Tasting the Apple

by Sherilyn Decter

  Edith is frozen with embarrassment. How dare Mickey treat her like that? She smiles and nods. Her jaw rigid with holding her mouth shut.

  Mickey and the other gentlemen in the group lean in to glean a bit of city gossip that might give them an advantage at some point. You never know what might come in handy. Mickey slips his arm away from Edith to snag another glass of champagne.

  * * * *

  Edith and Mickey are installed in the spacious backseat of the Duesenberg, heading home. Mickey’s bodyguard and driver, John Bricker, is at the wheel, eyes front. The couple has been engaged in low-level sniper fire since they left the hotel.

  “How could you?”

  “You didn’t really want to be part of Kendrick’s little shindig, did you?”

  “That’s not the point. I can speak for myself. Maybe I did want to be part of that shindig. It’s going to be a big deal, Mickey.”

  “Well, it ain’t going to happen, so get over it. Not after Kendrick basically double-crossed me, switching the site for the fair. I’d bought up some land next to the old Sesqui site. Since the election, he’s moved the site to some swampland that his buddy, William Vare, owns. I have no idea what I’m going to do with that property now. He knows I’m ticked-off about the new location, and just wants you on the committee as a way of getting me to back his stupid idea. Probably wants me to bankroll the Sesqui party, too, if I know Kendrick.”

  “Maybe he wants me on the committee because he thinks I’d do a good job?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Edith. Any dame can throw a party. How much brains can that take? It’s only about the money. It always is. Now, I gotta go out for a bit. We’ll drop you at home, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  They pull up to the curb in front of a large, Romanesque, red brick and stone, three-story mansion with towering chimneys and turrets. There’s a light burning at the front entryway but, otherwise, the house is dark.

  Edith sits in the backseat, her jaw clenched, her hands curled into fists in her lap. Mickey, his arm casually draped along the back of the seat, worries the end of a toothpick. John has both hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead, car running.

  “Well, is somebody going to open my door and walk me to the front door?” Edith snaps.

  Both men start, and then John gets out and comes round to hold open her door. He follows her up the sidewalk and the staircase to the front door.

  “Have a nice night, Mrs. Duffy.”

  Edith enters the house and then turns to watch the car pull away. A tear slowly slides down her face. She wipes at it angrily, turns, and heads upstairs to her room. Soon, her beautiful, magical gown lies discarded in a heap on the floor as she heads to the liquor cabinet.

  Chapter 15

  C olonel Smedley Butler and Joe Kelly are, once again, parked across from the Venice Café, waiting for the arrival of Enforcement Unit Number One troops to start the raid. After six stakeouts at the Café, Joe hopes this is lucky seven. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. He wishes the colonel would give up on this particular joint; the public is laughing, calling them Philly’s Keystone Cops.

  “They’re going to make this a reserved parking spot for us, sir,”

  Two paddy wagons come into sight. Joe gets out and runs around to open the colonel’s door. They approach the senior officer in charge.

  “Are we ready, Captain Beckman?” Smedley asks.

  “Sir. Everyone’s in place, front, and back.”

  “Good. Charge.”

  The Venice Café front door is yanked open. A dozen police burst in, guns raised. The bartender behind the counter looks up with bored indifference and continues to wipe the counter. Through the door leading to the alley and kitchen, more officers pour in. The two dozen officers point their guns at a small crowd of ladies and gentlemen drinking tea. The customers smirk at the surprised police. They’re definitely professional ladies, and tea is not likely their beverage of choice.

  “Search the place, Captain.” Colonel Butler doffs his hat at his audience. “Ladies.” And with his cape swirling, he goes back outside to stand beside the car. Joe hurries after him.

  The colonel paces on the sidewalk, hands clasped behind his back. “Damn. Damn. Damn. That is seven times. Seven times this week that they have gotten a tipoff that we’re coming. Who is the traitor? Who is working with the enemy? Kelly, take me back to the station.”

  Joe opens the colonel’s door, then runs around and slips behind the wheel.

  Butler stares straight ahead, fuming. “What are our options? How do we smoke out the traitor?”

  Joe, reasonably certain that these are rhetorical questions, just drives.

  “Are you any further ahead, talking to the woman who is interested in our Operation Minnow?”

  “Yes, sir.” Joe is taken aback by the accelerated timeline of the colonel’s idea. He hasn’t yet broached the idea to Maggie, but figures she’ll enjoy both the adventure and the extra cash. And he knows she’s a cool head under pressure.

  “Good. We’ll start it next weekend. I’m going to bring our undercover civilians together for a briefing on Wednesday. We’ll have it away from the Precinct. Keep it covert. Find a room, Sergeant. Perhaps in a school or church hall, and let me know. I’ll contact the Marines, and we’ll get the sons-of-bitches. I’ve had enough.”

  Chapter 16

  M aggie’s started the morning coffee. Footsteps thump on the staircase and into the kitchen.

  “You look sharp, Joe. Pressed uniform and all. Are you in a rush, or do you have time to sit for a coffee? Tommy and Archie will be down shortly I imagine.”

  “I’d love a cup. And I need to talk to you about something, Maggie. Something private.”

  “Oh? Well then, out with it, as we won’t have too much time before the kitchen’s full.”

  “Could we take our coffee into the living room?”

  Maggie leads the way. Wedding troubles? Cold feet? “What’s on your mind, Joe?”

  “Maggie. Last year, after all that unpleasantness around Duffy and young Oskar’s death, I made a promise to you to keep you safe. Do you remember that?”

  “I remember,” Maggie answers. What’s he going on about?

  “You had also said that you wanted to continue working on making our city safe for Tommy and other families. Right?”

  Maggie nods. Has he found out about what the Inspector and I have been doing?

  “Well, I admired your courage then, and I have a favor to ask of you now.”

  Tommy bounds down the stairs dressed for school. “Morning, Mother. Morning, Sergeant Kelly.”

  “Good morning, sweetie.” Maggie kisses his forehead. “There’s porridge on the stove. Help yourself. Sergeant Kelly and I are just having a word and would like some privacy.”

  “So, Joe? What do you want to ask me?” Maggie asks, after Tommy has left the room.

  “It’s about work. The colonel is setting up a group of civilians to work undercover, to catch corrupt police. Would you be interested in being part of it?”

  “Oh, well. Undercover? I think I’d need more information—”

  “Good morning, Joe. Maggie. A beautiful morning, isn’t it? Have I missed breakfast?” Archie is also dressed for school.

  “No. Joe and I were trying to have a quiet chat. There’s breakfast in the kitchen. Tommy’s in there and coffee’s made. If Clive comes out, show him where the cups and bowls are, will you? I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Privacy is restored.

  “I’m sorry to press, Maggie, but I need to get back to Colonel Butler with your answer today. Otherwise, I would give you more time to think about it. The work’s at night, but not every night. And you’ll be paid, although I don’t know how much. I’m not sure how long it will last, maybe a couple of weeks, maybe a month or two. I’m sorry I don’t have more details, but it’s all coming together really fast. I do know it’s not dangerous. You’ll be selling alcohol on the street and waiting for a cop to ask
you for a look-away bribe. I’ll be right there beside you to arrest the cops. It’s absolutely safe, Maggie.”

  “You want me to sell booze on a street corner? Oh, Joe, I don’t think I could do that. What about people who ask to buy a drink? What if someone I know sees me?” What if Mother sees me?

  “You can sell people a drink. We’re going to look away from those violations. Our only interest is in the cops. And we’ll be in a different part of the city where it’s not likely you’ll be recognized. As I said, I’ll be right there with you. What do you think?”

  Tommy comes through again, schoolbag in hand. “Good luck this morning, sweetie. Hold your head high. You’ve served your suspension and, if anyone asks, tell them that you’ve learned a valuable lesson. I’ll see you at lunchtime.”

  Joe’s impatient breaths are audible.

  At the slam of the door, she turns back to Joe. “I trust you, Joe. You wouldn’t ask if you didn’t need me, and you wouldn’t let me do anything dangerous. Tell your Colonel Butler yes, and then you can give me the details tonight.”

  Joe jumps up and grabs her hands. “Thank you, Maggie. I really appreciate it, and I know the colonel will, too. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Maggie heads into her day, excited about the idea of working undercover. Beds are stripped and fresh linens put on. She’s pushing the mop under Archie’s bed when she strikes something. Curious, she peers under the bed and pulls out a cardboard box. Do I dare? The last time I poked my nose into a lodger’s business, Eugene got killed. But Archie’s not Eugene. I wonder what he has inside? I know Joe keeps his gun under the bed in a locked box. Surely Archie doesn’t have a gun in there? I should check, for Tommy’s safety.

  Maggie lifts the lid. Inside are scrapbooks. Glued inside are newspaper clippings about bootlegger activity, magazine articles about famous gangsters, matchbooks and napkins from notorious local speakeasies. Well, I never would have guessed. Our tight-laced Archie seems to be a bit of a fan.

  Maggie returns Archie’s secret obsession and continues cleaning. I wonder how it works, the selling part? How do I carry all the liquor? I bet Archie would know. Maggie smirks at the thought. Gosh. Imagine, me working for the police, for money. Maybe I won’t lose this roof over our heads after all.

  She tidies Tommy’s room. I wonder if I should wear any make-up, or maybe that’s sending the wrong message on my street corner? She glances in the mirror, batting her eyelashes at her reflection.

  She peels potatoes for supper. I wonder how much I’ll be paid? She runs the dusting rag over the furniture in the front room. What if I’m no good at sales and nobody wants a drink? Oh, what have I gotten myself into? Imagine. I’m going to be working undercover for the police. Me. Maggie Barnes. I can hardly wait until after supper to tell the Inspector.

  * * * *

  “Guess what, Inspector. I’m going to be selling hooch on street corners.” Maggie directs her triumphant smile toward Inspector Frank Geyer who is relaxed in his chair by the fire. It’s not often that she can surprise him, and he is surprised.

  Frank pauses in lighting his cigar, and stares. “What? I don’t understand? Is it the money? I know that times have been lean, my dear, but this?”

  “Ha. Well, money is tight, but no, I’m not doing it for the money. At least not just for the money. Inspector, it’s real police work. Joe asked me to work undercover. Colonel Butler is calling it Operation Minnow, or some such silliness. I’m to stand around working as a thirst-relief station, selling hooch on a street corner until some cop comes and tries to take a piece of my proceeds.”

  Frank continues to light his cigar. “Ah, an undercover sting. That’s different. I presume you’ll be working in teams. Otherwise, it may not be safe for you on those corners at night.”

  “Of course, Joe will be with me the whole time, hidden from view. There’s no way he’d put me at risk. And I’ll get paid. It’s just temporary, until they get a handle on the corrupt cops, but it can help out with the mortgage payment. I’m excited about it. The police are going to circulate a report about possible new lone-operators and see who shows up. I’ll be one of those. Sort of like a tethered goat staked out to attract a lion.”

  “I think you’ll be a very effective goat, bleating away in the dark. Good hunting.”

  Maggie laughs. “Maybe it should be Operation Goat rather than Operation Minnow.”

  Chapter 17

  I t’s a sunny day. Children in the schoolyard are laughing and darting back and forth playing frozen tag. There’s a frantic energy to them as they work off steam before the bell rings. Summer holidays can’t come soon enough.

  Henry Mercer sighs deeply. He leans against the car. The playground is now part of his regular routine; he can’t stop—it’s like worrying at a toothache or picking at a scab. His fedora is pulled low, shading his eyes. His jacket is open, the double shoulder holsters underneath. One hand clutches a smoldering cigarette; his elbow rests on the car’s roof.

  He appears the very picture of ease to casual observers passing by, but, if anyone stopped long enough to pass the time of day, they might suspect a late night bender, or maybe one too many with the boys. In the shade of his fedora’s brim, haunted eyes are bloodshot and full of pain. And if they got that close, and happened to truly study his eyes, they’d quickly look away, recognizing a tortured soul, exhausted from wrestling demons.

  Last year’s tragic accident, a small boy killed in crossfire during a police raid, still haunts him. Wrong place, wrong time. If there was a God for bootleggers and gangsters, Henry prayed that it wasn’t his bullet that struck the kid. He had found the boy’s body and, to protect the crew, dumped it into the river. He hears that splash again and again in his head. He wants to do what Mickey asks and just forget about it. Instead he’s drawn to watching children, reliving the moment when he found the small, cold body lying face down on the dirt floor. He can still feel the slight weight and picture the dangling limbs as he lifted the child over the rail of the unfinished bridge. Splash. The energy of these children playing in the school yard contrasts with the lifeless, still corpse of the small, dead boy which might as well still be in Henry’s arms. He takes a shuddering breath.

  One last look at the kids playing—for today anyway—and Henry pushes off from the car. He climbs in and drives away. He’s late to see Mickey, and Mickey hates to be kept waiting.

  * * * *

  The elevator doors open. Henry nods to Gus and Fingers, who flank the door to the President’s Suite at the Ritz Carlton. They’re tipped back, their chairs balanced against the wall. Each has a tommy gun resting in his lap. Even though they’ve all worked with Henry for years, there’s a measured look in their eyes as they watch him come down the hall.

  “Gentlemen.”

  “The boss is waiting.”

  Henry is Mickey’s chief lieutenant. His right-hand man. They go way back, back to Grays Ferry days. That Philly neighborhood was the roughest part of town in those days, and you didn’t make it out alive unless you were a scrapper or a priest. And there were a few who were both. Henry and Mickey spent time in juvie together—it started out small time stuff; apples from the grocers. They moved up to cars, and shaking down drunks they found staggering on the streets. Eventually more lucrative and serious crimes. Then they got caught.

  Mickey got sent up to Eastern State first, for assault, and Henry had followed right behind him for armed robbery. And a good thing too, as Mickey had a heck of a temper and was always needing someone in the joint to watch his back. Henry’s scar on his forehead came from a knife fight that didn’t work out too well for the other guy. From their days in short pants, they’ve always been a team.

  Henry knocks once and steps into the palatial suite: a living room, dining room, two bedrooms, and a couple of bathrooms. In one corner is the room service cart with the remains of breakfast. For two, Henry notices. There’s a bedroom door that’s closed.

  Mickey turns as Henry comes in. He has been admiring the c
ommanding view from the window. His suit jacket is casually draped across a dining room chair, as is his shoulder holster.

  “Morning, Boss.” Henry sits on the couch, slings an arm across the back.

  “Coffee? There’s lots.”

  “Naw. I might be tempted with a drink though.”

  Mickey nods toward the buffet that serves as his bar. The top is covered in bottles of imported whiskey and premium brand gin. There are heavy crystal glasses on a silver tray. “Can I pour you one?” Henry asks.

  “Naw. I’m good. I’ll stick to coffee.”

  “So, what’s up?”

  “That last shipment we got from Al Hendrie. Not up to standard.”