The Yankee Club

by Michael Murphy

  “Maybe you should try.”

  I had to time the confrontation just right, but some of the reporters had already moved closer. I offered my hand to Laura. “Come on, darling. We’re leaving.”

  “No, you’re not.” Dalrymple snapped his fingers, and two guards rose from their seats in the row behind him.

  I held Laura’s hand. “Let’s go.” When she rose, two dozen reporters and photographers descended upon us, snapping pictures and shouting questions. As guards left their seats and blocked the reporters’ paths, Oliver Greenwoody rose and clamped his eyes shut, as if imagining what might have been, a man on a white horse riding in to save the country he loved. He blew out a breath, took his wife’s and daughter’s hands, and headed toward the far aisle.

  Dalrymple’s guards tried to shove the press back to their seats. The reporters fought back, bringing even more members of the press. Like a baseball brawl when both dugouts empty, shoves and curses turned into punches. Laura and I ducked as drinks and fists flew. A beer bottle shattered at our feet as we made our way up the steps.

  With flashbulbs popping, the mêlée expanded to nearby sections. Garden security joined in the bedlam.

  Like we planned, Stoddard pushed through the chaos and led the Greenwoodys up the far aisle to the concourse.

  I led Laura through the mayhem, but Dalrymple grabbed my arm as we reached the top of the stairs. “I’ll kill you, Donovan.”

  I shook off his grip. Like my father taught me, I drew my arm back to throw a punch. Before I could deliver the blow, Laura socked Dalrymple. The punch landed flush on his jaw as a camera flash went off.

  Dalrymple stumbled back. His head cracked against the wall, and he slid to the floor. More bulbs flashed as blood and saliva dripped from his busted lip. Dalrymple’s eyes rolled back, and he blacked out.

  Laura giggled as she took my hand. We slipped through the battling guards and reporters and made it up the steps.

  A dozen of Stoddard’s men met us on the concourse. We followed them through a door on the far side of the walkway.

  With a smile on her face, Laura looked like a runaway bride as we hurried down a long hallway. At the end of the corridor, a guard held the door open. Laura and I stepped outside to where two government vehicles Stoddard had assured me would be waiting sat with engines running. Behind them a half-dozen motorcycle cops and their bikes waited.

  Oliver Greenwoody glanced at me as his wife and Dorothy slipped into the rear of the first limo. He snapped me a crisp salute and climbed inside. The dark blue limo with black windows sped off. Three motorcycles roared off and followed behind.

  Beside me, Laura caught her breath. A black-suited agent wearing dark sunglasses opened the rear door to the second limo. Laura and I climbed inside. A relieved-looking Gino sipped from a flask.

  “Jake, Laura.” Gino kissed Laura’s cheek then handed me the flask. “Son of a bitch! You pulled it off.”

  Laura threw both arms around me. She gave me a long kiss then glanced at her hand. “That bastard. I broke a nail on his face.”

  I kissed her hand as the limo sped away, followed by the three remaining motorcycles. I sipped Gino’s whiskey and handed the flask to Laura.

  She took more than a sip. “Jake, how did you … I mean how did you get away from Dalrymple’s guards and pull this off without anyone getting hurt?”

  Not everyone was unhurt. Dalrymple lay unconscious and bloodied. His guards and more than a few reporters would nurse wounds, probably in a jail cell, but the coup had been thwarted. Laura was safe. That was all that mattered.

  “Jake might’ve planned and pulled off your rescue,” Gino leaned back in the seat with a satisfied smile, “but he wouldn’ta made it here without me.”

  Chapter 20

  The Streets of New York

  Two days after the incident at Madison Square Garden, Stoddard, Kennedy, Laura, and I sat around a small table in my suite. I’d barely touched the room service breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee. My appetite waned the longer Kennedy talked.

  Feds had swarmed Dalrymple’s estate and his Connecticut hunting lodge, hauling away truckloads of evidence against him. For the time being, he resided in a Manhattan jail cell. If lawyers kept him from a date in the electric chair, Dalrymple faced at least thirty years in the slammer. The country hadn’t healed enough to see him brought to trial for treason. If I had a vote, which I didn’t, he’d get a cramped cell at Alcatraz the rest of his life.

  Kennedy finished his eggs and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He recounted the resolution of the attempted coup against Roosevelt as if describing last night’s Yankees game. The government declined to prosecute the other members of the Golden Legion in exchange for their support of New Deal reform legislation. The economy wouldn’t survive the loss of eleven of the country’s most important bankers, and if congress and the public learned the details about the plot to overthrow the government, they might demand more draconian measures.

  Laura appeared oblivious to my growing frustration until she patted my hand beneath the tablecloth.

  From the aggressive way Stoddard buttered his toast, I knew he didn’t agree with the government’s decision any more than I did, but he’d returned to the Secret Service. He had to play the role of good soldier even more than before.

  Authorities nabbed Paul Cummings at the Canadian border. The Jamaican took a deal to testify against Dalrymple in exchange for a life sentence.

  Oliver Greenwoody had agreed to testify before a congressional committee about Dalrymple’s plot, keeping the information about coconspirators a secret, along with the role Laura and I played. Stoddard and Mickey would get all the credit, which suited Laura and me fine.

  Kennedy filled Laura’s cup with coffee. “The Times picture of you punching Spencer Dalrymple couldn’t have been more perfect. Reporters are still focused on a celebrity love triangle instead of the Golden Legion.”

  I liked the second photo even better, an unconscious Dalrymple with blood and saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth and a front tooth that looked more like half a Chiclet.

  Kennedy neatly folded his napkin and placed it beside his plate. The future head of the SEC rose and kissed Laura’s hand. “No one else could have gathered Dalrymple’s trust and entered the Golden Legion’s inner circle in such a short time. Bravo, Miss Wilson.” He shook my hand. “If you two hadn’t worked so tirelessly with Stoddard, without regard for your personal safety, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  Laura and I walked the two men to the door. When they left, I was certain we’d never see either of them again.

  “Son of a bitch!” I paced the room, furious the Golden Legion traitors would go unpunished. I understood the government’s decision, but I didn’t have to like it.

  Laura took my arm. “Now, darling, the government is safe, Dalrymple is behind bars, and most important, you and I are together.”

  She was right, of course. Nothing else mattered, but I’d never trust bankers again. Still, life had begun to return to normal. My bank freed up my funds, Mildred returned my calls, and Dalrymple couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  In the bedroom, Laura and I resumed packing. I stuck an envelope, containing a grand in fifties and hundreds, into my suit coat pocket. I snapped the latches closed and set my suitcase beside the bed. I peered through the drapes at the Manhattan skyline. The city held plenty of painful memories and losses. I couldn’t wait to leave. I’d miss Gino, Danny, and The Yankee Club, sure, but little else.

  Hollywood offered vast opportunities for Laura and me. I wanted more literary challenges than churning out Blackie Doyle novels. Dashiell was in the middle of a screenplay for his Thin Man novel. Maybe I could tackle a screenplay and Laura and I could work together.

  Laura wrapped her arms around my waist and pressed her face against my back. “We’ll be back.”

  “Of course we will.” I turned and kissed her. “What time does the train leave?”

  Laur
a checked her watch. “In three hours.” She flashed a smile I hadn’t seen since our high school days.

  I took her in my arms and gave her a slow, enduring kiss. Laura pressed her body against me. My excitement grew as she swept her suitcase onto the floor and pulled me onto the bed. Her moist lips locked onto mine. Her hands tugged at my clothes. She broke the kiss and began to unbutton her blouse. My hands trembled as I helped.

  A knock pounded at the door.

  “Ignore it,” Laura whispered.

  “Jake, open up.” Mildred’s voice. “I know you’re in there. I have something special to give you.”

  So did Laura.

  More pounding.

  Laura sighed and helped me to my feet. She buttoned her blouse then took a hankie from her skirt pocket and wiped lipstick from my mouth. As she left the room, I followed, admiring her shapely backside.

  At the door she covered her mouth and giggled. She pointed at me. “Do something about that.”

  I followed her gaze and glanced down at the arousal in my trousers. I rearranged my clothing.

  “Hurry up, Jake,” Mildred pounded on the door. “You’re not my only author, you know.”

  Her whiny voice accomplished the desired effect. I nodded, and Laura opened the door.

  With a book in her hand, Mildred brushed past Laura as if she wasn’t there. “These last forty-eight hours have been brutal, just brutal. After the unfortunate delay in publishing your book, I bribed the production boys to finish, with booze and cigarettes. I barely slept. I must look a fright.” She patted her hair and finally took a breath.

  No “I read about you in the papers. Are you and Laura all right?” This was typical Mildred.

  “May I get you some coffee?” Laura lifted a white carafe from the table.

  “Yes, darling, cream, one sugar.” She handed over my latest Blackie Doyle mystery as Laura shot her a look. “Notice anything different?”

  For the first time, my name appeared above the title. Blackie stood silhouetted beneath a streetlight smoking a cigarette. Behind him was the East River. Oh, the irony.

  Laura warmed Kennedy’s half-filled cup with a splash of coffee, dropped in three sugars and a dash of cream. She handed the cup to Mildred and winked at me.

  My editor took a sip. “That’s wonderful, darling.” She always treated Laura like my secretary. Mildred knew writing and publishing but next to nothing about people not in the business.

  I read Dashiell’s flattering blurb on the back cover as Mildred sipped the coffee and recounted all the work she’d done since I last saw her. “Tell me you’ve started your next novel. With a series, you don’t want your audience to wait too long for the next one.”

  “I’m taking a vacation of sorts.” I set the book on the table.

  “I thought that’s what you’d been doing.”

  Laura licked her moist lips and ignored Mildred. She smiled as her fingers caressed the hard porcelain of the white carafe.

  I couldn’t look Mildred in the eye. “My return to the city has been no vacation.”

  “Are you referring to that business about getting shot? You seem fine.” She finished the coffee and set the cup beside the book. “Oh, all right, I can tell you’re upset about me not returning your calls, darling, but that’s business. It’ll never happen again. Now, about your next novel—”

  “I’ll start the first chapter the minute we reach Hollywood.”

  “Hollywood?”

  “Laura has a part in a movie. She signed with Carville Studios. Our train leaves at two, giving us several days of peaceful travel.”

  Mildred led me across the room and lowered her voice. “You know I think the world of Laura.”

  I knew nothing of the kind. “Really?”

  “Really, but you write your best when the two of you are apart.” Before I could come up with the proper response of outrage, Mildred glanced at her watch. “Oh good heavens, I’m late.” She kissed me then headed for the door. She gave Laura a kiss that fell six inches short. Then she was gone.

  Laura burst out laughing and muttered to herself, “Oh, Mildred, I’m going to miss you.” She wiped my editor’s lipstick from my face then threw her arms around me and pulled me close. “Where were we?”

  “In the bedroom.” I kissed her and ran my hand down her back. Another knock sounded. Damn!

  Laura let out a frustrated sigh and gestured toward the door.

  Dorothy Greenwoody stood in the corridor wearing a clingy white dress and her black-rimmed glasses. “The papers say you’re leaving town today.” She entered the room, acknowledging Laura with a chilly glance. “Jake, I just had to thank you, for what you did for my father, I mean.”

  I closed the door. “Your father was always a hero to me. Still is. The country will think so, too, after he testifies to Congress.”

  “If it wasn’t for you, Father would’ve made a dreadful mistake. You were …”

  She didn’t have to say wonderful. I read the word on her face, and so apparently did Laura, based on her pursed lips. Dorothy’s feelings for me were misdirected. She loved Blackie Doyle, but Laura didn’t know that.

  After an awkward silence, Dorothy cleared her throat. “So when does your next Blackie Doyle novel come out?”

  “Not until fall.” I picked up the advance copy from the table and handed it to her. “Here.”

  Dorothy’s eyes widened. “Blackie Doyle’s Revenge. I love the cover.” She clutched the book to her chest. “I know what I’ll be doing tonight.”

  Laura chuckled then bit her lip.

  “Would you sign it?” Dorothy offered the book to me. “I see you still wear the white rose in your lapel.”

  I checked my pockets. “I don’t appear to have anything to write with.”

  Laura grabbed her purse and slapped a pen into my hand.

  Turning to the title page, I tried to come up with words that would reflect my gratitude toward the role Dorothy played in getting Laura and me out of such a tight jam. When my eyes met Laura’s, I hurriedly signed, Dorothy, thanks for all you’ve done. Wishing you the best of success in everything you do, Jake.

  Dorothy read the inscription then glanced at Laura. “Would you mind if I kissed Jake good-bye?”

  “Go ahead.” Laura’s eyes twinkled. “I must warn you, kissing Jake can be a tough habit to break.”

  Dorothy’s lips lingered much longer than I expected. She stepped back and patted her hair then headed to the door. “Keep in touch.”

  Laura held the door open for her. “Oh, we will.”

  I followed Laura into the bedroom where she hefted a half-full suitcase onto the bed. Apparently our earlier attempt at romance was a mere memory. She emptied the top drawer of the dresser and stuffed her clothes into the suitcase. She tried without success to close the latches.

  Just how angry about Dorothy was she? “Can I help?”

  She ignored the offer. Pretty mad.

  One of her stockings poked out of the side of the suitcase. “There’s a stocking peeking out.”

  “A glimpse of stocking …” She broke into song, “was looked on as something shocking, but now God knows. Anything goes.” She clamped her eyes shut. “Damn it, Jake.”

  What did I say? “I didn’t mean—”

  “Anything Goes, opening the fall of 1934 at the Alvin Theatre, staring Ethel Merman.” Laura sounded like a radio commercial. “That girl can belt out a song, but I’m a better actress.”

  “Of course you are.” I sat beside her and wrapped both arms around her.

  “I should’ve landed that role. She’d never met Cole before someone introduced them at the cast party!”

  I kept her close to my chest, trying to conceal my guilt, but I’d promised never again to keep secrets from her. “I introduced her to Cole Porter.”

  Laura pushed me away. “You what?”

  “I didn’t know you were interested in a role.”

  “You shouldn’t have told me!”

  Why did
women keep changing the rules? “You’ll do swell in Hollywood.”

  “That’s not the point. It’s a Cole Porter musical, and I’d have been perfect.” She gave the suitcase a final push and snapped the latches closed.

  I offered to carry the heavy bag, but Laura ignored me and tugged it off the bed. She struggled to carry the suitcase to the next room. She set it by the door beside a trunk the size of an icebox and two more bags she’d brought from her apartment.

  Laura grabbed her hankie and wiped Dorothy’s lipstick from my mouth, rubbing far less gently than before. “We’d better leave before I run out of hankies. What did you write?”

  “On the book I gave to Dorothy?”

  “No, on our grocery list.” She crossed her arms. “Yes, the book. You certainly took long enough to write something special.”

  Before I could answer, another knock sounded. “I should hang a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Get your clothes on you two,” Gino called from the corridor.

  “We got something to show you.” A woman’s familiar voice, Stella, the Yankee Club cigarette girl.

  I let them in. Stella danced a little jig. She squealed like a little girl in a room full of ice-cream cones as she showed her left hand to Laura.

  Laura took her hand and examined the diamond on the third finger. “It’s gorgeous.”

  I couldn’t believe this news. “You’re engaged?”

  Gino clapped me on the back. “It must be terrific being a detective. You can figure things out so quick. He’s a real gumshoe, this one.”

  I shook his hand. “Congratulations.”

  Gino’s eyes darted between Laura and me. “Everything okay, ’cause it feels like you been defrosting a refrigerator in here.”

  Laura stared into the distance.

  “Dorothy Greenwoody just left,” I said.

  “That kid?” Gino chuckled. “Dorothy don’t mean nothing to Jake.”

  Laura shot him a look. Calling Dorothy a kid didn’t do me any favors.

  “I’m serious. Even when she invited him into her hotel room …” Gino looked at me and shrugged. He wasn’t helping at all.