Max Hassel nods, sipping his whiskey. “Monaghan has him in his cross hairs for sure. Boo-Boo’s too high profile. He’s following the evidence he’s got from Boo-Boo like a trail of breadcrumbs. Me, I like to be a small time guy. You should watch out, Mickey. You’ve got a reputation in Philly that could land you on the witness list.”
“For what I pay the cops and judges, they should all look the other way and keep their eyes on Boo-Boo. There’s enough breadcrumbs there to stuff a goose,” Mickey says, laughing.
“They’ve hauled in all his books and paperwork. And his accountant as well. Monaghan’s leaving no stone unturned. You think he’s going to cut a deal?” Max asks.
“The paperwork will get him in the end. Mark my word. You might as well shout it out on Market Street if you’re going to put it in writing. It’ll be the death of us all,” says Mickey. He’s up and pacing, snapping his fingers, swinging his arms. “Boo-Boo? What’s he know? I don’t work with him so he has nothing on me.” Talk of books and paperwork is getting Mickey riled again.
Henry reacts immediately, jumping up and shaking Max’s hand. “Look, we gotta be getting back to Philly. How about I follow up with Max here and set something up? I’m thinking weekly deliveries, bottles and barrels. Work out a price that’s fair. Okay by you, Boss?”
“Sure, that’d be great. And make sure you call me if you ever need a partner, Max,” Mickey says, slapping Max on the back as Max walks them to the door. “Swell little place ya got here.”
Settled in the back seat of the Duesenberg, contentedly chewing on his cigar, Mickey turns to Henry. “You know, I really like the idea of owning a brewery. Making our own supply. We got all the places to sell it to.”
“Yeah, but what about all the manufacturing headaches. What do we know about brewing?” Even in the darkness of the car, looking out the window as they leave Reading, Henry doesn’t take the risk and roll his eyes. But he’s thinking it.
“So, you get a good manager. Max there, he knows a lot. Why should he make the profit, when I could put that dough into my own pocket?” Mickey stares out the car window.
“I don’t think he’s looking for a partner, Mickey. Want that I should try and find somebody who is?”
“Sure. Look around. But it’s gotta be somebody I can work with. I’m not sure that having somebody else knowing the books is something I’m comfortable with, ya know what I mean?”
“You think that Boo-Boo’s gonna flip? Who’s he got the goods on?” Henry asks.
“The missing ledgers worry me. I expect Hoff stole them and has already turned them over to the cops.” Mickey turns away from the window. “So you think they’ll discover anything, Henry? We’ve been covering our tracks, right? I don’t got nuthin to worry about, do I? I mean, they can’t find what they can’t see, right? Henry?”
Henry shrugs. “We’re going to be down a bit for the next little while. Different suppliers, different customers. I’m moving things around. It might be a good time to take the cash and invest in a bit of property, for a rainy day. Go buy a couple of buildings or something.” He shifts so that he can look Mickey in the eye. “Some of it we can’t cover up. The Cadix is the Cadix; pretty high profile. I say we just tough it out. The mayor and city council is always there if we need them. Heck, we could probably call on the senator if we have to. What are they going to do, shut the Cadix down? Naw, we’re good.” Henry settles back against the upholstery.
Mickey turns away and stares out at the darkness again as the car purrs along the highway back to Philly. “Bloody pain in the butt. This whole mess.”
Chapter 30
“H ey, lady, watch it.” A man carrying a heavy box jostles Maggie as he tries to go around her on the crowded sidewalk.
“What? Oh, sorry,” she answers. Maggie’s been standing there in a daze, staring up at her father’s office building.
What is it about doorways? The bank’s, the university’s, those shops when I was trying to find bookkeeping clients. You either gather your courage and walk through, or you turn away. C’mon, it’s not like I haven’t been here before. Maybe a Margaret or Peggy would have doubts, but I’m Maggie, a business woman, a landlady, a homeowner with a new roof. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again.
“Excuse me,” says a pedestrian who wants to enter the building.
“I’m being silly. What can he say?” Maggie mutters to herself. She shakes her head. Why do I feel so disloyal to Jack? Father is the one who should feel guilty. He’s the one that betrayed me. What if he looks really sick?
Maggie tries to step toward the building entrance but her feet are cemented to the sidewalk. “Nerts!” Instead, she crosses the street and finds a seat in a coffee shop. She sits at a table next to the window, which frames the office building perfectly. It draws her eye and thoughts. The Inspector is always going on about loyalty. What about loyalty of a father to his family? I’ve had to carry this bitterness for years. It’s eating away at me.
“Hon?”
Startled, Maggie looks up at the waitress, who is standing expectantly with a pot of coffee in one hand and a cup in the other.
“Yes, please.”
The waitress sets down the cup of coffee and bustles off. Maggie stirs in cream and sugar, her eyes and mind pulled back to the window’s view.
Forgiveness may be about the future, but what about the past? Who honors that? With the first sip of the strong brew, she’s carried back.
Kissing Jack goodbye that last time. Making sure that he had a sandwich in his pocket. I told him to be careful. Then hearing from some of the other women that there had been trouble at the picket line. Sitting in Clara’s kitchen—Tommy on her lap—waiting for news. The men straggling back, bleeding, broken limbs. Some not coming back. Gathering up little Tommy and heading down to the jail to see if that’s where Jack was. Worrying about the money for bail. Trying to get Tommy to walk, but he wanted to be carried. So heavy. Being sent to the mortuary, where those who had been killed were laid out. The cold, long hallway. Tommy fussing because he was hungry. Bodies of dead men. Eyes closed. Arms crossed. Other women, some men, searching faces. The echoes of their wails and shouts bouncing. So cold. Shivering. Jack couldn’t be here. Not dead. There’s been a mistake. Walking along the corridor, peering down into still faces. Sometimes seeing someone familiar. And then Jack. Sleeping. Why would Jack be sleeping in this hall of death? Tommy heavy. When put down, he’d clung to her. Jack, wake up, sweetheart. Wake up.
“I said, another cup, doll?” The waitress stands over Maggie, coffee pot raised.
Maggie blinks, confused. A pile of shredded paper napkin in front of her. “Thank you, but no. I have to get this over with, before I lose my nerve.”
Maggie pulls her scarf closer to her chin as she hurries across the street. So cold. She strides into the lobby and goes up to the information desk. “Gifford Accounting Services, please.”
“Yes, ma’am. Fourth Floor. Is Mr. Gifford expecting you? Shall I ring him?”
“No, he’s not expecting me. Fourth Floor? And where are the elevators?”
It’s a short ride up to the fourth. Maggie stares at the office door. Gold lettering on the frosted glass panel. Ten years. Oh, Jack. What did the Inspector say about forgiveness and changing the future? This is for Tommy. She puts her hand on the knob and opens the door.
A sharply dressed, young man sits at the desk facing the door. There’s a pencil behind one ear as he studies columns of numbers.
He looks up and smiles. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Can I help you?”
“Hello. I’m here to see Mr. Gifford. My name is Mrs. Barnes.”
“Hang on, let me write down your name and I’ll see whether Mr. Gifford can see you now.” The young man starts pawing through the papers on his desk. “Where is that pencil?”
Maggie gives a discrete cough to get his attention, and taps her ear.
“Oh, what a goof I am. I’d forgotten it was there.”
“Happens
to me all the time. I’m an accountant as well,” says Maggie
“Really?”
“Yes. I graduated from Drexel University.”
“Oh, I went there. Great program. Did you have Gallway?”
The young man is so charming. “Yes, for several courses.”
“What a guy. Have a seat and I’ll be right back.”
He disappears down a hallway. She hears the knock—no turning back now. Maggie settles in a green leather chair next to a potted plant. She takes in the brass, the polished wood, the leather furniture. Very nice. Very corporate boardroom-ish. His clients must feel very comfortable here.
“Mr. Gifford will see you now,” the young man says, leading her down the hallway and holding the door open for her. An open doorway. Now or never.
“Father, I hope that this is a convenient time. My apologies for not making an appointment.”
Chapter 31
M onaghan, the district attorney leading the Grand Jury, glances through the papers in his hand one more time, and then taps them on the top of the desk to align them. He sets them down. Monaghan is very tall and very thin. The State’s instrument: contained; focused; relentless.
“These have potential, Max. I think we can work with them to get what we need.”
Max shifts uncomfortably. Desperate times. Desperate measures. My neck is in the noose. It’s not like Duffy wouldn’t have done the same thing to save himself. And he’s a smart boy. He’ll figure out a way around this. Good thing I left the 1927 stuff behind. We did too much business together that year during the Bailey raids. My name will be all over them. How many times has he been arrested and got off without a scratch? Dozens? More? Nah, he’ll be okay. And now, I will be, too.
“So, we’re good here? I can walk?” Max asks.
“Yes. We’re good here. We’ll keep your books, Max. Just in case we need you again. You’re a useful asset. What with your regard for the community and commitment to justice and all. I’m sure we’ll be in touch again.” The men shake, and Max heads out the door. A free man, for now.
Monaghan’s assistant stands aside to let Max leave, and then closes the door again.
“Want me to pull some warrants, Mr. Monaghan? Or do you want to call Mickey Duffy in first for an informal interview?”
“You know, I think that we should see what we got here. Looks like gold, but you never know. Let’s get some search warrants, quickly. Lightning raids all on the same day. Kick the odd door down. But don’t talk to Duffy himself. Let him stew a bit. I want him to know we’re coming for him, but be looking over his shoulder, not knowing when.”
* * * *
Doors are knocked on and warrants handed over. Drawers are opened. Files removed. Papers gathered. The police officers have barely cleared the door when the phone calls start coming in.
“Mickey. It’s Geoffrey Delmore from Club Cadix, sir. The police were just here. With a warrant. They’ve seized all the books, sir… Yes, everything.”
“Mr. Duffy, sir. It’s Sam, down at the Kit Kat Klub. The cops just handed me a warrant. Want me to delay until you can get some lawyers down here? They want all the books, Mr. Duffy, and the receipts and other documents.”
“Duffy? Chalkie here. Cops were just in, and they weren’t looking for a haircut. They didn’t close us down or nuthin. Just took all the slips from the last month, and the cash we had in the drawers. What’s going on, Boss?”
“Mickey. Henry here. The cops were just by the warehouse. They’ve confiscated all the booze we had on hand. They didn’t arrest anyone. Just took the inventory and the delivery slips. What’s going on, Mick?”
“Mickey. It’s Edith. It’s horrible. The police are here at the house with a search warrant. They found the safe. I don’t have the combination. Can you send someone around to deal with this? I don’t know what I should do. What’s going on, Mickey?”
The calls keep coming—even from as far away as his hotels in Atlantic City. The warehouses in Camden and Philly are emptied. The books at all Mickey’s clubs are seized. His lawyers are on site and at Monaghan’s office. Nothing they can do. Warrants are all legit. Mickey stands by while the authorities trample through his business empire, gathering up evidence of his success. How bad’s it gonna get?
Chapter 32
“M argaret? Is that you?” A bespectacled, elderly gentleman with thinning hair rises from behind the large desk in the inner office. He’s gone gray. And smaller, somehow.
“Hello, Father.”
“My goodness,” he says coming around the desk. “I can’t believe that you’re here, Margaret. When Ron said that a Mrs. Barnes was here… No that’s not right, it’s not Margaret. Your mother has told me that you go by Maggie now.” He stands in front of her. Maggie’s unsure of whether a handshake, a hug, or distance is what’s called for. He settles the matter by wrapping his arms around her.
“Oh, my little Margaret.”
Maggie attempts to relax her ramrod posture.
“Let’s look at you,” he says, holding her at arm’s length. Maggie, uncomfortable by the proximity and the scrutiny, gives him a brief smile and disentangles herself. Her heart is pounding.
She chooses a leather armchair in front of his desk.
“I suppose Mother told you? About my condition? That’s what finally got you here, isn’t it?”
Maggie nods. Still trying to find her way, and the right tone.
They both smile as they speak each other’s names at the same time.
“No, you first,” he says, leaning forward eagerly. “Mother keeps me filled in on the basics, but I want to hear everything.”
“If you’re up for it, I thought that Tommy and I might drop round the house on Saturday. Maybe we could have lunch together?”
“You and Tommy coming for lunch? At the house? That would be grand. Mother will be thrilled to hear. Tell me about Tommy, my grandson.”
“He’s coming up to twelve. Smart as a whip. He loves to read: The Count of Monte Cristo, the Three Musketeers, Jules Verne, the X-Bar-X Boys.”
“I read those as a boy. Imagine. He can check out my library when he’s there. There may be something he likes. I think that I have some Stevenson in there. Mother said he’d had a bit of a tussle with some other boys. Is he alright?”
“Tommy’s coming along nicely. He’s back at school, although I’ve been driving him.”
“Driving? You can drive?”
“Yes. A friend is loaning me a Pontiac that she’s not using.”
“Of all the things. My little girl driving, and with her own car. The independence of women these days is hard to get used to. Your mother tells me you’re running a boarding house. That must be a steady flow of income.”
“Things were tight for a while.” Maggie pauses as she sees her father flinch, and regrets the implication. “But it’s much easier now. I have three lodgers, and the rent gave me a chance to take some business courses at Drexel University.”
“A fine university. That’s my alma mater. How did you find them?”
“Really interesting. I took some basic accounting, and also some more advanced courses. My marks were good. And now I do the books for small businesses in my neighborhood.”
“Yes, your mother had mentioned that as well. You work from home, I think?”
“I do. It’s easier on Tommy, and it keeps my business expenses down.”
“Congratulations, my dear. A businesswoman. Imagine.”
Howard smiles at Maggie, who smiles back. The silence stretches and becomes awkward. Small talk and catching up is quickly running its course.
“That’s what brought me here today, Father. I have a client that has an accounting problem. It’s more in your area than mine, and I was wondering if I could discuss it with you?”
Maggie thinks she sees relief on her father’s face at this more familiar role. “Why, I’d be delighted to help if I can. What’s the problem?” He settles his glasses more securely on his nose.
“She purchased some inventory while on a buying trip to Europe. It doesn’t appeal to her customer base here in Philadelphia. Now she can’t sell it.”
“And she doesn’t want to write it off?”
“The number’s too big. She’s got a nervous banker and doesn’t want to alarm him. Writing off the entire lot would put her books in the red for the month, and cut into her profit at year end.”
Howard Gifford leans back and ponders. “If she can’t sell it, perhaps she can give it away?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Father.”
Watch Your Back Page 13