by Matt Braun
Women got the vote when the Nineteenth Amendment cleared Congress in 1920. Four years ago, Libbie had cast her ballot for Warren G. Harding, who disappointed her by being branded the most corrupt president in history. But she had studied Lenin and the Bolshevist movement in school, and later waded through the uneasy marriage of democracy, free enterprise, and capitalism. Whatever the form of government, corruption seemed an integral part of the system, and if America could survive a crooked president, she saw nothing wrong with a gangster for a boyfriend. She wasn’t so sure about her father.
Nolan, for his part, was crystal clear about their situation. Before the war, like his father and his father’s father, he had worked on fishing boats operating out of Texas City. He had known poverty and hardship, scrimping to pay the rent and put food on the table, and it shaded his outlook on life. During the war, his father had died aboard a boat caught in a Gulf storm, and a few months later, his mother passed away of a broken heart. His background, a workingman who won some medals in France and then turned gangster, was not the stuff of high society. He thought Libbie was fooling herself if she believed it didn’t matter.
Then, as she snuggled closer in his arms, he realized he was just as foolish. Quinn and Voight, if they ever learned he was sleeping with Magruder’s daughter, would probably take him for a swim. Their political ties to Magruder, and the continued prosperity of their criminal enterprises, would cast him as the sacrificial goat. Yet, even as he considered the possibility, he knew he wouldn’t stop seeing her. He’d survived the Krauts and the trenches of France, and working for the mob, he lived with danger every day of his life. A little more danger, in the form of the girl cuddled next to him, added spice to the game.
She darted his ear with her tongue. She laughed, her mouth moist and inviting, and he kissed her. His hand covered one of her high, jutting breasts, and the nipple swelled instantly. For several moments they caressed and fondled, until finally, aroused and aching, she drew him on top of her. A shudder racked her, and her legs spidered around him, pulling faster and faster with the rhythm of his stroke. Her nails pierced his back like talons as they joined in an explosive spasm.
Afterward, breathing heavily, time lost all meaning. She clung to his hard-muscled frame, carried far beyond her most vivid fantasies. A while later, drifting on a quenched flame, they kissed again, their bodies warm and their legs intertwined. She pressed her mouth to his ear in a throaty whisper.
“Any doubts now?”
“About what?”
“Love at first sight.”
Nolan chuckled softly. “You want the truth?”
“Nothing but.”
“I think we’re stuck with one another.”
“Oh, God, isn’t it great!”
She kissed him so hard his ears rang.
Durant sat staring at the wall. All morning, and during a solitary lunch at a nearby café, he’d mulled over his meeting with the reform committee. He still hadn’t made a decision.
The problem was twofold. First, he kept asking himself if an attempt to trap Magruder would provoke further action by the mob. And second, he stewed on how he might gull Magruder into what amounted to a confession. Hard questions with no ready answers.
Around three o’clock he came to the conclusion he was getting nowhere. He generally kept his own counsel, but today he realized the road walked by an individualist was a lonely one. If nothing else, he needed a sounding board, or maybe a devil’s advocate, to put things in perspective. He buzzed Aldridge and Catherine, and asked them to come in.
They already knew something was up. He’d hardly spoken to anyone since the meeting that morning with the reformers. Even more telling, he had put Aldridge off on pending bank affairs, and done it in a rather abrupt manner. Neither of them doubted that it somehow involved the clergymen and Herbert Cornwall. But they couldn’t have imagined what he was about to tell them.
Durant waited until they’d taken chairs before his desk. He then explained that he faced a difficult decision, and asked for their opinion. As they listened, he summarized the salient points, stressing the fact that the surrender of Louis Lera, the accused murderer, had undercut the chances of a reform movement. He went on to relate the plan that had been proposed, and how the reformers believed it would ignite their crusade. He admitted he was stumped.
“I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t,” he concluded. “Whichever way I turn it, I don’t see a smart choice.”
“Good Lord,” Aldridge said with a troubled frown. “Confronting Magruder would most certainly trigger another assault by his mobster friends. How can you even consider it?”
“Question is, would it?” Durant said. “It’s been almost a week since they jumped me. Maybe siding with the reformers bought me a pass.”
“A week?” Catherine sounded confused. “It was almost two weeks ago they beat you up. Has something happened I don’t know about?”
Durant realized he’d made a slip of the lip. He involuntarily glanced at Aldridge, who kept a straight face. His lie of omission—not telling Catherine he had shot and killed a gangster—seemed in retrospect a mistake. Yet he saw nothing for it but to carry on with the deception. He gestured in an idle motion.
“You’re right,” he said dismissively. “Too many things on my mind. It’s closer to two weeks.”
Catherine searched his eyes. “Well, anyway,” she said after a moment, “I’m not sure I agree with Mr. Aldridge. I hope you won’t be offended… .”
“No, no,” Aldridge said hurriedly. “Say whatever’s on your mind.”
“I think Earl—Mr. Durant—was right. Working with the reformers might protect him rather than harm him. Even gangsters have to be concerned with public opinion.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Aldridge conceded. “Earl and I talked it over and came to the same conclusion. The thing that bothers me most is the idea of confronting Magruder.”
“What’s the option?” Durant said, probing for a reaction. “Without a strong reform movement, we’re back to status quo. Magruder could sic his pals on me and nothing to stop him. He still wants to get his hands on this bank.”
“No question of it,” Aldridge agreed. “Nothing has changed with respect to his designs on the bank.”
“So the only solution is to bring him down. Him and his mob buddies.”
“Yes, that’s what I meant a moment ago,” Catherine said. “To protect yourself and the bank, you have to put them on the defensive. You really have no choice.”
“You know—” Durant rubbed the bridge of his nose, thoughtful. “I think you just helped me to make up my mind. It’s time to take the fight to them.”
“And then what?” Aldridge asked. “Even if Magruder admits his complicity, it’s your word against his. What would you have accomplished?”
“Ira, I raised the same point with Adair and Baldwin. They plan to expose Magruder in their sermons, take the whole thing public. They all but guaranteed me it’ll work.”
“Nonsense!” Aldridge grumped. “William Magruder owns half this town and the people in it. Whose word do you think they’ll accept?”
“I know the problem,” Durant countered. “What’s the solution?”
“You need corroboration. A witness to whatever Magruder says.”
“And where would I find a witness?”
“I volunteer,” Aldridge said dryly. “However reluctantly, I enlist in the cause.”
“I don’t know.” Durant hesitated, scratching his jaw. “Magruder might not open up with just me. Why would he talk with two of us there?”
“We’ll think of something,” Aldridge said. “Perhaps something to do with the bank that involves me. The point is, you have nothing unless you have corroboration.”
Durant looked at him. “You’d be putting yourself at risk, Ira. You ought to think about it.”
“I already have,” Aldridge told him. “More than the bank—or for that matter, you or me—we’re talking about the community, wha
t’s best for Galveston. I believe it’s time to take a stand.”
“Don’t turn noble on me. That’s no reason to go in harm’s way.”
“Noble has nothing to do with it. I’m just tired of being kicked around by Magruder and his crowd. I realized it here today.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I am.”
Durant called Magruder’s office. He spoke to a secretary, who connected him with Magruder. He kept the conversation vague, piquing Magruder’s interest with the thought that a discussion about People’s Bank & Trust might be beneficial to all concerned. He hung up with a tight smile.
“We’re on,” he said. “Tomorrow morning at nine.”
Catherine was silent, her eyes suddenly filled with concern. Aldridge steepled his fingers, nodding wisely. “So there we are,” he said. “I believe we need to talk strategy.”
They began discussing ways to snare William Magruder.
The Santa Fe depot was like an overturned beehive. On Friday the railroad put on extra trains to handle the weekend tourists bound for Galveston. A thousand people or more were looking for a taxi.
Quinn waited outside the station house. The four-thirty train, having disgorged its load, finally pulled away toward the switching yard. He checked his watch, wondering if the five o’clock train would be on time. He had to be at the club by six.
Today, a figure of sartorial splendor, he wore a dove-gray tropical worsted suit, with a striped shirt and a blue tie, and a light-gray fedora. Rags Martin, the comedian, was closing tonight, and Quinn was there to meet the Hollywood Club’s latest attraction. Sophie Tucker, direct from Broadway, would open tomorrow night.
All in all, Quinn thought things were going his way. The surrender of Lou Lera, engineered with perfect timing, had put the quietus on the reformers. The meeting that morning with the underbosses had put everyone on notice about further violence. He liked an orderliness to things, and he felt the situation on the Island had returned to normal. His mind was now free to concentrate on his newest sensation, a stage spectacular. Yet another coup for Galveston’s Mr. Showbiz!
The five o’clock train chuffed to a halt, belching steam, at five-o-one. The weekenders swarmed off the coaches like revelers late for a party. There was a mad dash for taxis and the jitney buses that trundled back and forth between hotels. The weather was balmy for late September, and the tourists had visions of sandy beaches and warm surf. The amusement piers and nightspots would be packed over the weekend.
Sophie Tucker stepped off the private compartment car. She was a small, plumpish woman with a saucy disposition and a kind of bustling vitality. She wore a floral dress with a fur stole and a hat bedecked with bright feathers. Her oval features were framed by hair red as a sunset, and something puckish lurked behind eyes as wide and dark as buttons. Quinn hurried forward to meet her.
“Miss Tucker!” he called affably. “Welcome to Galveston. I’m Oliver Quinn.”
“A pleasure,” she said with a dimpled smile. “I began to wonder if the train ride would ever end. Is this still the United States?”
“Only for a couple miles, Miss Tucker. The next stop from here is Mexico.”
“I can’t sing a note in Spanish. And enough already with that Miss Tucker stuff. All my friends call me Sophie. What do I call you?”
“Ollie,” Quinn said, doffing his fedora in a gallant gesture. “Your most ardent admirer.”
“Well, now,” she said, a pudgy fist on her hip. “I do like my men ardent, Ollie. Galveston’s looking better all the time.”
Sophie Tucker was a show-business icon. A star of burlesque, vaudeville and nightclubs, her career had spanned twenty years. On Broadway, she had captured national fame in the Ziegfeld Follies and Earl Carroll’s Vanities. At forty-two, with a zoftig figure, her brassy, flamboyant style was perfectly suited to risqué ballads. Her show was so bawdy, sometimes raw and ribald, that she’d been arrested three times in New York for indecent performances. She was billed as “The Last of the Red Hot Mamas.”
“Tell me, Ollie,” she said with amused eyes. “I’m an inquisitive broad and no apologies for it. You mind a couple questions?”
“No, not at all … Sophie.”
The depot platform was pandemonium in motion, tourists rushing off in every direction. She flung out an arm. “Who the hell are all these people?”
“Your fans,” Quinn said with sly eloquence. “Come all this way for your opening night.”
“Sold out, are you?”
“Full house, every night.”
“I knew I shoulda charged you more.”
Quinn was paying her six thousand for a week’s appearance. She was not a star on the order of Al Jolson, but he’d casually dismissed Voight’s objections about her pricey fee. A Red Hot Mama, he’d argued, would be a sellout. And she was.
“A deal’s a deal,” he said to her now. “Besides, you’ll like it so much here, you’ll never want to leave. We had to shanghai Jolson onto the train out of town.”
“You’re a card, Ollie.” She swatted him with the tip of her fur stole. “Anyway, I started to ask you something else. Where’s a gal get a drink around here? My pipes are parched.”
“We have a suite for you at the Buccaneer. Overlooks the Gulf with the best view on the Island. And the bar’s fully stocked.”
Sophie wasn’t surprised. Some of her oldest friends in New York were gangsters, and she’d heard all about Oliver Quinn and Dutch Voight. Their control of the Island, the Hollywood Club and the rumrunning operation, made them the envy of every hood east of the Mississippi. She thought she was going to enjoy her stay in Galveston.
Quinn got a porter busy collecting her luggage. He offered her his arm and led her around the depot to the parking lot. Turk McGuire was waiting with the Cadillac Phaeton, the teardrop fenders and gold body polished to a gloss. He knuckled the brim of his hat, nodding with his gravedigger’s smile, and held open the rear door. Sophie gave him a slow, appreciative once-over.
“Ummm,” she murmured, glancing sideways at Quinn. “You grow them big in Texas. Just my style.”
“Hear that, Turk?” Quinn said with a chuckle. “What do you say when a lady pays you a compliment?”
McGuire blushed like a schoolboy. “Guess I’d tell her it’s mutual.”
Sophie batted her lashes. “Your boss says I’m in a suite stocked with booze. Why don’t you come up and see me sometime?”
On the way to the hotel, though she was talking to Quinn, she kept dropping suggestive remarks directed at McGuire. Quinn realized she wasn’t merely flirting, that she was indeed a Red Hot Mama. McGuire, staring straight ahead over the steering wheel, was beet red from his neckline to his ears. He seemed relieved when they pulled into the circular drive outside the Buccaneer.
Quinn escorted her to her suite. She marveled at the view, the westerly sun splashing the waters of the Gulf with splotches of orange and vermilion. Then she checked out the bar, clucking approvingly, while a bellboy carried her bags into the bedroom. Quinn waited until she’d inspected the accommodations before mentioning he had scheduled a rehearsal with the band the next morning. She laughed.
“Honey, I could sing if you tap your foot. I’ve been known to drown out the band.”
“We’ll let you rehearse the band,” Quinn said jokingly. “I’ll have Turk pick you up in the morning.”
“Um-hmm.” She stared him boldly in the eye. “I have a free night and nobody but little ol’ me in this great big suite. How about you give Turk the night off?”
Quinn, for one of the few times in his life, was nonplussed. “Sophie, I’ll be happy to let him have the night off. Whether he drops by to see you—well … that’s up to him.”
“Tell him he’ll never know what he missed if he doesn’t. I’m a lotta woman, Ollie.”
“I’ll relay the message.”
Quinn escaped before the conversation went any further. On the short drive to the club, he gave McGuire the gist of her invitatio
n. McGuire was silent a moment, his ears as red as oxblood. He finally found his voice.
“What d’ya think, boss?” he said. “Was she jokin’ or what?”
“Turk, I think it might be the experience of your life.”
McGuire lapsed into a prolonged silence. “Well—” he said as they pulled into the club. “Okay with you if I take the night off?”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. See you in the morning.”
Quinn walked from the car to the office at the rear of the casino. He found Voight seated behind the desk, in the midst of lighting a cigar. Before he could speak, the phone rang. Voight lifted the receiver.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Voight,” a voice said at the other end of the line. “This is John Burnett, in Austin. You asked me to run a check for you on Robert Eberling.”
“Yeah, sure, the rancher. What’s the story?”
“Well, it turns out he’s on the square. Owns a big cattle spread in Blanco County and folks say he’s worth a million, maybe more. Solid citizen.”
“Anything else?”
“I called a friend at the Motor Vehicles Department and got the plate numbers on Eberling’s car. Maybe you want to check ’em out against what he’s driving.”
“No, from what you say, he’s legit. Thanks for hopping on it, John. Send me a bill.”
Voight disconnected and called the manager’s office at the Buccaneer. A moment later Charles Anderson came on the line.
“Yessir, Mr. Voight.”
“Chuck, you know that fellow you asked about, the rancher? Tell him he’s been approved for the casino. Have him ask for me when he comes in.”
“Yessir, I certainly will. I know Mr. Eberling will be pleased.”
“Always happy to take a man’s money. See you around, Chuck.”
Voight rang off. Quinn gave him a curious look and he shrugged. “Another sucker with money to burn. I had him checked out.”
“We can always use another high roller. I just came back from picking up Sophie Tucker.”
“Yeah, what’s new with ‘The Last of the Red Hot Mamas’?”