by Matt Braun
Stoner hadn’t planned to move so fast. He’d thought to establish their credentials as wealthy vacationers, and then gain entrance into the Hollywood Club casino. But any plan was governed by circumstances, and he was nothing if not flexible. He seized on opportunity.
“You heard the little lady,” he said to the clerk. “Arrange us a couple tickets for tonight.”
“I—” the clerk stammered, caught off guard. “I’ll talk with our manager, Mr. Anderson. He handles all requests with the Hollywood Club.”
“Yeah, you do that. Tell him I expect some good news pdq. Now, we’d like to see our suite.”
“Yessir, Mr. Eberling.”
The bellman appeared with their luggage on a cart. He led them to the elevator and escorted them to a suite on the fourth floor. The sitting room was appointed with plush furniture and tall doors leading to a balcony that offered a panoramic view of the Gulf. The bedroom was bright and airy, with broad casement windows looking out over the water. Stoner tipped the bellman twenty dollars.
“Thank you, Mr. Eberling!” the bellman said with a horsey grin. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. Anything at all!”
“How about you bring a bottle of bourbon and some ice? The missus and I like a nip now and then.”
“Yessir, we keep bonded stock for our guests. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
“Thank you kindly.”
The bellman went out. Janice inspected the bedroom clapping her hands with delight, then hurried back into the sitting room. She stepped onto the balcony.
“Oh! Oh!” she cried. “Would you look at that. Isn’t it marvelous?”
Stoner joined her on the balcony. The noonday sun was at its zenith, the clouds drifting westward on a warm breeze. Light reflected off the water in sparkling colors, rolling whitecaps cresting swells to the horizon. He put his arm around her waist.
“Not bad, huh?”
“Not bad!” she exclaimed. “I think I’m going to like being rich. Can we stay forever?”
“We’ll see how things play out.”
Stoner inspected the shoreline. The weekend tourists were gone, and the beach was practically empty. Along the seawall, extending five miles east and west, were amusement piers, dance pavilions, restaurants, and bathhouses with indoor salt-water pools. The beachfront was advertised as the “Boardwalk of Treasure Island,” and even in the daytime it was impressive. The five-mile strip was known locally as the Gold Coast.
Two blocks east of the hotel Stoner spotted the Hollywood Club. From his briefing in Austin, the pier with a T-head over the water was distinctive, and easily recognizable. He pointed it out to Janice.
“There’s our target,” he said. “Home base for Quinn and Voight and all their goons.”
Janice shuddered. “I wish we really were here on vacation. Just the thought of them spoils the fun.”
“We’ll have some fun, and you won’t have to act, either. People come from all over to see the sights here.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I am Olive Eberling, housewife and tourist. I won’t forget.”
The phone rang. Stoner moved into the sitting room and caught it on the third ring. “Bob Eberling here.”
“Mr. Eberling, this is Charles Anderson, manager of the Buccaneer. I trust your suite is satisfactory?”
“I think we’ll be real comfortable, Mr. Anderson. Have you got those Al Jolson tickets for me?”
“No, sir, I’m afraid not,” Anderson said apologetically. “The Jolson show has been sold out for months. I’m really very sorry.”
“How long is Jolson appearing here?”
“Only this week. I understand his engagement has been extended through Saturday night.”
“Your man at the front desk the same as said you’ve got pull with this Hollywood Club. Is that so or not?”
“Well, yes and no,” Anderson said in a defensive tone. “I usually have a direct line to the club. But to be perfectly honest, I couldn’t get my own mother a ticket. Not at this late date.”
“I’m disappointed in you,” Stoner said in a gruff voice. “We’re here for three weeks and I expected better treatment. The little woman’s gonna be mighty upset.”
“Please extend my most sincere apologies to Mrs. Eberling. I’ll make it up in some way during your stay with us.”
“In Blanco County, a man’s word is his bond. I’ll hold you to it, pardner.”
“Feel free to call on me at any time, Mr. Eberling.”
Stoner hung up and turned to Janice. “Looks like we won’t be seeing Al Jolson. The show’s sold out.”
“Oh, rats!” she said petulantly. “I was counting on it!”
“Well, in a way, it worked out to our advantage. The hotel manager owes me one.”
“Owes you one what?”
Stoner grinned. “He’s gonna get us into that casino.”
The Hollywood Club was all but deserted. Apart from a cleaning crew, working to restore the damages from a weekend of revelry, there was hardly anyone on the premises. Monday mornings were devoted to preparing for the week ahead.
Dutch Voight was seated in his office at the rear of the casino. Earlier, he’d emptied a safe secreted behind a painting on the wall. The desk was piled high with stacks of cash, the proceeds from the casino and the nightclub for the previous week. He methodically counted the bills.
Cuddles, the parrot, watched sleepily from his perch on the stand. He was Quinn’s special bird, grudgingly tolerated by others, and no one knew it better than Cuddles himself. In the way of wild things held captive, he sensed who liked him and who didn’t, and when it was best to keep his silence. He never talked when he was alone in the office with Voight.
Today, Voight wasn’t in a talking mood anyway. His full concentration was on the task at hand, and he would have brooked no distractions. All of the business at the club, both the casino and the nightclub, was transacted in cash. After counting the week’s take, he began skimming fifty percent off the top. Later, an accountant who subscribed to larceny, would dummy a set of books for the government. Voight’s own entries were made in a ledger kept in the safe.
The books were cooked to avoid what Voight considered an onerous injustice. In 1913, with passage of the Sixteenth Amendment, Congress had legislated personal income taxes. During the World War, Congress had also enacted an excess profits tax on corporations, which had yet to be repealed. Gulf Enterprises was owned wholly by Voight and Quinn, and the double hit on taxes would have cost them dearly. They were of the opinion that the federal government was run by stick-up artists.
A few minutes after twelve, Voight finished his labors. He made a final entry in his personal ledger and returned it to the safe. From the stacks of cash on the desk, he placed thirty thousand in the safe and thirty thousand in his briefcase. He rarely carried a gun, but Mondays were the exception; he stuck a Colt .38 snub-nose in the waistband of his trousers. He closed and locked the safe, moving the painting back into position, and collected his briefcase. Cuddles, still silent, watched as he went out the door.
Elmer Spadden was waiting in the casino. He wasn’t privy to what went on in the office every Monday morning; but he nonetheless knew that the briefcase was stuffed with cash. His sole purpose was to bodyguard the man who paid him liberally and treated him with the respect due someone willing to step into the path of flying bullets. Not that anyone had tried to bump off his boss, or Ollie Quinn, in almost five years. The last time it happened, he and Turk McGuire had killed three gunsels in a shootout in the bookmaking parlor at the Turf Club. The mainland gangs afterward stayed clear of Galveston island.
Outside the club, Spadden took the wheel of Voight’s three-year-old Studebaker. Voight was a man of simple tastes, and he never envied Quinn his flashy Cadillac and ostentatious life-style. In many ways, Voight was a prude, and despite the ready availability of women in their business, he’d never considered taking a mistress. He admired his partner’s taste in women, but always from a
far. He thought one Don Juan in the organization was enough.
Business affairs were another matter entirely. Though he often grumbled about the cost, he deferred to Quinn when it came to contracting acts for the nightclub. To himself, if to no one else, he admitted that Quinn had the flair, and a certain genius, for show business. The nightclub was the engine that generated customers for the casino, and the weekend had convinced him Jolson was the greatest draw ever. He sulked about the price—calling $2,000 extortion—but he accepted Quinn’s judgment. Jolson would be held over for another Saturday night.
Quinn was waiting for him at the Turf Club. Their Monday morning routine was by now standard practice, and never varied. Voight tallied the take from the Hollywood Club, and Quinn tabulated the haul from their other activities. The revenue from rumrunning, the bookmaking operation, and payoffs from speakeasies, gaming dives and whorehouses was always substantial. For tax purposes, all of the revenue was accounted as income from the Turf Club. Then fifty percent was skimmed off the top.
“We had a good week,” Quinn said, indicating stacks of cash on the desk. “There’s twenty-six thousand from the Turf Club. I took off another twelve from the restaurants and the amusement pier.”
Voight opened his briefcase. “Some weeks are better than others. I’ve got thirty here.”
“Goes to show you,” Quinn said with a wry smile. “Didn’t I tell you Jolson was worth every nickel?”
“I still say he’s in the wrong business. The bastard’s a born heist man.”
“You’re just burned he won’t drop any at the tables. Count your blessings, my friend.”
Voight placed the cash from the desk in his briefcase. “I’m running late. I have to get to the bank.”
“Give my best to Sherm,” Quinn said. “Tell him we’ll have his problem solved tonight.”
“Ollie, I’d lay eight to five that’s the first thing he asks me.”
In the hallway, Voight found Jack Nolan talking with McGuire and Spadden. He nodded to them, his expression impassive. “You boys set for tonight?”
Nolan grinned. “Got it all worked out. Nothing to worry about, boss.”
“I never worry.” Voight looked at Spadden. “Let’s walk over to the bank.”
Ten minutes later they entered the Galveston City Bank. Spadden waited in the reception area while a secretary buzzed Voight into Sherm Magruder’s office. The bank was pivotal to William Magruder’s myriad financial affairs, and he had appointed his son to the position of president. Sherm offered Voight a chair.
“Good afternoon, Dutch,” he said pleasantly. “You’re regular as clockwork. It must be Monday.”
“Before you ask,” Voight said, “we haven’t forgotten about that Durant fellow. He’ll get his tonight.”
“I’ll pass that along to my father. We’re most appreciative of your assistance in this matter.”
“Glad to lend a hand.”
Voight unsnapped the clasps on his briefcase. He neatly arranged the stacks of cash on the desk. “The count’s right. Sixty-eight thousand.”
“You’ve enjoyed an excellent week. Would you like the usual?”
“Stick with a winner, that’s my motto.”
Sherm personally made out certificates for bearer bonds. The bonds were virtually untraceable, and redeemable at any bank. For those in the rackets, it was a foolproof method of hiding money from government tax agents. The certificates were split evenly between Edward S. Voight and Oliver J. Quinn.
There was a certain quid pro quo to the arrangement. Quinn and Voight worked closely with the Magruders and the Seagraves in controlling the political apparatus of Galveston County. Of equal import, the gambling and vice operation attracted tourists, which benefited all the city’s businesses and fueled a stable economy. During 1921, when the entire country suffered an economic depression, Galveston enjoyed boom times and full employment. The mob was considered a valuable asset by the old guard of the Island.
The Magruders could have survived and thrived without the mob. The demand for cotton in Europe was such that their Galveston Cotton Exchange represented a veritable money tree. In turn, millions of dollars flowed through the Galveston City Bank from financial institutions in England, France, Germany, and other European countries. But gambling and vice were the lubricants that greased the wheels of the Island’s economy, as well as the city and county governments. The Magruders were strong advocates of free enterprise, legal or otherwise.
“Service is our byword,” Sherm said amiably. “And thanks again for arranging that personal matter. We won’t forget a favor.”
“Consider it our treat, Sherm. What are friends for?”
Voight emerged from the bank with Spadden at his side. He wondered yet again why the Magruders were so intent on buying People’s Bank & Trust. Then, just as quickly, he decided it didn’t matter.
Any banker he’d ever met was a pirate at heart.
The evening was balmy. A full moon played hide-and-seek high above silvery clouds drifting on a faint breeze. The town was awash in scampering moonglow.
Durant walked along the Strand. Shops and stores were closed for the night, and the street was all but deserted. His hands were in his pockets, his expression thoughtful as he moved along at a measured stride. He occasionally glanced at the displays in store windows, but his mind was elsewhere. He felt himself at a dead end.
All day he’d been on the phone calling bankers. His list had now dwindled to the point that he had exhausted every prospective buyer between Galveston and Houston. The response, as it had been last week, was polite but firm, no interest whatever. William Magruder, even when his name wasn’t mentioned, nonetheless pervaded every conversation. He was a specter from hell, all but demonized, in the world of banking.
The next step was to start trying bankers in Houston, perhaps Austin or Dallas. Ira Aldridge gave scant encouragement on that score, noting that Magruder’s stranglehold on Galveston was notorious throughout all of Texas. Durant recalled Magruder saying he wouldn’t find a buyer between Galveston and Chicago, and after today, he began to think it might be true. He was, for all practical purposes, stymied.
Earlier, he’d had dinner at a café on Mechanic Street. The meat loaf and vegetables, at any other time, would have rated kudos and compliments. But he had picked at his food, his appetite gone, lost in troubled thought. For a moment, he’d even considered going hat in hand to Magruder and striking the best deal possible. Then, angered by the prospect of his own humiliation, he had brushed the idea aside. He wouldn’t grovel before any man.
The thing that frustrated him most was being trapped in Galveston. His original plan had been a night or two on the Island, where he would settle his uncle’s estate and quickly be on his way. He had a spot waiting in Tom Mix’s next moving picture, and he’d planned to return to Hollywood long before now. He wouldn’t be surprised but what Mix had hired another stuntman, for Western films were shot on a tight schedule and stuntmen were plentiful. He seriously doubted a phone call to Mix would change things. Not until he was definite on leaving Galveston.
After a forgettable dinner, he decided to go for a walk. He’d been closeted in the office all day, and he thought the exercise might clear his head. He needed a new strategy, some new plan to unload the bank and put him on the road back to Los Angeles. So far no solution had presented itself, and he was surprised to find himself at the end of the Strand, across from the Santa Fe depot. He turned south on Twenty-fifth Street, thinking he would walk over to Broadway and take the long way back to his hotel. The moon was out and he had nowhere else to go, so why not? He had all night.
The intersection of Twenty-fifth and Broadway was the most historic spot in Galveston. As he approached the corner, he saw the Heroes Monument, a towering marble structure with the bronze statue of Lady Victory at the top. He recalled, from a visit before the war, that his uncle had pointed it out, explaining that it had been erected to commemorate the victory over Mexico, and the indepe
ndence of Texas. He paused at the base of the monument and read the weathered plaque affixed to the marble pillar. He could almost hear the pride in his uncle’s voice those many years ago.
Early in 1836, Santa Anna’s army overran the Alamo and swept unchecked across Texas. David Burnet, president of the Republic, retreated with his staff to Galveston and set up a temporary capitol. Two days later, on April 21, General Sam Houston and his volunteer army turned and attacked the Mexican forces on the San Jacinto River. The attack became a rout, lasting only eighteen minutes, with the Mexican troops in full retreat and Santa Anna captured. The battle took place some forty miles north of Galveston, and the Heroes Monument was built to honor the volunteers who brought independence to Texas. The Lady of Victory stood looking at the distant San Jacinto battlegrounds.
Tourists were drawn to the monument. Several couples, out for a stroll under a full moon, paused to stare up at the bronze Lady. The intersection was also a major artery to the Island’s residential district, and heavily traveled day or night. Automobiles, as well as passersby on foot, went by in a steady stream. Durant was still thinking of his uncle as he moved through the group of sightseers gathered at the base of the memorial. He paused on the sidewalk to let another couple join the small crowd.
A car swerved to a stop at the curb. Durant turned onto Broadway as the doors slammed and he saw Jack Nolan standing beside a Buick sedan. He would later learn that the two men with Nolan were Turk McGuire and Elmer Spadden. But for now, what his mind registered was two strong-arm thugs, built for rough work. The men started toward him as Nolan lit a cigarette and leaned against the front fender of the Buick. His first instinct was to run, but he knew he’d never get away. They could easily chase him down with the car.
“Hey, tough guy,” Nolan called out with a jocular smile. “You should’ve taken my advice.”
McGuire and Spadden spread out. Durant immediately recognized the oldest trick in street fighting. They intended to flank him from either side, and force him to fight two fights at the same time. He backed away, aware that his only chance was to stay on the move and somehow keep them separated. McGuire gave him an evil grin, motioning to Spadden, and they crowded him toward the monument. Some of the men in the crowd of sightseers sensed what was happening, and pulled their women aside. The others quickly caught on, scattering into the street.