Johnny’s desk was a massive cherrywood affair piled with ledgers and paperwork. He had got himself a snifter, too, but it sat on the desk while its owner leaned forward with elbows resting on a blotter and fingertips tented.
“I am so pleased and privileged to meet you, Wyatt,” Johnny said, “that I am willing to overlook why you came.”
Wyatt shrugged. Sipped. Said, “Why did I come?”
“Because my mother asked you to. Because my mother thinks I’ve gotten myself into…as she so quaintly puts it…‘dangerous straits.’ ”
“Most dangerous straight I know of,” Bat said lightly, “is trying to fill one, inside.”
Wyatt cocked his head and said, “Did your mother tell you she’d talked to me?”
“No.” Johnny’s childlike smile flickered with deviltry, so like his papa’s. “You just did.”
Bat chuckled. “Kid’s a card player, Wyatt. Told you as much.”
Wyatt gestured behind him. “What’s in the adjacent room?”
Johnny’s eyes narrowed, the question seeming to him a non sequitur. “Nothing. It’s a music room. Or it was till I had the piano moved to the bandstand, downstairs. Fireplace, not much space. I’m not utilizing it, presently.”
Wyatt nodded. “This is a three-story building?”
“Yes.” Mildly confused, Johnny sat forward. “Why, do you want a tour?”
“Right now? Just in words. So it’s three floors, four counting the basement.”
“Yes. The kitchen’s on this floor, in back. Floor above I turned into a dressing room for the girls, star dressing room for Miss Guinan, and I have a couple of guest rooms. Top floor is my apartment.…Why? What’s on your mind, Wyatt?”
“Nothing. Just getting the lay of the land.”
Bat was looking at Wyatt curiously.
So was Johnny, who said, “If you have a message from my mother, Wyatt, I’m willing to listen.”
Wyatt shook his head. “No you aren’t. You’ve already listened to her, haven’t you? Or heard her, anyway.”
“Yes. Of course.…”
“And Bartholomew here’s tried to talk sense to you?”
Johnny grunted a laugh, sat back in his chair. “On a weekly basis!”
Bat gave Wyatt an earnest look and said, “I’ve done my best, Wyatt. Truly I have.”
Johnny laughed some more—a dry, familiar laugh; Doc’s laugh. Gave Wyatt a shiver as the young man said, “And with all due respect, Mr. Masterson…Bat…you have made less than a convincing case.”
Bat frowned, offended. “I object! I’ve stated the case against this enterprise with passion and precision!”
“All the while,” Johnny said, “you were tossing back bourbon and filling your eyeballs with my chorus girls and enjoying the speakeasy life like you were born to it.”
Had Bat moved any farther forward in the leather chair, he’d have been on the floor. “Now, I never said this life didn’t have its appeal. Who doesn’t like a drink? Who doesn’t like a damsel? You’ve got Tex Guinan in your hip pocket, and she’s the toast of the town! That whelp Winchell’s calling her the Queen of Broadway!”
“Then what,” Johnny said, crisply polite, “is your problem?”
Bat flopped back in the chair and waved his hands. “I don’t have any problem! I’m just a paying customer…”
Johnny raised an eyebrow. “Paying? When did this new policy begin?”
Bat swallowed thickly, then said, “I simply mean, that this life, this night life, has great appeal. And it has enormous possibilities for making money. I don’t deny that. In fact, that is the very point…”
Wyatt said, “With liquor illegal, the gangsters are bound to move in.”
Bat’s eyes whipped to Wyatt’s. “Exactly! This town is brimming with bastards in Borsalinos just waiting to take over, and kill you for the privilege. Wyatt, it’s Tombstone redux—only these characters from Brooklyn make the Clantons look like kindergartners!”
Wyatt swiveled to Johnny. “Well, son?”
Johnny shrugged, rocking gently in his chair. “Mr. Masterson…Bat…is right. The rewards are considerable, and so are the dangers. When you were my age, Wyatt…Mr. Earp… weren’t the conditions the same?”
Bat said, “No comparison!”
Wyatt said to Bat, “You just made one.”
Johnny continued: “Manhattan’s a boomtown, Wyatt! Do I even have to tell you? These speakeasy days are the new Gold Rush!”
Wyatt, feeling the old tingle, quietly said, “Johnny…let’s put these hoodlums aside. Where do the police stand in this?”
He flipped a hand. “We pay them off weekly. They’re no help to us, but no hindrance, either. I’m told we’ll eventually have to help them stage some raids, for the papers…but we’ll have plenty of notice. Just in case, I only keep what I need on hand…by way of liquor, I mean.”
“What about the federals?”
“Some of them are honest, most aren’t. Right now, we have them on the pad, too.”
Wyatt nodded, sat with his hands folded over his belly. “So you do have considerable overhead.”
“No denying it,” Johnny said. “But I own this building outright, and my supply of liquor? I calculate it will last me at least five years.”
Bat said, “If you last five years.”
“Life is like business,” Johnny said with a shrug. “A risk.”
Bat was shaking his head as Wyatt asked, “What do you intend to do, once you run out of product?”
Johnny slapped the air. “Hell—retire. In five years, I’ll be independently wealthy. The hoodlums can have it.”
Wyatt said, “Hmmm,” and mulled that.
Bat said, “Johnny, quit painting this rosy picture and tell Wyatt about this character Capone, and his boss, Yale.”
Johnny rocked some more. “Nothing much to tell. They all work for a smart slick guinea named Torrio, who operates mostly out of Chicago. They’re not trying to take over.”
Wyatt frowned. “They aren’t?”
“No. They’re just using their old Black Hand extortion techniques to force me into using them as my distributor. But I don’t need a distributor!”
“Because of the supply you won.”
Johnny chuckled. “Oh, you heard about that, did you?”
“Yeah. You got this brownstone, you won half the liquor left in New York, playing poker.…This Brooklyn bunch—they don’t run speaks?”
Tiny shrug. “They own a few—but on their side of the river. Biggest joint’s in Coney Island—one of Yale’s two or three headquarters.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“Yale? I can’t really say. He’s feared, all right. But it’s this plump kid, who does his enforcing, that has everybody’s underwear riding high.”
“Capone.”
“Capone. He’s maybe…twenty-one, twenty-two? You see, they’re having trouble in their own backyard, with the Irish hoodlums moving in on them. That’s why they’re trying to expand over here…but it’s not going to work out.”
“Why?”
Johnny threw his hands in the air. “There’s too much competition over here already! And Arnold Rothstein, who is a personal pal of mine, has connections with every faction in Manhattan. He’s the peacekeeper. Plenty for everybody, he says.”
“Good philosophy.”
Johnny folded his arms and an eyebrow rose slyly. “Now, I might be able to throw Yale and Capone a bone…”
But before Johnny could finish that, Tex stuck her head in the door, string of pearls dangling like a noose. Her expression was grave.
“Trouble,” she said.
Johnny’s chin lifted; the dark blue eyes were hard and glittering. “Not our Brooklyn friends?”
“Your Brooklyn friends.”
“Capone?”
“Himself…and two bully boys.”
Wyatt glanced at Bat, whose expression was as grave as Tex’s. Wyatt, however, was smiling, just a little. This was a nice piece of ga
mbler’s luck, being here when the hoodlums came to call.
Johnny was up and coming around the desk. “How’d the bastards get in?”
Tex met him half-way, stopping him with her hands on his chest, while Wyatt and Bat remained in their well-padded leather chairs.
She said, “They tagged in after two toney couples who Louie recognized as regulars. Louie’s tough, but with three Brooklyn boys packing heat? Forget it.”
Moving past her, Johnny said, “I’ll handle these sons of bitches. Louie and the other boys can back my play, and—”
Wyatt said, “Johnny. A moment.”
Johnny froze and said, “Oh, Wyatt, that’s generous as hell, but I can’t ask you to—”
“I’m not offering anything.” His eyes went to Tex. “Are they causing trouble? Bothering the clientele?”
“No! Not yet, anyway. They’re just sitting at one of the tables, listening to the band and watching couples rub against each other.”
“Maybe they’re here for your show.”
Tex’s eyebrows hiked. “Yeah, to bust up my show!”
“Have they ever gone that far before?”
“No, but they’ve threatened—”
“Tex, what do they say they want?”
“I didn’t talk to them.”
“Did your friend, uh, Louie? Did he talk to them?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“And?”
“And Capone and his cronies, they say they wanna talk to Johnny in private.” Her eyes found Johnny’s and she gripped his nearest arm. “You can’t do that. They get Johnny alone, and God knows what they’ll pull. It’s an invitation to dine, and I don’t mean on steak or stew.”
Wyatt, still seated, said, “Send them up.”
Wyatt was addressing Tex, but Johnny answered, “Receive them in my own office?”
“Sure. It’s business, isn’t it?”
Johnny, who already had a good head of steam worked up, paused and thought. “I suppose…I suppose it is.”
“Keep it cool.” Wyatt raised a forefinger. “Plenty of time later, to get hot.”
Tex turned to Wyatt, eyes flashing, nostrils flaring. “Are you completely out of your mind, Wyatt Earp?”
“That has been suggested,” Wyatt said. Then to Johnny: “Have her send them up. Bat and me’ll back your play.”
Bat said, “We will?”
Tex, hands on her hips, said, “Pardon me, but a couple of duffers like you are gonna take care of young turks like this?”
“I rode a young filly once,” Wyatt said, “and she didn’t complain.”
Tex’s mouth fell like a trapdoor, and then she roared with laughter and waved a dismissive hand in Wyatt’s direction. “Sweetie, whatever you get, you deserve!…I’ll go get our ‘guests.’ ”
And she was gone.
Johnny was just standing there frozen, like Lot’s wife getting a gander at Gomorrah.
Wyatt gestured with a finger. “Got a rod in that desk, son?”
Johnny swallowed. Nodded. “Top drawer, right.”
“Then get behind it, and open it an inch.” Wyatt rose, and looked down at the still seated Bat, who seemed a mite bewildered. “Come on, Bartholomew. Cheap seats should be sufficient, for a show like this.”
Bat’s eyes narrowed, but he got to his feet, and followed Wyatt over to the yellow couch, where both men sat.
In about two minutes, a character bounded in, a big heavyset kid with an immediately commanding presence.
“Johnny,” he said. “Good to see you again. You look like a million fucking dollars.”
A pudgy hand bearing a pink-jeweled pinkie ring was thrust forward and Johnny, not rising, took it briefly.
From Wyatt’s vantage point on the couch, all he’d seen so far was a blur of purple—Johnny’s guest was six feet tall and four feet wide, a small building of a man wearing a purple suit, beautifully tailored.
As the newcomer swung around to take in the rest of the office—including the two men seated on the sofa—he presented Wyatt with a good detailed look. The rest of the wardrobe was equally as nattily tasteless: a lighter purple shirt, a deep purple necktie (like Johnny’s tie, this one had a diamond stickpin) and a pearl-gray Borsalino at an angle so sharp it cut across his left eye. The shoes were white and pointed and perforated.
“Mr. Capone,” Johnny said with half a nod.
Mr. Capone had a wide round face with full, reddish lips, a broad flat nose and light-gray eyes under dark shaggy slashes of eyebrow, and no neck to speak of; his complexion had an olive tinge though the plump cheeks were boyishly rosy.
He waved toward the doorway and two men in dark suits and black fedoras stepped into view. They stood as if they were smuggling bricks under their arms, which told Wyatt they had guns in holsters under every armpit. But two-gun kids had never impressed Wyatt Earp.
Capone himself, if he was armed, either had a better-cut suit (no doubt of that) or a physique that obscured shoulder-stowed weaponry.
Oddly, the corpulent gangster said to his flunkies, a pair of interchangeable dead-eyed pasty faces, “Be polite,” and both men took off their fedoras, which they held in their left hands. This served to make them look less alike, as one was mostly bald and the other had a full head of greasy, curly hair.
What was odd, however, was Capone requesting this respect while leaving his own Borsalino in place.
Capone turned to Wyatt and Bat and said, “Don’t get up.”
Wyatt said, “Don’t worry.”
Capone’s eyes, which had a bulginess to them, managed to turn tiny as they studied Wyatt, and then Bat. The hoodlum was smiling but the smile had a faint quiver in it, now.
Something in the faces of these old men—perhaps the spooky light-blue unblinking eyes—had stopped him for a moment.
To Johnny, Capone said, “Am I interrupting some kind of family reunion?”
Johnny’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I thought maybe these was your grandpas or some such.”
“They’re friends.”
Capone grinned at Johnny and then grinned at Wyatt and Bat. “You run with a kinda old crowd, Johnny.…Who are you, Granddad?”
The question had been addressed to Wyatt Earp, who said, “Wyatt Earp.”
Capone took that like the small punch it was and, thick spittle-flecked lips still smiling, chuckled and said, “Like in the dime novels?”
“Like,” Wyatt said, “in the dime novels. And this is Bat Masterson.”
Finally Capone swept off his hat, bowing, revealing thinning black hair. “Well, what an honor. Regular Wild West show in here. Where’s Wild Bill Hickok?”
“Dead,” Wyatt said. “So is Buffalo Bill, but I believe his troupe is in Philadelphia, should you want to catch a train and a show.”
Capone’s smile curdled and his eyes seemed to be wondering if he’d been insulted or not.
Then, gesturing with the fancy hat at Johnny, he said, “That’s right! That’s right.…You’re supposed to be Doc Holliday’s kid, aren’t you?”
Johnny said nothing. Didn’t even nod.
Capone tromped closer to Johnny’s desk. “I always figured that was just talk. Just a gimmick, ’cause of you hiring Texas Guinan and dressing your speak up, Wild West-style. So you really are Doc Holliday’s kid? He was sick or something, wasn’t he?”
“What do you want, Mr. Capone?”
“Mind if I sit?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Capone sat. He crossed his leg and rested an ankle on a knee. Wyatt got a glimpse of purple sock.
“Of course I’ve seen you around, Masterson,” Capone said without looking back at him. “You were one of them cowboys, too, right? And now you hang around racetracks or something.”
Bat said nothing. But Wyatt noted his friend’s eyes had turned very hard and very cold.
“Anyway,” a genial Capone was saying to Johnny, “you’ve had plenty of time to think over our offer. Mr. Yale has been gener
ous in giving you lots of rope.” Capone glanced back, grinning. “You old cowboys know about rope, don’t you?”
“Thrown one over a tree or two,” Wyatt said.
Capone’s eyes got tiny again, but then he turned back to Johnny. “We’re not a bunch of goddamn bootleggers. We’re not making our own stuff. We’re importing the genuine article from Canada. Real label product.”
Johnny sighed. “Mr. Capone, I’ve explained to you at length—I have my own supply of ‘real label’ product.”
Capone’s nodding was exaggerated and protracted. Then he said, “Mr. Yale is aware of that. He understands you have years’ and years’ worth of product, stored away someplace.”
“I have no control over what Mr. Yale ‘understands.’ ”
“That’s right, you don’t. And don’t forget that.” Capone’s hand slipped under his purple suitcoat and Wyatt was just starting to rise when he saw that the fat fingers were withdrawing a thick cigar.
Wyatt settled back as one of the flunkies lighted the cigar for Capone, who bestowed a nod, and got the oversize stogie going, taking his time about it, and then said to Johnny, “Mr. Yale is willing to offer you a good sum of money for that stored-away product. A generous sum. A Christian sum. He will even give you a sizeable discount, when he sells it back to you.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Good business. Good business. With years’ worth of product, well, there are considerations.”
“Considerations.”
“Such as, could that product go bad, over time? You serve bottled beer, right? Your whiskey and such, well, it will stand the test of time. But beer is like milk. It don’t have to get spilt to go bad.”
Johnny was nodding now, and his voice was fairly amiable as he said, “You’re right. My supply of beer will be gone, in six months. I’ll need a new supplier. And I’m willing to talk to you and Mr. Yale about that.”
Wyatt glanced at Bat; both men realized that this had been the “bone” Johnny had mentioned.
But Capone was shaking his head and waving a pudgy hand which had the pool cue of a cigar between thick fingers, smearing the air with blue smoke.
“Beer won’t do it, Johnny. No, sir. You see, we could be real pricks and come over the bridge and start taking over speaks—”
“Maybe Arnold Rothstein,” Johnny interrupted with an edge, “and his various good friends would frown on that.”
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