by Matt Braun
Quinn thought about it. “What do you want?”
“Ira Aldridge.”
“Sorry, never heard the name.”
“Yeah, you have,” Durant said. “Where’s your office?”
“At the back of the casino.”
“Let’s go.”
The two bruisers at the rear of the nightclub opened the door into the lounge. Quinn nodded to them without expression. “This gentleman’s with me.”
Durant followed him through the lounge. There were people sitting around drinking and talking, and a waiter bustled past with a tray of cocktails. At the heavy oak doors to the casino, Quinn took a ring of keys from his pocket. He unlocked the door and they moved inside.
There were two hundred or more people crowded around the gaming tables. As Durant nudged Quinn forward, the hammering clang of a fire-bell went off with an ear-splitting din. For an instant everything in the casino seemed arrested in motion, then the fire bell stopped. A man suddenly vaulted on top of one of the craps tables.
“Texas Rangers!” Stoner shouted, the Colt automatic in one hand and his badge in the other. “This is a raid and you’re all under arrest. Don’t anybody move!”
Durant and Nolan saw each other at the same moment. Nolan was on the far side of the room, his hand edging inside his jacket, when he spotted Durant standing behind Quinn. A look of astonishment came over his face, and as Durant slowly wagged his head, he removed his hand from his jacket. A man in a double-breasted tux rushed toward the office.
“Hold it, Voight!” the Ranger commanded. “Take another step and I’ll drill you!”
Voight abruptly stopped, then spun around, his face a mask of rage. “Eberling, you’re a dead man.”
“Sergeant Clint Stoner,” Stoner informed him. “Stand right where you are.”
“You’re still dead,” Voight growled. “Nobody makes a monkey out of me.”
“Just stay put.” Stoner swung the pistol around, the sights trained on Quinn. “Glad you could join us, Quinn. Get that door open—now!”
Quinn hesitated only an instant. The gun at his front was more threatening than the one at his back, and he hardly glanced at Durant as he opened the door. Captain Hardy Purvis and his squad of Rangers were just entering the lounge. They rushed through the door of the casino and spread out, some armed with revolvers and others with shotguns. Purvis snorted a barking laugh when he saw the gaming paraphernalia still intact. He looked at Stoner on top of the craps table.
“Well done, Sergeant,” he said in a loud, authoritative voice. “We’ll take it from here.”
“Cap’n, it’s all yours.”
Stoner swapped a glance with Janice. She was standing by a slot machine, and she smiled proudly as he hopped off the craps table. The Rangers, with Purvis directing the operation, began separating club patrons from the casino staff. The guests were herded out the door and released, while the housemen were held under guard along the far wall. Durant, who appeared to be with Quinn, allowed himself to be forced in with the staff members. He was thinking fast, searching for an angle.
Hardy Purvis shouted a command. The five Rangers with shotguns moved about the room and systematically blasted holes in the tops of the gaming tables. Purvis turned with a spiteful grin and looked at Voight and Quinn, who were standing at the front of the loosely bunched housemen. The roar of the shotguns reverberated through the casino like rolling claps of thunder.
Voight and Quinn watched the carnage with hollow stares. Durant seized on the diversion, backing away to stand by Nolan. His voice was muted by the steady barrage of gunfire. “Let’s make a trade.”
Nolan gave him a sideways glance. “Trade for what?”
“Tell me where you’re holding Aldridge. I’ll never let the Rangers know you were involved.”
“Two of my boys are guarding him. No way you’ll get him out by yourself.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Nolan quickly assessed his situation. The casino would be shut down, and along with the others, he would be arrested. The last thing he needed was a felony charge for abduction, and if he worked it right, tonight’s raid might provide an out for himself and Libbie. He thought it was worth a shot.
“Do we have a deal?” Durant goaded him. “Or do I talk to the Rangers?”
“Are you on the square? You won’t turn me in?”
“You’ve got my word. Give me Aldridge and you’re in the clear.”
Nolan told him about the cabin on Sweetwater Lake. The men around them were distracted as one table after another was blown apart, and his voice was muffled by the drumming roar of the shotguns. He quickly gave Durant directions to the lake and the turnoff to the cabin. He ended with a warning.
“Watch yourself,” he said soberly. “The boys I left out there are both shooters. They play dirty.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks, Jack.”
Durant brushed past the men in front of them. He made a snap decision to say nothing to the Rangers. The story would require too much explanation, and he couldn’t risk being slowed down. Once the shooters heard about the raid, they might very well panic and kill Aldridge. He had to move quickly and find the cabin. Tonight.
“Sergeant Stoner,” he said to the man who had taken the casino. “I shouldn’t be held here. Your Rangers made a mistake.”
Stoner looked him over. “Who are you?”
“I’m Earl Durant,” Durant said, moving forward. “I own the People’s Bank & Trust.”
“Durant?” Stoner paused, the name somehow familiar, and suddenly it came to him. “Aren’t you the banker working with the reformers?”
“How’d you know about that?”
“Doesn’t matter how I know. I saw you come in with Quinn just before the raid. Why were you with him?”
“Quinn and Voight threatened me,” Durant said honestly, motioning to the club owners. “I came here to have it out with them.”
“All by yourself?”
“I’m all I’ve got.”
Stoner glanced around at Quinn and Voight. The shotguns abruptly stopped firing, and they were now staring at Durant with murderous scowls. Stoner thought their expressions spoke to the truth of Durant’s story.
Hardy Purvis, with the look of Caesar triumphant, drifted over. “What’s going on here, Sergeant?”
“Just a mix-up, Cap’n,” Stoner said. “This man’s not part of the casino crew.”
“Then get him out of here,” Purvis said, jerking a thumb at the housemen. “I want the whole bunch handcuffed.”
Stoner nodded. “You’re free to go, Mr. Durant.”
“Thanks for your help, Sergeant.”
Durant walked to the door. As he went out, Stoner borrowed handcuffs from a couple Rangers and moved across to Quinn and Voight. He clamped the cuffs around their wrists with a little chuckle.
“I have to tell you it’s a real pleasure. Never had so much fun in my life.”
“You and me aren’t finished,” Voight said, his eyes dark with menace. “I’ll see you around one of these days.”
Stoner smiled. “Not if I see you first.”
By midnight, Voight and Quinn and their men had been transported to the county jail. All the nightclub guests, as well as the orchestra, the Ritz Brothers, and the kitchen staff, were ordered off the premises. A stout chain was snapped in place across the front doors with a padlock.
The lights went out at the Hollywood Club.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Durant held the speed to a sedate twenty miles an hour. He was on Stewart Road, west of town, looking for the turnoff to Sweetwater Lake. He knew it was somewhere off to the right, but he was wary of missing the turn. A half-moon, directly overhead, was almost as bright as the headlights.
Earlier, when he’d left the club, he realized he needed a car. The problem stumped him for a few seconds, and then the solution came in a moment of what he considered poetic justice. All the parking attendants were gathered by the front door, talking excitedly about the
Rangers’ second raid in as many nights. He walked off into the parking lot.
Nolan’s cherry-red Stutz Bearcat was three rows down. Durant had driven practically every car ever manufactured in his years as a stuntman. Even more important, he’d worked with mechanics whose knowledge of the internal combustion engine was essential to any stunt involving a car. A minute or so under the hood and he had the Sutuz hot-wired and the engine purring. He drove out of the parking lot headed west.
Durant thought Nolan would appreciate the irony. But as he passed the amusement piers, which were ablaze with lights and crowded with tourists, he experienced a moment of uncertainty. For the job ahead, the odds would have improved greatly if he had enlisted the aid of the Rangers. Still, even in hindsight, he knew it would have taken half the night to persuade them that a man held captive was more important than closing down a casino. And in the process, simply mentioning the cabin on the lake, he would have betrayed Nolan to Quinn and Voight. He felt he’d had no choice but to play a lone hand.
Nolan had told him the turnoff was five or six miles west of town. Off to the right, glistening in the moonlight, he saw the glassy surface of Sweetwater Lake. The highway made a sharp curve and then, less than a mile farther on, he spotted a dirt road angling off to the north. He turned onto the road, working the clutch and shifting down into second gear, cutting his speed to a crawl. He doused the headlights.
The moon cast a spectral glow across a land flat as a dime. Up ahead, perhaps a quarter mile past the turnoff, he saw the dirt track that Nolan had described. There was a slight shoulder on the road, and he coasted to a halt, letting the hot-wired engine die as he released the clutch. After hooking the gearshift into reverse, he stepped out of the car and gently closed the door. A faint breeze drifted down from the northeast.
The dirt track was bumpy and rutted, barely wide enough for a car. Trees bordered either side of the lane, and Durant caught a whiff of wood smoke on the breeze. He pulled the Luger from his waistband, clicked off the safety, and walked forward through dappled moonlight. A hundred yards or so ahead, he came to a clearing, where a small cabin was perched on the shore of the lake. Off to the right, he saw a one-holer privy, which meant the cabin didn’t have indoor plumbing. He paused at the edge of the treeline.
The cider glow of a lamp lighted a window at the front of the cabin. Durant heard the muted sound of voices from inside, and he waited a moment, slowly reconnoitering the open terrain for any sign of movement. He stepped from the shadow of the trees, carefully avoiding the shaft of light from the window, and circled around from the south. He eased forward, a step at a time, along the front wall.
The voices were now more distinct. He stopped beside the window, listening a moment, then gradually moved his head past the casement. There were two men seated at a table, playing cards, their faces bathed in the glow of a coal oil lamp. One was wiry and beady-eyed, and the other was thickset with a thatch of bushy black hair. A wood stove was positioned against the wall nearest the lake, and opposite the men was a door that apparently led to another room. There was no sign of Aldridge.
Durant ducked below the window. On the other side, he passed by the door and turned the corner on the north side of the cabin. A window was set into the wall, and again, gingerly, he eased his head around the casement. The spill of light from the front room revealed a crude bedroom, devoid of furniture except for two single beds. Aldridge was asleep on one of the beds, lying on his back, his features visible in the dim lampglow. The men kept an eye on him through the door.
Nolan’s warning came back to Durant. The men were shooters—mob parlance for killers—and unlikely to be taken without a fight. A moment ago, watching them play cards, he’d observed they were in shirtsleeves, their coats off, each of them carrying a revolver in a shoulder holster. The idea of busting through the door, particularly if it was locked, would alert them before he ever got inside. The alternative was to break the front window and shoot them where they sat, without warning. The notion was fleeting, quickly discarded as unworkable. He couldn’t picture himself an assassin.
Which left only the door. He went back around the corner of the cabin and moved along the wall. His one hope was that the door was unlocked and he could burst inside before they had time to react. There was a slim chance that if he got the drop on them, they would surrender without a fight. The odds were long but the situation left him short on options. His throat dry, he dropped to one knee beside the door, the Luger gripped tightly in his right hand. He reached with his left hand to test the doorknob.
“I gotta take a piss.”
“Lem, you oughta get your kidneys checked.”
“Hey, you gotta go, you gotta go.”
The men’s voices carried clearly from inside. A chair scraped against the floor and heavy footsteps crossed toward the door. Durant quickly pulled back, rising to his feet, and flattened himself against the wall. The door opened in a sudden flood of light and the thickset man with bushy hair stepped outside. He walked to the treeline, unbuttoned his pants, and pulled out his pud. A stream arced outward and splashed on the ground.
Durant ghosted across the clearing. He jammed the muzzle of the Luger into the man’s spine. “Don’t say a word.”
The man sucked in a breath. He stood stock-still, and his steamy stream abruptly went dry. Durant nudged him with the pistol. “Put it in your pants.”
Hastily, the man tucked himself away. Durant spoke into his ear. “I’ll be right behind you. Walk back in there like you’ve finished your business. One peep, one wrong move, and you’re dead. Let’s go.”
Durant marched him to the cabin. As they came through the door, Whizzer Duncan looked up from shuffling the cards. He saw something odd on his friend’s face, and then, in the silty lamplight, he saw Durant. The cards fluttered from his hands and he kicked back his chair. He clawed at his revolver.
“Move, Lem!” he shouted. “Goddammit, move!”
Brewster struggled to break free. He heaved one way, then the other, but Durant had a tight grip on his shirt collar. As he was jerked back into place, Duncan whipped the revolver from his shoulder holster and fired. The slug hit Brewster in the sternum and he grunted, then slumped forward. He dropped heavily to the floor.
Durant leveled the Luger in a fluid motion. He stitched three red dots on Duncan’s shirtfront, the shots not a handspan apart. Duncan stumbled backward in a nerveless dance, tripping over his chair, and fell to the floor. He groaned, splattered with blood, and by some inhuman effort of will raised his gun in a shaky hand. Durant shot him in the head.
The room was pungent with the acrid smell of gun smoke. Durant stood there a moment, staring at the body, then slowly lowered the Luger. He knelt down, pressing a finger to Brewster’s neck, and found no pulse. Then, still dazed by the swift brutality of death, he remembered why he was there. He walked to the bedroom door.
Aldridge was cowering behind the bed. He looked at the figure silhouetted by lamplight in the doorway and pushed to his knees. His voice was a strangled rasp: “Earl?”
“It’s over,” Durant said with quiet resignation. “They’re dead.”
“How in God’s name did you find me?”
“I’ll tell you later. It’s a long story.”
“Yes, of course … later.”
“Let’s go home, Ira.”
On Monday morning a crowd began gathering in Superior Court. The newspaper had reported the Rangers’ raid on the Hollywood Club, and there was widespread interest in the case. Many thought a conviction would mean the beginning of the end for Galveston.
Captain Hardy Purvis, with Stoner and Janice, was seated directly behind the prosecution table. Stoner was in uniform, the sleeves of his shirt adorned with sergeant’s stripes, a holstered pistol at his side. He and Janice were prepared to testify about their undercover assignment and their roundabout infiltration of the casino. Purvis believed they had an airtight case.
Quinn and Voight arrived shortly before nine o�
��clock. They were accompanied by Nolan and twenty-two housemen who had been arrested during the raid. Early yesterday morning, in a hastily convened court session, all of them had been released on bail. Quinn and Voight joined their attorney, Lester Maddox, at the defense table. The others took seats on benches at the left side of the courtroom.
County Prosecutor Sherwood Butler arrived as the benches filled with spectators. He had spent a good part of Sunday with Purvis and Stoner, reviewing the facts of the case. His manner was that of a man pressed to take on an unsavory task, and he had been less than forthcoming in his discussions with Purvis and Stoner. He nodded to them now, quickly averting his eyes, and seated himself at the prosecution table. He opened his briefcase and removed a single sheet of paper.
A door opened at the rear of the courtroom. The bailiff jumped to his feet. “This court is now in session, the Honorable Thomas Woodruff presiding. All rise!”
Judge Woodruff mounted the steps to the bench. A large man with florid features and graying hair, he wore a voluminous black robe and a benign expression. After lowering himself into a high-backed leather chair, he opened a file folder as the bailiff ordered everyone to be seated. He peered down from the bench.
“This is a preliminary hearing,” he said in a deep voice. “The accused are Oliver J. Quinn and Edward S. Voight and twenty-three of their employees, charged with operating an illegal gambling enterprise. We are here to determine whether or not the accused should be bound over for trial.”
A murmur of anticipation swept through the spectators. Judge Woodruff waited until they fell slent, then looked from the prosecution table to the defense table. “Mr. Butler, Mr. Maddox,” he said in acknowledgment. “Are you ready to proceed?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Butler said.
Maddox half rose from his seat. “The defense is prepared, Your Honor.”
“Very well,” Woodruff said. “For the record, the accused pleaded not guilty in a bail hearing yesterday morning. Mr. Butler, what say you for the state?”
Butler got to his feet. “Your Honor, I have here a copy of the state statute governing such matters.” He walked forward and placed the single sheet of paper before the judge. “Under the statute, the state feels there is insufficient evidence to warrant a felony indictment. We move that the charge be reduced to a misdemeanor.”