Jimmy the Stick

by Michael Mayo

  He stepped up onto the sidewalk and smiled. “Hiya, Jimmy, long time no see. Whassamatta, dontcha recognize me in this damn monkey suit?”

  I looked more closely at the face under the cap. “Oh Boy? What the hell?” We shook hands. I’d grown up with Oh Boy Oliver, but it had been more than three years since I’d seen him. Since before Spence’s wedding.

  “Here.” Oh Boy handed over my overcoat and stick. “Walter told me to go to the Chelsea and get your things. He needs you to come to his house.”

  “What the hell is going on? This doesn’t make any . . .” I stammered, more confused than ever. “Why does Spence need to see me?”

  Oh Boy sighed and said, “Oh boy, oh boy, because the Lindbergh baby has got snatched.”

  Chapter Two

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 2, 1932

  NEW YORK CITY

  “You’re pulling my leg. Sure, I got my brains scrambled, but I’m not falling for this crazy story.”

  “It’s the truth, Jimmy.” Dixie pulled a copy of the Times from under his arm and handed it to me.

  It was just like in the movies, with headlines spinning around like they were going to fly right off the screen into your lap. That’s what happened to me when I opened the paper.

  LINDBERGH BABY KIDNAPPED FROM HOME

  OF PARENTS ON FARM NEAR PRINCETON;

  TAKEN FROM CRIB, WIDE SEARCH ON

  As I read, it felt like the ground was shifting under my feet. I gripped the familiar handle of the cane and leaned on it. In that moment, everything changed. Later, people would be able to tell you exactly where they were and what they were doing when they learned about the kidnapping. I remember it fine, but for other reasons.

  Not that I knew what was coming. First there was the impossibility of it. Lindbergh was the most famous man in the world. Something like this simply couldn’t happen to him. He was too different from everybody else, too important.

  I remembered when they held the big parade after he returned from flying solo to France, how the crowds filled the sidewalks, how all of swanky Fifth Avenue was closed off with all the confetti and ticker tape falling like snow. I also remembered how foully I cursed him then. I was supposed to make deliveries for Rothstein that day—payoffs to two important guys in the mayor’s office and at police headquarters. I had four good routes I could use when I carried cash to those addresses, and none of them would work with the huge crowds. That meant using the subway or the El, both confining and a lot riskier. And when I finally did make it to my delivery points, nobody was there. Because the whole town was watching the damn show on the street. I called Lindbergh every name I could think of, and it was well after dark when I made my last payoff.

  But still, how could you not feel a little admiration for the son of a bitch for what he’d done? And then he married that beautiful, classy dame. The guy was made of gold. Kidnapping was something guys like Vinnie Coll did when they needed quick cash. It just didn’t happen to Charles Lindbergh. And nobody kidnapped children. The world, as I knew it, didn’t work that way.

  I stared at the headlines, still unbelieving, until a loud car horn sounded in the street. Some guy in a Ford was pissed about the way Oh Boy was blocking traffic with the Duesy.

  Dixie’s driver stormed out of the Packard and had a quick talk with the guy in the Ford. Gears gnashed as the man shoved into reverse and backed down the street.

  Dixie ground out his cigarette. “Look, Jimmy, I don’t know why Walter wants to see you. That’s his business. You want me to find out about this Bronx cop, I’ll ask around. Dutch is thick with guys at the Morrisania station. Maybe they know something. Call me in a day or so.”

  Dixie got in the backseat of the Packard and it nosed smoothly past the Duesy and into the street.

  Like the trained chauffeur he had become, Oh Boy went to the rear door and held it open for me.

  I said, “Who the hell do you think I am?” and got in the front seat.

  Oh Boy pointed the big car south and then west, making his way carefully to the tunnel. I thought it probably was some time since he had been in that part of town and so now the narrow streets bothered him. Why not? The Duesenberg was a one-car parade. Or maybe he was worried that some guy would chuck a rotten apple or a brick at us on general principle. After all, the car cost more than an ordinary Joe could expect to earn in a lifetime, even if he could find a job.

  Oh Boy turned and stopped at the brightly lit tunnel plaza at Broome Street, and it was crazy, like nothing I’d never seen. Cops with flashlights and pistols were stationed at all eight tollbooths. More cops strode suspiciously through the clogged traffic, opening doors and trunks and rousting some people out of their cars. Oh Boy said, “You see. They’re checking for the kid.”

  We eased forward. When we reached the gate, a plump patrolman held up a hand. I rolled down the window and said, “Top of the evening, Officer Lonergan.”

  He shined a flashlight at us. “Jimmy Quinn, how the hell are you? Heard there was some trouble at your place last night. Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “We’re taking care of it. Come by this weekend.”

  His partner shined his flash into the deep backseat. Lonergan waved us on through and said, “No need to look in the trunk. See you soon, Jimmy.”

  Oh Boy rolled forward, paid his fifty cents, and accelerated quickly down into the tunnel. He relaxed once we were inside. The set of his shoulders softened and he eased back in the seat. “They really gave me a going-over on the Jersey side when I came in. Opened the trunk and everything. That’s what they’re really working on, all the people coming into the city.”

  “What do they know about this kidnapping? Gimme the whats and whens and wheres.”

  Oh Boy concentrated on the road and didn’t turn his head as he spoke. “Happened last night at this place they built down south. I don’t recall the name of the town. They weren’t in the Englewood house. Just Lindbergh and his wife and kid and a couple of people who work for ’em. Maid goes upstairs to look in on the kid, and he’s gone. They found a ladder and some tracks in the dirt around the house. They say there’s a ransom note, but the cops deny it. Crazy, isn’t it, something like that happening.”

  “So why does Spence want to see me?”

  “I dunno. Flora, Mrs. Spencer, got the screaming meemies when she heard about the Lindberghs. She thinks that the same guys are gonna come after her kid. Or somebody else will do something, oh boy, I don’t know.”

  “Spence has a kid?”

  “Yeah.” Oh Boy smiled. “Little Ethan, and that’s why Flora is so upset. You listen to her for five seconds, you’d think that her and Anne Lindbergh were goddamn sisters.” He affected a woman’s high-pitched tone, “We went to the same school. She and Charles danced at our wedding . . . and that kinda stuff. Personally, I never saw no Lindberghs at the wedding, but what the hell do I know.

  “Anyway, Walter’ll tell you all about it. But you gotta understand, Jimmy, that she’s got him by the balls. Whatever Flora wants, Flora gets.”

  Nothing too strange about that, I thought, and said, “What’ve you got to drink in this jalopy?”

  “Jalopy, my ass.” Oh Boy sniffed. “If you sat in the back like you’re supposed to, there’s a full bar back there, crystal, ginger ale, cracked ice, the works.” Oh Boy always had a strong sense of the proper order of things.

  “Then give me some of the Jameson you’ve got in your flask.”

  I could see Oh Boy’s hint of a smile in the light reflected off the white tiles. He pulled a pewter flask from under his coat.

  I had a long, warm sip. Moments later, we emerged at the plaza on the Jersey side of the river.

  To one side, I could see construction work. I thought at first it was another tall office building like the ones going up in Manhattan. But then I realized I was seeing huge square concrete columns supporting a cantilevered span of steel girders looming more than a hundred feet tall. Welders’ torches sparked high above us. “What the hell?” I
leaned forward to see as much as I could. The structure stretched on into the night ahead of us. “What is it? An El?”

  Oh Boy paid no attention. “More like a bridge, but for cars and trucks. When it’s done, you’ll be able to come out of the tunnel and go straight to Newark without stopping. Not like it used to be.”

  He reached for the flask, drank, and passed it back. “Remember that night?”

  I took another slow sip. No need to answer.

  There had been ten of us in three cars. Spence, Oh Boy, and me in the lead. Meyer Lansky, Siegel, and Charlie behind us. Frank Costello, Vinnie Coll, Sammy Spats Spatola, and a guy I didn’t know in the third. We’d left Lansky’s garage as soon as it was dark, heading for Egg Harbor, New Jersey. Spence and Oh Boy had shotguns for the close work. I was the best pistol shot so I had a Detective Special and a pocketful of bullets. Damn, that was a hell of a night. I was full of piss and fire, and felt like I was completely alive for the first time in my life, like I could do any damn thing I wanted. And that night I did. I was twelve years old.

  I looked up at the strange new steel structure, thinking about how long it had been since I’d been out this way. It was a long time since I’d been out of the city at all. Spent all my spare time with Connie. Connie! Hell, that was the first time I’d thought about her since that business with the big cop. Marie Therese must have explained what happened. I told myself she’d understand, but I didn’t really believe it.

  And that was when I first realized how much I missed Connie. I missed being in bed with her, sure. But just as much I simply missed her, and wanted to talk to her, not on the phone but in person, to tell her about the cop in the ugly suit, and this madness with the Lindbergh kid, and find out what she was going to do the next day. The sudden strength of feeling surprised me. Troubled me. I’d never experienced it before.

  I took another slow slug of whiskey and said, “How long till we get there? I gotta make a call.”

  Oh Boy gave the car some more gas, speeding smoothly along the wide road to Newark. “Little more than an hour, probably, depending on traffic. We’ve got paved roads for this sweetheart all the way.”

  Past Newark the streetlights thinned out but the road was still familiar. I’d been there before plenty of times, delivering booze with Spence for Longy Zwillman after he partnered up with Meyer and Charlie. Longy ran things in that part of Jersey. As often as not when we were working for him, we had a police escort. Longy didn’t want anything to gum up the works when we were supplying the swells’ parties in Morris and Somerset Counties.

  Oh Boy drove through little towns with the occasional restaurant or gas station still open, and I saw a police car at most of them. Oh Boy kept his speed at the limit, neither fast nor slow enough to attract attention. The cops noticed us but didn’t approach the expensive car. I guess they figured no kidnapper would be driving a Duesenberg J. We were almost to Morristown when we turned at a white metal sign that read: VALLEY GREEN BOROUGH 2 MILES. Oh, yes, I thought, Valley Green.

  The big headlights revealed woods on both sides, white rail fences, and finally a stone wall. Yeah, I remembered that. The road curved, and the tall overhanging trees seemed to merge with the black asphalt to suck up the light. I guess that’s what they meant in fairy tales about the forest being a dark and scary place.

  Oh Boy turned at a stone gate and followed a gravel drive between rows of tall narrow trees. When lights appeared I could feel my neck stiffen. What the hell? Why was I getting all wound up about seeing Spence again? Walter Spencer was my friend, a pal who had invited me to join him at this very place years ago. If I’d said yes then, everything would have been different. But I didn’t.

  A large Tudor house loomed up ahead, though I’ve got to admit I didn’t know the term “Tudor” at the time. It had steeply peaked roofs, dark timbers, light-colored stucco, and lots of chimneys. I thought the place looked like something in a movie where people get bumped off one at a time by a phantom killer.

  Oh Boy pulled up at the front doors, where a white ambulance was parked. Spence and two other men stood beside it. They were in the middle of an intense conversation, maybe an argument. One guy was a tall, lean number with short blond hair and eyebrows, hollowed cheeks, and the thickest pair of glasses I’d ever seen. Beneath his overcoat, he wore a white medical smock with a stiff collar. The second guy was shorter and rounder and, to judge by his wide smile, happier. He was dressed in a dirty canvas coat and muddy rubber boots, and carried a single-shot .22 rifle snugged in the crook of his arm. A battered fedora was pushed back on his head, and he was smoking a curved briar. He had a bushy forked black beard, merry eyes, and apple cheeks.

  When Oh Boy saw them, he muttered “Oh boy,” in that worried way of his.

  Spence hadn’t changed much. He was still every inch the hero—tall, broad-shouldered, alert blue eyes, all of him brimming with confidence and strength. As long as I’d known him, he looked like Gary Cooper, even kept his hair combed the same way. He wore wingtips, a nubby tweed suit, light blue shirt with a white collar, maroon tie. Gary Cooper playing the country squire.

  He recognized his Duesenberg and hurried over to pull me out. “Goddammit, you crazy Black Irish bastard, it’s good to see you.”

  I was engulfed in a massive bear hug and then held up for inspection. He was about twice as big as me. Always had been. Embarrassed, I pulled loose and settled on my stick.

  The goggle-eyed geek came closer, peering down at me like I was a mildly interesting insect pinned to a board. I had a sudden desire to belt him but Spence turned back to the guy. “I’ll contact you as soon as I return. If we run into complications, I’ll call.” The man in the medical whites nodded and rubbed his pale, bony hands together as he got into the ambulance. When the car turned around in the driveway, I saw the medical snake symbol and the words “The Cloninger Sanatorium” on the door. The wild-looking little guy with the rifle had disappeared.

  Spence wrapped a thick arm around my shoulder and guided me to the front doors. “Come on inside, Jimmy. Oliver, take his things to the guest room upstairs, the good one. Goddamn, it’s good to see you.”

  So Spence called him “Oliver,” not “Oh Boy” or even “Mr. Oliver.” I guess that explained the monkey suit.

  Inside, Spence led me across a wide L-shaped room with dark wood paneling and broad stairs at the back. Dark red and brown Persian rugs with complex patterns covered the floor. A couple of ornate black chairs and a matching table against one wall looked like they might have come from an old church or castle. An open balcony ran along three walls on the second floor, with a round wrought-iron chandelier hanging from the tall, arched ceiling. There was a massive fireplace, cold and dark, built into one wall. Across the room, in front of two closed doors, stood an older, stoop-shouldered guy with a walrus mustache. His watery eyes blinking rapidly, he clutched a Purdey shotgun by the barrels and stood straighter as we approached.

  Spence took the gun and said, “That’ll be all, Mears. Make sure that Mrs. Conway has prepared the room upstairs. My friend will be staying with us.”

  Mears nodded, then shuffled away. Spence slid open the doors and ushered me into the library. There were more intricate blood-red carpets, walnut paneling, walls lined with sets of books that looked like they’d never been touched, a fireplace banked down with a couple of logs, brown leather club chairs facing the fire. And a kid sleeping in a crib next to the desk. He was tightly tucked in, with the taut covers moving when he kicked and punched fitfully. Spence said, “Don’t worry, he’s out for the night. Dr. Cloninger gave him something.” He leaned the shotgun against a wall and went straight to a cabinet that opened to reveal a fancy bar. He dumped chipped ice and whiskey into two crystal tumblers, giving each a splash from the soda siphon.

  I took a sip. Canadian rye. The best. You never could fault Spence on his whiskey. I put the drink down on the desk beside the sleeping child and took the shells out of the shotgun. I’ve never been comfortable with loaded w
eapons around little kids. Even when the kids are doped up.

  Spence was studying me. “I guess you’re wondering what this is all about.”

  “You’re about to tell me.”

  He started to say something but stopped. Then he said, “Where have you been, Jimmy? Why don’t you come out here? I asked you more than once. Before the wedding and after. Don’t blame your leg. I know it’s not that.”

  He had me there. “I don’t know, somehow it just didn’t seem right. You left. You found what you wanted, and then there was this.” I slapped my useless knee. “And then I had my place to run.” I shrugged. “Whenever I thought about coming here, I thought about something else.”

  “For three years you thought about something else?” Spence tried to sound wounded, but it didn’t wash.

  “Has it been that long? And now you’re completely legit and legal?”

  Spence nodded. “Everything I saved when we were working for Meyer and Charlie and Longy is invested in Pennyweight Petroleum. I only see Longy when Flora decides to throw a party and we need extra liquor, but lately I haven’t even seen him then. He’s got a place near here but he’s busy. Did you hear about that actress of his, the blonde? Jean Harlow? Yeah, Longy’s putting the spurs to her.”

  “Yeah, I know. They’ve been in my place.” I could tell that surprised him. “She’s not bad, but to tell you the truth, she looks better in the movies. You and Longy always did have a way with the ladies. Both done pretty well for yourselves too.”

  Spence poured more whiskey and we sat in the chairs facing the fire. He said, “You remember the first day we came out here?”

  Of course I remembered. That was the day everything changed. We’d taken one of the smaller trucks from the Newark warehouse around noon on a spring Saturday, 1928. Longy told us that they always wanted the best. We had to make sure that everything went smoothly, and we had to get payment in full before anything came off the truck because Mrs. Pennyweight was notoriously slow to settle up.