by Matt Braun
“I told him as much.”
Quinn kept a blue macaw parrot in the office. The bird was named Cuddles and sat perched on a stand behind the desk. A master mimic, Cuddles often joined in the conversation. He cocked his head now and looked at them with a puckish glare.
“Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Take him for a swim. Kiss my ass!”
“See there, Dutch,” Quinn said ruefully. “He’s picked up all your bad habits.”
Voight chuckled. “Smart bird.”
Chapter Four
Ollie Quinn occupied the penthouse suite at the Buccaneer Hotel. The hotel was located on Seawall Boulevard, and the balcony of his suite offered a sweeping view of the Gulf. A morning sun, bright as new brass, reflected off waves lapping gently at the beach.
Breakfast, weather permitting, was always served on the balcony. Quinn was in shirtsleeves and tie, seated at a table covered with spotless linen, a napkin tucked into his collar. A waiter from room service fussed over him, setting out a ripe melon, bacon and eggs, and coffee. The breadbasket was filled with piping hot buttermilk biscuits.
Maxine Baxter wandered out of the master bedroom as the waiter left the suite. She was a honey blonde with a ballerina’s grace and blue eyes the color of a tropical lagoon. Her hourglass curves amply strained a sheer peach peignoir and high-heeled satin slippers covered her dainty feet. She was small, a pocket Venus.
“Mornin’, sugar,” she said, moving onto the balcony. “Aren’t you up early?”
Quinn spooned a bite of melon. “Today’s a big day, Maxie. Al Jolson arrives this afternoon.”
“Oh, sure, I guess I forgot. You’re excited, aren’t you?”
“The king of Broadway! Who wouldn’t be?”
Quinn and Maxine were both native Texans. She began as a hatcheck girl at the club, and her lilting Southern drawl, as well as her other charms, quickly caught his attention. A little over a year ago she had moved into the penthouse, happy as a clam to be his only girl. Their lives were filled with luxury and interesting people, and languorous nights dreamily exhausted from love. Neither of them asked for any promises, and there were no strings attached. They lived it one day at a time.
Dutch Voight, by comparison, shunned the limelight. Apart from Quinn, who was occasionally invited to a modest house on Twenty-ninth Street, few people in the sporting world had ever seen Voight’s wife. She was a deeply religious woman who lived in denial that her husband was a gangster. A great many people were unaware that Voight had two teenage children, a son and a daughter, who attended Galveston High School. He adroitly kept his personal life separated from his business affairs, and his gangland associates. Quinn often thought his partner needed a girlfriend.
“What a gorgeous day,” Maxine said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “Maybe I’ll run downtown and do some shopping. What would you like to buy me, sugar?”
Quinn layered jam onto a biscuit. “Anything your little heart desires. Find a new dress for Jolson’s opening.”
“Why, I just believe I will! Won’t you come help me pick it out?”
“Sorry, buttercup, I have a meeting at ten.”
“Business, business, business. You’re never any fun.”
“That’s not what you said last night.”
“Oh, you wicked man!”
“I accept the compliment.”
For all his cheery banter, Quinn’s mind was on the day ahead. At ten, he had a meeting with William Magruder, and he was still wondering what that was all about. Yesterday, on the phone, Magruder had sounded harried, which was unusual. William Magruder was what he’d always thought of as collected, even a bit calculating. A cold fish.
Whatever it was, Quinn was determined that it wouldn’t spoil his day. Early that afternoon, Al Jolson was arriving by train, and he meant to celebrate the major coup of his career as a showman. He kissed Maxine on the cheek, and left her to plan a shopping spree that would likely cost him a fortune. In the bedroom, he shrugged into his suit jacket, tilting his Panama hat at a jaunty angle, and hurried out of the suite. The elevator operator gave him an express ride to the lobby.
Turk McGuire, his chauffeur and bodyguard, was waiting outside. There was small chance of anyone trying to rub him out in Galveston, but he believed in playing the odds. McGuire was robust as an ox, his head fixed directly on his shoulders, with the vacant eyes of a man who spent his time contemplating deadly acts. More to the point, he was loyal, quick with his hands and fast with a gun, and seemingly robbed of fear the day he was weaned. No one messed with Turk McGuire.
Quinn’s car was a Cadillac Phaeton with a V-16 engine. The body was gold, the teardrop fenders a rich maroon, with a gleaming silver grill and wide whitewall tires. The Phaeton was sleek and rakish, the only one in Galveston, and everyone in town knew it on sight. The day was bright and sunny, and the collapsible top had been folded down, which highlighted the car’s lush leather interior. Turk McGuire kept the Caddy washed and polished, every ornament glittering in the sunlight, a rolling tribute to the impresario of the Hollywood Club. He held the rear door open for Quinn.
Some ten minutes later McGuire parked in front of the Magruder Building. The distinctive Cadillac was like a pronouncement of Quinn’s presence, but he hardly gave it a thought. Galveston’s biggest open secret was that the two reigning families, the Magruders and the Seagraves, occasionally worked with the mob for the civic and economic betterment of the community. Quinn strolled into the building with the brisk air of a man on important business and not a moment to waste. He took the birdcage elevator to the tenth floor.
A secretary escorted him into Magruder’s office. The old man was behind his desk and Sherm was seated on the couch. Their relationship with Quinn was one of wary civility, for they preferred to distance themselves from mob activities on the Island. After perfunctory handshakes all around, Quinn was offered one of the leather armchairs. Magruder went straight to the point.
“We have a minor business problem. Your assistance would be most appreciated.”
“Anything at all, Bill. How can I help?”
“People’s Bank & Trust,” Magruder explained. “Upon Joseph Durant’s death, the bank was inherited by his nephew. The man’s name is Earl Durant.”
Quinn nodded. “I believe I heard something about the bank changing hands.”
“A change for the worse, no question about it. Mr. Durant is a stuntman in moving pictures. Hardly a welcome addition to Galveston.”
“I see.”
“In any event,” Magruder went on, “we wish to purchase People’s Bank & Trust. Despite our generous offer, Durant refuses to sell. Therein lies our problem.”
“These things happen,” Quinn said equably. “What assistance may I offer you?”
“Joseph Durant was respected by a certain segment of our community. I daresay the townspeople would not have condoned violence in his case. On the other hand, his nephew is a stranger… .”
Magruder paused, underscoring the thought with weighty silence. Quinn saw now that he’d been asked here not as a fellow businessman, but rather because of his reputation as a gangster. He found it ironic that Galveston’s guardian of morality and good taste would recruit him to join in a criminal conspiracy. He decided it might work to advantage at some later time.
“Let me understand,” he said. “Do you want this Durant fellow killed?”
“Good God, no!” Magruder huffed. “We simply want him frightened.”
“Roughed up, put on warning.”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“I’m with you now,” Quinn said without inflection. “And is he to be told the reason? The purpose of the beating?”
Magruder exchanged a quick, somewhat startled glance with his son. Their bemused looks indicated they clearly hadn’t thought that far ahead. Sherm finally lifted his shoulders in a shrug.
“Why not?” he said. “The purpose is to persuade him to sell us the bank. I think he should be told.”
Magruder pursed his mouth. �
�All very discreetly, of course. Nothing that associates our names with violence.”
“Naturally,” Quinn agreed. “I’ll see that it’s handled with the necessary discretion. Durant will get the message.”
“Fine, fine,” Sherm said hurriedly. “We realize there are expenses involved in this type of thing. Let us know what you think is fair.”
“No charge,” Quinn said. “Call it a favor among friends.”
“That’s very decent of you,” Magruder said. “I assure you we won’t forget your courtesy.”
Quinn couldn’t have agreed more. On his way out of the building, he wondered why they were so interested in a nickel-and-dime bank. Whatever the reason, he told himself, it wasn’t all that important. Today’s transaction, with the debit on their side, was what counted most.
Somewhere down the line, he intended to call in the chit.
The train chuffed to a halt with a belch of steam. Several people waited on the cobbled platform outside the Santa Fe depot, there to greet passengers. The stationmaster, pocket watch in hand, noted the train had arrived at 12:59, one minute early.
Quinn was almost dancing with excitement. He wore a smartly tailored linen suit, creamy beige in color, topped off by his Panama hat. As passengers began debarking the train, he moved through the crowd, his expression eager and alert. Then, with a sudden laugh, he hurried forward.
Al Jolson stepped onto the platform. He was a man of medium height, with broad features, snappy electric eyes, and a perpetual moonlike grin. He was attired in a blue tropical worsted suit, an exotic silk handkerchief draped from his breast pocket, the brim of his fedora rolled at a natty angle. The effect was one of casual elegance, faintly continental.
“Mr. Jolson!” Quinn bugled, pumping his hand. “Welcome to Galveston. I’m Oliver Quinn.”
“Glad to meet you, pal.” Jolson wiped a trickle of sweat off his brow. “Never expected a heat wave in September.”
“Well, it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. We’re right on the Gulf.”
“You could’ve fooled me, sport. Feels like the equator.”
“Then you’ll like the club, Al—may I call you Al? We had it air-cooled.”
“Thank God for small favors.”
Quinn signaled a porter. The baggage car door slid open and the porter moved forward with a rolling handcart. Jolson’s luggage included three suitcases and two large steamer trunks, which the porter manhandled off the train. He trundled along behind as Quinn led the way around the side of the depot.
“Traveling light,” Jolson quipped, waving idly at the luggage. “I might decide I like it in California.”
“No question about it,” Quinn said. “Motion pictures are all the rage.”
“Wait till you see my talky. We’re gonna call it The Jazz Singer.”
Jolson was on his way to Hollywood. Warner Brothers had signed him to star in the first talking movie ever made. Until now, motion pictures were silent, with sporadic dialogue displayed on-screen through subtitles. The Jazz Singer would have recorded songs, accompanied by live music.
Quinn felt very fortunate. He had been able to secure a booking of one week only because Jolson was traveling to California. Jolson was in such demand on Broadway that he seldom made an appearance outside of New York. He was billed as “The World’s Greatest Entertainer,” and it wasn’t mere hoopla. His was the rags-to-riches story of show business.
Al Jolson was the immigrant son of a Jewish cantor. His voice, a brassy blend of warmth with a sob, first made him the preeminent star of the vaudeville stage. From there, seemingly overnight, he catapulted to fame at the fabled Winter Garden Theater in New York. Millions listened to his weekly radio show, and he recorded a new hit record every two weeks. He was the brightest light on Broadway.
A renowned braggart, with a monumental ego, he was widely acknowledged as the musical comedy star of the century. Just within the last year, a New York columnist wrote: “Al Jolson is to show business what Jack Dempsey is to the ring and Babe Ruth to baseball.” And now, he was to make the first talky film in motion picture history.
But first, he would play the Hollywood Club. Quinn was beside himself, for it would garner publicity from coast to coast. A phone call earlier had arranged the opening salvo; a reporter and photographer from the Galveston Daily Chronicle waylaid them as they crossed the platform. Jolson quickly took center stage, always at his best in front of a camera. He regaled the newsmen with stories of the one he loved the most, himself.
Quinn, meanwhile, had Turk McGuire call for a truck to collect the luggage. A suite was booked for Jolson at the Buccaneer, and he ordered that the luggage be taken ahead to the hotel. When the interview concluded, he steered Jolson to the Cadillac, explaining the band was waiting for them at the club. Jolson gave McGuire a casual once-over as they climbed into the car. He smiled knowingly when they pulled away from the curb.
“I see we’re well protected. Dempsey himself wouldn’t tangle with your driver.”
“Al, we look after our guests on Galveston Island. You’re in safe hands.”
Quinn, playing the good host, acted as tour guide. He explained that the Strand, which took them east from the depot, was christened to honor London’s famed thoroughfare of the same name. Farther uptown, he motioned to the bayside wharves, subtly easing into a point of interest. He knew the story of Jolson’s heritage and he related that Germans, Czechs, and Russian Jews had immigrated to the new world by way of the port. Galveston, no less than New York, was a melting pot.
On Twenty-first Street, where they turned south, he pointed out the Grand Opera House. The immense baroque structure was modeled after the great opera houses of Europe during the time of the Renaissance. The elite of the operatic world, as well as Sarah Bernhardt and Anna Pavlova, the Russian ballerina, had all performed there. The auditorium seated 1,600 and was constructed without square corners, a marvel of perfect acoustics. Galveston, he noted, was a city rich in culture.
A few minutes later they crossed Seawall Boulevard. Quinn proudly recounted that the Hollywood Club was the only nightspot in the greater Southwest with top-notch entertainment, gourmet dining, and a plush casino, all under one roof. Dutch Voight met them as they entered the nightclub, and Quinn performed the introductions. Voight took Jolson on a tour of the club and casino, explaining that it was the first air-cooled nightspot in America. He kept the temperature at 69°, confident that gamblers who were cool didn’t feel their liquor. Drunk gamblers, he observed, were happy losers.
Jolson, who had known many New York gangsters, recognized Voight as one of the breed. The menacing attitude, however carefully suppressed, was there in mannerism and tone of voice. He thought Quinn, who came off as a dapper devotee of arts and entertainment, was probably no less dangerous. Yet he was impressed by their club and casino, a grand nightspot literally at land’s end, suspended over water. He was taken as well by the welcome comfort of air-cooling. He’d finally stopped sweating.
“Are you a gambler?” Voight asked as they left the casino. “We’d be happy to reserve you a table.”
“I’m a gambler,” Jolson said with an immodest grin, “but only on Al Jolson. I know I can’t lose on myself.”
Voight covered his disappointment. Entertainers were notoriously poor gamblers, and typically dropped a large part of their salaries at the tables. A few, the worst of the lot, left the Hollywood Club owing the casino money. He’d had similar hopes for Jolson.
Ben Pollack was waiting with his orchestra in the nightclub. Popular all across the country, and a draw in itself, the orchestra featured rising young musicians such as Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman. Jolson had met Pollack once before, in New York, and it was something of a reunion when he hopped onto the stage. They began talking music—particularly Jolson’s kind of music—and it soon became apparent that there was a new leader of the band. Jolson, as he did anywhere he went, got it his way.
Quinn and Voight watched from the dance floor. Jolson was a sta
r of the first magnitude, certainly the top entertainer who had ever played the Hollywood Club. Quinn felt as though he had capped his career as a showman, and he could hardly contain his excitement. He looked around at his partner.
“Dutch, do you believe in providence?”
“You talking about divine intervention?”
“Call it what you will,” Quinn said. “Somebody was watching over us when he got the role in that moving picture. Otherwise we’d never have been able to book him into the club.”
“Tell you what I believe,” Voight said crossly. “The bastard’s not gonna drop a nickel at the tables. He’ll leave town with our ten gees in his pocket.”
“Yes, but we’ll get that back ten times over in publicity.”
“Nobody sings that good. Not even Jolson.”
“Wait a week, old friend. You’ll change your tune.”
“Not likely,” Voight said. “I’m tone deaf.”
Quinn smiled. “That’s exactly why I hired Jolson.”
The Turf Club was headquarters for mob activities on Galveston Island. The Hollywood Club was the showpiece, but all serious business was conducted at a three-story building on Twenty-third Street. Quinn and Voight operated their criminal enterprises from an office on the third floor.
A small sign over the main door identified the Turf Club. The building, constructed of white brick, was located between Market and Postoffice Streets, a few blocks from the Strand. The ground floor was a bookmaking parlor, where sporting men could wager on baseball, boxing matches, or horse races at tracks across the country. There were four betting windows at the back of the room.
The atmosphere was congenial and comfortable. A bar along the south wall looked over groupings of tables and leather club chairs, where customers could follow the action at their leisure. On the north wall was a tote board, posted with up-to-the-minute results from racetracks and various sports events. Two men, chalk in hand, constantly worked the tote board.
On the back wall, near the betting windows, was an elevator. The elevator operator took patrons to the second floor, where there were two lounges dispensing alcoholic beverages. The Western Room, done in a nouveau Texas motif, was appointed in leather, rodeo murals, and broad, spear-pointed longhorns affixed to the walls. The Studio Lounge, all modernistic Art Deco, was lights and mirrors and bright geometric designs. One lounge featured Country Western music and the other a jazz quartet.