by Matt Braun
Durant saw a police car pull to the curb on Twenty-fifth Street. Two cops stepped out of the car, one of them with the chevrons of sergeant on his sleeves. For an instant, Durant thought the cavalry had arrived just in the nick of time. Then, with a sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach, he saw the sergeant flip Nolan a salute and stand back to watch the fight. He realized there would be no rescue tonight.
McGuire moved swiftly for a man of such enormous bulk. He feinted with a left jab and launched a whistling overhand right. Durant was no rookie to barroom brawls and he was fast on his feet. He slipped beneath the blow and delivered a splintering left-right combination. McGuire’s lip spurted blood and a look of surprise came over his face. Before Durant could follow through, Spadden quickly stepped in from the other side and punched him in the kidney. His legs buckled as though whacked by a sledgehammer.
A woman screamed as the men jumped him in a flurry of fists. He tried to fight back, but the blows rained down in a drumming tattoo. McGuire landed a right to the jaw, followed by a crackling left hook. Spadden struck him low in the gut, then straightened him up with a sharp uppercut. The men were professionals, versed in their work, and they beat him to the ground at the base of the monument. McGuire finished it with a thudding kick to the ribs.
Jack Nolan walked forward to inspect their handiwork. He squatted down, exhaling smoke from his cigarette, and examined the wreckage of Durant’s face. He smiled a lazy smile.
“Get smart and get out,” he said. “You don’t want there to be a next time.”
Durant was barely conscious. A rivulet of blood leaked down into his eyes and he watched through a reddish mist as they walked back to the Buick. What seemed an eternity later, the car doors slammed and they drove off. The police sergeant ambled across the street. He clucked his tongue with a tsk-tsk sound.
“How you feelin’, laddie?”
“Not so … good,” Durant wheezed.
“Well, all the same, I’m placin’ you under arrest.”
“Me … what for?”
“Disturbing the peace and disorderly conduct. Shame on you.”
The cops took him to the hospital to get stitched up. Then they took him to jail.
Chapter Seven
The municipal court was located on the ground floor of City Hall. A jailer brought Durant from the lockup shortly before nine the next morning. Walter Kline, his uncle’s attorney, was seated at the defense table.
Durant looked like he’d been run over by a train. His bottom lip was crusted with blood, there were catgut stitches lacing his eyebrow, and his left eye was a splotchy rosette of purple and black. He was unshaven and unkempt, his suit wrinkled and dark stubble covering his jawline. His one good eye burned with anger.
The jailer removed his handcuffs and walked away. Kline rose from his chair, a look of concern on his face, and shook hands with Durant. “I tried to get you released last night,” he said. “After you called, I spoke with Judge Hagan by phone. He refused to set bail.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Durant said brusquely. “This whole town’s as crooked as a barrel of snakes. They intended all along for me to spend the night in jail.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Magruder and his mob buddies.”
“I believe you’d better give me all the details.”
Until last night, when he was allowed one phone call, Durant hadn’t spoken with the lawyer since he arrived in Galveston. He proceeded to brief Kline on everything that had happened, including his meeting with William Magruder and the subsequent threat by the mob. He concluded with an account of last night’s beating and Jack Nolan’s warning to sell the bank and leave town. He gingerly touched the stitches on his brow.
“Nolan and his hooligans made their point. I feel like I tangled with a wildcat.”
“I daresay you do.” Kline hesitated, considering a moment. “You’ve incurred some powerful enemies in a short time. I’m frankly amazed Magruder’s so … involved … with racketeers.”
“I’ll think about that once I’m out of jail. How do I get these charges dismissed?”
“I seriously doubt you will.”
“How’s that?”
“Whoever is behind this—Magruder or the mob—has connections here at City Hall. Your arrest was clearly intended to underscore their message.”
“To hell with that!” Durant snapped. “I didn’t start that fight. It was a setup.”
“Let me offer some good advice,” Kline said. “Disturbing the peace is a misdemeanor. Usually a fifty-dollar fine …”
“I won’t pay it. I’m the one that took a beating.”
“Consider the alternative. If you insist on a full-blown hearing, there’s no question you’ll be convicted. Who’s to testify you weren’t the culprit? Do you have any witnesses?”
Durant’s mouth set in a tight line. “You’re saying I can’t win, right?”
“You will most surely lose,” Kline told him. “And the sentence will be thirty days on the county road gang. I strongly urge you to plead guilty.”
“What a crock! The whole Goddamn thing’s been rigged.”
“Unfortunately, that appears to be the case.”
Court convened at nine sharp, Judge Wallace Hagan presiding. Sergeant Michael O’Rielly, the beefy Irishman who had arrested Durant, was called to the stand. He told a fanciful tale of how Durant had instigated an altercation with two tourists, who subsequently fled the scene and the Island. He testified he’d witnessed the fracas from start to finish.
Durant entered a tight-lipped plea of guilty. Walter Kline then delivered an eloquent argument for leniency. He explained that his client was a visitor to Galveston, there to settle his uncle’s estate, and anxious to be on his way. Judge Hagan peered down from the bench, as though weighing the sentence for an axe murderer. He finally banged his gavel and ordered Durant to pay a fine of fifty dollars. The court clerk accepted the cash with a sly smirk.
Afterward, outside City Hall, Kline assured the younger man that he’d made a wise decision. Durant thanked him for his services, shook hands, and then caught a cab back to his hotel. In his room, he discarded his soiled clothes and took a long, steamy shower. When he shaved, he hardly recognized himself in the mirror, and he swore softly under his breath. Dressed in a fresh suit, he emerged from the hotel a few minutes after ten. He walked toward the Strand.
Everyone in the bank stared at him. Catherine gasped, unable to take her eyes off his face, and Aldridge began peppering him with questions. They followed him into his office where he told the story again, including his experience in municipal court. He appeared unnaturally calm for someone who had suffered a beating and been subjected to a night in jail. The black eye and the ragged line of stitches across his brow made it all the more unusual. Aldridge studied him with a look of weary regret.
“Earl, it’s time to quit,” he said. “These men are dangerous, and things will only go from bad to worse. It’s time for you to get out.”
Durant stared at him. “Get out?”
“I never thought I’d hear myself say this. But under the circumstances, I think you should sell the bank to Magruder. You have no choice.”
“Mr. Aldridge is right,” Catherine said in a small voice. “You can’t fight those gangsters by yourself. You’re just one man.”
“I had a lot of time to stew on things last night. There’s nothing to do but think when you’re locked in a jail cell. I’ve decided to stick around.”
“You’re angry,” Aldridge said, “and that’s perfectly understandable. But you mustn’t let anger cloud your judgment. These men could kill you.”
“Ira, it’s not debatable.” Durant’s gaze was steady. “How long will it take you to teach me the banking business?”
“Listen to this madness! Do you honestly believe Magruder will turn back when he’s gone so far? Do you, after last night?”
“I plan to have a talk with Magruder.”
“Talk?” Aldri
dge said incredulously. “Talk about what?”
“How to take your lumps and like it.”
Some twenty minutes later Durant entered the Magruder Building. The elevator operator gave him a strange look, darting glances at his battered features as they rode to the tenth floor. In the reception room, he walked past the secretary. She hurried around her desk.
“Just a moment, sir!” she cried, rushing after him. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Mr. Magruder is expecting me.”
Durant barged into the office. Magruder was seated at his ebony desk, slowly working through the morning’s correspondence. He peered across the room with a startled expression. His secretary hesitated in the doorway.
“I tried to stop him, Mr. Magruder. He just—”
“Quite all right, Ellen,” Magruder said with a dismissive wave. “Please close the door, and hold my calls.”
Durant halted before the desk. Magruder examined him with clinical detachment. “You appear to have met with an accident, Mr. Durant. How very unfortunate.”
“Magruder, I’m staying in Galveston. I’m here to tell you to call off your dogs.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t waste my time with crapola,” Durant said bluntly. “Your gangster pals did their best and it backfired on you. I officially took over the bank this morning.”
“How impressive,” Magruder said in a mocking tone. “You’re quite the determined young man, aren’t you?”
“Determined enough to take you over the hurdles. And like it or lump it, you’d better get used to it. I’m not going away.”
Magruder, despite his blasé manner, was concerned. Things weren’t working the way he’d planned, and he felt a stab of anxiety about the land owned by People’s Bank & Trust. Without it, he would never complete his new resort hotel. He lifted a hand in a conciliatory gesture.
“Let’s both reconsider,” he said in an avuncular voice. “Your life’s in Hollywood, not here on Galveston Island. So I’ll make it easy to overlook our little misunderstanding. I’ll pay the hundred thousand you originally asked.”
“Too late,” Durant said. “The bank’s not for sale.”
“Never make rash decisions, Mr. Durant. Haste inevitably leads to regret.”
“That sounds like more of your threats.”
“Nothing so crass.”
“Do yourself a favor,” Durant said with a level stare. “Live and let live, or you’re the one that’ll regret it.”
“Are you threatening me now?”
“Definitely.”
Durant walked out of the office. Magruder’s features flushed to the hairline, and he took a moment to collect himself. He’d been threatened once or twice in his life, but never before by anyone of the lower classes. Particularly a motion picture stuntman. His eyes hooded with outrage.
He put in a call to Ollie Quinn.
The meeting began at two that afternoon. George Seagrave and his son, John, arrived shortly before Quinn and Voight. Magruder, with Sherm in attendance, welcomed them to his office. The men gathered there were the movers and shakers of Galveston. Theirs was an alliance of the underworld with civic leaders, and everyone benefited equally. The businessmen never socialized with the mobsters, and that was mutually acceptable. Their single link was the future of the Island.
Politics was the glue that tightly bound their alliance. Ostensibly, the Magruders were the leaders of the Independent Party and the Seagraves were the chiefs of the City Party. In actual fact, they met behind closed doors with their underworld partners and decided the slate of candidates for every election. Quinn and Voight, apart from bribing city and county officials for their own purposes, delivered the swing vote. The sporting crowd was a major voting bloc on the Island.
Galveston was made for crooked politics. The city itself represented eighty percent of the population in Galveston County, far outweighing the towns scattered along the southern mainland. The city was governed by a five-member commission, which included the mayor, the police chief, the tax collector, the waterworks superintendent, and the head of public improvements. Like the county officials in similar posts, they were all elected by popular vote. They owed their jobs to the small coterie of men gathered in Magruder’s office.
The meeting today had been set a week ago. The men were there not to discuss politics, but rather civic development. A municipal pleasure pier was being planned by the city, for construction at Twenty-fifth Street and Seawall Boulevard. The pier was to include a dance pavilion, shops and restaurants, and an outdoor amphitheater for public events. Investors were needed for the bond issue to cover construction costs, and each of the men had committed to raising funds. George Seagrave was the first to deliver an update.
“I’m pleased to report,” he said in an expansive voice, “we have pledges for over a hundred thousand dollars. We’ll easily double that in the weeks ahead.”
Seagrave was a fleshy man, with curly gray hair and a determined jaw. John, his son, was a Princeton graduate and very much a chip off the old block. The family mansion was at Twenty-ninth and Broadway, not far from the Magruder mansion, in the heart of an enclave for the city’s aristocracy. Seagrave’s other son, Frank, was a playboy who spent his time drunkenly wandering about Europe. His name was never mentioned in polite company.
“George, my heartiest congratulations,” Magruder said. “You and John have made a splendid contribution to this project. Absolutely splendid.”
Seagrave preened. “We all have to do our share, Bill. As President Coolidge is fond of saying, the business of America is business.” He paused, a quizzical birdlike expression on his face. “May I inquire how your efforts are going?”
“Gentlemen, I couldn’t be more pleased. Sherm has spearheaded our campaign, and we expect to bring in a quarter million, perhaps more. High goals inevitably lead to high achievement.”
Magruder basked in his own admiration a moment. Then, like a rajah of financiers, he looked at Quinn. “Ollie, what have you and Dutch to report?”
“We’ve done pretty well, Bill.”
“Any specific number as yet?”
Quinn plucked a check from inside his suit jacket. “We’re happy to present a cashier’s check for two hundred and ten thousand. Courtesy of Gulf Enterprises.”
Seagrave cocked his head like he had a flea in his ear. “All of that from you and Dutch? From your company?”
“Well, not all,” Quinn said with a wry smile. “We solicited donations from our business associates. They were generous in their support.”
Quinn and Voight believed public relations was a necessary business expense for the rackets. They were cofounders of the Galveston Beach Association, sponsors of a yearly Christmas party for underprivileged children, and ready contributors to any charity’s fund-raising efforts. Their generosity bought good will throughout the community.
“Ollie, Dutch,” Magruder said with approval. “Allow me to commend you for your civic spirit.”
Seagrave concurred. “You’ve set the pace for the rest of us. Very well done, indeed.”
“Speaking of pace,” Magruder added. “We absolutely must reach our goal by the middle of November. You know how Christmas diverts people onto personal affairs.”
Construction on the Pleasure Pier was scheduled to begin in early 1927. Their objective was to have the million-dollar bond issue fully subscribed before the end of the year. They fell to discussing other avenues of raising funds, and agreed to redouble their efforts in the month ahead. The meeting broke up a few minutes before three.
Magruder asked Quinn and Voight to stay behind. He alluded in vague terms to a matter of personal business. Seagrave understood, for he occasionally did business with the mobsters himself. Just last year they had arranged a squad of goons to rout union organizers at one of his sugar mills. A round of handshakes sent the Seagraves on their way.
Magruder’s demeanor changed when the door closed. H
is eyes narrowed and his voice took on a rasping quality. “I want the matter of Earl Durant settled. You gave me your word on this, Ollie.”
Quinn nodded. “We tried persuasion and it didn’t work. Our men tell us Durant’s a tough cookie.”
“I won’t have him charging into my office and issuing threats. I want it ended.”
“Let’s be plain,” Voight interjected. “The sure way to end it is to put him on ice. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes… .”
“No mincing words,” Voight persisted. “You want him knocked off. Right?”
“I—” Magruder exchanged an uneasy look with Sherm. “I see no other way.”
Voight stood. “Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll handle it.”
“How will …?”
“You don’t want to know. Read about it in the papers.”
“Yes, of course.”
Quinn and Voight managed to suppress smiles. The situation now put Magruder even more in their debt, a chip to cash at a later time. Turk McGuire was waiting outside with the Cadillac, and drove them from the Magruder Building to the Turf Club. They called Nolan into the office.
“The ante’s been upped,” Voight said. “We got the go-ahead to dust off Durant.”
“Huh!” Nolan looked surprised. “What happened?”
“Damn fool braced Magruder this morning. Told him to back off or he’d kill him.”
“Some guys have got more balls than brains. You want to take him for a swim?”
“No,” Voight said sternly. “The bastard keeps making us look bad and we’ve got a reputation to uphold. Do it so everybody gets the picture.”
“But with caution,” Quinn amended. “Catch him alone somewhere and make it look like a robbery. We don’t need witnesses who could tie you to the job.”
“Good idea,” Voight agreed. “Wait a few days till he’s forgot about the beating. Take him when his guard’s down.”