by Matt Braun
“Few days is better anyway,” Nolan said. “That’ll give me time to set it up and pick the right spot. Want me to use Elmer and Turk again?”
“Might as well,” Voight said. “Let ’em finish what they started.”
“I’ll get rolling on it right away.”
Nolan went out to talk with Spadden and McGuire. He thought it was dumb of Durant not to have taken the warning and skipped town. Some men never got the message until they were dead.
Too bad.
Stoner and Janice stepped out of the elevator. They moved through the lobby, and Stoner waved to Charles Anderson, the Buccaneer manager, who was talking with the desk clerk. Their canary-yellow Packard was waiting in front of the hotel.
Today was their day to play tourists. Janice wore a fetching little day dress, casual yet expensive. The patterned fabric clung to her svelte curves, modestly revealing her figure. But she also wore sensible walking shoes, an unadorned hat, and a muted blue scarf fluttering at her throat. She looked very much the wife of a wealthy Blanco County rancher.
“Oh, Bobby, honey!” she said with a wink as she crawled into the car. “What a wonderful day for sight-seeing. Where are we going first?”
Stoner hooked the car into gear. “How about Jean Lafitte?”
“The pirate?”
“Ol’ Jean flew the Jolly Roger over these very waters.”
“I love it!” she squealed. “A real live pirate?”
“Not just exactly, Olive,” Stoner said as he pulled away from the hotel. “Lafitte joined all his buddies in pirate heaven.”
“Do pirates really go to heaven?”
“I think maybe this one did.”
The hotel had provided a packet of tourist information. As they drove along Seawall Boulevard, Janice called out points of interest. The Island’s original settlers were cannibals, members of the Karankawa tribe. They ate other Indians because they believed an enemy’s courage was absorbed by devouring choice parts. The first white men on the Island were Spanish Conquistadors, led by Cabeza de Vaca. The expedition landed in 1528.
“All the Indians disappeared,” Janice said, studying the tour booklet. “I wonder if the Spaniards ate them?”
Stoner smiled. “I think the church frowned on cannibalism.”
“Well, where did they go, then?”
“Guess we’ll never know.”
Their first stop was where Fifteenth Street joined the coastline. Jean Lafitte’s headquarters, La Mansion Rouge, was still visible in ruins maintained by the historical society. A privateer, Lafitte was nonetheless an American hero, having aided General Andrew Jackson during the War of 1812 at the Battle of New Orleans. By 1817, Lafitte ruled Galveston Island, occupying it with his band of buccaneers and claiming it as his personal kingdom. He set about building a colony.
The town was called Campeachy. There were houses and taverns, a dockyard at the edge of the bay and a major arsenal. Pirates who sailed into port were forced to abide by Lafitte’s court of admiralty, which was a one-man court with no appeal. The town prospered, at its peak reaching a population of nearly two thousand, all within four years. Then, in 1821, the American and Spanish governments threatened war against Lafitte’s sanctuary for privateers. The time had come to move on.
Lafitte put the torch to Campeachy. After burning it to the ground, he boarded his flagship, the Jupiter, and sailed off into the Gulf. History failed to record his end, though it was rumored he died at sea, off the coast of Yucatán. Jean Lafitte, ever the enigma, was mysterious even in death.
“Isn’t that strange?” Janice said, staring at the ruins of the old fort. “He just sailed away and was never heard from again. What a sad ending.”
“The man was a pirate,” Stoner said. “Did you expect a happy ending?”
“Well, he wasn’t all bad! I mean, except for him, there might not even be a Galveston.”
“One thing’s for sure.”
“What?”
“Lafitte was better than the thugs that run this place today. They make him look like Little Orphan Annie.”
“Don’t remind me.”
The tour guide took them north from the beach. A year after Lafitte sailed away, Texas settlers rebuilt what would become the Port of Galveston. During the Texas Revolution, the Island briefly served as the capital, and later, in the Civil War, it was captured by Union troops only to be recaptured by the Confederates. From that time until the present, Galveston was one of the major deep-water harbors in the world. Millions of dollars in tonnage went through the port every day.
Late that afternoon Stoner and Janice stopped for coffee at a café overlooking the harbor. Along Pier 20, the small boats of the Mosquito Fleet were tying up at the docks. The crews, descendants of Portuguese and Italian fishermen, began unloading their harvest of shrimp and oysters. Towering above them at the wharves were steamships, oceangoing tankers, and freighters, many flying the flags of distant nations. Seagulls kept winged sentinel over the tiny shrimp boats.
The scene was one of bustling industry, but somehow tranquil. Stoner sipped his coffee, watching with interest as the Mosquito Fleet unloaded their catch for the day. There was a strangeness to it, for during his years with the Rangers, he’d never been assigned to the coast. Yet he found it oddly peaceful, the ships, big and small, in harmony with the flat, sunlit waters of the bay. He thought it was a world apart from the nightspots on the other side of the Island.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Janice said. “You look like you’re a thousand miles away.”
Stoner pointed to the wharves. “I was wondering what those fishermen think about the mobsters who run this town. Do they approve of the rackets, or do they just not care?”
“Aren’t you the big philosopher today? I can tell you the answer.”
“Go ahead.”
“They don’t care,” Janice said with a shrug. “They’re tickled pink to make a few bucks and spend the evening at their friendly speakeasy. Nobody cares, here or anywhere else.”
Stoner looked at her. “You sound a little jaded.”
“Listen to who’s talking,” she said in a teasing lilt. “You sound like a Boy Scout.”
“Me?”
“Yes, precious, you. I love you to pieces, but you’re treating this like a holy quest of some sort.”
Stoner glanced over his shoulder. The café was almost empty, and their waitress was off somewhere in the kitchen. He lowered his voice anyway.
“I’ve been sent here to do a job nobody else could pull off. Lots of people are depending on me, and I mean to deliver the bacon. I thought you understood all this.”
“Of course I do,” she said simply. “Why else would I risk life and limb?”
“You just seemed a little lukewarm all of a sudden.”
“Are you kidding? I’m so excited I still get goosebumps. I love this undercover stuff.”
Stoner laughed. “All you need’s a badge.”
“Now that you mention it,” she said, her eyes bright. “How do we get into that casino? When do we really start work?”
“We start tonight and we’re gonna play it foxy. I have to establish myself as a high roller.”
“What does that mean, play it foxy?”
“A loser with money to burn.”
Early that evening they drove to the Garden Club, three blocks north of Seawall Boulevard. The club was an octagonal structure with flamboyant columns, stained-glass windows, and a whimsical cupola. There was dining and dancing, and at the rear of the building, a poker room with slot machines along the walls. The buy-in at the high-stakes poker table was a thousand dollars.
Janice developed an instant love affair with the nickel slots. Stoner gave her fifty dollars from the five-thousand-dollar bankroll he’d been provided by Colonel Garrison. His instructions were to use the bankroll however he saw fit to gain entry into the Hollywood Club casino. After leaving Janice with her one-armed bandit, he took a seat in the high-stakes poker game. He made a point of c
asually dropping his name to the house dealer.
Stoner was no novice to poker. Throughout the evening he caught several hands he knew were certain winners. Yet he was there to lose, and however much it galled him, he folded his cards. Other times, holding a poor hand, he attempted a weak bluff and donated to the pot. He looked like an amateur trying to play with the big boys.
By midnight, he’d lost five hundred and quit the game. The manager of the poker room, solicitous and smooth, lamented with him on his streak of bad luck. His here-today-gone-tomorrow attitude was that of a man who believed luck really had something to do with poker.
He was marked as a pigeon.
Chapter Eight
Arthur Scarett drove across the causeway on Friday morning. The prohibition agent was looking forward to a long relaxing weekend with his family. As head of the Houston office, he had the authority to approve leave for all agents. He’d given himself time off.
Ruby Scarett was a plain dumpling of a woman. On the drive down from Houston, she had acted as referee for their two boys, who were in the backseat. The boys were nine and ten, young hellions who enjoyed nothing quite so much as pounding the whey out of each other. She was exhausted even before her holiday began.
For his part, Scarett ignored the commotion. He was content to leave discipline to his wife, who, he was convinced, had been a drill sergeant in a previous incarnation. His mind was focused instead on sandy beaches and crystalline skies, which were a harbinger of fair weather and sunshine. He planned to spend the weekend working on his tan.
Scarett hoped to avoid running into Jack Nolan. He was on the take, turning a blind eye to the rumrunning operation, but nonetheless prudent. He could have called Nolan and been comped to hotel accommodations, top restaurants, and probably tickets to the Al Jolson show. But he saw no reason to risk exposure by openly associating with gangsters. He figured the ten thousand a month payoff was ample reward.
The Beach Hotel was located at Twentieth Street and Seawall Boulevard. A rambling five-story structure, the hotel was distinguished by its baronial rotunda, marble floors, and a grand stairway sweeping upwards from the lobby. Ruby held the boys in an iron grip while Scarett checked in at the front desk. A bellman, wary of the struggle between mother and sons, escorted them to the elevator.
Their suite was on the fifth floor. Scarett felt a man of his means could afford to splurge, and he’d reserved the best the hotel had to offer. The sitting room was bright and airy, with modernistic furnishings and broad windows that afforded a spectacular view of the Gulf. There were two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, which ensured Ruby privacy if not security. She thought the boys would have the place wrecked before the weekend was out.
The bellman fled the suite as though escaping a war zone. Scarett, who could be a taskmaster when the occasion demanded, rapped out a command. “Let’s have some quiet!”
The boys, Fred and Hank, snapped to attention. Their mother was tough as nails, but their father, once he got going, was hell on wheels. They waited like good little soldiers for whatever came next.
“Here’s the score,” Scarett said. “You break anything in this suite and I’ll blister your backsides. Got it?”
“Yes, Pa,” the boys mumbled in unison.
“All right, now that we have that settled, get changed into your swimsuits. We’re going to the beach.”
The boys scampered off to their room. In the master bedroom, Scarett avoided watching his wife change. He loved her, but Ruby in a swimsuit was like stuffing ten pounds in a five-pound bag. From the rear, he thought it looked like two porkers wriggling around in a gunnysack. He was thankful Jack Nolan wouldn’t see them on the beach.
Across town, Jack Nolan walked into the Turf Club. His crew had spent the last three nights shadowing Durant, and he wasn’t pleased with the results. Upstairs, he proceeded along the hallway and found Spadden, ever the faithful watchdog, posted outside the office door. Spadden greeted him with what passed for a smile.
In the office, Voight was seated behind his desk. The phone rang as Nolan came through the door. Voight caught it on the second ring. “Yeah?”
“How ya doing?” a voice said. “This is Jim Torrence, over in Texas City.”
“I remember you, Jim. You run the Dixieland Club, right?”
“That’s me.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, Dutch, I think it’s the other way ’round. I called to warn you about a problem you’re gonna have.”
“Uh-huh,” Voight said, lighting the stub of a cigar. “What problem is that?”
“Joey Adonis,” Torrence replied. “Him and his gunsels are headed your way.”
“Adonis knows better than to set foot in Galveston.”
“Not today, he don’t.”
Joey Adonis was an Italian mobster from Texas City. He operated nightclubs, gambling dives, and a large bootlegging network. He was Torrence’s long-standing rival on the mainland.
“I’m listening,” Voight said. “Why’s he headed over here?”
“You’ve got another visitor,” Torrence said. “Art Scarett, your pal, the prohibition agent? He’s staying at the Beach Hotel.”
“So?”
“Adonis plans to bump him off.”
Voight straightened in his chair. “How’d you get wind of this?”
“I’ve got a pigeon in Joey’s outfit. Pays to keep tabs on the competition.”
“And your pigeon tells you what?”
“Adonis is one clever fucker. He’ll blast Scarett in Galveston and the Feds will think it was your work. All the blame will come down on your head.”
Voight munched his cigar. “You know this for a fact?”
“Think about it,” Torrence said. “Suppose the Feds get pissed about Scarett and put you out of business. Who d’you think will take over Galveston and the rumrunning—your whole operation?”
“Sounds like Joey Adonis.”
“Kee-recto!”
“Thanks for the tip, Jim. I owe you one and I always look after my friends.”
“Hell, just take out Adonis and we’ll call it even. I’ll have the mainland to myself.”
“I’ll let you know how it works out.”
Voight hung up. He stared at the phone a moment, then quickly related the gist of the conversation to Nolan. There was an instant of weighing and deliberation before Nolan spoke.
“You think Torrence is on the level?”
“One way to find out,” Voight said. “Call the hotel and see if Scarett is registered. Don’t let on who you are.”
Nolan placed the call and spoke with the hotel operator. When he hung up, his features were solemn. “Scarett’s registered, him and his family. You’d think he would’ve told me.”
Voight grunted. “Probably didn’t want to be seen with you. We’ve got to stop this thing in its tracks. We don’t need heat from the Feds.”
“How do you want it handled?”
“Take all the boys you need and put a round-the-clock tail on Scarett. We’ll find Adonis by keeping a watch on his target.”
“What then?” Nolan asked. “You want me to whack Adonis when I find him?”
Voight wedged the cigar into the corner of his mouth. He puffed thoughtfully, considering alternatives. “Try to take the guinea son of a bitch alive. We don’t need any shooting wars.” He paused, a cold smile behind the cigar. “I’d like a word with the cocksucker, anyway.”
“But if I can’t take him alive?”
“Why, hell, Jack, give him one with my compliments.”
“Got you, boss.” Nolan started out, then turned back. “What about our friend, Durant?”
“Yeah, Durant,” Voight said, reminded of unfinished business. “Anything new?”
“Same old story. We’ve trailed him three days now, and he never goes anywhere but the bank and his hotel. You didn’t want him hit anywhere too public.”
“Let’s put him on the back burner till you collar Adonis. Our
first job’s to make damn sure Art Scarett gets out of town in one piece.”
“I wonder why Adonis decided to put the move on us. We haven’t had any trouble in five years, maybe more.”
“Who knows how a guinea thinks? You’d have to be a mind reader. Just get him before he gets Scarett.”
“I’m on it.”
Nolan hurried out the door. Voight leaned back in his chair, took a puff on his cigar. He blew a perfect smoke ring, watched it float lazily toward the ceiling. His mouth razored in a hard smile.
He definitely wanted Adonis taken alive.
Durant left the bank early. His head hurt from all he’d tried to absorb about the world of finance. Three days under Aldridge’s tutelage only made him feel like a dullard. He thought he wasn’t cut out to be a banker.
On the street, he saw the man for the second time. Over the last three days he’d had some visceral sense that he was being watched. The only one he had spotted was the short, wiry man with red hair and a pug nose. But something told him there were others.
The feeling made the hair prickle on his neck. All the more so because Aldridge was hollow-eyed with worry for his safety. Hardly a day passed that the older man didn’t comment on the need for caution. He was troubled that Durant hadn’t seen the last of the mob.
To himself, Durant admitted he’d been foolhardy to threaten Magruder. He had let anger override reason, and Aldridge’s concern halfway had him convinced that he was in danger. Today that belief was reinforced when he again spotted the red-haired man across the street. Twice in three days seemed something more than coincidence.
Durant stepped into a drugstore. His eye was still ringed a purplish-black and the stitches on his brow had begun to itch. He bought a tube of Vaseline ointment, and while the clerk was making change, he glanced out the window. His shadow was still across the street, three stores down, pretending interest in a window display. There was no question he was being followed.
The drugstore was on a corner, with a side exit on Eighteenth Street. He wandered through the store, as if browsing, and slipped out the side door. At the corner, he peeked around the side of the building and saw the man still feigning interest in the window display. A group of pedestrians waited for a car to pass by, and he fell in beside them as they crossed the intersection. He left his shadow watching the front of the drugstore.