by Matt Braun
“Yeah, I suppose,” Durant allowed. “What’s your point?”
“Imagine—” Baldwin thrust a finger in the air for emphasis. “Imagine that Mr. Nolan could be persuaded to betray his associates. And in particular, give evidence against William Magruder.”
“Nolan?” Durant said incredulously. “A turncoat?”
“Precisely!”
“You’re nuts.”
“Perhaps not,” Baldwin countered. “Particularly if Mr. Nolan was permitted to walk away a free man. A clean slate, let us say.”
“That’d be a nifty trick,” Durant conceded. “How do you propose to pull it off?”
“Praise the Lord, Herbert has shown us the way.”
Cornwall took his cue. “Mr. Durant, I am a longtime friend and supporter of Attorney General Robert Richardson. I spoke with him by phone this morning.”
“And?” Durant said skeptically. “What’s the good news?”
“The attorney general has agreed to offer Jack Nolan complete immunity. Not only that, he will receive a ten-thousand-dollar reward, courtesy of the state of Texas. He will, in a word, be redeemed.”
“Congratulations,” Durant said. “Sounds like a sweet deal. He might even accept.”
“Indeed so,” Cornwall said with conviction. “And we believe you are the man to offer him such a deal. As Reverend Adair so astutely observed, the only man.”
“Why me?” Durant said. “You could just as easily offer him the deal yourself. You’re the one with the pipeline to the attorney general.”
“Nolan has no reason to trust me,” Cornwall replied. “On the other hand, he knows you have a vested interest in your own health. He would believe you are sincere … trustworthy.”
“Would he?” Durant said. “You assume a lot.”
“How else will you save your bank, Mr. Durant? Isn’t it worth it to bring down William Magruder?”
Durant thought it was a fanciful scheme. Yet, even if it was one in a million, it was better than nothing at all. He hadn’t come up with any bright ideas himself, and he was tired of waiting for the mob to make another attempt on his life. The mere notion of Jack Nolan as a turncoat made for intriguing speculation. It might not only save his bank; it might save his neck.
“You’re in the wrong business,” he said, looking from one to the other. “You fellows ought to be selling used cars.”
“I knew it!” Adair crowed. “I knew you wouldn’t let us down!”
“Question is, how do I get in touch with Nolan? Any meeting would have to be held in secret.”
“Call the Turf Club,” Cornwall suggested. “That’s the mob headquarters, their hangout. Just be very careful what you say.”
Durant got the operator on the line. She rang the Turf Club and a man with a gravelly voice answered. The man asked who was calling and he said to tell Nolan it was an old friend. A moment later Nolan came on the line.
“Yeah, this is Nolan.”
“Earl Durant here.”
“Old friend, huh?” Nolan laughed. “You’ve got a sense of humor, slick. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to meet with you—in private.”
“What about?”
“Let’s just say it would be to your advantage.”
There was a long pause. Durant could almost hear him calculating, suspicious but nonetheless intrigued. “All right,” Nolan finally said. “The Rendezvous Roadhouse in La Marque. Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock.”
“I’ll be there,” Durant said. “Do us both a favor and keep it to yourself.”
“Don’t worry about it, slick.”
The line went dead. Durant looked at the three reformers and nodded. “It’s on,” he said. “Tomorrow at ten.”
“Hallelujah!” Adair exclaimed.
“Indeed so,” Baldwin intoned. “God helps those who help themselves.”
Durant considered it a long shot, even for God.
The Beach Hotel was vaguely reminiscent of Byzantine architecture. The two-hundred-room hostelry was painted mauve and an octagonal dome centered on the roof was adorned with flashy orange-and-white stripes. A fountain bubbled tall jets of water in the middle of a circular driveway.
Frank Nitti emerged from the hotel late that morning. He was accompanied by Sal “Knuckles” Drago, his personal attendant and bodyguard. Drago was built like a block of granite, and his nickname stemmed from his ability with his fists. Nitti, by contrast, was a dapper man with an air of authority. He was accustomed to being obeyed.
A valet waited with their car. “Good morning, Mr. Murphy, Mr. Reilly. You have a fine day for sight-seeing.”
“Always this bright?” Nitti asked, squinting into the sun. “You’d think we were in the tropics.”
“Blue skies and sunshine!” the valet boasted pleasantly. “Galveston Island’s own brand of paradise, Mr. Murphy.”
Nitti was amused by the alias. He was registered at the hotel as Thomas Murphy, and Drago was listed as George Reilly. He thought a couple of wops posing as Irishmen was a fine joke on everyone. None more so than Ollie Quinn and Dutch Voight.
The car was a loan from Johnny Renzullo, a gangster who controlled many of the rackets in Houston. Nitti and Drago had arrived by train last night, and after meeting with Renzullo, they had driven on to Galveston. Renzullo, a friend of the late Joey Adonis, was an associate and their chief source of intelligence. He was interested in avenging Adonis, now assumed to be at the bottom of the Gulf. He meant to share in the spoils of the Island as well.
Drago climbed behind the wheel of the car. “Where to, boss?”
“Where else?” Nitti said. “Let’s have a look at the Hollywood Club. We’ll go on from there.”
“Whatcha think, boss, wouldn’t Mr. Capone like this place? He’s big on all this sunny stuff.”
“Knuckles, that’s one reason he sent us. All that snow up north gets to him in the winter.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind havin’ a place to go myself. When it snows, I mean.”
“I’ve got a feeling Galveston’s our spot.”
Frank Nitti was the right-hand man of Al Capone. The most notorious gangster in America, Capone was ruthless and wily, the overlord of nearly all criminal enterprises in Chicago. Nitti was known as “The Enforcer,” and he savagely defended Capone’s empire from rival mobs. Almost four hundred men had been gunned down in Chicago within the last year.
Today, Nitti was on a reconnaissance mission. Capone was a man whose reach exceeded his grasp, and he was forever searching for ways to expand his empire. Galveston Island was all but fabled in the underworld, a sunny paradise where tourists were fleeced of millions of dollars a year. To Capone, it seemed a peach worth plucking.
Nitti’s assignment was to scout out the possibility of a takeover. As the car rolled past the Hollywood Club, he wasn’t particularly impressed with the look of the place from the outside. But he knew the interior was lavishly appointed, and he felt a grudging admiration for the crafty move of positioning the casino over the Gulf. He thought a club that could afford Al Jolson was a joint worth stealing.
In fact, all of Seawall Boulevard was a revelation. The amusement piers and nightspots reminded Nitti of Coney Island in New York. His intelligence sources told him that Quinn and Voight extorted a king’s ransom in protection payoffs from gaming dives and speakeasies throughout town. The rumrunning operation, which represented a monopoly on illegal booze, was even sweeter. He figured a couple million a year, easy.
“So what d’ya think, boss?” Drago asked as they neared the eastern tip of the Island. “Like what you seen so far?”
“Not bad,” Nitti admitted. “Quinn and Voight have done a good job. Built themselves a regular money tree.”
“Johnny Renzullo says they got a big organization, too. Lots of heavy artillery.”
“I’m not planning a war, Knuckles. Way I see it, what works in Chicago won’t work in Galveston. Too many dead men in the streets might turn the law against us.”
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“Yeah, right.” Drago muddled on it a moment, suddenly grinned with comprehension. “You’re gonna knock ’em off, aren’t you, boss? Just Quinn and Voight.”
“Simplest plan is the best plan,” Nitti said, as though thinking out loud. “We’ll import some shooters from Renzullo’s outfit and let them do the job. Renzullo wants payback for Adonis, anyway.”
“You know, boss, that’s a funny thing. Johnny don’t seem the kinda guy to go all hearts and flowers. Why’s he so pissed about Adonis?”
“Adonis was his brother-in-law. Married his little sister and left her with three or four kids.”
“No shit!” Drago’s jaw hung open. “How come you never told me that?”
“Just drive the car,” Nitti ordered. “I never told you because I don’t want you cryin’ in your beer for Renzullo and his sister. We might have to ice him before it’s over.”
“Why’s that?”
“Once we take over Galveston, we don’t want any partners. Renzullo will likely figure he deserves a piece of the action.”
“Oh.” Drago’s bulldog features appeared melancholy. “Too bad it’s gotta be that way. Johnny’s a stand-up guy.”
Nitti sighed. “Take a right at the corner. I want to have a look at the red-light district.”
On the way across town they saw the Garden Club and several other nightspots. Nitti was impressed by the fact that every time he turned his head he saw yet another dive dangling off the money tree. A few minutes later Drago parked the car on Postoffice Street, between Twenty-sixth and Twenty-seventh. They got out for a walking tour of the district.
A strong mix of avarice and admiration came over Nitti. Within a block he stopped counting speakeasies, and after a couple blocks he gave up counting whorehouses. He was impressed all over again by the orderly arrangement of things in Galveston, something they had never been able to accomplish in the far-flung environs of Chicago. Everything seemed engineered for the sole purpose of taking down the loot.
Quinn and Voight, of course, would have to go. Yet Nitti was hopeful it wouldn’t be necessary to kill Jack Nolan. His sources told him Nolan was a master rumrunner, tough but brainy, and an inside player with the Feds. Keeping Nolan on was the smart move, for there were always unforeseen twists and turns in any takeover. A smooth transition of power required someone familiar with the local ground rules.
Nitti could visualize it in his head, see it all coming together. Sun and surf, a place to escape the wintry winds of Chicago. A pleasant little island all but floating on money.
He thought Capone was going to like Galveston.
Chapter Seventeen
Sherm Magruder knew something was definitely wrong. Every Monday morning at ten o’clock he and his father got together for their weekly planning session. Today, just before ten, the old man had canceled the meeting.
What bothered Sherm the most was that his father was a man of habit. The meeting was part of their weekly ritual, immutable as stone, and it had never before been called off. William Magruder always devoted Monday morning to their diverse business affairs.
Even more, Sherm was troubled by the way it had happened. Ellen Morse, his father’s secretary, had called and canceled the meeting without offering an explanation. When he’d asked to speak with his father, she had told him Mr. Magruder was not taking any calls. She seemed perplexed herself by the situation.
Later, around eleven o’clock, he had called her back. She informed him that his father had rushed out of the office, with no word as to where he could be reached. Sherm started to call the house, then thought better of worrying his mother until he knew something more. Never in memory could he recall the old man leaving the office on a Monday morning.
Then, shortly before noon, he’d been summoned to the office. Ellen Morse still had no explanation, but she said his father wanted him to come right away. All the way over from the bank, he tried to fathom the events of the morning, but none of it made any sense. Ellen merely gave him a shrug and a look of concern when he hurried through the waiting room. He found his father staring out the window at the harbor.
Sherm knew it was bad. Magruder turned from the window with cloudy features and something strange in his bearing. He walked to his desk, seating himself, and motioned Sherm to a chair. His eyes were leaden.
“We have some serious problems,” he said. “One with Earl Durant and the other with your sister.”
“Libbie?”
“Yes, I just came from the house and a very unpleasant conversation with your sister. I sometimes wonder she’s a Magruder.”
Sherm suddenly knew why the morning meeting had been canceled. He was curious as to the reason. “What’s she done now?”
“I’ll get to that,” Magruder said. “Oddly enough, both of our problems involve Quinn and Voight.” He paused, slowly shook his head. “I never thought I’d hear myself mention your sister’s name in context with those two.”
“I’m a little lost here, Pop. How’s Libbie involved with Quinn and Voight?”
“For the life of me, I’m not sure I can discuss it in a rational manner. Let’s deal with Durant first.”
“All right,” Sherm replied, now thoroughly confused. “What’s he done?”
“Young Mr. Durant came to see me Saturday morning, on the pretext of selling People’s Bank & Trust. He brought Ira Aldridge with him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted the weekend to think it over. Time to decide.”
“Decide what?”
Magruder briefly recounted the meeting with Durant and Aldridge. He explained that it was all a trap, an attempt to trick him into admitting illicit dealings with the mob. With Aldridge as a witness.
“I don’t get it,” Sherm said dubiously. “Even if you admitted it, what good would it do Durant?”
“The very question I asked myself,” Magruder acknowledged. “We know Durant is involved with those damnable reformers. What does that tell you?”
“I’m not sure it tells me anything.”
“Suppose they meant to start a smear campaign? Tie me to the mob—with Aldridge the unimpeachable witness—and blacken my name. Think about it.”
Sherm considered a moment. “For one thing, public opinion would swing to Durant and we wouldn’t be able to touch him. Not to mention the damage it would do you politically.”
“Exactly my thought,” Magruder agreed. “Durant clearly believes the way to save himself and his bank is to vilify me in public. So what should we do?”
“Pop, I think you’ve already made up your mind. Why ask me?”
“I value your judgment, my boy. After all, you will one day assume the helm of Magruder & Company. What would you do in my position?”
“Call Quinn and Voight,” Sherm said without hesitation. “Have them remove Durant before it goes any further. He’s turned it into a vendetta.”
“What about the reformers?”
“I’m sure they’ll make the most of it. But when you come down to it, Durant’s the problem. He has to be stopped before he can do real harm.”
Magruder nodded. “Today seems to be our day for Quinn and Voight. I have to call them about Libbie as well.”
“I’m still in the dark,” Sherm said. “What’s all this about Libbie?”
“Your sister… .”
“Yes, go on, Pop.”
“How can I say this?” Magruder’s voice was dull with anger. “Libbie has become romantically involved with a gangster. One of Quinn and Voight’s men. His name is Jack Nolan.”
Sherm was appalled. “Are you saying she’s … you know?”
“Yes, I regret to say I am. She was seen with Nolan last Friday in Houston—at the Rice Hotel.”
“Who saw her?”
“Oscar Whitney. We both know Oscar wouldn’t lie about such a thing. He wrestled with it over the weekend and finally called me this morning. He felt friendship demanded it, one father to another.”
Sherm went from sho
ck to anger. He loved his sister, but he thought she was a spoiled brat. All her flapper nonsense, and the women’s liberation, and now she was bedding a gangster. He looked at his father.
“Do you think Oscar will keep it quiet?”
“Yes, I do,” Magruder said firmly. “Oscar does a good bit of business with us. He knows better than to gossip.”
“Let’s hope so,” Sherm said. “Jack Nolan isn’t just any gangster. He does the dirty work for Quinn and Voight.”
“I’m all too aware of his reputation. We have to put a stop to it before it becomes public knowledge. I won’t have the family name disgraced.”
“What did Libbie say? Surely she’ll stop seeing him.”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Magruder said harshly. “Your sister is headstrong and stubborn as a post. She told me to mind my own business.”
“Sounds like her,” Sherm admitted. “So what’s the solution?”
“I plan to have a talk with Quinn. In no uncertain terms, he can lay down the law to this Jack Nolan. We will not tolerate it one day longer.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Pop.”
“Why not?”
“Quinn might be insulted. By association, you’re implying he’s no better than Nolan. He has a high opinion of himself.”
“I see your point,” Magruder said with a thoughtful frown. “We’re asking him to take care of Durant, and it wouldn’t do to offend him. What do you suggest?”
“An intermediary.”
“Isn’t that somewhat risky? Who could we trust with … this?”
“Monsignor O’Donnell,” Sherm said without hesitation. “Quinn donates quite heavily to the Catholic Church. And the monsignor would understand the need for discretion.”
Magruder thought there was something to be said for an education at Yale. His son understood the nuances of diplomacy, circuitous rather than direct, exactly what the situation demanded. Still, in the scheme of things, the more immediate threat came first. He placed a call to Quinn at the Turf Club.
“Good morning, Bill,” Quinn said when he came on the line. “What can I do for you today?”
“Old business, Ollie,” Magruder replied. “That worrisome fellow we’ve ignored for too long? Find a way to resolve the matter … quickly.”