by Phil Growick
“Ben, if you love Katherine, no one must know what I’m about to tell you. You may not believe it, but no one is to know. Not Meyer, not Charlie, no one. As I said, it can cost Katherine her life.”
“Jesus, what the hell are you gonna tell me?”
With that, Reilly proceeded to tell the truth about Olga and her family. But nothing of Holmes or Watson’s involvement, at all. Most importantly, if Siegel were to marry Olga, the scrutiny about the new Mrs. Siegel could lead to the disclosure of who she is, where the remaining Romanovs were, and more attempted murders by the Bolsheviks.
Siegel sat there with his mouth open and his blue eyes so wide that they resembled two large circular swimming pools.
“Olga? Her real name is Olga? Hey, I love Katherine, Olga or whatever she calls herself. But her father, that anti-semitic idiot, I oughta kill him myself.”
Reilly was now speaking to Siegel the way Lansky spoke to him. Very calmly.
“Ben, that wouldn’t be a good idea. Remember, I’m a Russian Jew and I married Olga’s sister. She knows who you are and what you do; it would be easy for you to tell her that you’re not going to marry her because it’s too dangerous. That she could wind up dead in another one of your gang wars.
“She could understand that, Ben. Sure it would hurt her, maybe for a long time, but getting murdered and having your family murdered will hurt a lot more. After all she’s been through, she just doesn’t deserve anymore anguish.”
Siegel was quite for a very long time as he sat with his head down, in his hands, shaking from side to side. Then he said, “But I could protect her. I got enough guys to be with her every minute of every day. She would be safe.”
“Ben, not to be flip about this, but your Presidents Lincoln and Garfield were protected, too; and they were assassinated. If two presidents could be killed like that, you have no guarantee for Olga. Ben, for once, really do the right thing.”
Finally and reluctantly, Siegel agreed. But he would tell her tomorrow. Tonight, they had plans to have fun up at the Cotton Club with Meyer and his wife, Anne, and Charlie and one of his girls. He would have one last happy night with her and tell her in the morning.
Reilly, relieved, suggested they both have a drink. Siegel agreed and did the honours.
“What’s the Cotton Club?” Reilly asked.
Siegel shrugged and shook his head at this tourist.
“Only the hottest jazz joint in the country. It’s up in Harlem. Run by one of our guys, Owney Madden. In fact, the guy’s a limey, like you. Say, why don’t you come up with me tonight. Owney would love meetin’ another limey.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Ben. What if Olga sees me? She might suspect something.”
“It’s a very good idea and she won’t see ya. I’ll have Owney put ya at a table with Meyer and Charlie way across the room from me and Katherine. Meyer and Charlie know about ya’ already from what I told them when I got back. Katherine will never see ya.”
“You told your friends about what happened in London?” Reilly asked.
“I tell Meyer and Charlie everythin’,” Siegel said, then saw the consternation in Reilly’s eyes.
“Don’t worry, Moo. I know this is one thing I can’t tell ‘em, for Katherine’s sake. But, hey, they laughed like crazy when I told ‘em about me holdin’ a gat on you while you was holdin’ a gat on that Georgie guy who was holdin’ a gat on Johnny. They almost pissed their pants they thought it was so funny. And they loved what you did to that other guy.”
“I don’t know, Ben, about joining you tonight.”
“I do. And ya know me; I don’t take ‘no’ for an answer from nobody. Especially from somebody I almost killed once.” He laughed.
Reilly realized it was senseless to argue.
“In fact,” Siegel continued, “since you’re in town, you might be able to help Meyer and Charlie and me with a little problem.”
“Which is?” Reilly asked.
“We got a problem with two tinhorn punks tryin’ t’ muscle in on our operation. We been planning to rub ‘em out. We got the guys and the guns and Meyer and Charlie worked out a pretty good way t’ do it, too.
“But since you was good with a gat yourself and I know what you did with Clay or Holmes or whoever the hell that guy was, I’m thinkin’ maybe ya might want in when we make our move.”
“Ben, not to be ungrateful for such an astounding opportunity, but remember, I’m a guest in your country and I can’t run the risk of anything like littering, or crossing the street in an incorrect manner, or partaking in a mass murder. You understand, of course?”
“Listen, those guys are bums. They already tried to bump off Meyer and me but no dice, we’re still breathin’. It’s those damned Romano brothers, Carlo and Roberto. Like I said we got it all mapped out.”
“But as I said, I believe I’ll have to pass on this one,” Reilly replied.
“Okay, whatever,” said Reilly, leaning back in his chair and giving Reilly a decidedly dyspeptic look, “but just so ya don’t pull no disappearin’ act on me, I’m takin’ ya downstairs to some guys that’ll fit ya for a tux.”
“A tuxedo; why would I want a tuxedo?”
“Because nobody gets into the Cotton Club without a tux. Except the dames. And even some of them wear ‘em, too; if you get my drift.”
Siegel and Reilly began the ride down the elevator and Reilly wondered just how far downhill this night might go.
The Cotton Club, I
It was the twenty-ninth of August and having finished my last lecture in New York at about eight P.M, and before we embarked home the next day, I had planned a little surprise for Elizabeth.
I had read in the Times, the New York Times, that is, about a sensational new hot jazz club in Harlem called The Cotton Club. Not that Elizabeth and I were, at all, jazz aficionados; but the article had mentioned that famous entertainers and sports figures and politicians would attend every night, and you just never knew who might suddenly be seated at the table next to yours.
When I told Elizabeth my surprise, she thought it a wonderful idea. We changed into formal attire and had a cab at the front of the hotel take us up to Harlem about ten.
When the driver asked “where to?” and I said “I believe 142nd Street and Lenox Avenue, he brightened and said, “Oh, you’re going up to The Cotton Club. Ha-cha-cha-cha!” and he took off at a rather alarming rate of speed, providing a running commentary as he careened through the still busy streets of Manhattan.
“Hey, I hear everyone has a hot time up there. Yeah, you got gangstersmixin’ wit’ movie stars, mixin’ wit’ baseball players andOwney Madden keeps everyone in line.”
“I’m sorry, just who is this Owney Madden?”
“Yakiddin’ me? You ain’t never heard of Owney Madden?”
“I’m sorry, but we’re not from around here. We’re from England.”
“No kiddin’. Then you must know Madden.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”
“Madden’s a limey, too, so I figure you gotta know him.”
“No, my friend, the United Kingdom is quite large and I’m sure that I don’t know Mr. Madden.”
That seemed to disappoint the driver to such an extent that for the balance of the ride he remained gruffly silent, shoulders hunched, hands tight upon the wheel and eyes fixed firmly upon the road flying beneath us.
Presently we were there and from where I sat in the cab, it appeared as though everything I had read was going to prove true; such were the lights and the crush of people outside.
It seemed as though all of Harlem was lit by the capital letters spelling out COTTON CLUB, each letter as high as our cab.
I got out of the cab first and saw that there were lines stretching for what seemed blocks and my first inc
lination was to tell Elizabeth not to get out and that we should return to the hotel. But the look on her face had such a childish happiness and anticipation about the lights and the excitement and the sheer electricity of the environment that I hadn’t the heart to suggest it.
Instead, I helped her out of the cab and as we began walking to find the end of that limitless line, I casually remarked, “Perhaps we should have worn our hiking shoes. I fear this line may stretch back to Piccadilly.”
Elizabeth laughed, but then we heard a man with a Liverpudlian accent say, “Did I hear someone just mention Piccadilly?”
Elizabeth and I turned to see a fireplug of a man who appeared to be in his early thirties, smiling broadly before us.
“Why, yes. I was trying to make jest of this interminable line.”
“What line? I don’t see no line? Follow me.”
Elizabeth and I looked at each other, shrugged as we smiled and followed the man to the club’s entrance. Once there the Art Deco style brass double doors were opened by two large and threatening gatekeepers and we heard, “Good evening, Mr. Madden”, “How are you tonight, Mr. Madden.” It seemed that Owney Madden, himself, was our escort.
As we walked into the interior, we couldn’t, as yet, see the stage, but we could hear the music, smell cigarette and rich cigar smoke mingled with other indulgent aromas and we marveled at the accumulation of glittering jewelry and impeccably dressed men and women, all in formal attire.
“So how d’ya like my place?” asked Madden.
“Why, it’s nothing short of marvelous,” Elizabeth said with an admiring chuckle.
“Yeah, I think so, too,” Madden said, smiling.
At that, he crooked his finger at a maître d’ and told him, “These people here are special friends of mine. Take ‘em to the best table in the house and if any of the guys come by and want that table, you just tell ‘em that Owney wants these friends there, got it? And anything they want is one the house? Ya got that, too?”
“Yes, Mr. Madden. Of course, Mr. Madden.”
“Why, Mr. Madden, we couldn’t,” said Elizabeth, but Madden cut her off.
“Please, lady. It’s my pleasure just to hear the two of you talk. Say, I must be so rude; what are your names and where are you from?”
I said, “This is my wife, Elizabeth, and I’m Dr. John Watson. We’re from London?”
As soon as I completed my sentence I thought he was going mad.
“Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson? The Sherlock Holmes Dr. Watson?”
Sheepishly, I concurred.
“Well, goddamn it, I read every one of them stories of yours. I figure if I could pick up some thinkin’ tips from that Holmes guy it might help me in what I do.”
“Mr. Madden, from the looks of this magnificent club of yours, I don’t believe you need any help from my chronicles.”
“Hey, don’t knock yourself, doctor. And I’m real sorry about the Krauts killing your friend. He was a true Englishman, doing what he was doing for his country, and all.”
“Yes, well, he’s sorely missed,” I said.
“Okay, so just follow that guy waiting for you and he’ll take you to your table. But Dr. Watson, later, I want you to sign one of your stories that I got up in my office; okay?” It seemed a command as well as a request and I, of course said I’d be happy to repay his kindness in any way I could.
With that, the maître d’ showed us to our table which was right in the centre of the room, directly in front of the raised stage. As we sat, the band was playing some very rapid piece, and people on either side craned their necks to see who we were to receive such regal seating.
Elizabeth and I quietly smiled at each other as we saw the heads being put together and tongues wagging, obviously asking the other tongues if they could identify us.
Then Elizabeth nudged me, and put her head next to mine.“Don’t look now, but at the table to the right, I think, it’s Al Jolson.” And so it was.
I had craned my own neck so spectacularly to see him that the girl he was with nudged him in my direction. Jolson turned, saw me staring at him as if he were a baboon in a tuxedo and said, “Hey, pal, you’re getting to look at my pretty kisser for nothing. You oughta come up to the Wintergarden and pay for the privilege.”
I straightened my neck back to its natural position as Elizabeth laughed at my discomfort and a magnum of champagne was brought to the table and served. This really seemed to pique Jolson’s interest.
He yelled over to us, “Hey, just who are you two? Owney don’t even treat me that well.”
I don’t know from where it came, but I looked squarely at Mr. Jolson and said in the most snooty tone you could imagine, “Sir, I am the Duke of Walsingham and the third in line to the British throne.”
“Well holy mackerel, Dukiepoo. Your cousin is about to begin.”
As he said that, the lights went down and none other than Duke Ellington and his orchestra began to play. He was to later gain world fame because of the Cotton Club, but Elizabeth and I were nothing short of mesmorised. We had never known such kinetic rhythms and melodic orchestrations. Even at our age, we found ourselves tapping our feet and swaying in our seats.
Jolson yelled over again, “Now ya got it Dukiepoo! Now ya got it!”
This was most certainly not Gilbert and Sullivan.
The Cotton Club, II
It was about almost eleven when Siegel and Reilly arrived at the Cotton Club. Olga had been escorted to the club earlier by Lansky and Anne. Siegel took Reilly in through a special side entrance where the guards greeted the two with, “Hello, Mr. Siegel,” “Have a great time, Mr. Siegel,” but looked very carefully at Reilly.
“Relax, guys; he’s with me,” Siegel said.
Which drew the additional, “Of course, Mr.Siegel,” “No problem, Mr. Siegel.”
Reilly and Siegel continued down a hallway till a guard opened another door and suddenly they were in the main entrance room. People were greeting Siegel left and right, but Reilly, though nervous about his meeting with Olga, was taking a moment to just drink in the atmosphere, as Elizabeth and I had done.
Siegel then nudged him and pointed to the table where Olga was sitting with the awaiting party.
“I’ll be over in a minute; I gotta talk to Owney upstairs in his office. You go and introduce yourself.”
“But, Ben, you said I wouldn’t have to see Olga. I think I’d better leave.”
Siegel hardened.
“You ain’tgoin’ nowhere, Moo. Just go over there. Meyer and Charlie know you’re comin’. But Katherine doesn’t, so don’t give her a heart attack.”
There was no reasoning with someone like Siegel. He hadn’t earned his nickname, Bugsy, for nothing. And if he didn’t do what Siegel wanted, there was no telling what Siegel would, in fact, do. So Reilly decided to do as instructed and rely on his wit to bring resolve to this new problem.
As Reilly made his way through the teeming tables packed so tightly together, trying not to bump into anyone, he stopped dead; for now he literally faced a another new problem: me. I was coming straight toward him on my way to use the loo.
Then I spied him, as well, and likewise stood frozen. If one such shock were not enough to my system, Reilly first nodded to say nothing, which I was not capable of doing in any event, then moved his head to the left, in the direction of a certain table.
My second great shock came as I followed his nod and saw Olga seated there. I do not believe that even in all my years as Holmes’ confidant and compatriot in all I had chronicled, had I ever been so utterly dumbfounded and at a loss of what to do next. It was Reilly who gave me direction.
He moved his head backwards indicating that I should continue on without any recognition, and since I was, at the moment, in need of the loo to an imperative degree, that is precisely what I
did.
Reilly then walked over to the table where Olga sat with the Lanskys and Luciano and his girl. They looked cautiously up at Reilly, and Olga looked up to see him, as well. She gave a gasp as Reilly signaled by slightly shaking his head not to recognise him, as he had just done with me.
But Olga was a Romanov Grand Duchess, and had the training and bearing to conduct herself properly under any circumstances; as she had so nobly demonstrated in Russia.
“Gentlemen, I believe you’re expecting me?” Reilly asked gallantly as he bowed his head slightly in gentlemanly gesture to the women.
It was Meyer who spoke first. “Hey, yeah. You’re that Reilly guy. That English friend of Benny’s. With the gats and all.”
“I admit it.”
“Siddown, siddown,” Luciano said. We got chairs saved for you and Ben. Where is he?”
“He’ll be along in a minute. I believe he was speaking with Mr. Madden in his office.”
“Oh, yeah,” Lansky said. As Reilly still stood, Meyer introduced him to his wife, to Charlie, and Charlie’s girl for the night, Lucille. Charlie’s girls never had last names.
“And last but not least, Katherine Kasey, Benny’s girl. She’s English, too. Like Charlie said, siddown. Here next to Katherine. Katherine Kasey meet Reilly, uh, what is your first name, anyway?”
“Sidney, it’s Sidney.”
As Reilly sat next to Olga and she extended her hand for him to shake, she kept a steady, yet inquisitive gaze at him and betrayed nothing.
Reilly thought it best if he cued Olga.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Katherine. Ben has told me so much about you.”
“I should hope so, Mr. Reilly, though Ben hasn’t mentioned you to me, at all.”
“I guess I’m just not very important.”
What happened in the next few minutes happened while I was still otherwise occupied.
I heard rapid arms fire, like machine guns; then tables overturning, women screaming, the sound of people running; in short, collective chaos. All I could think of was Elizabeth and that I had to get to her.