catch her breath as she falls into a world of make-believe.
Her life allows only a few indulgences. Maggie’s widowed and raising her son. She’s managing to keep a roof over their heads, thanks to the regular rent payments of her lodgers. Even so, Maggie can hear the padded footsteps of hungry wolves always pacing back and forth in front of her door.
A pinched pocketbook is one of the reasons why Maggie Barnes enjoys these little outings with her best friend, Edith Duffy. They’ve gotten to know each other well over the past year and a half. The circumstances that brought them together were a real crossroads in Maggie’s life: a neighbor’s child’s death; her search to find the murderer and bring him to justice; a kidnapping. Some would shudder, trying to forget, but Maggie is grateful that, in all the darkness, Edith’s friendship shone through. The fact that her friend is married to the chief suspect is merely a complication—hey, in these riotous days, what isn’t complicated?
The two gals stroll arm in arm down the street toward the coffee shop. With one eye on the darkening sky, Maggie’s glad she’s brought her umbrella. More rain is the last thing she needs.
“Rudy Valentino really is one of the greats. I hear that he and his co-star, Vilma Banky, are having an affair.”
“No. How wonderful.” Edith leans in closer, not wanting to miss a detail of the Hollywood gossip. “Those arms, those eyes. I loved his beard in The Hooded Falcon. I tried to get Mickey to grow one, but he was having none of it. He hates Valentino, calls him a fop.” Edith gazes off into the distance. “Mmm, imagine what it feels like to be wrapped in those strong Valentino arms.”
“And how is Mickey?” Maggie asks, one eyebrow raised in a wry arch.
Edith pouts as Maggie pours cold water on her fantasy embrace. Edith’s marriage to Mickey Duffy, Philadelphia’s notorious King of the Bootleggers, is rocky. “Let’s not talk about Mickey. Let’s talk about you. Tell me, how’s that kid of yours?”
Maggie gives her friend’s arm a squeeze. You’d never guess from Edith’s beautiful face that there was a world of hurt going on. Maggie has no idea how Edith manages to pull it off. Confident society dame on the outside. Insecure, lonely coat-check girl underneath. She’s one heck of an actress. Not even Mickey knows how much pain Edith is in.
“Oh, Tommy’s swell. Doing good in school, when he applies himself. Unfortunately, that’s not as often as his teachers or I would like. But he’s a good kid.”
They settle into the booth at Edith’s favorite coffee shop, the strong smell of whiskey wafting from her mug. Maggie stirs her regular coffee—black with a teaspoon of sugar. “Oh, Edith, I love the movies. The fantasy and make-believe. What would a romance with a Cossack like Valentino be like?”
“I know a bit about the movies. What you see on the screen isn’t what it’s like on the set at all. Fake walls. Hot lights. Crabby directors. Greedy agents. Co-stars with wandering hands. Nasty, ambitious people scurrying everywhere. The star, hung over, with her face wrapped in ice cubes and towels, trying to close her pores.”
Maggie laughs out loud. “Oh, Edith. You slay me. That’s just too rich.”
Edith chuckles. “Well, it’s true, doll. But not so different than our own lives, is it? Before I go out, the cold cream’s on and the hair is in pin curls. While it looks all natural, believe me, it ain’t.”
Maggie snorts her coffee back into her cup. “Oh, Edith. Stop.”
Edith sits back, a satisfied smile on her face. “Oh, Maggie. I won’t stop it and neither should you. It’s so good to see you smiling, doll, instead of that serious Mrs. Grundy look you usually wear.”
Maggi
e gives Edith a mock-serious face.
“I love the new look, by the way. Bobbed hair really suits you. Lovely waves. Are they yours or do you have to do them?
Maggie pats her new haircut. “Nope, all me. I got the curls from my grandfather. It was a moment, Edith, walking into the beauty salon. I didn’t know whether I could go through with it. And Mother had a bird when she saw. Apparently, only loose women have short hair. I told her it fits better under the cute new hats.”
“I would have loved to have seen that. Your mother can be a real card, sometimes, Maggie.”
The waiter returns with two coffeepots on a tray: one for the Ediths of the world, and one for the Maggies.
A little later, Maggie nods, accepting a refill. “Okay, one more. But I gotta get going soon and get supper started. It won’t be long before the boys will be home and, if there’s no supper on the go, they’ll start raiding the icebox like ravaging hoards. Tommy’s the worst, but not the only culprit.”
Tasting the Apple Page 1