The Yankee Club

by Michael Murphy

  She faced me and wiggled the third finger on her left hand showing me her diamond. “A couple of weeks ago, he proposed. What can I say?”

  “You can say he doesn’t mean anything to you, for starters.”

  I couldn’t believe her casual attitude. From the other room Stoddard called out. “Three minutes.”

  “Oh, Jake.” She smiled and took my hands in hers. “Of course Spencer doesn’t mean anything. I accepted his proposal to gain his trust and get close to him and his banker friends. That’s all.”

  I dropped to the edge of the bed and blew out a puff of relief.

  She stood in front of me. “I wanted to tell you that first day in the hospital, but Mickey and Stoddard made me promise not to tell anyone.”

  I held her hand. “Of course you couldn’t say anything.”

  She sat beside me and rested her head on my shoulder like she used to. Her hair still smelled like spring flowers. “I’m insulted you think I could fall for such a pompous self-centered fop.”

  “You’ve fooled a lot of people. Reporters, friends …”

  “I’m an actress.”

  Knowing her engagement was just an act didn’t lesson my fear for her safety. “I don’t like you being involved in this.”

  “Life doesn’t always provide what we want.” Laura walked away then spun and faced me, arms folded. “I learned that two years ago when you left and moved to Florida.”

  Ouch. I deserved the rebuke. I hurried to her and swept her in my arms. For a moment we weren’t in the Carlyle. We were on the observation deck of the Empire State Building before I put her on the spot with a selfish proposal. “I was an idiot. I never should’ve left. We could have worked it out.”

  “I cried for days, then I vowed you’d never hurt me again. I was wrong. In the hospital, I cried again.” Laura held her hands against my face. She kissed me like it might be the last time.

  I kissed her back then whispered, “Do you remember our first kiss?”

  “I’ve thought about it a lot since you came back. Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Back.”

  A knock sounded at the door. Stoddard. “I’ve ordered coffee. We’re going to need it.”

  The knock kept me from answering a tough question about my future plans.

  Laura ran a soft hand over my face and smiled. “Our five minutes are up.”

  While waiting for room service, I changed into respectable clothes. A fresh suit helped me recover the dignity I’d lost in front of Stoddard and Laura. Thanks to Belle, my leg felt better with the stitches out.

  I twisted the handle of my cane and laid the newspaper clippings on the table. I showed them Mickey’s once-invisible note with the words Golden Legion.

  Laura pointed to the photo of the twelve bankers and identified each of them by name and the bank they owned.

  A waiter wheeled a tray into the room with a pot of coffee and three cups. He sneered at the modest tip I left as I considered the dire straits of my current financial condition.

  Stoddard poured himself a cup. “What you’re about to hear stays with the three of us. No one else. Agreed?”

  I nodded and took a chair beside Laura. Stoddard began the briefing by recapping the attempted assassination of Franklin Roosevelt nearly three months earlier. The shooting had been big news in Florida. Roosevelt gave an impromptu speech in the back of an open car in the Bayfront Park area of Miami. Giuseppe Zangara, one of the country’s millions of unemployed, lived in the area. Barely five feet, he stood on a chair and fired over the head of a woman. She turned and wrestled with the man, but he got off several more shots. Five people were hit, but not the president-elect. Zangara was never charged with attempting to assassinate Roosevelt.

  After the Secret Service completed an investigation, the Hoover administration concluded Zangara acted alone. Roosevelt was inaugurated two weeks after the shooting. Sixteen days later, Zangara was executed for murdering the Chicago mayor.

  Stoddard took a long gulp. “There’s never been an assassination of a president-elect. If Zangara had killed Roosevelt, the United States would’ve fallen into a constitutional crisis and further economic chaos. My boss thinks the Supreme Court would have nullified the election. Hoover would have remained president and declared martial law. His policies, supported by the Golden Legion that resulted in the Depression, would have continued.”

  Damn.

  “A politician close to Roosevelt gave me an assignment to determine whether the assassin targeted Roosevelt and acted alone. I traced the flow of money and hired Mickey to pound the streets in Chicago where Zangara came from. He drew a blank until he came back to New York.”

  While Stoddard spoke, Laura looked at me, appearing to judge my reaction. The day I discovered her in Mickey’s office, I thought she was hiding something but never imagined her secret involved a conspiracy of national importance.

  Stoddard finished his coffee and refilled the cup. “Mickey and I weren’t able to prove it, but we believe the assassination attempt on Roosevelt was a well-orchestrated plot to throw the country into turmoil and prevent Roosevelt from implementing policies that would threaten the bankers who’ve controlled this country for the past fifty years. We’re not sure what they have planned next. If they kill Roosevelt now, Vice President Garner would take over and the country would be sympathetic and demand that Roosevelt’s policies be enacted.”

  I didn’t understand why Stoddard’s investigation continued outside the federal government. “Now that he’s president, why doesn’t Roosevelt bring in the Secret Service or the FBI?”

  Laura answered, “Roosevelt can’t reopen the investigation. He’d appear self-indulgent and fearful at a time the country expects him to act with bold decisiveness.”

  “Spencer Dalrymple and his associates in the Golden Legion stand to lose the most by Roosevelt’s New Deal policies,” Stoddard said, “such as taking the country off the gold standard.”

  I nodded toward Laura. “Why did you need her?”

  “We needed someone who could get close to Dalrymple. Laura had worked for him, he’d financed two of her plays, and he, well …”

  “I get it, he likes her. He doesn’t like me.” I told them about the limo ride, his purchase of my publisher, the train ticket Dalrymple expected me to use, and my frozen bank account.

  Laura opened her purse, but I held up a hand. “That’s very sweet, but I have enough cash for a few days.”

  She snapped her purse closed. “Sounds like pride talking, but suit yourself.”

  Stoddard set his cup beside the phone and sifted through Mickey’s newspaper articles. “My clandestine investigation will continue until we can prove a threat exists. Our job is to obtain evidence on what the Golden Legion is planning next. I’m talking evidence strong enough to convince Congress and the president’s inner circle to bring in the full force of the federal government and stop these traitors.”

  Laura flashed me a smile of encouragement. With just the three of us, our task wouldn’t be easy. “I might be able to prove the Golden Legion ordered the hit on Mickey. Belle can ID the driver. His name is Paul Cummings, and he’s connected to a group called the Blackshirts.”

  Stoddard nodded. “Sure. They’re a fascist gang gaining popularity for opposing American communists.”

  “I know some people who might have information about them.” Gino. Also, Dashiell and Lillian were involved in politics and hated fascists.

  “See what you can find out.” Stoddard dropped into a chair beside the table and removed a pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. What role does Baron Karl Friedman play?” I described Oliver Greenwoody’s reaction to Friedman on the deck of the Dalrymple Estate.

  Stoddard’s face twisted with concern. “Laura, find out what you can about the baron. Jake, Greenwoody is popular with the military and Congress, but Mickey and I couldn’t find a tie to Dalrymple or anyone in the Golden Legion. St
ill, they’re together a lot. See what you can find out.”

  “I’m having dinner with the Greenwoodys tonight.”

  Laura’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose Dorothy will be there.”

  Stoddard ignored her comment. “I’ll do what I can to locate Paul Cummings.” He peeked through the curtains to the street below. “On Thursday, the president will be in the city to give a speech announcing an important New Deal appointee. I don’t like it, so let’s see what we can find out before then. Let’s meet in a couple of days. Someplace safe.”

  I glanced at Laura. “The Yankee Club. Laura and I grew up with the owner. He can be trusted.”

  Laura checked her watch. “Spencer’s expecting me for lunch. I’ll see you at Mickey’s funeral tomorrow.” She kissed my cheek and left.

  For a long time, Stoddard and I didn’t speak. He seemed to have more on his mind as he sat and tapped the cigarette package on the table. We hadn’t hit it off in the beginning. Holding a dagger to his throat might have had something to do with it. “Go ahead and smoke.”

  “I was going to anyway.” He lit a cigarette and blew out a long puff. “I don’t like Pinkertons, or ex-Pinkertons. Mickey was a former cop, a pro who did his job without asking questions.”

  “You don’t like me asking questions?”

  “I don’t like that you’re in this for the wrong reasons.” Stoddard gestured with the cigarette. “I can’t afford to play matchmaker.”

  “Laura and I agreed not to let our feelings interfere with what we have to do.”

  “Bullshit. Saying it and doing it are two different things. Undercover work and dames don’t mix. When I’m on a case, I don’t … I don’t get involved with women, if you know what I mean.”

  No sex. “Like a boxer before a fight.” No wonder he was such a grumpy bastard.

  “It weakens you physically,” he pointed to his temple, “and up here.”

  “I may not be an ex-cop, but I used to be in the military, like you.”

  “How’d you know I was in the service?”

  I chuckled. “The way you walk, the way you talk, and your need for control. I’m guessing an officer, but not too high in rank, probably a lieutenant. You’re used to taking orders as well as giving them.”

  Stoddard’s rigid expression softened. He even showed a hint of a smile. “Okay, you passed the test, but with an A minus. I was a captain.”

  A knock sounded at the door. Stoddard dropped the cigarette in his cup. He stood and grabbed his hat as I opened the door.

  Belle came in. “Frankie’s downstairs puking in the restroom. That’s some hangover.” She handed me my room key. “Here. I can tell me having a key to your room made you uncomfortable.” She appeared to notice Stoddard. A flirtatious smile swept across her face. “Hello again, tall, dark, and serious.”

  Stoddard appeared at a loss for words. “I should be going.”

  Belle took his arm in hers. “Would you mind escorting me to my room? Even in a fancy hotel like this, it’s not safe for a lady to walk around unescorted.”

  “Ah … sure.” He opened the door.

  As he and Belle entered the corridor, I clenched my fists and struck a boxer’s pose. “Remember, Stoddard. You’re in training.”

  Chapter 10

  Isn’t It Romantic?

  As Frankie drove us from the Carlyle, I struggled to set aside concerns over Laura’s safety. I used a technique a sergeant taught me during the war and focused on the tasks at hand: finding out what I could about the Blackshirts and Oliver Greenwoody. The trick didn’t eliminate my worries, but it kept my emotions in check.

  Aspirin hadn’t helped Frankie’s hangover. With his face a green shade of pale, he glanced in the rearview mirror. “We’ve got a tail.”

  I checked over my shoulder. Hawkins and Stone. “They’re cops.”

  “You sure? I can lose ’em in seconds if you want.”

  I recalled his skills behind the wheel the night he drove from Penn Station. “They’re just trying to pressure me.” Still, I wasn’t sure cops were the only ones who might follow. “You have your gun?”

  Frankie patted his suit coat pocket. A block later he placed his hand on his stomach. “I don’t feel so good.”

  “Gino has the best hangover remedies.”

  At The Yankee Club, Frankie parked on the street. I climbed out and took a quick glance toward Hawkins and Stone. They parked half a block away, with a view of the speakeasy.

  I knocked on the front door. The panel slid open. Danny’s large, expressionless face appeared. He spoke in the familiar gravelly voice. “You got a membership card?”

  “It’s me. Jake.”

  He didn’t respond, so I fished into my wallet and handed the card through the opening. Danny let us in and stuffed the card into my hand.

  Frankie followed me inside the mostly quiet mid-Sunday-morning crowd.

  Alone at the bar with a plate of eggs sunny-side up and salami, Gino wiped his mouth on a napkin and waved us over.

  I hooked the cane on a stool and sat beside him. Frankie took the empty stool beside me and rested his head in his hands.

  Gino ran his fingers along the lapel of my pin-striped suit. “European cut, hand-stitched silk. Very nice. Something I’d wear to impress a dame.”

  I ignored the comment.

  “I’m no detective, but if I had to guess, I’d say you’re going out with that knockout Dorothy Greenwoody.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? Whatever happened to the old days when we used to brag about our conquests? Oh wait. That wasn’t you. It was me.”

  I gestured toward the front door. “Danny still sore at me?”

  “He’s been like that since your arrival reminded him the two of us stole his bike.” Gino speared a piece of salami and dipped it into the yolk of an egg. “Let me get you two something to eat. I’ll have Ma whip you up some eggs with sausage and bacon.”

  “How many hours does she work?”

  Gino chuckled. “Too many. I brought up the idea of hiring a relief chef. She smacked me around but good.”

  When Gino stabbed another piece of salami and wiped up a smear of yolk, Frankie groaned and held his stomach. “You can eat that?”

  “Sure. This is my usual Sunday breakfast. How was the party? Musta been kind of uncomfortable with Laura and the banker.”

  I wanted to explain about Laura’s fake engagement, but I couldn’t tell anyone without endangering her life. “I survived. Frankie enjoyed it more than me.”

  “Too much booze, huh, Frankie? How ’bout I fix you a guaranteed hangover cure?”

  Frankie wrinkled his face. “What’s in it?”

  “You don’t want to know. Just kiddin’. Tomato juice, beef bouillon, shot of Tabasco, and a raw egg.”

  “Where’s the john?” Frankie covered his mouth and hopped off the stool.

  Gino pointed to the restrooms in the corner. “Maschio means men’s.”

  Frankie dashed toward the restroom.

  “Puking into a toilet is also a good hangover cure.” Gino nudged me. “Hey, word is, Tony Vales thinks you plugged his brother. Better watch your back.”

  “I’ve got Frankie.”

  He thumbed toward the restroom. “You’ll be safe if Tony corners you in the can.”

  I glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “I need your help.”

  He flashed a wry smile. “So what else is new?”

  “I have a witness to the shooting who can identify the driver. He belongs to a group called the Blackshirts.”

  Gino cocked his head. “The witness?”

  “No, the driver. The driver belongs to the Blackshirts.”

  “Make up your mind, goombah.”

  “I thought you might have an idea where they hang out.”

  Gino dropped his fork. “So I’m supposed to know about these fascist losers ’cause, why? I’m Italian. I suppose we belong to the same bowling league. I bet you’re going to tell me this driver’s
name is Guido or Stefano. Sheesh.”

  I had to appeal to Gino’s sense of importance. “Not because you’re Italian, because you have connections.”

  Gino picked up his fork and scooped up another bite of eggs. “Okay. For now I believe you. The driver, what’s this Dago’s name?”

  “Paul Cummings.”

  He dropped the fork again. “Now I know you’re fuckin’ with me. He ain’t Italian.”

  “I didn’t say he was. He’s Jamaican.”

  Gino wiped his mouth and set the napkin on the plate. He lit a cigarette and shook out the match. “Okay, this bum helped knock off Mickey. Makes him an accessory. I’ll see what I can find out …” He grinned. “From my buddies in the mob.”

  “I’m thinking whoever killed Mickey shot Jimmy Vales hoping the police would think I had something to do with it.”

  He blew out a puff of smoke. “That’s quite a conspiracy.”

  I thought of the Golden Legion plot against Roosevelt, which I couldn’t talk about. “Sometimes conspiracies are real.”

  “You got a witness, you should tell the cops.” Gino stuck the half-smoked cigarette into a remaining egg yolk.

  Frankie came out of the restroom, looking as pale as before. He sat beside Gino and glanced at the cigarette butt sticking out of the egg and covered his eyes. “Think I’ll try your hangover cure.”

  “I’ll make it.” Gino hopped off the stool. “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

  I decided to take Gino’s advice and tell Hawkins and Stone about Paul Cummings. Maybe they could find the guy and quit following me around. I grabbed my cane. “I’ll be back.”

  “Wait.” Gino walked me to the door. “Glad you’re not in the hospital or jail, ’cause tomorrow’s Mickey’s funeral at one, St. Tim’s.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “After he’s laid to rest, I’m closing The Yankee Club to customers. We’ll have an Irish wake like Mickey deserves.”

  “Mickey didn’t have any family.”

  Gino clapped me on the back. “He had us.”

  Outside on a stool, Danny flicked ash from a cigarette onto the sidewalk.