by Matt Braun
Halfway down the block he got his bearings. He decided to follow Avenue K west and cut over to his hotel. His mind was still on Catherine and he thought he would call her tomorrow. Maybe she would enjoy an outing to one of the amusement piers, or a walk along the beach. A solitary Sunday suddenly took on brighter prospects.
There was no traffic at Fifteenth Street. As he crossed to the opposite corner, he heard the muffled idle of an automobile engine. He glanced around and saw a four-door Buick sedan coasting silently toward him with the lights out. His every sense alerted as the passenger door and the right-side rear door opened, and two men stepped out with pistols. He recognized them from the beating he’d taken at the Heroes Monument.
Durant’s instincts kicked in from the war. He sought cover, dodging behind a telephone pole, and pulled the Luger from his waistband. The two gunmen fired almost simultaneously, one shot nicking the telephone pole and the other whistling past his ear. He crouched, arm extended at shoulder level, and caught the sights in the reflection from the streetlight. He ripped off three quick shots.
The first shattered the car’s windshield. The second plucked at the sleeve of the man by the passenger door. The man by the rear door grunted with surprise, a starburst of blood covering his shirtfront from the third slug. He lurched sideways, his legs collapsing, and slumped face down on the curb. The driver shouted a curse.
“Get the hell in the car!”
The other man jumped on the running board as the Buick roared away. Durant fired a departing shot, trying for the gunman and blowing out the rear window instead. He rose from behind the telephone pole, glancing at the dead hoodlum, and decided to make tracks. Houselights were coming on in the neighborhood, and he couldn’t afford to be identified. The cops, given the opportunity, would charge him with murder. He hurried north on Fifteenth Street.
Four blocks away, Nolan skidded around the corner of Nineteenth. He switched on the lights, letting off the accelerator, and the Buick slowed to a moderate speed. Beside him, Turk McGuire blew out a gusty breath, still clutching his revolver. His eyes were wild with fury.
“That cocksucker killed Elmer! Where the fuck’d he get a gun?”
“I don’t know,” Nolan said. “But he sure as Christ knows how to shoot. Look at the windshield.”
“Hell, look at the back window,” McGuire snarled. “Bastard was still shootin’ at us when we took off. Who the fuck is this guy?”
“Turk, that’s a damn good question.”
Nolan headed for the Turf Club. The car was riddled, and he wanted to get it out of sight in the garage behind the building. But as he drove, his mind returned to the shootout, and the man who took cover behind a telephone pole. The man calmly blasting away with an automatic.
He thought he wanted to know more about Earl Durant.
Chapter Ten
Late Monday morning, Dutch Voight walked into City Hall. Nolan was acting as his bodyguard, until the right replacement was found for Elmer Spadden. The funeral was set for the next day.
The morning paper had carried a story about the shooting. According to the police, who had interviewed everyone in the neighborhood, between six and ten shots were fired. But there were no witnesses, no leads, and little to investigate. There was also no mention of who Elmer Spadden worked for.
Voight was enraged. Earlier, with Nolan at his side, he had made the weekly trip to the Galveston City Bank. Sherm Magruder, who suspected the truth, acted as though he’d never heard of Spadden. Instead, ever the friendly banker, he exchanged bearer bonds for a briefcase full of cash. The transaction was conducted in terse silence.
But now, entering City Hall, Voight put on a cheerful face. Dealing with politicians was a dirty game, and the first rule was to never let them know what you were thinking. Every Monday Voight made the rounds, and there was nothing secretive about the meetings. Vice fueled the economy of Galveston, and the public, for the most part, approved. Voters already knew their political leaders were on the pad.
The first stop was the office of the mayor. Margie Clark, the mayor’s longtime secretary and occasional lover, was expecting Voight. She showed him and Nolan into the office, and gently closed the door. Edward Pryor rose from behind his desk with the smile of a man who knew how his bread got buttered. His hair was snow-white and his manner was gracious, a politician to the core. He never thought of himself as a crook.
“Good morning, Dutch,” he said, waving them to chairs. “I was most distressed to hear about Elmer. Terrible thing, just terrible.”
“Elmer was a good man.” Voight placed his briefcase on the desk and unsnapped the latches. “Send some flowers to his funeral. He’d like that.”
“I most certainly will, Dutch. Depend on it.”
There was no question of Pryor or any other politician attending the funeral services. That would have been too open an association, even for the voters of Galveston. Flowers were more discreet.
Voight removed two thousand in cash from his briefcase. The mayor was his conduit to the police force and other departments of the city government. A hundred thousand a year ensured protection for all the mob’s activities.
Pryor placed the cash in his desk drawer. “I’ll make the usual distributions,” he said. “And once again, my most sincere condolences. I know Elmer was unstintingly loyal.”
“Fact is, Eddie, he wrote the book on loyal. I’ll see you next week.”
Nolan held the door for Voight as they went out. Their next stop was the county courthouse, where they called on Sheriff Leonard Beebe. A lanky man with a salt-and-pepper mustache, Beebe had been the sheriff of Galveston County for three terms. He was their pipeline to various judges and the county prosecutor. He greeted them with a somber look.
“Helluva note,” he said. “I know Elmer was one of your top boys. Any idea who did it?”
Voight scowled. “We know exactly who did it.”
“Whatever way it happened, I’d be glad to arrange murder charges. Wouldn’t be any trouble at all.”
“Let’s just say it’s a private matter. We’ll take care of it ourselves.”
Beebe expected nothing less. The mob operated by its own code, and transgressors were dealt with in brutal fashion. Someone would disappear, and the likelihood of his office ever learning the name was practically nil. He accepted the weekly payoff with no further reference to Elmer Spadden.
On the street again, Voight and Nolan turned toward the Turf Club. All the talk that morning about Spadden left Nolan even more puzzled than before. Saturday night, after the shooting, he’d reported back to Voight and Quinn at the Hollywood Club. They were dumbfounded that Durant had armed himself with a gun.
Voight, who was closer to Spadden, was particularly enraged. Quinn, though angry, was calmer, and assured Nolan they didn’t hold him responsible. Yet, all day Sunday, he’d expected an order to snuff Durant, the faster, the better. Instead, his bosses had kept their own counsel, and kept him in the dark. He felt like it was time to ask the question.
“Tell me if I’m out of line,” he said as they walked along. “Back there, you told Beebe we’d take care of business ourselves. When are we going after Durant?”
Voight frowned. “Ollie got a call from Magruder Sunday afternoon. He’s meeting with him now.”
“What about?”
“Magruder didn’t want to talk on the phone. Just said to hold off on that ‘personal matter’ till him and Ollie could get together.”
“I’ll be damned,” Nolan said in a bemused tone. “What do you think he wants?”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
They walked on toward the Turf Club.
Monday mornings were always slow. The few merchants who traded with People’s Bank & Trust brought their weekend receipts in for deposit. But the bank was otherwise at a standstill.
On his way in that morning, Durant had spoken briefly with Aldridge. He’d waved to Catherine, greeting her with a smile, and thought she looked hurt that he hadn�
�t stopped to talk. Then he retreated to his office, and stayed there all morning, with the door closed. He was still trying to piece things together.
Sunday he’d gone out of his hotel only for a late breakfast and an early supper. He hadn’t called Catherine about a date, for fear of putting her in danger as well. The short time he was out of the hotel, he fully expected a car loaded with gunmen to run him down. He wondered why they were waiting.
Today, over breakfast, he’d read the newspaper story. He learned the man he had killed was named Elmer Spadden, and felt no surprise that his own name wasn’t mentioned. Nor was he surprised that the police hadn’t busted into his hotel room and arrested him. The mob wouldn’t lower themselves to call on the cops, even crooked cops. They would settle the score on their own.
Saturday night continued to scroll through his mind like a scary movie. He was convinced Jack Nolan was the driver of the car, for Nolan had been involved from the beginning. The other man, the one built like a mastodon, he remembered from the fight at the Heroes Monument. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the man’s name.
The odds dictated that he run. He had survived Saturday night only because he’d had the foresight to buy the Luger. That and the kill-or-be-killed lessons he had learned in the trenches of France. The next time, they might catch him off guard, or send thugs armed with tommy guns rather than pistols. And he had no doubt there would be a next time, for it was now a matter of payback. He had killed one of their men.
Despite the odds, he’d decided not to run. All day Sunday he had weighed the risk of staying on against the more prudent measure of fleeing Galveston. By nature he was not a quitter, and it went against the grain to be driven out by Magruder and a bunch of gangsters. No less telling, the war had taught him that a man with the guts to stand and fight was, more often then not, a match for the bullies of the world. He was resolved to see it through.
A knock at the door interrupted his woolgathering. Aldridge stepped into the office, his features at once quizzical and concerned. He closed the door, moving across the room, and took a chair. He tried a tentative smile.
“Everything all right?” he asked. “You’ve hardly spoken to anyone all morning.”
“Just one of those days,” Durant said dismissively. “Nothing to worry about.”
Aldridge studied his face. “Why don’t I believe you?”
“What’s not to believe?”
“You act like a man with a load too heavy to carry. Sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
Durant hesitated a moment. He trusted the older man and perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to confide in someone. He told himself Aldridge need to know anyway. Just in case… .
“You heard about the shooting Saturday night?”
“I read about it in the paper,” Aldridge said carefully. “One of the hoodlums who work for Quinn and Voight was killed. Why do you ask?”
“I killed him.”
“No!”
“Afraid so.”
Durant quickly related the events of Saturday night. He explained his decision to buy a gun, and how he’d used it to kill Elmer Spadden. He concluded with an empty laugh.
“I didn’t stick around to wait for the police. Unless I miss my guess, they’d jump at the chance to charge me with murder.”
“Wise decision,” Aldridge said. “But I can’t say the same about staying in Galveston. You should have left town yesterday.”
“Where would I go?” Durant said hollowly. “I killed one of their men and there’s nowhere to run. They’d just track me down in Los Angeles.”
“Yes, now that you mention it, you’re right. Even selling the bank to Magruder wouldn’t solve anything. Quinn and Voight are vengeful men, and you’ve made them look bad. You’re not safe anywhere.”
“Ira, I hate to say it, but it’s not just me. I’ve been sitting here thinking about it, and these bastards make their own rules. They might try to get at me through you.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Aldridge said. “What would that possibly gain them? You’re the one they want.”
Durant rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Do me a favor and watch your step, anyhow. Why take chances?”
“Yes, of course.” Aldridge held his gaze. “I wasn’t aware you were seeing Catherine. Do you think she’s in any danger?”
“I doubt they’d harm a woman. Gangsters think of themselves as tough guys, and that would spoil their image. She’s probably safe.”
“On the other hand, you very definitely are not. How will you protect yourself?”
“Guess I’ll have to grow eyes in the back of my head.”
“Do you really believe that will stop them?”
Durant shrugged, let the question hang. He already knew the answer.
Quinn was waiting in the office at the Turf Club. The moment Voight and Nolan came through the door, they knew something was wrong. His features were clouded with anger.
“I’ve got a feeling it’s bad news,” Voight said. “What happened with Magruder?”
“Our friend lost his nerve.” Quinn wagged his head with distaste. “He wants us to back off on Durant.”
“What the hell do you mean, back off? He’s the one that asked us to ice the bastard!”
“Dutch, I made that very point. I made it several times and it was a waste of breath. He wouldn’t listen.”
“Screw him!” Voight’s dark eyes shone like nuggets of coal. “We’re burying Elmer tomorrow, and Durant killed him. Are you telling me we let the sonofabitch skate?”
“No, I’m not,” Quinn said in a controlled voice. “I’m telling you Magruder’s one of the big reasons we own the rackets in Galveston. We can’t afford to offend him.”
Voight stalked to the window. He stood looking out at the street, his jaws clenched. There was a moment of oppressive silence, the air thick with tension. He finally turned around.
“How about this?” he said. “We take Durant for a swim and nobody’ll know the difference. He just disappears.”
“Easier said than done,” Quinn noted. “You’ll remember he’s got a gun and he’s willing to fight. How do we take him without another shooting?”
“I don’t know and I don’t give a rat’s ass. I just want him dead.”
“Listen to me, Dutch. Magruder’s as nervous as a whore in church. Durant knows he’s behind everything that’s happened, the shooting, the whole works. He’s scared Durant will start broadcasting it around town.”
Voight laughed bitterly. “All the more reason to clip the bastard.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Quinn said. “But Magruder thinks we have to hold off, let things settle down. Let Durant think it’s over. Let him think he’s won.”
“How about it, Jack?” Voight said, turning to Nolan. “You think Durant will think he’s won?”
“Not a chance,” Nolan replied with conviction. “We learned the hard way he’s a sharp cookie. He knows it’s not finished.”
“See!” Voight said, looking at Quinn. “Magruder’s talking through his hat. Nothing’s solved till we nail Durant.”
“And we will,” Quinn told him. “Just try to be a little patient for once. Give Magruder time to get his nerve back.”
“Goddamn amateurs,” Voight grumped. “Never yet seen one that wasn’t a pain in the ass.”
A rap sounded on the door. Turk McGuire stuck his head inside, nodding to Nolan. “Jack, there’s a broad on the phone for you. She won’t take no for an answer.”
“Always the ladies’ man,” Quinn said, relieved by the interruption. “How do you work them into your schedule, Jack?”
“Talking about schedules,” Voight said. “You’ve got a ship loaded with booze coming in tonight. Don’t let your love life interfere with business.”
“I’ll have the fleet there with time to spare. Everything’s all set.”
Nolan slipped out the door. He crossed the hall to a cubbyhole office, where the phone for Gulf Enterprises rang through. He pi
cked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Hello yourself, handsome.”
“Who’s this?”
“Libbie Magruder. You haven’t forgotten our tête-à-tête Saturday night … have you?”
“You’d be hard to forget.”
“How very gallant. I love it!”
“What can I do for you?”
“Ummm.” She laughed, a throaty growl. “I can think of several things.”
Nolan wondered if she was as wild as she sounded. “I thought we settled this Saturday night.”
“No, I asked you to call me and you didn’t. So I’ve called you. Aren’t you flattered?”
“Even if I am, it’s not a good idea.”
“Oh, I think it’s a marvelous idea. And if you were truthful, so do you … don’t you?”
“I think you’re trouble.”
“Yes, but you like to play with fire. I know you do.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough,” she purred. “Why fight kismet when it’s all in the stars? Meet me for a drink this afternoon.”
Nolan told himself he was nuts. But she was right about one thing. He liked to play with fire.
“There’s a place in La Marque where nobody’s likely to see us. The Rendezvous Roadhouse.”
“Ooo, a rendezvous … what time?”
“How’s two sound?”
“See you there, handsome.”
The line went dead. Nolan replaced the receiver on the hook, certain he’d made a mistake. But then, on second thought, he shrugged it off.
Like she said, why fight kismet?
The sun stood like a blinding fireball against an azure sky. There was little traffic on the causeway, for the weekend tourists had fled the Island like lemmings. The interurban cars to Houston were running practically empty.
Nolan drove with the window down. The sparse traffic somehow reminded him of Arthur Scarett, the prohibition agent. Scarett and his family had departed yesterday, never aware that their lives had been in danger. Joey Adonis, now feeding the fishes, would become part of the lore of what happened to those who trespassed on the Island.