by Matt Braun
“Splendid,” Magruder said, visibly relieved. “I’m once again in your debt, Ollie. Thank you so much.”
“Hey, that’s what friends are for.”
Quinn watched him walk back to his table. Yesterday, after the phone call, Quinn had indeed talked to Voight. The upshot was an argument, with Voight still strongly determined to put Durant on ice. But Quinn had eventually persuaded him that Durant was worth more to them alive than dead. At the right time, they would call in the chit on Magruder—a debt that had gotten three of their men killed—and make themselves silent partners in the resort hotel. Voight, however grudgingly, finally conceded that business was business. He agreed to let Durant skate.
Later that evening, when the show began, Quinn joined Maxine at the back of the room. Fred Astaire, who was widely regarded as the greatest tap dancer of the era, always opened the show with a solo routine. Quinn watched the nimble little man skip around the dance floor, feet tapping with swift grace to the beat of the music. He smiled at the sheer delight of it all.
“Maxie, there’s something mystical about it, isn’t there?”
“Of course there is, sugar,” she purred, molding herself tight against his arm. “I get dizzy sometimes just thinking about you.”
“Yes,” Quinn said absently, watching Astaire. “That, too.”
The sky was clear and black as velvet, bursting with stars. Tiny streaks of lightning, distant on the southern horizon, flickered over the Gulf. High tide brought an indigo surf pounding against the shore.
Durant and Catherine walked along a pathway above the beach. They were beyond the amusement piers, still loud with weekend tourists and incandescent with a swirl of colored lights. A woman shrieked in the distance as a roller coaster plunged into the depths of clattering tracks.
Earlier, over dinner at Delmonte’s, Durant had been unusually quiet. Catherine was subdued as well, for she sensed there was something of farewell in the evening. The bank was sold, the land deal was closed, and he’d engineered an armistice, if not peace, with the mob. She knew he was thinking now of Hollywood.
Durant was actually thinking of her. Scarcely a month had passed since they’d met, and oddly, he found himself unable to say good-bye. His life was restored to some degree of normalcy, though he was still watchful, and for the moment, still carried the Luger. Yet he had more money than he’d ever imagined, and he could have easily booked passage on the noon train. There was nothing holding him in Galveston … except Catherine.
They stopped where a stretch of opalescent beach glittered beneath starlight. He put his arm around her waist, and they watched a moment as whitecaps rippled landward across the Gulf. She was overcome by the certainty that he was about to say something she didn’t want to hear. Something kind and gently endearing, and final. She willed herself not to cry.
“I’m going back to Hollywood,” he said, staring off at the distant waters. “Talked to Tom Mix on the phone this morning. Told him I was through with stunt work.”
“Oh?” She struggled to control her voice. “What will you do?”
“Well, I asked him to give me a shot at directing one of his pictures. I think it’s time I took the leap.”
“And will he … let you direct?”
“We shook hands on the phone. I’m all set for his next picture. We start filming in two weeks.”
“That’s wonderful!” she said, forcing herself to sound thrilled. “I just know you’ll be a great success. I’m so happy for you.”
“Yeah, it’s a big break,” Durant said thoughtfully. “Tom always said I should be a director, and he’s got the clout to choose who’s behind the camera. I’m lucky to have him in my corner.”
“Why, I’d bet anything it’s only the beginning. Douglas Fairbanks and who knows who else will want you on their pictures.”
“You’re right, it could lead anywhere. I’ve got money to invest, and in Hollywood, nothing talks louder than hard cash. A good picture with Tom Mix could open all sorts of doors.”
“Of course it will,” she said vividly. “You’ll be a mogul in no time. I just know you will.”
“I’ll settle for director.” Durant hesitated, as though searching for the right words. “The thing is, I need you in my corner, too. I want you to come with me.”
She caught her breath. “How do you mean … come with you?”
“Well, you know …”
“No, tell me.”
“I’m trying to say we’ll be married in Los Angeles. I want you to be my wife.”
Her heart hammered wildly. She suddenly seemed unable to breathe, and her voice failed her. She leaned into him, her head against his shoulder. He pressed his face to hers.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you worried about your mother?”
“No, not at all.” She wrapped herself in his arms. “Mama’s life revolves around her friends and everything here on the Island. She’ll do just fine.”
“So we’re off to Hollywood—if you’ll marry me.”
“Yes,” she whispered tenderly. “I’d love to marry you.”
Durant kissed her full on the mouth. She hugged him fiercely, and then, unable to restrain herself, she began laughing. He looked down at her with a bemused smile.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re the one who should be worried about Mama.”
“Me?”
“You know how she is about motion pictures. She’ll insist on visiting us.”
“And—?”
“She’ll want to meet every movie star in Hollywood.”
“Well, why not?” Durant said with a chuckle. “Nothing’s too good for the grandmother of my children.”
“Children?” Catherine said. “What happened to the honeymoon?”
“We’ll get an early start.”
“How early?”
Durant grinned. “On the train to California.”
Libbie came down the staircase one step at a time. A few of the stairs creaked with age and she paused, fearful of awakening her father. She was carrying a small valise, with a change of clothing, her cosmetics, and her jewelry. The lights were off throughout the house.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed four times as she tiptoed across the foyer. She unlocked the front door and stepped outside, gingerly closing the door until the latch clicked. As she started away, it occurred to her that she would never return to the house, and she placed her key on the doorstep. She hurried off into the night.
Nolan was parked around the corner, on Twenty-ninth Street. His Stutz Bearcat, stolen from the club parking lot last Saturday night, had been found by the police the following morning outside City Hall. Nothing had been damaged, though he discovered the car had been hot-wired, and he suspected he knew the name of the thief. The gas gauge was down just enough for a round-trip to the cabin on Sweetwater Lake.
Libbie opened the passenger door. She tossed her valise in the back and scooted across the seat into his arms. “Hi there, handsome,” she said, kissing him with nervous excitement. “Been waiting long?”
“You’re right on time.” Nolan felt energized himself, somewhat like the first night he’d led a rumrunning operation. “Any trouble getting out of the house?”
“You’d be surprised the things a girl learns in college. I used to sneak out of the sorority house the same way.”
“You’re sure about this? It’s not some college prank where tomorrow’s just like usual. We’re burning our bridges.”
“Of course I’m sure!” She took his face in her hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. “You’ll never, ever get rid of me. I hope you know that.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Nolan started the car. The streets were deserted, and five minutes later, they rumbled over the causeway. Libbie glanced out the window at the darkened harbor, and then turned in her seat, looking back at the galaxy of streetlights on the Island. Her family, all of her friends, the people she’d known all her life p
assed through her mind in fleeting images. She silently said good-bye to Galveston, a small lump in her throat. She knew she would never return.
“Any regrets?” Nolan asked quietly.
“No, just memories,” she said, moving closer, her hand tucked into his arm. “I’m leaving nothing behind that really matters. What about you?”
“Not even memories. Quinn and Voight weren’t exactly family. I’ve forgotten them already.”
“Yes, but will they forget you?”
“I told them I was taking Sunday off. We’ll be long gone before they know the difference.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” she said, poking him in the ribs. “Or maybe I didn’t ask it right. Will they forgive you for walking out on them?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Nolan said with a rakish smile. “I’ve got too much on them and their whole operation. They’ll let bygones be bygones.”
“You sound awfully sure of yourself.”
“Well, that’s how the rackets work. You never cause trouble for a guy who’s got the goods on you.”
Nolan disliked starting out with secrets. Still, given what Quinn and Voight would learn on Monday, the truth might frighten her even more. He reassured her with a light-hearted chuckle. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it. Nobody’s gonna be looking for me.”
“But if they were,” she said, unable to shake the thought, “you could always find another job of some sort. You could succeed at anything. Anything at all!”
“Go straight?” Nolan scoffed. “Too late for that in this lifetime. I’m a gangster.”
“Yes, I know,” she said with a little laugh. “I think that’s why I fell for you. I never could resist a rogue.”
“Yeah, that’s me all right. A rascal through and through.”
“So tell me, my darling rogue—where are you taking me?”
Nolan grinned. “I thought our first stop would be Louisiana.”
“Really?” she said, her expression puzzled. “Why Louisiana?”
“Couple reasons. One, they don’t have a waiting period for a marriage license. So we’ll find ourselves a justice of the peace and make it Mr. and Mrs.”
“Oh, jeepers, Mrs. Jack Nolan! I love the sound of it.”
“Only right that I make an honest woman of you.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she said happily. “Where will we go on our honeymoon?”
“That’s the second reason,” Nolan told her. “I thought we’d spend a week in New Orleans. Lots to see in the Old French Quarter. The natives call it the Vieux Carre.”
“Who cares what they call it? You’ll be lucky to get a peek at it, Mr. Nolan.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because Mrs. Nolan intends to keep you in bed the entire week.”
“Do you?” Nolan said with mock irony. “Guess I’m marrying the right woman, after all.”
“You certainly are,” she purred, nuzzling his shoulder. “And after I’ve worn you out in New Orleans? What are your plans for the rest of our lives?”
“How do you feel about the tropics?”
“Something like Hawaii, or Tahiti?”
“No, I was thinking more of Jamaica.”
“Oh, I adore the Caribbean. Who do you know in Jamaica?”
Nolan told her about Captain Rob McBride. He finished with a wry shake of his head. “The old pirate offered me a ship of my own. You’d be Mrs. Captain Nolan.”
“I love it!” she cried gaily. “And smugglers must make tons and tons of money. Don’t they?”
“We’d be living in the lap of luxury. I’ll get you one of those villas overlooking the sea.”
“And you really aren’t changing occupations so much, are you? You’ll still be my rogue.”
“A seafaring rogue,” Nolan amended. “I’ll fly the Jolly Roger in your honor.”
“I can’t wait!” She hugged his arm. “When do we leave?”
“A week from Monday. I booked passage on a ship out of New Orleans.”
“Oh God, Jack, we’ll have a marvelous life, won’t we?”
“Yeah, I think the world’s gonna be our lollipop.”
The lights of Galveston Island faded as they drove off the causeway. Neither of them thought to look back.
Opal Magruder came downstairs about nine Sunday morning. She was refreshed from a good night’s sleep, humming a tune she’d heard at the Hollywood Club last night. She moved along the hallway to the dining room.
Magruder was seated at the head of the table. His plate was piled high with waffles, scrambled eggs, and thick slices of ham. He looked up with a nod. “Good morning, my dear.”
“Good morning, William.”
Opal helped herself from warmer trays on a sideboard. She took her place at the opposite end of the table and unfolded her napkin. The maid came out of the kitchen, filled her cup with coffee, then returned through the swinging door. She picked at her eggs, nibbled on a piece of toast.
“Weren’t the Astaires wonderful?” she said, trying to make conversation. “So graceful, like two young swans.”
“Yes, I suppose.” Magruder pretended no great interest in the arts. “For my money, dinner was the best part of their show.”
“We really should go out more often. All you ever think about is business and more business. You should take the time to stop and smell the roses.”
“I’ll leave the roses to you, my dear.”
Jason, the chauffeur and sometimes butler, came through the door. He walked to the head of the table and placed the Sunday Galveston Daily Chronicle at Magruder’s elbow. He waited for Magruder to look up.
“Something else?”
“Yessir.” Jason placed a house key on the table. “I found this on the doorstep when I went to collect the paper.”
“Did you try it?” Magruder asked. “Does it fit our door?”
“Yessir, it does.”
Magruder studied the key with a perplexed expression. His gaze shifted to the opposite end of the table. “Where’s Libbie?” he said. “Have you seen her this morning?”
“Why, no, I haven’t,” Opal replied. “Girls do need their beauty rest. She’s probably sleeping late.”
Magruder grunted. “Go upstairs,” he said to Jason. “Tell Miss Libbie I want to see her down here.”
“Yessir.”
Jason went out the door. Magruder unfolded the newspaper and began pursuing the front page. “Now that’s progress,” he said, tapping the paper. “Wall Street can now talk by radiophone with the London stock exchange. Quite a boon for world trade.”
Opal nodded. “How nice.”
“One day we’ll have that for the cotton exchange.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Their conversation lapsed into silence. A few minutes later Jason returned with a lavender-scented envelope and placed it beside Magruder. “Miss Libbie was not in her room,” he said. “Her bed appears not to have been slept in. I found this on the dresser. Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No, that’s all.”
Magruder opened the envelope as the butler walked to the door. There was a single sheet of stationery, with Libbie’s initials printed at the top. He scanned the contents and his features flushed with rage. He angrily shook the letter.
“We’re ruined,” he said, his jowls quivering. “She’s eloped with a gangster. Do you hear me, a gangster!”
“Yes, I know,” Opal said calmly. “We had a long talk last night after you went to bed. She told me all about her young man.”
“And you didn’t say anything to me? You didn’t try to stop her?”
“Libbie is a grown woman and she knows her own mind. Why would I stop her?”
“Why?” Magruder exploded. “Because we’ll be disgraced, that’s why! Have you suddenly gone senile?”
Opal pushed back her chair. “You really are an old fud, William. I often wonder I’ve stayed with you all these years.”
“What in God’s name are you ta
lking about?”
“Our daughter’s happiness. Or have you forgotten what it was like to be in love?”
“Her happiness,” Magruder said with heavy sarcasm. “For your information, her happiness will be our scandal. What does love have to do with it?”
“Everything.”
Opal turned with great dignity and walked from the room. Magruder was taken aback, thoroughly baffled by her cool, inimical manner. After a moment, he snatched the letter off the table and hurried along the hall to his study. He placed a call to Sherm’s home.
“I have to talk with you,” he shouted into the phone. “Get over here right now!”
Some ten minutes later Sherm came through the door of the study. Magruder, who was seated at his desk, silently handed him the letter. Sherm read it once, then twice, and slowly shook his head with disbelief. He dropped the letter on the desk.
“I thought it was over,” he said dully. “I thought Monsignor O’Donnell put a stop to it.”
“Don’t fault him,” Magruder grouched. “All the blame goes to our friends Quinn and Voight. Quinn gave me his word on it.”
“When was this?”
“Last night, at the club. He said Nolan would never see Libbie again. And this morning, she’s gone!”
Sherm lowered himself into a chair. “From the sound of it, Nolan pulled the wool over their eyes. He and Libbie had this planned all along.”
“I don’t care,” Magruder raged. “Quinn gave me his word, his word! I’m going to destroy both of them—Quinn and Voight.”
“You’re forgetting something.”
“What’s that?”
“They could destroy us,” Sherm said. “Anything we use against them, they could turn it around on us. We’d go down in flames with them.”
“I—” Magruder’s features were ashen. “How did it come to this?”
“In for a penny, in for a pound. We have to think of the business before anything else. We have too much to lose.”
Magruder slumped in his chair. “My God, my daughter a gangster’s moll. I’ll be the laughingstock of Galveston.”
“What the hell, Pop,” Sherm said with grim humor. “We’ve been sleeping with the mob for years. Why not Libbie?”
Later, when Sherm was gone, Magruder sat staring at the letter. The lines blurred, and he wondered where she was, how he’d lost her. He damned Quinn and Voight and Nolan.