Tasting the Apple

by Sherilyn Decter

  “But I recollect we got it at a good price.”

  “That’s not the point, Henry. Anybody can buy bad booze cheap. What we want to do is buy good booze cheap. We’re not going to be able to keep putting our generous markup on bottles if they’re swill.”

  “It’s getting harder and harder to source quality, Mickey. At a price we wanna pay, anyway.”

  “What about finding a different supplier? I know local sources are pretty well tapped, but what about broadening the pool of importers we work with? Everything is coming from the north right now. What about looking south? Cuba and the Bahamas?”

  “Well, I can get Malazdrewicz to do a bit of legwork; run the numbers. All that rum is pretty far away, Mickey. Our import costs would really cut into our profits.”

  “Bringing in the accountant is a good idea. We gotta do something. Some of that local hooch is making people go blind. We can’t be having that under a Duffy label. It’s my reputation, Henry.”

  “Okay, I’ll look after it. I’ll have some options for you to look at by the end of the month.”

  There’s a knock at the door; a few more of the guys come in. Pretty soon there’s a card game around the table, and a few fellas sprawled on the couch. These digs are a lot more comfortable than the warehouse they worked out of last year. A couple of skirts arrive. Somebody throws a record on the phonograph. Suddenly it’s a party.

  Throughout it all, Henry sits, making sure his glass is never empty. Between the banter and the music, the echo of playground laughter floats in his head. Thank God it’s fading with every glass of whiskey.

  Sometime during the day, the bedroom door opens, and a sweet, too-young thing spills out. She’s a little rumpled for wear but still looks like a million bucks. Or maybe because of it. Mickey pats his knee, and she scoots over and settles in. Henry raises his drink to her. She winks back and snuggles into Mickey.

  Henry looks around the room, a bemused smile on his face. As the sun goes down and the lights go on, the room has a comfortable blurriness to it. Henry finishes a drink and waves the empty glass in the air for a refill. Suddenly it’s full again. Yeah, ain’t life grand? The Ritz is a long way from Grays Ferry. A long way from kids playing in school yards. Cheers.

  Chapter 18

  “ So, lady. We’re here. Club Cadix. You gonna get out, or what? Any closer and we’d be inside,” says the taxi driver.

  Maggie barely nods. She almost didn’t come, but Edith had been so excited and, of course, it’s a great chance to do a bit of sleuthing. She’d talked herself into it but, now that she’s actually here, she’s having second thoughts. She’s taken great pains to avoid being around Mickey. This will be the first time since the kidnapping. A year ago, she’d been abducted by a couple of his goons, tied to a chair, threatened by Mickey and, finally, let go.

  Despite startling at loud noises, and a touch of claustrophobia from being bound with a hood, Maggie had managed to temporarily put the incident on a shelf. With her release, she feels as if she’s been given a second chance to right the wrongs. She is waiting for Mickey to slip up so she can have her revenge and watch him sent to jail.

  But then there’s Mickey’s wife, Edith. She’s become a friend, even though Maggie hadn’t planned a real friendship. Life has moved on some, or so she thought. The idea of being physically close to Mickey again brings it all back. The fear, the helplessness when he’d held her captive. His promise that, if she were to mention anything to Edith or anyone, Tommy would be in the line of fire. She closes her eyes, overcome with another wave of panic, her trembling hands clutched together.

  Snap out of it. You can do this. You are brave. You don’t show fear to an animal. There’s nothing he can do to you tonight. Think of the Inspector. He wouldn’t be sitting in the back of a cab worrying. He’d be out there marching into the club.

  “Maggie, you can do this.”

  Maggie’s eyes fly open and she gasps. Frank is sitting beside her.

  “Hey, lady? You okay?” The taxi driver is looking at her in the rear view mirror.

  “Um, yes. I’m fine.” Maggie scrambles in her handbag for her compact. “Give me a minute. I want to powder my nose.”

  “Whatever. I’m turning the meter back on though.”

  Maggie holds the compact up close to her face to cover her whispering.

  “Inspector. What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to check on you. You know, it’s natural to feel a bit of anxiety, facing the enemy again. But I know you, Maggie Barnes. You have all the grit and gumption you need to get through it.”

  Maggie gives him a grateful smile.

  “It’s a crowded public place. Edith is here. Stay just an hour and then claim a headache and leave. You can do an hour. When you decide you should leave, just call another cab.”

  A couple of swells, leaving the Club, tap at the taxi window.

  “Hey lady, I got another fare. What’s it going to be?”

  Maggie nods. “Yes. I can do an hour. Thanks, Inspector. I’m ready.” A deep breath and she opens the door.

  The Club Cadix is Mickey Duffy’s pride and joy. He had gotten in on the ground floor of Prohibition, a natural entrepreneur that could see a business opportunity and how to make money from it. Over the years, he has built a nice little empire of running illegal hooch and selling it from street corners to high-end nightclubs. Mickey likes to brag that he is in the import-export business, but the ‘entertainment business’ is probably more accurate. Success in distributing illegal liquor gives him an excellent platform to branch out into subsidiary lines of business, notably gambling and prostitution.

  Fueled by jazz and booze, Club Cadix has ‘em lined up around the block. Yup, times are good for ol’ Mickey Duffy.

  Maggie checks her coat and stands in the doorway to the main room. Walking into this glittering crowd is intimidating. She’s glad she borrowed a dress from Edith. The lyrics to Second Hand Rose float through her mind.

  There are two tiers of tables on the main floor, and a horseshoe balcony that wraps around the dance floor. Pillars are draped in blue velvet, and crystal sconces provide a warm, soft light. Each small table is covered in a cloth so starched that Maggie wonders if there are table legs underneath, or whether it’s floating.

  Maggie catches her breath. She spies Edith alone, a glass of champagne in her hand. Mickey’s in a group of men on the other side of the dance floor. She panics. No. No. No. Run away. Hide. Maggie closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to stop the shaking. She opens them and sees Edith waving her over. One hour. I can do one hour.

  “So, doll. Whaddaya think?” Edith sweeps her bare arm around to include the entire room: the opulent décor, the fashionable patrons, the dance band on-stage.

  Next to the Duffy table is a silver ice bucket with two bottles of champagne. Edith’s well on her way through the first bottle.

  The band on stage keeps the beautiful people dancing. Men are in tuxedos and the women, oh the women. Maggie’s head swivels from side to side, taking it all in. There are feathers and furs, rhinestones and the real thing. Shoulder straps have slipped, hems have crept up, and there is a sense of abandon, of upscale debauchery that makes Maggie realize that the apron hanging on the hook back in her quiet kitchen is a long way away.

  Mickey’s still in deep in discussion with some men. Maggie takes in a gulp of champagne, then another. “This is something, Edith. I had no idea Club Cadix was so posh.”

  “Oh, nothing but the best for my Mickey,” Edith says, leaning over and topping up Maggie’s glass. “Here, have some more. Sunshine with bubbles.”

  “Is that who I think it is?” Maggie whispers to Edith.

  “Who? Where… oh yes, it is. But she’s here in-cog-nito.” Edith giggles. “Apparently, the man she’s with is going to finance her next picture.” Edith taps her nose and winks. “If ya know what I mean.”

  Maggie gives the woman a closer look. “I love the dress. But how does it stay up? I mean
it looks like there are no straps.”

  “Willpower, doll. Just willpower.” Edith gets a case of the giggles again. “What do you think of that big fella over there? He’s one of Boo-Boo Hoff’s boxers,” she says, pointing to a well-muscled man with a curvaceous dame on each arm.

  “Um, large?” Maggie says, also giggling.

  The two collapse in laughter. “Oh, sweetie. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, Mickey looms over the table. John Bricker takes a seat nearby. “Care to clue me in on the gag?”

  Maggie shrinks back into her chair. No sign of giggles now. In fact, she’s trying very hard to control her breathing. Edith, sparring with Mickey, doesn’t notice her distress.

  “Just girl talk, Mickey. Nothing important,” says Edith.

  Mickey fills his glass and tops up the other two. “Well, I had some interesting ‘boy talk’. And I think you might find it fascinating.”

  “Well, as long as I can follow along, hon. Use small words,” Edith says, blowing cigarette smoke away from the table.

  “You know, Edith, sometimes you’re a real—oh, forget it. Excuse me, Mrs. Barnes, I see someone I need to talk to.” Mickey thrusts back his chair, almost knocking it over. His shadow, Bricker, jumps to attention.

  As he leaves, Maggie exhales the breath she’s been holding. Her hands are shaking.

  “What a dope he is. I’m sorry, hon. You look pale. Did our little banter disturb you? Look, it’s just Mickey and me these days. It doesn’t mean nuthin.”

  “I’m fine, Edith. I think I need a bit of air. The room is very crowded. Or too much champagne too fast. I’m going to step outside for a moment.”

  “Why don’t I come with you? We can stop by the little girls’ room on our way back.”

  They retrieve their wraps from the coat check and head out to stand on the sidewalk. The affable doorman, dressed in a smart uniform, is every bit the part, silver buttons and all. “Evening, Mrs. Duffy,” he says. “Ma’am,” he says nodding to Maggie. “Do you need me to call you a cab? Or is Mr. Duffy on his way out?”

  “No thanks, Earl. We’re just needing a bit of air. It’s such a lovely night.”

  “It sure is, Mrs. Duffy. It’ll be summer soon. My wife’s tomatoes have started to flower. That’s always my first sign of summer. She likes to get them in early.”

  “Ah, a garden. My mother had a garden when I was growing up. We’d steal peas right off the vine,” says Edith.

  Earl chuckles. “You must have been a real scamp when you were a girl, Mrs. Duffy.”

  “Oh, you have no idea, Earl,” she says, smiling.

  While Edith and Earl pass the time, Maggie gazes down the street. Marquee lights blaze in front of all the clubs and gin-joints. People parade on the sidewalk, excitement in their very steps. Cars cruise past slowly, dropping people off, picking people up. Everyone has some place to go and someone to be with.

  Maggie pulls her coat tighter around her. Seeing Mickey, if only for a minute, has scraped her last nerve raw.

  Get it together. Edith needs you here. You’re learning lots to tell the Inspector later. It’s perfectly safe. You’re no mouse to his cat.

  Turning to Maggie, Edith asks, “Ready to go back in, Mags?”

  “Yes, I feel better. Thanks for coming with me. Good night, Earl.”

  “Have a pleasant rest of the evening ladies,” Earl says, tipping his hat again.

  “Come on, then,” Edith says, linking her arm through Maggie’s after they’ve rechecked their wraps. “All that fresh air has given me an appetite.”

  * * * *

  Edith steers them toward the bathroom. Maggie disappears into a stall. Edith settles down at the mirror and opens her bag. She too has been feeling a bit jittery tonight. It’s nerve wracking wondering which Mickey it will be tonight, and waiting for him to pounce… on another dame. She feels her game face slipping, and she has just the thing.

  Mickey’s philandering ways have left her with syphilis. His symptoms long gone; hers a dull ache in her heart. The disease has left her barren. While the docs had been quite clinical in their sympathy, Edith knows that it’s her punishment for past sins. She’s been managing the symptoms of her syphilis with a doctor’s prescription that includes small amounts of cocaine. Her rule in life is always ‘if one teaspoon was good, two teaspoons are better’, and heck—the whole bottle is best. The medicine has given her a taste for the real thing; it’s still for medicinal purposes, just no doctor’s supervision this time. The fine, white powder does wonders helping her forget the two heart’s desires she’ll never have: a baby and Mickey’s fidelity.

  Checking to make sure she’s alone, she takes out a blue enamel vial and twists off the lid, pouring a small amount of white powder on the table top. Taking the matching blue tube delicately between her fingers, she sniffs up the small amount of cocaine. She checks the mirror to make sure Maggie is still occupied. Licking her fingertip, she wipes the table clean and pops her finger in her mouth.

  She gives a satisfied but quiet growl from deep in her throat. Her eyes close. There isn’t anything Mickey can do tonight that she can’t handle. Edith’s on top of the world.

  “Finished already? That was fast,” Maggie says, standing at the sink, washing her hands.

  Edith jumps up, snapping her clutch purse shut. “Let’s go find the fellas and see if we can at least get a dance out of them. That band is too good to go to waste.”

  * * * *

  Back out into the Club they go. Maggie follows Edith. As they skirt the dance-floor, she’s careful to avoid the dancers’ enthusiastic gyrations. Arms and legs fly.

  Maggie looks down the length of her dress, a stunning one—in its time, when Edith first wore it—deep chocolate brown colored with small beads of black jet. I wonder what it’s like to be them and not to have a care in the world? That fur coat would probably pay for my roof. Does this dress look shabby? I think I mended it carefully enough. I’m a brown wren in a room full of peacocks.

  “Mags, honey. Come on,” Edith says, grabbing her arm. “I want to say hi to that fella over there. Isn’t he just dishy?” Edith beelines toward a dashing man with a pencil mustache.

  A small brown wren.

  Chapter 19

  J ust because liquor is illegal doesn’t mean you have to go thirsty in Philadelphia. Maybe you have your own private still in the basement, or out in the shed in the garden so you can sit in the kitchen with friends and enjoy your tipple. Or maybe you want something a little more upscale, accompanied by some wild jazz or dance band tunes, so you head off to one of the fancy hotels or clubs downtown. You could be looking for something a bit more budget-friendly, so you whisper the password into the hatch at your local neighborhood back alley speakeasy. If you’re not looking for companionship, but only want to sit and have a drink, you might knock on the back door of a neighbor who’s running a beer flat out of the living room. It could be you’re just thirsty and on your way home from work, so you watch for guys or a gals with flasks of liquor under their coats, hanging out on a street corner. These thirst-relief stations can be found on almost every street in Philadelphia. Enterprising souls spend their shift selling liquor, one tin cup at a time.

  Which is Maggie’s job tonight.

  She and Joe meet her fellow ‘station attendants’ in a church basement downtown. There is a large coffee urn in the corner of the hall in which a couple of dozen chairs are arranged. Boxes of flasks and tin cups, as well as racks of clothing combined with contraptions to hold liquor, have been placed at the other end of the hall. About two dozen civilians—one other woman, the rest mostly older men—are in various states of arrival: getting coffee, finding seats, chatting with others. Joe explained on the way over that half the participants are like him, members of Enforcement Unit Number One; for every civilian, there is a police officer partner who is wearing street clothes for tonight’s operation.

  The chairs all face a large city map that had been tacke
d to the wall. On the map, several streets are marked in red.

  Colonel Butler steps to the podium. Maggie eyes the flamboyant cape with mild skepticism, though she notes he carries himself—his tall, thin self—with authority.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, fellow officers, we are here tonight to launch Operation Minnow. It will be a stealth attempt to cut the legs out from under the corruption that is thriving within our police force. I don’t need to tell you that these are dark days for our beloved city. Philadelphia needs us. The President himself approved my assignment here, to lead the troops into battle against Volstead violators. Against those that profit from Prohibition. But, when I arrived, I found my army of police to be a corrupt lot. Greed and self-interest are rampant. Tonight, you are on the front lines, battling evil. For the good of our city, and the glory of justice.” And with a sweep of his cape, he’s gone.