The Overlords & the Wild Ones

by Matt Braun

  Stoner was focused as well on what he planned to say to Garrison. In their last talk, almost a week ago, he hadn’t yet gained entrance into the casino. Garrison had expressed displeasure with his lack of progress, and urged him to redouble his efforts. Still, after three nights at the gaming tables, he’d learned nothing about how the casino was mysteriously made to disappear. Yet he had formulated a plan—subterfuge mixed with deception—that he was confident would work. He hoped Garrison would agree.

  Stoner never used the same phone booth twice. Today, not long after ten o’clock, he turned off the highway onto the main street of La Marque. On previous trips, playing the tourist with Janice, he had scouted about and found that there were three enclosed phone booths. One was in the town’s only hotel, which he had used the first week, and another, where he had placed a call last week, was in the pharmacy. The third was in a tobacco shop and newsstand, a couple of blocks off the highway. He parked the Packard at the curb.

  Janice came in with him. The phone booth was at the back of the store, with racks of magazines and newspapers on one side, and an array of cigars and packaged cigarettes behind the front counter. He nodded pleasantly to the shop owner, exchanging three dollars for a handful of quarters, while Janice wandered over to the racks and began browsing through magazines. The phone booth had a low seat, and after he’d closed the door, he gave the operator the number in Austin. He began feeding quarters into the coin slot.

  A receptionist answered after a couple of tinny rings. “Colonel Garrison’s office.”

  Stoner kept his voice low. “Tell the Colonel it’s Clint Stoner. He’ll take my call.”

  Garrison came on the line within moments. “Well, Sergeant, I’d about given you up for lost. I trust you have good news to report.”

  “Yes and no, Colonel,” Stoner said. “I finally managed to con my way into the casino. Matter of fact, I gambled there the last three nights.”

  “I’d say you’ve made excellent progress. Why do I detect a note of reservation in your voice?”

  “Well, sir, you might say I’m only half there. I haven’t found out how they make the casino disappear. I’m just plain stumped.”

  “Nothing?” Garrison demanded. “Surely you’ve seen something that raised your suspicion.”

  “Colonel, there’s nothing suspicious,” Stoner said. “I’ve done everything but crawl under the tables, and I still don’t have the least notion of how they pull it off. I’ll blow my cover if I try anything more.”

  “Then you’ll just have to keep at it. I have confidence you’ll get to the bottom of it, Sergeant. Something will turn up.”

  “No, sir, I don’t think so. They’re a tricky bunch, and I doubt we’ll get anywhere unless we force their hand. We have to smoke ’em out in the open.”

  “How would we accomplish that?”

  Stoner outlined the details of his plan. Garrison listened without interruption, and then considered it a moment in silence. He finally chuckled with approval.

  “I like it,” he said. “Hoodwink them into revealing their most prized secret. You’re a clever tactician, Sergeant.”

  “The timing’s the thing,” Stoner said. “I’ll have to work it out with Captain Purvis, and that ought to be done in person. How do we handle that, Colonel?”

  “Purvis still doesn’t know you’re working undercover. I’ll have to call him and arrange a meeting. Could you drive to Houston today?”

  “Yes, sir, I could be there by early afternoon.”

  “Excellent.” Garrison hesitated, as though thinking something through, then went on. “I received a call from the attorney general yesterday afternoon. You’re familiar with a man named Jack Nolan?”

  “Yes, sir,” Stoner said. “He’s the enforcer for the Galveston mob. You briefed me on him before I left Austin.”

  “Now that you mention it, I believe I did. In any event, the attorney general may offer him immunity if he turns state’s evidence against Quinn and Voight. I thought you should know.”

  “Colonel, I’d be floored if it happened. Nolan’s not the sort to turn stool pigeon. Who’s behind it?”

  “A reform committee,” Garrison told him. “Apparently they’re talking to Nolan through a man named Earl Durant. I gather he’s a banker there in Galveston. Have you heard of him?”

  “No, sir, that’s a new one on me.”

  “Well, as you say, it may come to nothing. Even if it did, these things take time. No reason to let it delay our plans.”

  “I’m with you there, Colonel. So far as I’m concerned, a bird in the hand’s the way to go. We could wrap this up by Saturday night.”

  “Nothing would please me more,” Garrison said. “I’ll call Captain Purvis now and call you back. Give me your number.”

  Stoner read off the number on the pay phone. When they hung up, he opened the door of the booth and joined Janice at the magazine racks. She glanced up from a copy of Vogue and gave him a questioning look. He nodded at the phone booth with a wry smile.

  “Mom has to call me back.”

  Durant pulled off the highway. The only cars in the parking lot were a Stutz Bearcat and a shiny new Ford. He braked to a halt, hooking the gearshift into reverse, and cut the engine. He sat for a moment surveying the Rendezvous Roadhouse.

  Ira Aldridge had loaned him the car, a four-door Chevrolet. As part of the loan, Aldridge had again attempted to dissuade him from meeting with Nolan. Aldridge had argued that Nolan was a killer, untrustworthy, and might very well be setting a trap. The Rendezvous Roadhouse was a known hangout for gangsters.

  Durant wondered now if he should have taken the advice. Apart from the cars in the parking lot, the roadhouse look deserted, the perfect place for a quiet murder. Still, he was armed, the Luger stuffed in his waistband, and some visceral instinct told him that Nolan’s curiosity was a safety net of sorts. He decided there was one way to find out.

  The front hall of the roadhouse was empty. Durant heard distant voices from the rear, what was probably the kitchen. Off to the right, he saw a room filled with card tables, all vacant and no one in sight. To his left was a dim bar with tables and booths, and a small dance floor. He thought it was empty as well until he spotted a tendril of smoke drifting toward the ceiling. He saw Jack Nolan seated in one of the booths.

  Durant crossed the dance floor. Nolan watched him with the look of a fox eyeing a lone partridge. “Hey, slick,” he said with a breezy smile. “I see you found the place.”

  “Easy enough to find,” Durant said, settling into the booth. “First person I asked gave me directions.”

  “Well, I like a man that’s on time. Just so we get off on the right foot—you packin’ heat?”

  “Yeah, I’m carrying a gun.”

  “Thought so,” Nolan said. “Automatic, is it?”

  Durant nodded. “A Luger.”

  “I prefer a revolver myself. Automatics tend to jam when you need ’em most.”

  “Depends on how you treat them. I clean mine every night.”

  “Do you?” Nolan seemed amused. “I guess Elmer Spadden’s a testament to that. You stopped his ticker p.d.q.”

  “I didn’t have much choice.”

  “Elmer was always better with his dukes than a gun. Where’d you learn to shoot so good?”

  Durant shrugged. “Mostly in France.”

  “No kiddin’!” Nolan said, exhaling smoke. “You were in the war?”

  “Wasn’t everybody?”

  “What part of France?”

  “Chateau-Thierry. Belleau Wood. Other places I’ve forgot.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Nolan took a drag on his cigarette, oddly pleased. “I was a Leatherneck, Fifth Marines. How about you?”

  “Infantry,” Durant said. “Just another doughboy.”

  “No, slick, not the way you shoot. I’ll bet you came home with a chestful of medals.”

  “I’d bet the same about you.”

  “Something, isn’t it?” Nolan’s voice was
almost nostalgic, tinged with camaraderie. “Funny the way wars turn out. You a movie stuntman and me a … what can I say—a jack-of-all-trades.”

  “Anything’s better than war,” Durant said, surprised by the tone of the conversation. “How’d you make it back home in one piece?”

  “I’d have to put it down to pure luck. And you?”

  “Well, like they say, there weren’t any atheists in the trenches. God or luck, take your choice.”

  “A good eye helped, too.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Knocking off Krauts.” Nolan studied him with a crooked smile. “The way you took down Spadden—in the dark.”

  Durant returned the smile. “You’ll recall there was a streetlight. Luck was on my side, too.”

  “Not God?”

  “Who had time to pray?”

  Nolan grinned. “Too bad we’re on opposite sides of the fence. I might’ve liked you.”

  “Not too late,” Durant said, spreading his hands. “You might like me more than you thought.”

  “Time to get down to business, huh? You said on the phone something could work to my advantage. What was that all about?”

  “How’d you like to walk away from Galveston with a fresh start? Wipe the slate clean?”

  “That’d be some wipe,” Nolan said with an ironic smile. “Go ahead, I’m all ears.”

  Durant leaned forward. “I’ve got a direct line to the attorney general of Texas. I can arrange immunity for any crime you’ve ever done.” He paused for emphasis. “And ten thousand in cash to seal the bargain.”

  “Judas only got thirty pieces of silver. Who do I have to betray?”

  “Tie William Magruder to Quinn and Voight. That gets the mob off my back and it saves my bank. And you’re off scot-free.”

  Nolan held his gaze. “I suppose you’d expect me to testify in court?”

  “It won’t come to that,” Durant said earnestly. “Magruder will be ruined in politics and your bosses won’t be able to help him. A sworn affidavit with all the details should turn the trick.”

  “Which you and your reformer buddies would publish in the newspaper. Do I hear this right?”

  “That’s the general idea.”

  Nolan laughed. “I always said you had brass balls. You really thought I’d rat out Quinn and Voight?”

  “They’re not important,” Durant said. “I’m after Magruder.”

  “They’re important to me, slick. Forget loyalty and talk about staying alive. I couldn’t run far enough fast enough. You’d be reading my obituary.”

  “Something tells me that wouldn’t happen. Who’d have the guts to go up against Diamond Jack Nolan?”

  “Save the sales pitch,” Nolan said firmly. “Tell the attorney general I decline the offer. No deal.”

  “Why not sleep on it?” Durant said. “A deal like this comes along once in a lifetime. You might feel different tomorrow.”

  “Yessir, I do admire a man with balls. Too bad we didn’t meet someplace besides Galveston.”

  “That’s your final word on it?”

  “Yeah, that’s final.”

  “Sorry to hear it, Jack.”

  “Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

  They parted with a handshake in the parking lot. Durant drove off in his Chevy wondering where the deal had gone sour. Nolan followed a short distance behind in his Stutz Bearcat, stewing on just how much he’d tell Quinn and Voight. He hadn’t been kidding when he said he admired a man with balls. He hoped he wouldn’t have to kill Durant.

  Nolan reached for his cigarettes. He discovered the pack had only one left just as he approached the intersection for La Marque. He turned onto Main Street, remembering there was a tobacco shop a couple blocks down. His attention was drawn to a snazzy canary-yellow Packard that looked vaguely familiar. He pulled into the curb.

  A bell jingled over the door as he entered the tobacco shop. Off to the side, at the magazine racks, a man and a woman were standing with their backs to him. The phone in the phone booth blasted a strident ring, and the man hurried toward the rear of the store. As he turned into the phone booth, his features were visible for the first time, his profile caught in a moment of hard intensity. He closed the door.

  Nolan recognized him immediately. For the last three nights he’d watched Robert Eberling at the tables in the casino. He recalled Voight mentioning that Eberling was a well-to-do rancher and a high roller, and by his play at the tables, a born loser. The woman still had her face buried in a magazine, but Nolan recognized her as well. She was Eberling’s wife.

  “Morning,” the shop owner said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Lucky Strikes,” Nolan said, turning away from the woman. “Make it a couple packs.”

  After paying for the cigarettes, Nolan stepped outside and climbed into his car. He pulled away with one eye on the road and the other on the tobacco shop. Some snatch of conversation he’d overheard reminded him that Eberling had a suite at the Buccaneer. He asked himself why a high roller would be waiting for calls at a phone booth. A phone booth in La Marque.

  He thought Dutch Voight would definitely be interested. Something about it didn’t rhyme.

  “Thirty-one thousand apiece.”

  “Another good week.”

  “Yeah, not bad,” Voight said, removing the bearer bonds from his briefcase. “Sophie Tucker damn sure doesn’t draw as good as Jolson.”

  Quinn chortled. “Nobody draws as good as Jolson.”

  They were in the office at the Turf Club. Yesterday, under pressure to deal with Frank Nitti, Voight had completely forgotten about the bonds. Their split was thirty-one thousand each from money skimmed off last week’s operations. He placed the bonds in the massive safe which occupied one corner of the office.

  “That’s that,” he said, closing the safe door. “Wonder what’s keeping Jack?”

  Quinn checked his watch. “You’re right, going on eleven-thirty. I expected him back by now.”

  “Tell you one thing, Ollie. Nothing good will come of him meeting with Durant. We should’ve stopped it.”

  “We had our hands full with your old pal Nitti. Besides, I don’t see any harm in their getting together. We’ll find out what clever new scheme Durant has up his sleeve.”

  “To hell with his scheme!” Voight grunted, “High time the bastard was dead and gone.”

  “We’ll get to it, Dutch. Let’s wait to hear what Jack has to say.”

  The phone rang. Quinn answered and a quick smile came over his features. “Good morning, Father Rourke. Always a pleasure to hear your voice.” He listened, nodding, his expression suddenly quizzical. “Yes, of course, Father. I’ll be right over.”

  “That’s odd,” he said when he hung up. “Monsignor O’Donnell wants to see me and it sounded a little urgent. Wonder what’s up?”

  “Probably another contribution,” Voight said. “You’re the softest touch in town.”

  “All in a good cause, Dutch. You know how I feel about public relations.”

  Quinn and Voight donated to every church on the Island. Their purpose was to garner the goodwill of the people, and thus undermine the periodic outcries by reformist clergymen. But the population of Galveston was predominately Catholic, and their largest contributions were to the Catholic church. Quinn, who was Catholic himself, also considered it an investment in the Hereafter. He hoped to be forgiven, if not redeemed, of his sins.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” he said, moving toward the door. “Keep Jack around till I hear what he has to say.”

  Voight pulled a frown. “Just remember half of these donations come out of my pocket. Don’t let the monsignor soft-soap you.”

  “Think of your immortal soul, Dutch. You might still have a chance at the Pearly Gates.”

  “That’ll be the day!”

  Quinn found Turk McGuire waiting in the hall. Downstairs, the Cadillac Phaeton was parked at the curb in front of the club. McGuire held the door while Quinn climbed in
to the backseat, then got behind the wheel and started the engine. He swung the car around in a U-turn and headed south.

  Quinn’s thoughts jumped from the monsignor to things that needed doing at the Hollywood Club. Voight’s remark about Sophie Tucker popped into his mind, and from there it was but a short hop to the ox behind the wheel. Everyone at the club knew McGuire was spending his nights in Sophie Tucker’s hotel suite. Only Quinn dared mention it.

  “Tell me, Turk,” he said with a straight face. “How are things with you and Miss Tucker? Keeping her happy, are you?”

  McGuire glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Well, tell you the truth, it’s the other way round. She’s a lotta woman, boss.”

  “I suppose that accounts for the dark circles under your eyes. Not getting much sleep these nights?”

  “Not a whole lot.”

  “Business before pleasure,” Quinn said, forcing himself not to smile. “Don’t overdo things in the romance department. We need her fresh for the show.”

  McGuire flushed with embarrassment. He managed a dopey grin. “Nothing to worry about there, boss. She’s a regular firecracker.”

  “Turk, I’d say you’re a lucky dog. Keep up the good work.”

  “I’ll do my best, boss.”

  A few minutes later, they turned into the seashell driveway beside St. Mary’s Cathedral. Tall towers framed the front of the basilica, with a central tower from which a statue of the Virgin Mary gazed out over the Island. The compound, which included the monsignor’s quarters, was located on Twenty-first Street near Broadway. A few blocks to the west was the Ursuline Convent for nuns.

  Father Rourke met Quinn at the door of the rectory. He escorted him down a long hallway to the monsignor’s study. The room was appointed with furniture of dark teak and polished leather, the waxed hardwood floor glistening from a spill of sunlight through broad windows. A marble statue of the Blessed Virgin stood beneath a large, ornate crucifix.

  Monsignor O’Donnell rose from behind his desk. He was a bear of a man, with a square, determined jaw, a broad forehead, and dark, bushy brows sprinkled with gray. His robes were plain, though finely tailored, and a silver crucifix hung suspended over the expanse of his chest. He gave the impression of rocklike strength, and authority.