Black Hats

by Max Allan Collins

  Bat had him now, and he fired…only he didn’t fire, he squeezed the trigger, all right, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  He was out.

  “Even little guns need bullets,” the gunner said, his eyes wild, his smile rabid-animal crazed.

  The son of a bitch was laughing when he fired…

  …only he didn’t fire, either, his trigger bringing only clicks.

  He was out, too.

  Bat was scrambling to reload when he heard the footsteps.

  Wyatt’s steady footsteps.

  The bald hoodlum, in the process of pulling another drum-like magazine from a pocket of his slicker, had eyes showing whites all round and a wide open but silent mouth as he swivelled to face Wyatt Earp.

  “Big gun,” Wyatt said.

  The guy was shoving the magazine in.

  “But empty is empty.”

  The thunder of the long-barrel .45 rivaled anything the sky could summon, and the force of its impact shattered the bald head like a melon, splashing the bricks nearby with red and pink and gray matter, none of which was of any further use to the hoodlum, who fell like a cut-down tree, the machine gun clattering to the concrete a moment later.

  In seconds Wyatt was at Bat’s side, helping him to his feet.

  “Will you live, Bartholomew?”

  Bat was checking himself out, hands roving over his milkman’s uniform. “Any nick I have’s from broken glass. Mostly I’m going to hurt in the morning, from all this running and jumping.”

  “You’re not a young man, anymore.”

  “And you are?” Bat’s eyes went to Wyatt. “What’s that?”

  “What?”

  “On your ear?”

  Wyatt touched his left lobe. His fingers brought back blood. “A little graze.”

  Bat roared with laughter; it struck Wyatt damned near as hysterical as the dead gunner’s shrieking. “Don’t tell me after all these years, you finally took a bullet!”

  Wyatt raised a blood-dabbed forefinger in warning. “Not a word.”

  They took stock of their situation.

  First, they checked the street, to see what attention had been attracted; when, in the outer warehouse, Wyatt opened the side door, and stuck his head out, he got a faceful of rain and the heavens roared at him.

  No sign of anyone or anything.

  He wandered back over to the fallen horse and the over-turned wagon and the dead skinny hoodlum, the first casualty of the gunfight.

  “Damned waste of life,” Wyatt said.

  Bat was approaching. “What, that dead son of a bitch? Why the hell should we care?”

  “The horse.”

  “Ah. Yes. You do have a point, at that.” Bat’s hands were on his hips as he continued to assess things. “Wyatt…not taking into consideration the four stiffs that need attention, we’re in a nasty spot.”

  “I know.”

  “That bald jackass splattered his bullets all over Johnny’s booze stockpile. Why, the boy’ll be lucky to salvage a fifth of it.”

  “He’ll be lucky to salvage a fifth.”

  Bat sighed. “How the hell did this go wrong?”

  Wyatt shrugged. “Somebody made us, hauling ‘milk.’ Following us back would have took ’em only as far as the dairy. So I figure they staked out your place and followed us here.”

  “Goddamn.” Bat gave another bigger sigh. “We let Johnny down. Well and truly we did.”

  Wyatt shook his head. “No. Odds were against us from the start in this game.”

  “I suppose.”

  He put a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Bartholomew, what with no sign of the coppers, I’d suggest we dump the bodies, and go request that Johnny’s friend Droste come collect his horse and wagon.”

  Bat nodded, and jerked a thumb toward the ruined fortress of booze. “And maybe have his dairy crew clean this place up, and see if any of the soldiers in those crates survived.”

  “Yes.”

  Yet another sigh came from Bat, who then scratched his head. “Well, Johnny still has his club, anyway. He’s not out of business by a long shot. All he has to do is arrange to buy from—”

  “Who, Yale?” Wyatt said, frowning, his head back. “Think, Bartholomew. With Johnny’s liquor gone, nothing stands in the way of Capone taking his revenge.”

  The blood drained from Bat’s face; the pale blue eyes turned sorrowful. “Christ, Wyatt. Young Johnny’s a dead man. Unless…”

  “If there’s an ‘unless,’ I’m pleased to hear it.”

  Suddenly Bat was grinning; he gestured to the nearby corpse. “Who says we killed these bastards?”

  “I seem to recall doing it.”

  “Yes, but who’s the wiser? Those four stiffs aren’t talking, not any more than that poor dead bay.” He shook a friendly finger in Wyatt’s face. “Remember this: Yale and Capone have their hands full, across the river, right now—there’s a small war growing bigger and bigger by the day.”

  Wyatt’s eyes tightened. “The Irish gang? Those White Handers?”

  “Exactly. Who’s to say they didn’t do this? In fact, if we handle the disposal right, namely Brooklyn way, they could be the prime suspects.”

  Wyatt drew air in through his nostrils. “You’re the New Yorker. Have a spot in mind?”

  “I know a perfect place along that lovely stink hole, the Gowanus Canal.” Bat gestured to the two Fords. “We’ll load both buggies up, two ‘riders’ each—ditch the cars with the garbage, and find our way back to Manhattan.”

  Wyatt was nodding, liking it. “So the Irish get the credit… and, since nobody knows the liquor supply’s been smashed, Johnny’s still in the clear.”

  Now Bat was nodding. “Yes! And he could make a secret arrangement with his friend Rothstein, for one of these Manhattan bootleggers to supply Holliday’s, and—”

  “No,” Wyatt said, holding a palm up. His voice was as sharp as one final gun crack in the echo-ridden warehouse. “Such a secret would be impossible to keep. Over time, anyway.”

  “Yeah. Yes, damn it all, I suppose you’re right. My God but Johnny’s going to take this mighty hard.”

  Rain drummed and echoed in the warehouse.

  Again Wyatt’s eyes narrowed. “Would Rothstein be interested in buying Johnny out, you think?”

  “What, the club itself? The building, and the business with it? Possibly. But, Wyatt—where does that leave Johnny? Hell, where does it leave us?”

  “Alive,” Wyatt said. “If we play our cards right.”

  FIFTEEN

  Al Capone might have been doing anything on this cool clear spring night, from spending time in his Brooklyn apartment with Sonny Boy and Mae, to playing pool at the Adonis Club, even to bartending and bouncing at the Harvard Inn, which didn’t stand on ceremony where the Lord’s Day of Rest was concerned.

  What he had not expected was sitting down for a friendly game of cards at Holliday’s with the man who fucking scarred him, plus Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson and assorted others.

  The odd turn of events started yesterday afternoon, when Frankie Yale summoned Al to his office at the garage.

  “You heard about Baldy and Skinny Sal?” Yale asked.

  The usually immaculate boss had a rumpled aspect Al had rarely seen—dark hair unruly, eyes bloodshot, even his expensive wardrobe (black suit with white pinstripes and black shirt with white tie) looked slept in.

  “Yeah, fuckin’ shame,” Al said and shook his head sympathetically, even though he didn’t have any respect for nobody who let themselves be snuck up on. “Goddamn tragedy. Both with wives and little kids.”

  Four of Yale’s top rods—Baldy Pete, Curly Sam, both Sal’s (Fat and Skinny)—had been found shot in the head, execution style. Along the canal. Yesterday afternoon. By some strolling couple who called the coppers.

  “Goddamn Irish sons of whores!” Yale said, so excited spittle was flying. He beat a fist on his desk and papers rattled and his blotter jumped and pencils and pens danced
. “Lousy lowdown mick cocksuckers!”

  The boss obviously considered the killings retaliation by the White Hand for Al busting up that Valentine’s Day Dance. (Al, whose wife Mae was Irish after all, took no offense at such ravings, considering Frankie’s reaction understandable in the circumstances.)

  Sitting in the battered wooden visitor’s chair opposite Yale, who was rocking in his swivel chair behind the big desk, Al said, “But Curly and them were in Manhattan. Keeping their eye on that speak. Could Holliday and those two old Wild Bills done it?”

  Yale batted that away. “The only Wild Bill I smell in this is Lovett! Him and Peg Leg caught our boys flatfooted in Manhattan and hauled their asses over here and murdered them, just outright cold-blooded murdered them! Them micks are animals.… You’re lucky you weren’t along for the ride!”

  Curly and Baldy had been at Al’s side for the Sagaman’s Hall ambush, so he could see his boss’s point.

  “So, then, Frankie—what’s our next move?”

  “With the micks? Let me worry about that. Your next move is to accept an invite to play cards at Holliday’s.”

  Al winced. “What the hell is this, boss—some kinda gag?”

  Yale shook his head. “No gag.” Yale’s black eyebrows rose. “What would you say, I told you I got a call today…from Arnold Rothstein his own self.”

  This sat Al up straight. “Jesus. Since when do we do business with the Manhattan money king?”

  “Since now, if we’re lucky. If we wanna make our move into Midtown, it behooves us keep him happy. He sees himself this, this, this big…peacekeeper or some such. Rothstein does business with Holliday, and if we ever should want to do business with Rothstein, he suggests we consider letting certain bygones be bygones.”

  “Fuckin’ easy for him to say,” Al said, touching the puckery pinkness of his ravaged left cheek.

  “Listen, Rothstein is the pawnbroker, hell, the broker period for anybody working the wrong side of the street. This is a unexpected overture, from the guy, and with the shit soup we’re swimmin’ in over here, right now, I ain’t about to shrug it off. Capeesh?”

  “Capeesh,” Capone said reluctantly.

  Yale gestured with an open palm. “At Holliday’s request, you’re invited to a private game, Sunday evening, at his club.”

  “Game? What the hell kinda game?”

  “Poker. We talked about Earp workin’ gambling in at Holliday’s, didn’t we? Little room on the first floor?”

  Last week Yale had told Al about Earp’s poker game, setting the stage for a full-scale casino to follow.

  “Yeah, boss, sure. And I can see it, Rothstein wanting us all one big bunch of happy clams. But, why do they want me there? Why not you?”

  Yale shrugged. “We were both invited. I declined for me, ’cause of this business crisis. I accepted for you, ’cause you are my number-two man.”

  Al smiled big; still hurt a little, when he did that. “I really appreciate hearing that, boss. Sure as hell do.” His eyes narrowed as he slid to the edge of his hard wooden chair. “Is this some kind of, what do you call it…negotiation? Rothstein as the go-between ’tween the two unhappy parties?”

  “No. That might come later. This is strictly a social evening. High-stakes game, Rothstein says.”

  “High stakes is right, if I get hit behind the ear.”

  Yale ignored that, saying, “You can take the black Caddy. Buy-in is a grand. Here.” He slipped an envelope out from under his blotter and handed it across to Al.

  Who reached for it, took it, thumbed back the flap and flipped through three grand in hundreds.

  Yale smiled, though in his current frame of mind it was clearly an effort. “Win or lose, kid, it’s all yours.”

  “Uh, thanks, boss. Maybe I could use a night out at that.”

  Yale shifted in the swivel chair. “What Rothstein said… how’d he put it?…It’s a ‘gesture’ on Holliday’s part. Friendly gesture. Mainly, they want to make sure you don’t still want to kill his skinny ass.”

  “Well, I do still want to kill his skinny ass.”

  “Well, goddamnit, Al—make ’em think you don’t!”

  Al sighed. Sat back. “Who goes with me?”

  “Nobody. No bodyguards, no back-up. Part of the ground rules. Even Rothstein will be naked.”

  Al was back on the chair’s edge again. “Boss, you can’t expect me not to go heeled!”

  “Nothing was said about hardware. They just don’t want a bunch of gorillas standing around and some little misunderstanding turns into a crossfire. You can go heavy. Just don’t overdo.”

  As it turned out, guns were the first matter of business, when Al came through the doorway at the top of the brownstone’s front steps. Bat Masterson rolled up without a how-do-you-do and started frisking him, even taking the liberty of slipping a hand into Al’s right side suitcoat pocket and lifting out the .38 revolver, and handing it quickly to Texas Guinan, who was playing hostess.

  Al gripped Masterson’s wrist, though the gun had already been passed to the blonde broad, looking gaudy as a carnival midway in that red sparkly low-cut gown.

  “No,” Al said.

  Masterson’s smile seemed genuine enough but his light blue eyes had an iciness. “Sorry, Al—it’s just like Dodge City or Tombstone. Gotta check your shooting iron at the door.”

  “I only have the one with me,” Al said, letting go of Masterson’s wrist and holding out his hand, palm up, “and I’ll have it back. Now.”

  “If you won’t play by the house rules,” Masterson said, and the smile turned as icy as the eyes, “we’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  “Then I’ll have to leave. I ain’t gonna play Daniel in your damn lion’s den.”

  “Your choice.”

  Al leaned in till the two were almost nose to nose. “Listen, old man—if you was in my house, all alone with me and my boys, would you go in without your gat?”

  Masterson drew in a breath, thought for a moment, let it out. “No. No, I wouldn’t.…Tex! Give him back his piece.…Come in and join us.”

  Then, gesturing in a “come along” fashion, he headed through nearby double doors that stood open.

  Texas Guinan handed the .38 to Al, who traded her his Borsalino for it, then broke the revolver open to check the cylinders and found the bullets all there.

  “Thanks, honey,” Al said to her, and she smiled at him, lots of teeth and fluttery bedroom eyes, bosom half out of her dress and not a bad bosom at that, for a frill pushing forty. “I hear you put on a real good show.”

  “You’ll have to catch one of my shows sometime, sugar,” she said.

  She took him warmly by the arm and walked him a short distance into the little front room filled mostly with a big round green-felt-topped poker table. Every chair but the one with its back to an unlighted fireplace with a painting of a naked broad over it was already filled. Nobody rose when he entered, but everyone nodded and said hello.

  Johnny Holliday, seated dead opposite that open chair, turned to look at Al and say, “Glad you decided to come around. Welcome.”

  The cocky guy, half-turned in his chair, stuck out a hand for Al to shake, which he did.

  “I ain’t one to hold no grudge,” Al said. And gave his host a great big friendly smile.

  In his mind, Al pictured himself slashing that thin, pretty blue-eyed puss with a razor, blood flying, strips of skin flapping. But instead he ambled around the table to the empty chair and settled in.

  He recognized all but one of his fellow players, a lanky bored-looking ghee immediately to Al’s left, who introduced himself as “Mizner,” and wore a tux, looking a little like a head waiter.

  To Capone’s left was Earp, in undertaker black and a black string tie, the whiteness of the man’s mustache and hair in the grooved, pale face making a striking contrast with the dark attire. For an old goat, Earp had a kind of commanding air about him.

  Next to Earp was that sportswriter peacock Damon Run
yon, in a green suit with a darker green necktie with emerald stickpin and lighter green suspenders against an even lighter green shirt. Maybe the dude thought all that green would attract money. Deadpan, in wirerim glasses, the columnist had a cigarette drooping in his thin lips, a tray nearby with two cigs already crushed out. This oddball had introduced himself to Capone at a fight at the Garden, and they’d spoken a few times since, though truth be told Runyon had a way of making you do all the talking.

  Next to Runyon, and right across from Capone, was their host. Johnny Holliday wore a cream-color suit with a pastel yellow shirt and a rust-color tie with a diamond stickpin. He had a smirky way that was already getting under Al’s skin, though he’d said nothing disrespectful and, tell the truth, seemed friendly, or anyway that was the front he was putting on.

  Beside Holliday was Masterson, who wore a dark gray suit and a black bow tie, and was wearing his derby at a tilt, the only man at the table in a hat. Al would gladly feed that fucking derby to the old man, patrons at the Harvard Inn having reported this geezer clubbing Al with his cane, after that smug prick Holliday cut him.

  Finally, next to Masterson, was Arnold Rothstein, a mild-looking prematurely gray character of maybe forty, with a bland oval face and a gray pallor, though his eyes, dark brown and shining, spoke of smarts. His suit was a nice enough brown job, but was maybe off the rack, and his bow tie was the same dark brown as his eyes. Nothing impressive about the guy, on first look, a small, slim if paunchy character; that this was the city’s Great Go-between seemed not just unlikely but impossible.

  Could this milksop really be the guy politicians went to, when they needed something from gamblers or gangsters? Or who the so-called underworld called on to line up protection from prosecutors and judges and cops?

  Crazy as it seemed, Al knew this to be straight.

  When doing business in Manhattan, Al had the habit, like so many of his peers, of stopping in at the best deli restaurant in Manhattan, Reuben’s at West Seventy-second and Broadway. Rothstein made an office out of the place, and Al had seen him there, had had the so-called Big Bankroll pointed out to him. Runyon hung out there, too.