by Matt Braun
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the Hollywood Club takes great pride in presenting, in all their glory—the Texas Rangers!”
The crowd, as though on cue, rose to their feet. All of them, from the tables and the dance floor, moved to block the aisle in the center of the room. Their voices swelled in merry abandon to the beat of the music.
“The eyes of Texas are upon you
All the livelong day!”
The Rangers, formed in a knot around Purvis, bulled a path through the revelers. But the crowd gave way by inches, laughing and singing louder, slowing their progress. Several minutes passed in a jolly little struggle before the Rangers emerged onto the opposite side of the nightclub. There, dressed in tuxedos, were two muscular bruisers, arms folded across their chests. They barred the way to another set of glass doors.
“Stand aside!” Purvis shouted. “Stand aside or be arrested!”
The bruisers patted their pockets, their faces a study in bogus consternation. Finally, one of them came up with a key and fumbled around unlocking the doors. One of the Rangers stepped forward, roughly pushing him aside, and held the door open for Purvis. They entered a hallway, which led to a bar and an elegant lounge, again decorated with rattan furniture and exotic plants. The patrons of the lounge greeted them with knowing smiles and polite applause.
Beyond the lounge was still another set of doors, fashioned this time from sturdy oak polished to a luster. The doors led to the T-head part of the club, which was supported by stout pylons over the waters of the Gulf. Dutch Voight, attired in a double-breasted tuxedo, stood before the doors as though waiting to greet the Rangers. He was short, his barrel-shaped torso solid as rock, and his features had an oxlike imperturbability. He nodded impassively.
“Back again, Captain?” he said in a voice like sandpaper on pebbled stone. “Thought you would have seen the light by now.”
Purvis glared at him. “Out of my way, Voight. I intend to shut down your casino once and for all.”
“You know we’re not in the gaming business. We operate a private club, members only.”
“I’m ordering you to move aside.”
“Captain, you’re just bothering our guests, and for no reason. There’s nothing illegal going on here.”
Purvis exploded. “Goddammit, get out of my way and do it right now! Otherwise I’ll break down those doors.”
“No need,” Voight said with a sly smile. “Our doors are always open to the Texas Rangers.”
The doors swung open as if by magic. A man with strikingly handsome features and alert green eyes waved them inside. Purvis and his Rangers charged through the doors, and then, abruptly, hauled up short. The room was massive, two hundred feet wide by a hundred feet deep, and lavishly appointed with teak paneling and lush wall-to-wall carpet. Tall windows offered a panoramic view of the Gulf of Mexico.
There were two hundred or more people scattered about the room. Some of the men wore suits and ties, others were formally dressed in tuxedos, and the women, dripping jewelry, wore fashionable evening gowns. Eight billiard tables dominated the center of the room, and men with cue sticks stood around watching while others pocketed balls. The onlookers were quick to call out “Good shot!” whenever a ball fell.
Along the walls were at least fifty backgammon and bridge tables. The dice cups rattled at the backgammon tables, and cards with the Hollywood Club logo were dealt to bridge players. At every table, people were gathered around, smoking and sipping champagne, watching with rapt interest. Some turned as the Rangers barged into the room, looking at them with the bemused curiosity normally reserved for acrobats and dancing elephants. Others, as though absorbed in a pleasant social pastime, simply ignored them.
“Disappointed, Captain?” Voight asked wryly. “As you can see, things haven’t changed since your last visit. Billiards and backgammon, same as usual.”
“Horseapples!” Purvis barked. “You’re not fooling anybody, Voight. There’s gaming rigs here somewhere.”
“Be my guest, search the place to your heart’s content. We’re a legit operation.”
“There’s icicles in hell, too!”
Purvis ordered a search. From previous raids, he knew it was a waste of time, and he ground his teeth in frustration. However it was managed, the gambling paraphernalia and slot machines had disappeared from the brief interval between the front door and the moment he’d stormed into the room. He wondered how the hell they pulled it off.
The Rangers conducted a thorough search. They tapped walls, kicked at the flooring with their high-heeled boots, even looked under the billiard tables. At the rear of the room were two offices and an employees’ lounge, and they combed through these as well. They found nothing; no gaming chips, no roulette wheels, no sign of a slot machine. Their search was swiftly concluded.
“You’re slick,” Purvis fumed when it was over. “But don’t think you’ve seen the last of me. We’ll get you yet—and damn soon!”
Voight appeared unimpressed. “Captain, you and your men are welcome at the Hollywood Club anytime. Have a nice ride back to Houston.”
Purvis and his Rangers passed Ollie Quinn as they went out the door. Voight walked forward to his partner, watching as the lawmen marched back through the nightclub. The orchestra accompanied their retreat with another rendition of The Eyes of Texas. The audience merrily chimed in with the lyrics.
Quinn wagged his head. “Dutch, I’ve never seen such a determined man. I just imagine he’ll be back.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Voight agreed. “Nothing worse than a Texas Ranger with egg on his face.”
“Yes, too bad we can’t buy him off. Honest men are a burden, aren’t they?”
“You and your fancy talk, Ollie. Why not just say he’s a pain in the ass?”
“Oh, that’s much too coarse for an impresario like myself. You have to remember I’m a showman, Dutch.”
“Yeah, and I’m a magician. Now you see it, now you don’t.”
Voight turned to their lieutenant with eyes the color of emeralds. “We’re losing money, Jack. Let’s have some action.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Jack Nolan signaled the housemen. He walked off through the crowd, flattering the women and nodding politely to their husbands. All the while he was checking his watch, herding the patrons this way and that as the housemen went about their business. Not quite three minutes later, the whirr of a roulette wheel and the rattle of dice on a craps table sounded throughout the room. Dutch Voight and Ollie Quinn looked on with approval.
The Hollywood Club Casino was back in action.
Chapter Two
Austin was situated along the banks of the Colorado River. Like ancient Rome, the town was built upon seven hills and spread northward from the rugged shoreline. The surrounding countryside was a pastoral setting of rolling prairie and limestone mountains.
Congress Avenue, the main thoroughfare, rose gently from the river to the state capitol grounds. Early on the morning of September 4, Sergeant Clint Stoner of the Texas Rangers parked his car and walked toward the entrance. A ray of sunlight glinted off the dome as he mounted the sweeping steps to the capitol.
Stoner wondered again why he’d been summoned to the statehouse. He was assigned to the Headquarters Detachment, located on the outskirts of Austin, and worked in the investigative division. When he signed in for duty that morning, his commander, Captain Fred Olson, told him that he had been ordered to report to Colonel Homer Garrison, head of the Texas Rangers. Olson seemed put out that he himself hadn’t been informed as to the reason.
On the second floor, Stoner turned down a long corridor. A moment later he entered the reception room of the state headquarters. The secretary was an older woman, her hair pinned back in a severe chignon, and she asked him to have a seat. She wrote his name on a slip of paper and moved to a thick oak door leading to an inner office. Shortly she returned, nodding to him without expression. She ushered him through the door.
&n
bsp; Colonel Homer Garrison was seated behind a large walnut desk. His chiseled features and brushy mustache gave him an appearance of solidity and iron will. The office, like the man, was utilitarian, with two leather chairs positioned facing the desk. The sole decorations were the Texas state flag and the national flag, draped from standards anchored to the floor. His greeting was brusque.
“Good morning,” he said. “Have a chair.”
Stoner seated himself. “Captain Olson told me I was to report to you, sir.”
“I suspect Olson was burned at being kept in the dark.”
“The captain didn’t say one way or the other.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” Garrison opened a folder on his desk. “I’ve been reading your file, Stoner. You have a commendable record.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Stoner had been in law enforcement for nine years. He began as a deputy sheriff, later joined the highway patrol, and four years ago, he’d been recruited into the Texas Rangers. In that time, he had killed two men in gunfights, a bank robber and a murderer, and steadily advanced in rank to sergeant. He was thirty-one, the most highly decorated officer in his Ranger company.
“I’m looking for a volunteer,” Garrison said, closing the folder. “How would you feel about working undercover?”
There was no question in Stoner’s mind that he’d already volunteered. When a superior asked, there was only one acceptable response. “I’m your man, Colonel.”
“Excellent,” Garrison replied. “Are you familiar with the situation in Galveston?”
“Well, sir, I know it’s a hotbed of vice.”
“Actually, it’s somewhat more complicated, Sergeant.”
Garrison went on to explain. The town and the county were controlled by two mobsters, Oliver Quinn and Edward Voight. By all accounts, they operated casinos, a fleet of rumrunners, and were so powerful they collected tribute from lesser gangsters. Their limitless source of funds allowed them to bribe the police chief, the sheriff, the county attorney, and any number of judges. The Island was so corrupt that it had become known as the Free State of Galveston.
Humbling as it was to admit, Garrison noted, the Rangers had conducted seven raids, all to no effect. Captain Hardy Purvis, the Houston District commander, had reported the most recent failure only late last night. Yet Purvis was correct in his assessment of how the war should be waged against Quinn and Voight. The way to bring them down was to dismantle the flagship of their empire—the Hollywood Club.
“The raids simply haven’t worked,” Garrison concluded. “So I want to send you in there undercover. Plainclothes, a fake identity, a cover story that will withstand scrutiny.”
Stoner nodded. “Just exactly what is it I’m looking for, Colonel?”
“The assignment is more difficult than it sounds. Quinn and Voight somehow—mystically, it seems—make their casino disappear.”
“Pardon me, sir?”
“Quite literally, Sergeant, the casino vanishes before our raiding party can make their way to the rear of the club. I want you to determine how it’s done.”
Stoner’s eyes narrowed. He was just shy of six feet, whipcord lean, with weathered features and sandy hair. He survived as a lawman on sharp instincts and quick reflexes, striking first and fastest. He sensed a pitfall in the assignment.
“Way I hear it,” he said in a level voice, “Galveston’s a pretty rough place. An undercover man might get himself killed if he was found out.”
Garrison steepled his fingers. “Do I detect a condition in there somewhere, Sergeant?”
“I’m requesting that I report directly to you. Loose talk has a way of getting to the wrong ears.”
“In other words, keep Captain Olson in the dark as to your assignment. And neglect to tell Captain Purvis he has an undercover agent operating in his district. Is that about it?”
“I’d feel easier, Colonel,” Stoner told him. “Quick as I turn up anything, I’ll let you know. Time enough then to plan a raid.”
“Point well taken.” Garrison was silent, thoughtful a moment. “Your file indicates you’re a single man. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll need a woman along, to complete your cover. Someone to act as your wife. Any ideas?”
Stoner smiled. “Colonel, I’ve got just the girl. She’d jump at the chance to play detective.”
“Known her long?” Garrison asked soberly. “Would you trust her with your life?”
“Well, sir, in lots of ways, she’d be trusting me with her life. I guess it’d be a fair trade-off.”
“Very well, I’ll accept your judgment in the matter. As of today, you are reassigned to my office. Get to work on your cover story and keep me advised.”
Stoner got to his feet. “I’ll come up with something airtight. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.”
Garrison thought he’d picked his man well. The Rangers was an organization of long tradition, founded before the Civil War and carried on to the present day. Looking at Stoner, he was reminded of the adage that underscored the tradition: One riot, one Ranger. He felt confident one Ranger was adequate for Galveston.
“A final thought,” he said forcefully. “You have but one assignment in Galveston. Bring me the secret of the Hollywood Club.”
Stoner grinned. “Colonel, I’ll deliver it with bells on and a red ribbon. You’ve as good as got it.”
The train slowed at the top of the causeway. Earl Durant, who was seated at a window, stared down at the bay, which was almost twenty feet below the monolithic arch. He saw oceangoing freighters docked at the city wharves.
A car overtook the train as it started down the grade. Durant always marveled at the engineering feat of the causeway. The concrete span was wide enough to accommodate train tracks, a two-lane highway for automobiles, and an electric interurban railway. The interurban whisked back and forth to Houston on the hour.
The train pulled into the Santa Fe station shortly before noon. Durant collected his suitcase from an overhead rack and followed the other passengers off the coach. His trip from Los Angeles had taken two days, with changes of trains in Albuquerque and Dallas. He felt grungy and soiled, ready for a hot shower.
From previous trips, Durant recalled that the Tremont was one of the better hotels in the downtown area. He walked east on the Strand, which was Galveston’s main business street, crowded with shops and stores and ornate Victorian office buildings. A block north, on Water Street, he saw sea gulls floating lazily over ships berthed at the docks.
Durant was reminded that Galveston was a place apart. The Islanders lived by their own values, their own measure of morality, and prided themselves on being different from mainlanders. There was a mystique about the town that flaunted joie de vivre and a zestful wickedness, tolerance for the risqué. Life was meant to be a celebration, a somewhat naughty party that never ended.
The hotel was on Mechanic Row, a block south of the Strand at Twenty-second Street. Durant engaged a room for an indefinite stay, and once upstairs, quickly shed his soiled clothing. He unpacked, took a scalding shower and shaved, and then changed into a fresh suit, starched white shirt and striped tie. Downstairs again, he ate lunch in the hotel dining room.
Shortly after one o’clock, he entered the Hendley Building, on the corner of the Strand and Twentieth Street. On the second floor, he found the law offices of Grant, Kline & Shapiro. After announcing himself, a secretary showed him into the office of Walter Kline, a lanky man with gray hair and sad eyes. Kline offered him a chair.
“Please accept my condolences,” Kline said. “Your uncle was a fine man, salt of the earth. We were friends for over thirty years.”
Durant shook his head. “Doesn’t hardly seem real just yet. Wish I could have been here for the funeral.”
“Yes, of course. There were two hundred people, perhaps more, at the services. Your uncle was very highly regarded in the community.”
“I’ll visit the cemetery whil
e I’m in town.”
“Hmmm.” Kline’s sad eyes appeared sadder. “However sudden his death, his will expresses the wish that you take over the bank. Do I infer you have other plans?”
“Mr. Kline, I work in moving pictures,” Durant said equably. “Even if I knew how, I’ve got no interest in running a bank. I figured to put it on the market.” He paused. “Maybe you could help me find a buyer.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“Sure thing.”
“Ira Aldridge is the vice president. He was your uncle’s right hand for many years, a very capable man. Talk to him before making any hasty decisions.”
Durant nodded. “Sounds like he’d be the one to buy the bank.”
“Nooo,” Kline said slowly. “I’m afraid Ira hasn’t the resources.”
“Then what’s to be gained by talking?”
“Perhaps you owe it to your uncle, Mr. Durant. He held Ira Aldridge in great esteem.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I need to find out what’s what with the bank anyhow.”
“By the way,” Kline said, “will you be staying at your uncle’s home? He owned a very nice house on Twenty-ninth Street—and it’s yours now.”
“No, I took a room at the Tremont. I’ll probably go by the house tomorrow. See about Uncle Joe’s personal effects.”
“Do let me know if I can be of assistance.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Some five minutes later, Durant walked into the People’s Bank & Trust. A Victorian stone structure, the bank was on the Strand, between Eighteenth and Nineteenth Streets, in the heart of the business district. Aldridge’s secretary, an attractive young woman who introduced herself as Catherine Ludlow, escorted him to an office at the rear of the bank. She smiled as she closed the door.
“Well, well!” Aldridge said, hand extended in greeting. “I certainly see the family resemblance. Joe spoke of you often, and with great pride, I might add.”