The Overlords & the Wild Ones

by Matt Braun

  And most of all, he damned himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The dome of the state capitol glittered beneath golden sunlight. The day was bright and crisp, and cumulus clouds drifted high in an azure sky. Congress Avenue was clogged with traffic.

  Early Monday morning Stoner parked his car at the side of the capitol. He had been granted a week’s furlough, and after leaving Galveston, he’d leisurely toured the coastline with Janice. They had arrived in Austin yesterday evening and he’d dropped her off at her apartment. Their parting had been bittersweet.

  For almost five weeks, they had been inseparable. Their undercover assignment had cast them as man and wife, and they had shared not only a brief marriage, but the constant hazard of duping the mob. The experience had brought them closer together, and kindled a sense of mutual trust that few married couples ever achieved. They were, more so than most couples, a team.

  Yet something had changed within the last week. As they drove the coast, stopping at Padre Island and Corpus Christi, any further talk of marriage had been put on hold. Their last night on the road, spent at the fabled Menger Hotel in San Antonio, had led to a frank discussion about the future. Janice, no less than Stoner, wanted some time to think. Neither of them felt compelled to rush things.

  Their lovemaking that night had been tender, fervid but poignant. Whether they were in love, or simply great together in bed, seemed to them a moot point. They enjoyed one another, there was humor and laughter mixed with their passion, and they would forever be linked by the excitement and danger of what they had shared in Galveston. Hardly needing words, they knew they wouldn’t date anyone else once they returned to Austin. They just wouldn’t get married—for now.

  Stoner mounted the broad, stone steps to the capitol building. He was still assigned to Ranger Headquarters, and he’d been ordered to report to Colonel Garrison upon returning from furlough. Even though he and Captain Hardy Purvis had submitted written reports, he thought Garrison probably wanted a firsthand account. On the second floor, he tugged his uniform jacket tight and entered the reception room. The secretary, still wearing her hair in a chignon, greeted him with a pleasant smile. She ushered him into the office.

  Homer Garrison rose from behind his desk. He extended a firm handshake and motioned Stoner to a chair. “Welcome back, Sergeant,” he said. “How was your furlough?”

  “Good, thank you, sir.” Stoner seated himself, his Stetson hooked over a knee. “Spent some time on the coast not doing much of anything.”

  “Well, you certainly deserved the time off. How is Miss Overton?”

  “She’s just fine, sir. She asked me to pass along her regards.”

  “From your report, I gather she performed admirably in Galveston. Quite brave of her, working undercover.”

  “Yessir, she’s a regular little soldier. And a real good actress, too. She had them all fooled.”

  “Commendable.” Garrison slid an envelope across the desk. “There’s a check in there for a thousand dollars. Please ask her to accept it with my compliments.”

  “That’s very generous, Colonel.” Stoner slipped the envelope inside his jacket. “I know she’ll appreciate it.”

  “Not at all. She did a crackerjack job. Tell her I said so.”

  “Yessir, I will.”

  “And now to you.” Garrison tapped a file folder on his desk. “Captain Purvis gave you high marks in his report. I endorse the commendation.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Stoner said, his features sober. “Captain Purvis did a mighty fine job himself. Too bad it was all for nothing.”

  “I wouldn’t agree, Sergeant. You and Miss Overton accomplished something thought to be impossible. We finally know how that damnable casino disappears.”

  “Colonel, that turned out to be the easy part. What good’s it do if we can’t get a conviction?”

  “You’re talking about the prosecutor and the court being fixed?”

  “Yessir, I am,” Stoner said shortly. “Crooked judges just let the mob thumb their nose at the law. The almighty dollar calls the tune in Galveston.”

  “Unfortunately so,” Garrison acknowledged. “We nonetheless learned a valuable lesson. Our efforts must be directed at attacking the mob in other ways.”

  “I don’t follow you, Colonel.”

  “Suppose there was a method that couldn’t be overturned in the courts. Would that get your attention?”

  Stoner sat straighter. “Yessir, it sure would.”

  “I suspected as much.”

  Garrison went on to explain. For the past week, he had been huddled in meetings with the attorney general. Their purpose was to find a legal mechanism that would negate the mob’s influence with prosecutors and courts. After several days of reviewing the Texas statutes, a junior staff member came up with a technicality in the laws directed at illegal gaming. The simplicity of it made it virtually foolproof.

  The attorney general, under Texas law, had no prosecutorial powers. Yet the lawmakers, with an eye toward unscrupulous business practices, had given the attorney general the power of civil injunction. Once a law officer presented evidence of illegal gambling, the technicality applied as it would in any business enterprise. A court was required by law to issue a restraining order that halted gambling operations for ten days. And a judge was allowed no discretion in the matter. The restraining order must be issued.

  There were further complexities on the theme. After ten days, if the evidence warranted, a civil injunction was mandated by the law. In the event the injunction was violated, the gaming club owner was automatically sentenced to three days in jail. By law, the attorney general was permitted to attach several injunctions together, each of which added to the jail sentence. There was no jury trial involved, and the process could be repeated endlessly. A judge who tried to tamper with the civil code faced the very certain risk of impeachment.

  “Water on stone,” Garrison concluded. “Not as quick as criminal charges, but the end result is the same. The mob will ultimately be worn down and worn out.”

  Stoner nodded hesitantly. “Colonel, you’re talking a long time. Months, maybe even years.”

  “Exactly right,” Garrison agreed. “Which demands that we have the right man for the job. I believe you’re our man.”

  “Well, sir, if you’ll pardon the expression, I’d give my left nut for another crack at Quinn and Voight. I consider those two unfinished business.”

  “I expected nothing less. How would you feel about working under Captain Purvis?”

  “I’d like that just fine,” Stoner replied. “Captain Purvis and me look at things the same way. We’re both sore losers.”

  “Excellent,” Garrison said. “As of today, you are transferred to the Houston office. You will head up a new division, the Rackets Squad. How does that sound?”

  “Colonel, I couldn’t ask for anything better. Any limits on how hard I push Quinn and Voight?”

  “Your sole purpose will be to break the back of the mob in Galveston. You’ll have a free hand.”

  “I’ll leave for Houston tomorrow.”

  “One other thing.”

  “Yessir.”

  Garrison removed a leather badge holder from his desk drawer. He opened it, placing it on the desk, points of light reflecting off a gold shield. “Sergeant, I suggest you take those stripes off your sleeve. Effective today, you’re Lieutenant Stoner.”

  Stoner accepted the badge holder. He stared down at the gold shield a moment, then looked up with a wide grin. “Well, sir—” he faltered, groping for words. “You sort of took me by surprise. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything,” Garrison said with gruff good humor. “Just bring me Quinn and Voight.”

  “You can count on it, Colonel. One way or another, they’re done.”

  Later, as he was leaving the capitol, Stoner wondered how Janice would feel about moving to Houston. Then, in the next instant, his mind turned to Galveston, and the mob. Quinn
and Voight thought they’d seen the last of him, and he laughed, imagining their reaction when they got the news. Life was sweet.

  Justice, with a dab of retribution, was sweeter still.

  Voight made his usual Monday morning trip to the bank. Sherm Magruder, all the while he was exchanging bearer bonds for cash, expected some remark about Libbie and Nolan. When nothing was said, he decided to follow the advice he’d given his father. He acted as though it was business as normal.

  Barney Ward was waiting in the reception area. Like everyone else, he knew a transaction had taken place, even though he wasn’t aware of the details. His job was to act as bodyguard, ensuring that Voight and the briefcase made the appointed rounds in safety. He followed Voight out of the bank.

  Five minutes later they entered the Turf Club. There was little action on a Monday and the bookmaking parlor was practically empty. As they crossed the room, Joe Reed came out of the manager’s office with a bundle of mail. He saw Voight and hurried ahead to hold the elevator door.

  “Just in time, boss,” he said with a beaming grin. “I was on my way up with the mail.”

  “I’ll take it.” Voight stuck the bundle under his arm. “Seems like all the bills show up on Monday. Never fails.”

  “Same with me.” Reed waited for Voight and Ward to step aboard the elevator, then closed the door. “ ’Course, I let the little woman handle it. I hate payin’ bills.”

  “Good idea,” Voight said as the elevator shuddered upward. “How’s Leann doing these days?”

  Reed was always impressed by Voight’s memory for family. “She’s just fine, boss,” he said, bobbing his head. “She’ll be tickled you asked.”

  “Give her my best, Joe.”

  “I surely will, boss. Surely will.”

  The elevator bumped to a stop at the third floor. Reed opened the door, and Voight and Ward stepped off. There were several men in the athletic club, working out with weights and punching the heavy bag. At the end of the hall, Turk McGuire was posted outside the office. Voight nodded to him.

  “I don’t see Jack anywhere. Has he been around this morning?”

  “Haven’t seen him, boss,” McGuire said. “Maybe he had a late date.”

  “His love life’s his problem. Call him and tell him to trot it on over here.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Voight went through the door to the office. Quinn was seated at his desk, poring over the legalese in an entertainment contract. He looked up as Voight dumped the mail in front of him, then moved to the safe and began working the combination. Quinn set the contract aside and began sorting through the mail.

  “Helluva note,” Voight said over his shoulder. “Going on noontime and Jack hasn’t shown up.”

  “You’re right,” Quinn said. “Especially since we gave him yesterday off. Any of the boys know anything?”

  “I told Turk to call him and tell him to get a move on. We’re running a business here.”

  Voight placed the bearer bonds in the safe. He closed the door, spun the combination knob, and set the briefcase on the floor beside his desk. After taking a seat, he nipped the end off a cigar and lit up in a cloud of smoke. He glanced across at Quinn.

  “Anything important in the mail?”

  “Nothing—” Quinn hesitated, staring at a plain white envelope. He opened it, quickly read the note inside, and his jaw dropped. “Jesus Christ!”

  “What?”

  “Jack won’t be answering his telephone. Here, read it for yourself.”

  Voight took the note. He recognized Nolan’s loopy scrawl even before he began reading. The message was short and to the point.

  Dear Dutch & Ollie,

  Sorry I wasn’t able to give you more notice. Figured a letter was the best way to let you know I’ve quit. Libbie Magruder and I will be married and long gone by the time you get this. Your secrets are my secrets unless you send somebody looking for me. Let’s just live and let live, and nobody gets hurt.

  Your pal,

  Jack

  “Sonovabitch!” Voight grated, his eyes rimmed with anger. “He quit us and ran off with that little broad. Goddamn him!”

  “Postmarked Saturday,” Quinn said, holding up the envelope. “That means he had everything planned out and probably took off Saturday night after the club closed. He played us along like we’ve got strings.”

  “Nobody quits me and gets away with it. Dirty bastard knows our operation inside out.”

  “Read the note again,” Quinn said. “That part about ‘live and let live.’ ”

  “Yeah?” Voight flung the note on his desk. “So what?”

  “Jack’s telling us to leave well enough alone. He won’t turn on us, because if he did, we’d turn on him. We all know who’s at the bottom of the Gulf.”

  “You’re saying we just grin and bear it. Pretend like he didn’t crap on the guys that treated him like family. That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” Quinn said evenly. “There’s nothing to be gained in trying to square accounts. We’d just hurt ourselves.”

  Voight seemed reluctant to let it go. “What about Magruder?” he said. “He’ll be plenty pissed that our boy Jack went bye-bye with his daughter. How’s that gonna affect business?”

  “In a way, Jack did us a favor. I think this gives us some added leverage.”

  “How so?”

  Quinn smiled. “Magruder wouldn’t want it known he has a gangster for a son-in-law. I think we can make him jump through hoops—to keep his secret.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Voight conceded with a grumpy smile. “He wouldn’t want us leaking that to his society swells, would he? We’ve got his fat ass over a barrel.”

  “Dutch, I believe we’ve come out of this smelling like a rose.”

  “Yeah, maybe so, but I’m still burned. Jack was the best damn rumrunner anybody ever saw. Who the hell we gonna get to replace him?”

  “We’ll find someone,” Quinn said without concern. “After all, that’s why we built an organization. No one man is indispensable.”

  “Ollie, when you’re right, you’re right.” Voight blew a perfect smoke ring and watched it float toward the ceiling. “We practically own this Island, and five’ll get you ten we’ve seen the last of the Rangers. We’re sitting pretty, top of the world.”

  “Never rest on your laurels.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Quinn signed the entertainment contract with a flourish. He held it up like a trophy. “I’ve just booked Mae West for a two-week engagement.”

  Mae West was one of the hottest stars on Broadway. She was infamous for risqué songs and racy comedy, and only recently, she’d been arrested for appearing in a scandalous play titled Sex. Her name alone conjured visions of raw sensuality.

  “God,” Voight moaned. “What’s she gonna cost?”

  “Sixteen thousand.”

  “Are you nuts? Sixteen thousand!”

  “For two weeks,” Quinn reminded him. “It’s a steal, Dutch.”

  “I still say you’re nuts,” Voight grouched. “No broad’s worth that much.”

  “Has Mr. Showbiz ever led you wrong?”

  “Ollie, you’ll be the death of me yet. Honest to Christ.”

  Voight furiously puffed his cigar. Quinn chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair, and visualized Mae West strutting about on the stage. Her brassy voice came to him amidst thunderous applause from the crowd.

  His chuckle became deeper, and with it, the certainty that Galveston Island was the playground of America. He told himself the Hollywood Club would last forever.

  For he was, with no jest whatever intended, Mr. Showbiz.

  Alma Ludlow stood on the platform outside the Santa Fe depot. She waved to Catherine as the train chuffed smoke and slowly pulled away from the station house. Her hanky was sodden with tears.

  Catherine turned from the window as the train gathered speed. She dabbed at her eyes and smiled sadly at Durant. “Mama doesn’
t believe we’ll really get married. She thinks I’m running off to live in sin.”

  Durant laughed. “We’ll send her a photostat of the marriage license. She’ll know it’s official, then.”

  “Yes, of course, that’s a marvelous idea! She’ll have something to show her friends.”

  “I don’t get it. Why would she give us her blessing if she thought we wouldn’t be married? She acted happy enough.”

  “Oh, she’s very happy,” Catherine said with conviction. “She couldn’t imagine anything grander than living in Hollywood. So that makes it perfect for me.”

  “She never said a word,” Durant remarked in a puzzled voice. “Yesterday, she fussed over me like I was a member of the family. She asked me to call her ‘Mom.’ ”

  “She thinks it’s a fairy tale come true. Her daughter off to Hollywood with the big movie director. She’s dying for an invitation to come visit.”

  All day Sunday had been spent at the Ludlow house. Catherine was busy preparing for the trip, packing bags to take on the train and boxing odds and ends to be shipped later. Her mother was back and forth, helping her pack in between peppering Durant with endless questions about movie stars. Dinner that evening had been something of a farewell supper, a quiet but happy celebration. Alma Ludlow had cooked all her daughter’s favorite dishes.

  Durant had booked a private compartment for the trip to California. The compartment was spacious, with double bunk beds that converted into a couch, a sitting area by the window, and a lavatory with a small shower stall. Catherine had been surprised and pleased, and her mother was thrilled that she was traveling in such luxury. But now, as the train trundled north over the causeway, she stared out the window at the sunlit harbor. Her features were pensive.

  “Feeling sad?” Durant asked, noting her expression. “Sorry to be leaving your mother?”

  “No, not at all,” she said with a quick smile. “I’m sure Mama will invite herself to California for Christmas. She hinted at it last night.”