The Yankee Club

by Michael Murphy

  “You’ve been trying to find evidence to put Dalrymple away for more than two months. What makes you think you’ll find it now?”

  Laura pressed my hand against her cheek. “Because now I have you.”

  Chapter 14

  A Warrior on a White Horse

  In the lobby of The Yankee Club, the last group of mourners hugged each other and said their good-byes. I set my hand on the photo and whispered a final farewell.

  I made my way through the nearly deserted speakeasy and dropped into a chair between Laura and Gino. In the past twenty-four hours I’d barely slept, and I’d drunk too much. I needed rest in order to think clearly. Across the table, Frankie downed another cup of Joe and began to chew on a fresh toothpick. Coffee appeared to have snapped him out of his drunken behavior.

  While the rest of us sat quietly, Danny lit a Camel and paced the dance floor. In a steel-gray suit, puffing smoke and gaining speed, he reminded me of a steam locomotive. He stopped at our table and jammed the cigarette butt into an ashtray. “Cops ain’t gonna find the men who plugged Mickey, are they, Jake?”

  I shrugged.

  “What kind of bullshit answer is that?” Danny gripped my collar and yanked me to my feet. “You’re a fucking detective. You come up with anything?”

  Gino and Laura grabbed Danny’s arms.

  “Lay off Jake.” Frankie rose, staggered backward, and collapsed into a corner chair.

  I shoved Danny away. I couldn’t reveal what I knew about Paul Cummings or mention I’d discovered Hawkins was the shooter, but he deserved something. “The cops have an ID on the driver. After they find him, I’m sure they’ll get the guy to cough up the shooter’s name.”

  Gino cocked his head. “I never knew you to have so much faith in cops. We should find the driver and get him to talk. We could work him over good like you did to Laura’s old man.”

  “Jake,” Laura squeezed my arm, “what’s he talking about?”

  Gino sank into his chair. “I thought you knew.”

  She studied our faces. “Looks like everyone knew but me!”

  I struggled to find words to explain why I never said anything about the incident. I’d used my fists to defend myself plenty of times, but since that day with Laura’s father, I’d never intentionally beat up anyone.

  Gino reached for the scotch.

  Laura gripped the bottle and wouldn’t let go. “Spill it, Gino.”

  “Back in high school Jake beat up your old man.”

  Danny held up one hand. “By the time Jake got through with him, Gino and me didn’t get our turns.”

  Laura stared across the room and relaxed her grip on the bottle.

  I should’ve told her long ago, but beating up your girlfriend’s old man wasn’t something easy to discuss. “That day you came to school with a black eye.”

  “Yeah, I get it.” The pain and anger in her eyes hurt worse than getting shot. “What I don’t understand is why you never told me.” When I didn’t reply, she headed for the front door. She shoved aside chairs as she weaved through the tables.

  I hurried after her. “Let me explain.”

  At the door, she spun and glared at me. Laura glanced across the room at the others and spoke so only I could hear. “You kept this from me for almost twenty years. What other secrets have you buried inside?”

  “I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t so proud of the way I solved the problem.”

  She wiped away a tear. “You can’t keep secrets from me and expect me to trust you. That is, if you want us to have a future.” Laura pushed through the front door.

  I rushed outside as she yanked open the door to her Packard. “Laura.”

  She slipped behind the wheel and started the car. Without looking back, she sped away in a squeal of burnt rubber. The taillights disappeared into the darkness.

  Gino stood outside the front door and crushed his cigarette on the sidewalk. “One of you is always running away from the other. You just gonna let her go back to her fiancé like that?”

  “I still trust her, Gino.”

  “Sure, but what about the scumbag Dalrymple?”

  Unfortunately he was right. I followed him back inside. It had been a long day.

  Frankie snored from the corner chair. His head rested on the wall, and a line of saliva slid from the edge of his wide-open mouth.

  I shook him awake. “Time to get you home to Edith. Toss me the keys, and I’ll drive.”

  “What?” Frankie ran a hand over his face. “I’m okay. A little nap was all I needed.”

  Gino lit a cigarette. “I’m sorry, Jake. Just ’cause we never talked about teaching Laura’s old man a lesson didn’t mean it was some big secret. I figured you woulda mentioned it to her by now. She’ll get over it. Besides, it’s probably for the best that she got a little steamed. What with her getting married and all.” He cocked his head. “She’s still marrying Dalrymple, isn’t she?”

  I hated keeping information from Gino. I kept a secret from Laura and look where it got me. I couldn’t lie to him, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “I’m sorry, too.” Danny downed another shot of scotch. “I shouldn’t a roughed you up that way.”

  I’d grown accustomed to getting roughed up and worse since my return to New York. Hours earlier, I’d crashed through a glass cooler at The Happy Florist with barely a scratch, but I felt certain the future would hold even greater danger. The toughest challenge might be setting things straight with Laura. “Frankie, the keys.”

  “Sure.” He fished around in his pocket.

  “Danny’s right about the cops. They’re doing nothing.” Gino let out a long puff. “I’m also afraid he’s right about you. You’ve been looking into the hit on Mickey since you got out of the hospital. All you’ve found out is the driver’s a member of the Blackshirts.”

  Frankie slapped the car keys into my hand. “Blackshirts? That gang that hangs out at Al’s Pool Hall?”

  Gino jumped to his feet. “That’s Lorenzo’s place!”

  I had no idea who Lorenzo was or how Frankie knew the location of the Blackshirt headquarters. “Let the cops handle Paul Cummings.”

  “How’s that working out, huh?” Gino studied my face. “You knew about Al’s Pool Hall, didn’t you?”

  I couldn’t look him in the eye.

  “When did you stop being straight with me?” Gino shook his head. “Come on, Danny. Let’s do this.”

  “Do what?” I stuffed the keys in my pocket and picked up my cane.

  “Snatch this Paul Cummings guy from the pool hall, make him talk, and find out who killed Mickey, which was something I thought might be of interest to you.”

  I had to stop this talk before things got out of hand. “This is crazy. You want to go into the Blackshirt headquarters with only the four of us?”

  “Four of us? Me and Danny make two. Why don’t you go fix things with Laura? Danny and me’ll go find out who shot Mickey.” He pointed to Mickey’s photo on the wall. “He deserves as much.”

  Frankie struggled to his feet. “I’m in.”

  “Okay, at least three of us got balls.” Gino grabbed his hat. “Lorenzo’s a bum. I’d love to find Cummings and take care of Lorenzo once and for all. Two birds with one stone, you know?”

  I made one last attempt to stop Gino. “I have it covered. I have someone keeping an eye on the place. If Cummings shows his face, he’ll get picked up, and we can work him over and get him to talk.”

  “You coming with us or not?” Gino stared at me.

  Before I could answer, his mother stepped from the kitchen with a towel draped over one shoulder. She uncovered the mirror, restarted the clock, and headed to the nearly empty table of food.

  “Hey, Ma,” Gino set his hat on his head. “Leave that stuff. I’ll clean up when I get back.”

  “You?” she chuckled. “Where are you going? It’s after midnight.”

  Gino’s face flushed. “I’m thirty-four. I don’t have to tell you where I g
o at night.”

  “Since when?” She wiped the food table with a towel.

  Gino let out a sigh. “We’re going to shoot pool.”

  “See, now was that so hard?” She patted his face and began to stack empty plates on the table.

  “Don’t wait up.” Gino led Danny and Frankie toward the door.

  I hurried after them. “I’ll drive.”

  With Gino beside me and Frankie and Danny in the backseat, I slowed as we approached the pool hall and Blackshirt headquarters. The place was an aging two-story wooden building with paint faded and curled from weather, time, and neglect. The street level featured a large glass window smoked gray with dirt and grime. White script identified the place as Al’s Pool Hall. I drove past with a quick check of the second-floor offices. I turned the corner and glanced down the alley. Beneath a light, a man in a black shirt sat on a stool beside the back door cleaning his nails with a knife.

  I drove slowly around the block. “What do you think?”

  Gino scratched the stubble of his chin. “The Blackshirt headquarters is upstairs, but Paul Cummings could be downstairs shooting pool like a regular customer.”

  I parked a half block from the building and focused on keeping my friends safe. “If I can get past the guard in the alley, I’ll search upstairs.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” Gino rolled up his pant leg and pulled a snub-nose pistol from an ankle holster. After checking to make sure the gun was loaded, he stuffed it in the holster. “Haven’t used this since the rat infestation of ’29. You and Frankie wait here. Me and Danny will head inside the pool hall and look for more rats. If we spot Cummings, I’ll send Danny out for a smoke. You and Frankie can come in, and we’ll figure a way to separate Cummings from the herd. If Danny don’t come out in five minutes, means our target ain’t in the pool hall, and you and Frankie can go in the back way and sneak upstairs.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  Gino grinned. “I have my moments.”

  Danny leaned forward from the backseat. “What’s Cummings look like?”

  “He’s Jamaican,” I said.

  “I’m guessing he’s the only Jamaican in an Italian pool hall. Shouldn’t be that tough to spot.” Gino lit a cigarette. “Come on, Danny. Let’s do this.”

  Danny and Gino crossed the street and went inside the pool hall. I hoped they knew what they were doing. I checked my watch. After five minutes, I realized Cummings wasn’t shooting pool. Worried for my friends’ safety as well as my own, I climbed from the car and led Frankie toward the alley. I stopped and peered around the corner of the building. “Think you can act drunk?”

  “I’ve never seen me drunk, but I’ve been told it’s quite a sight.”

  “Stagger down the alley past the door. Make sure you get the guard’s attention, and I’ll grab him from behind.”

  “I can do that.” Frankie ruffled his hair, unbuttoned his jacket, and stumbled down the alley singing “My Wild Irish Rose.”

  The guard got to his feet with an eye on Frankie who stumbled past him, fell to his hands and knees, and began to dry heave.

  With his back to me the guard kicked Frankie in the side and shouted for him to move on.

  I crept along the wall in the darkness, my cane at my side.

  Frankie didn’t move, so the guard gave him two more vicious kicks to the ribs. Frankie crumpled to the ground.

  I twisted the handle of the cane, clamped my arms around the guard’s neck, and pressed the dagger against his throat. “Don’t move, tough guy.”

  Wincing, Frankie climbed to his feet, clutching his ribs. “Next time, you play the drunk, and I sneak up from behind.”

  “Deal.”

  The guard seethed as Frankie patted him down. He tossed a six-inch knife that clattered down the alley then displayed a pistol retrieved from the back of the man’s trousers. Frankie stuck it inside his own jacket. When he’d finished the search, he stepped back and kicked the man in the balls. “How does that feel?”

  The guard crumpled to the ground, holding his crotch, and moaned.

  Frankie pressed against his side and grimaced. “I think he broke a couple of my ribs.” He gave the man another kick.

  As the guard writhed, I nudged him with my shoe. “Paul Cummings inside?”

  He coughed. “Never heard of ’im.”

  I bent down and pressed the tip of the dagger against the guard’s chin. “Try again.”

  The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Never met no … no Paul Cummings.”

  “He’s Jamaican.”

  “Yeah. Sure. The Jamaican. Never caught his real name.” Sweat slid down the guard’s neck. “He ain’t inside. Ain’t seen him for days.”

  I grabbed a flashlight clipped to the man’s belt and struggled to my feet. “How many people are upstairs?”

  He shook his head. “Got no idea, mister. I’m just a guard.”

  I gestured to Frankie with the flashlight. “Keep an eye on him.”

  Frankie drew the gun. “You be careful, boss.”

  “You’re making a big mistake.” The guard struggled to sit up.

  I laughed. “You’re right. Shoot him.”

  The man’s eyes widened. He held up two trembling hands. “No, please.”

  Frankie winked. “He did say please.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Frankie aimed the gun at the frightened guard. “You sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

  “Just watch the guard. I’ll take care of Cummings.” I stepped inside a small storeroom stacked with crates and boxes. Behind the door on the far wall came the sound of cue balls cracking in the pool hall. To my left, a wooden stairway that looked like it would creak led to the second level. I climbed the steps as quietly as I could. On the landing I clicked on the flashlight. The beam swept the dark corridor.

  Outside the first room I listened for movement on the other side of the door with growing suspicion. The only sound was the thumping of my heart. Would the Blackshirt headquarters be so easily penetrated by overpowering a single guard? I listened at the next door before I entered.

  I checked the first two rooms, a bathroom and a closet with cleaning supplies. Easing open the third door, I went inside. The flashlight beam revealed boxes of paper stacked along one wall. A small printing press stood in the corner next to a table covered with scattered newspapers. I picked up a newspaper, shined the light on the articles filled with hate messages against Jews, immigrants, and various ethnic groups. Other articles railed against Roosevelt’s policies.

  I entered a room across the corridor, an office with filing cabinets and a wooden desk stacked with papers. The filing cabinets contained posters and books with a patriotic theme. Hate and patriotic fervor. I’d read about that combination regarding Germany. I sifted through the desk papers, searching for information that would convince the feds to get involved. I found a list of businesses identified for future indoctrination. Nothing linked these goons to the Golden Legion.

  Where was Paul Cummings? I left the office, clicked off the flashlight, and walked to the end of the corridor. Stairs led to the noisy pool hall below. I peered over the railing. Two guards stood at the foot of the stairway, their eyes focused on Danny and Gino at a pool table near the front door.

  Gino held both arms out toward a dark-haired man in a pin-striped suit. “Honest, Lorenzo, I didn’t realize she was your wife until I woke up the next morning.”

  I backed away from the railing and reached for the doorknob to the final upstairs room. I wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, gripped the dagger tightly, and opened the door. I swept the light toward six rows of wooden chairs facing a lectern—a Blackshirt meeting hall. I closed the door behind me and aimed the light on the far wall where a green, white, and red flag of Italy hung from the wall behind the lectern.

  Oil paintings hung on both sides of the flag. One I expected: the granite-jawed face of Mussolini, Il Duce. The other painting fr
oze me in place.

  Oliver Greenwoody in full military uniform, complete with medals and decorations, sat atop a white stallion with a flowing mane. A brass plate below the painting read AMERICAN WARRIOR.

  The painting revealed Dorothy’s father was more than an admirer of Mussolini, but I sensed something far more sinister. Before I could think it through, footsteps in the corridor forced me to move. Someone stopped in the corridor outside the closed door. I ducked behind the lectern and shut off the flashlight.

  A dagger was effective in close quarters. If the man had a gun, my weapon would be useless. I gripped the flashlight and dagger and waited as the door swung open.

  The door closed. Three heavy footsteps sounded on the wood floor. “I know you’re in here, Donovan.”

  I stepped from behind the lectern. It was Landon Stoddard. “I should’ve known it was you.”

  Stoddard scowled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I slipped the dagger inside my suit coat. “I came looking for Paul Cummings. No luck.”

  “If you’d checked with me, I could have told you that. I’ve had the place under surveillance from a roach-infested hotel across the street. After you and your friends showed up, I had no choice but to follow you inside.”

  “I found something more important.” I aimed the light at the painting of Greenwoody.

  Stoddard’s face reddened. “Who does he think he is, George Fucking Washington?” He moved closer to the painting and scoffed. “Warrior. Once, maybe. Now he’s the hero to a bunch of goons and thugs.”

  “Doesn’t make sense, unless—”

  “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “Wait.” I rubbed my forehead and studied the painting and the link between Greenwoody and the Golden Legion. Cold sweat dripped down my back. “The Golden Legion isn’t planning to kill Roosevelt.”

  “What?”

  I paced the room, hoping by speaking the words aloud, Stoddard could punch holes in my theory. “The assassination attempt was in February. Roosevelt was inaugurated March fourth. If they kill him now, Vice President Garner takes office and a sympathetic Congress implements the New Deal of a martyred president. For the bankers that make up the Golden Legion to keep their power, they have to stop the New Deal. Killing Roosevelt won’t stop the policies they perceive as a threat to their wealth and power.”