by Matt Braun
The third floor was restricted to employees of Gulf Enterprises. On one side of a long hallway was a billiard room, with three pool tables and two snooker tables. On the opposite side was an athletic club, with a boxing ring, weightlifting equipment, and a steam room. Voight, in particular, believed the strong-arm boys and gunsels employed by Gulf Enterprises should be in tip-top shape. Every man on the payroll was required to work out three times a week.
The far end of the hallway was guarded by a gorilla in a pin-striped suit. There, on the street side of the building, was the central headquarters of the mob. Quinn and Voight, from an office paneled in dark wood and furnished in leather, directed the myraid aspects of their underworld empire. The proceeds, upwards of $100,000 a week, flowed from the casino, the rumrunning operation, and payoffs from their cohorts in crime. Entrance into their inner sanctum was by appointment only.
Late that afternoon Fred Crowley stepped off the elevator. He was short and lantern-jawed, attired in a sharkskin suit, spit-shined cordovans, and beige spats. A derby hat was perched atop his head and his eyes flicked left and right, to the billiard room and the athletic club, as he moved along the hallway. He prudently stopped in front of the gorilla.
“I’m Fred Crowley,” he said. “Mr. Voight knows I was comin’ by.”
“Act like a gent in there or I’ll break your legs. Take off the lid.”
Crowley removed his derby as the gorilla swung open the door. Voight was seated behind a desk, and the man everyone knew as Diamond Jack Nolan occupied a leather armchair. Tall filing cabinets were aligned along one wall and a massive double-door safe was wedged into a corner. Bright sunlight splashed through a window that overlooked the street.
“Come on in,” Voight said. “Grab a chair.”
Crowley glanced at Nolan, who was paring his nails with a penknife. He seated himself in one of the armchairs, his derby balanced on his knees. “I appreciate you takin’ the time to see me, Mr. Voight.”
“Business is business,” Voight said. “So you want to buy the Roseland?”
“Yessir, I’ve already worked a deal with George Napoli. He said I’d need your okay to buy him out.”
The Roseland Supper Club was one of many joints spread around town. Despite its elegant name, the Roseland was a bar with a short-order cook, a dozen slot machines, and a poker room. All of the joints paid tribute on their gaming operations.
“You’re new to town,” Voight said. “Where are you from?”
“Spring Valley, west of Houston,” Crowley replied. “I ran card games there for a couple years. Decided to move where there’s more action. Galveston’s the place to be.”
“You know I’ll have you checked out?”
“Yessir.”
“You know what will happen if you don’t check out.”
Crowley fidgeted. “I’m clean, Mr. Voight. You got my word.”
“Just so you understand,” Voight said. “Did Napoli explain the rules?”
“Yeah, he did. I buy all my liquor from your boys, and I never welch on a bet with a customer. Always pay up.”
“You pay up with us, too. We get ten percent off the top on slots and games. You get protection from the cops and the feds.”
“Worth every nickel of it, Mr. Voight. Protection’s the main reason I decided on Galveston.”
“There’s one last rule,” Voight told him. “Never try to skim and short us on the grease. You skim and you’re gone. You follow me?”
“Yeah, sure,” Crowley said weakly. “I’m out of business.”
“No,” Voight corrected him. “You’re gone, like forever. Got me?”
Crowley swallowed hard. He darted a glance at Nolan, who was reputed to be a stone-cold killer. He cleared his throat.
“I’ll never hold out, Mr. Voight. You got no worries about me.”
“Come see me in a week,” Voight said. “We find you’re on the up and up, you can close your deal with Napoli. You’ll make good money with the Roseland.”
“Thank you. Mr. Voight. I’ll be here same time, next Friday. You can bet on it.”
Crowley, hat still in hand, went out. When the door closed, Voight took a cigar from a box on the desk. He deftly clipped the end, struck a match, and lit up in a haze of blue smoke. He looked at Nolan.
“Make a few phone calls, Jack. Somebody we know in Spring Valley will likely know Crowley.”
“Larry Hebert,” Nolan said. “He’s our bootlegger up that way. I’ll get on it.”
Ollie Quinn came through the door. He dropped into a chair with an exhausted look. “Jolson’s a handful,” he said. “I finally got him settled into the hotel. I think he would’ve gone on tonight without any rehearsal.”
Voight grunted. “Why didn’t you let him? We could’ve got eight nights for our money instead of seven.”
“Dutch, it doesn’t work that way. I have the newspapers coming from Houston and Dallas for the opening tomorrow night. We’ll make headlines, believe you me.”
“I’m surprised you’re not playing nursemaid with Mr. Showbusiness. What brings you over here?”
“William Magruder,” Quinn said. “You’ll recall I met with him this morning.”
“Now that you mention it,” Voight said, puffing his cigar. “What’d he want, more charity donations?”
“Nothing quite so simple.”
Quinn went on to relate the gist of the meeting. He outlined Magruder’s designs on the People’s Bank & Trust, and the impediment of the heir, Earl Durant. He ended with a shrug.
“We’ve been asked for a favor we can’t refuse. He wants the fear of God put into Durant.”
“Fear of God,” Voight amended, “or fear of Bill Magruder?”
“I suppose it’s all one and the same. Anyway, we put him in our debt by doing the favor. So I told him we’d handle it.”
“Christ, he could’ve called Western Union if he wants a message delivered. Sounds like small potatoes.”
“Not to him,” Quinn said. “I gave him my word, Dutch.”
“Oh, hell, I’m not arguing with you, Ollie. How do you want it done?”
“We’ll leave that to Jack.” Quinn turned, nodding to Nolan. “Get a line on this Durant and take care of it. You know the drill.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Nolan said quietly. “I’ll have a talk with him in private, put him on notice. He’ll see the light.”
“Velvet glove on a mail fist?”
“Usually works,” Nolan said. “Time enough for the rough stuff if reason fails.”
“You’re a hot ticket, Jack.” Quinn considered a moment. “All right, but make sure you scare the bejesus out of him. Let’s fix it so Magruder knows who owes who for what.”
Nolan bobbed his head. “I’ll look after it.”
“And no miscues,” Voight added. “Lay it out in spades for him. Get the message across.”
Quinn laughed. “What happened to Western Union?”
“Last time I heard, they don’t break legs.”
Diamond Jack Nolan thought that said it all.
Chapter Five
Saturday was the busiest day of the week in Galveston. Tourists there for the weekend swarmed the town sight-seeing and visiting the amusement piers on the beach. Stores were crowded with shoppers and traffic jams were constant on the Strand. The police were hard-pressed to control the circuslike atmosphere.
The People’s Bank & Trust, like other businesses, stayed open six days a week. A large segment of the bank’s customers were workingmen, struggling to make ends meet, and rushed in on Saturday to cash their paychecks and catch up on mortgage payments. Long lines began forming at the cashier cages soon after the noon hour.
Durant was technically the new president of the bank. Yet he asked few questions and left daily financial operations to Ira Aldridge. After his meeting with Magruder, he had explained the situation to Aldridge, and hardly to his surprise, the older man’s reaction was somewhat euphoric. Aldridge was clearly delighted with th
e turn of events.
“William Magruder is a scoundrel,” he’d observed with obvious relish. “He’ll try to steal the bank out from under you. He has all the ethics of a jellyfish.”
“That won’t happen,” Durant had avowed. “I’ll just have to find another buyer.”
“Earl, I’d say your chances are somewhere between slim and none. No one wants to compete with Magruder in his own backyard. He’s simply too powerful.”
Aldridge had nonetheless put together a list of banks on the mainland. From thirty years in the business, he knew the executive officers of every financial institution in southern Texas. He allowed Durant to use his name as an entrée, and agreed to stay on if the bank was sold to an outside party. He expressed the opinion that the likelihood was on the order of snowballs in hell.
Today, as he had for the past two days, Durant was working the phone. So far, he had called bankers in the towns of Hitchcock, La Marque, Santa Fe, and Texas City. The response in each instance had been a polite but very definite lack of interest, and by now, he had spoken with the presidents of seven banks. Disappointed, though undeterred, he had exhausted the list of banks along the coastline. He was calling institutions farther inland this morning.
The man on the line now was Horace Taylor, president of a bank in Dickinson. “Look, Mr. Taylor,” Durant said. “I’d be happy for you to audit the books and see for yourself. I know you’ll find it fair value for the price.”
“Not questioning value,” Taylor said on the staticky line. “I’ve known Ira Aldridge most of my life, and he’s honest as they come. If he says it’s worth it, then it’s worth it.”
“Why don’t I drive up there Monday and let’s talk about it? I’ll even bring Ira along if you like.”
“Mr. Durant, it’d be a long drive for nothing. I’m not the first banker you’ve approached, am I?”
“No, sir, you’re not.”
“And I’d venture to say they’ve all told you the same thing. Nobody wants any part of Galveston because of that sorry bastard William Magruder. Am I right?”
“Well, most of them called him a son of a bitch. But that’s been the general thought.”
“You’ve got a tough row to hoe,” Taylor said. “I suspect you’ll have a deuce of a time finding a buyer. I wouldn’t tangle with Magruder for all the tea in China.”
The conversation ended with Taylor wishing him well. Durant hung up the phone and slumped back in his chair. He stared at the list of names on the desk, all too aware that it was growing shorter by the minute. Dickinson was twenty miles north of Galveston, and apparently that wasn’t far enough. No one cared—or dared—to take on William Magruder.
The door opened. Catherine Ludlow stepped into the office carrying a cup of coffee. She was wearing a dark skirt and a white round-collared blouse, with a little blue grosgrain bow at the throat. The outfit showed off her figure without being obvious, and he thought she looked cute as hell. She placed the cup of coffee on the desk.
“Time for some java,” she said brightly. “How’s it going?”
“More of the same,” Durant admitted. “You’d think they’re all reading off the same script. Always ends with ‘thanks, but no thanks.’ ”
“You must be getting discouraged.”
“No, I’m a regular brute for punishment. I’ll find a buyer yet.”
She lowered her eyes. “I really shouldn’t say this. Mr. Aldridge wouldn’t like it… .”
“Go ahead,” Durant coaxed her. “I’m the original Silent Sam.”
“Well—” She looked at him, and he was suddenly aware of the larkspur blue of her eyes. “Mr. Aldridge truly, truly wants you to take over the bank. He says you’re your uncle all over again.” She smiled shyly. “And I think so, too.”
“I appreciate the sentiment. But it wouldn’t work out in a million years. I’m not interested in being a banker.”
“Mr. Aldridge says you’re a stuntman in moving pictures. That must be fascinating.”
“Why, do you enjoy the movies?”
“Oh, do I!” she said engagingly. “I see every picture that comes to the Bijou. That’s our movie theater.”
“I saw it when I was walking around town.”
“Do you know any of the—?”
A man appeared in the doorway. Durant’s first impression was that he would be perfect for moving pictures. He was unbearably handsome, with eyes so green they glittered like gems. Aldridge, flushed with anger, was right behind him.
“I tried to tell him he couldn’t come in here. He just barged on past me.”
Durant got to his feet. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem at all, Mr. Durant. I’m Jack Nolan and I’d like to talk with you. In private.”
“Jack Nolan, the gangster!” Aldridge shouted. “He’s the hatchet man for the mobsters that run Galveston.”
Nolan looked wounded. “Give a fella a break, old man. You might hurt my feelings.”
“Ira. Catherine.” Durant got their attention. “Would you mind stepping outside? I’ll talk to Mr. Nolan alone.”
Aldridge waited at the door until Catherine went out. He gave Durant a concerned look, clearly reluctant to leave, and then closed the door. Durant motioned to a chair.
“I’ve never met a gangster,” he said as Nolan seated himself. “Or was Mr. Aldridge mistaken?”
Nolan rocked his hand, fingers splayed. “I work at the Hollywood Club. Hottest spot in town.”
“I heard Al Jolson’s opening tonight.”
“Come on by and be my guest. I’ll save you a good table.”
“I get the feeling you’re not here to talk about show business. What can I do for you, Mr. Nolan?”
“Let’s talk about your bank,” Nolan said casually. “The people I work for, they’re friends of William Magruder. They think you ought to sell him the bank—at his price.”
“Well, that’s a twist,” Durant said, openly surprised. “Magruder in bed with the mob. One hand washes the other, is that it?”
“Don’t worry yourself about that. What’s important here is your health, follow me? You need to put Galveston behind you.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Nolan?”
“I’m delivering a message, and it’s real simple. Take the money and run.”
“And if I don’t?”
Nolan eased his suit jacket aside. The Colt revolver, nestled in the shoulder holster, spoke for itself. “Save yourself some grief, chum. Nobody wants trouble.”
“I’ll give you a choice,” Durant said with a hard stare. “Pull that gun and I’ll take it away from you. Or you can hit the road. Which is it?”
“You ought to get your hearing checked.”
“You’re the one that’s not listening. What’ll it be?”
“I’ll see you around, tough guy. Real soon.”
Nolan rose with a tight smile and walked to the door. As he moved through the bank, Aldridge and Catherine hurried into the office. Durant gave them a funny look, shook his head. A ghost of a grin touched his mouth.
“Try this on for size,” he said. “The mob’s playing fetch and carry for Magruder. I’ve been warned to sell him the bank—or else.”
“Or else what?” Aldridge demanded. “Are you saying Nolan threatened you?”
“Yeah, I think it qualified as a threat.”
“Good Lord!” Catherine said on a sudden intake of breath. “What will you do?”
“Just what I intended to do,” Durant said. “Sell the bank to somebody on the mainland.”
Aldridge frowned. “I wouldn’t take it lightly if I were you. These are dangerous men, very dangerous indeed.” He paused, his eyes dark with fear. “They might well do you harm … great harm.”
“Ira, I guess I’ll have to take my chances. I never learned how to cut and run.”
Catherine thought he was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. Then, looking closer, she saw something in the cast of his face. Something implacable and cold
.
Her heart went out to him, and she wished he would run and keep on running. Yet she somehow knew he wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.
She wondered if Diamond Jack Nolan knew it as well.
The Turf Club was packed. Saturday was a big day for the sporting crowd, particularly on the opening day of football season. The horse tracks were still open as well, and several important races were scheduled around the country. The betting cages were lined with men waiting to get down a wager.
Nolan paused halfway across the room. He ignored the hubbub of conversation, and stood for a moment studying the tote board. He saw that the Chicago Bears were playing the New York Giants in the Windy City that afternoon. The Bears were favored by five points, and he idly wondered if anyone would bet against Red Grange. But then, on second thought, he knew it was a bookmaker’s dream. The suckers always took the long odds.
Joe Reed, the elevator operator, greeted him with a loopy grin. “How’s tricks, Jack? Sleep late, did you?”
“Don’t I wish,” Nolan said. “Out and about on a little business.”
“Well, business before pleasure, that’s our motto. Gotta keep the gelt rollin’ in.”
The car lurched upward. The interior walls were mirrored in an Art Deco design, and Nolan’s gaze was drawn to the older man’s reflected image. Reed was in his late forties, with a lung condition, and he’d been retired to elevator operator. In his heyday, he had been a rough customer, one of many strong-arm boys for the mob. Time and asthma had sapped his strength.
Nolan thought it spoke well of Quinn and Voight. Rather than give Reed the boot, they had pensioned him off as an elevator operator. There were seven men on the payroll in the same situation, men who now ran errands, or answered telephones, or worked the betting cages. Still, while he respected the benevolence of his bosses, he was determined never to end up as an elevator operator. There were better ways to die, and quicker.