Angelo stood and stepped over to Isabella and reached out his hand. “Would you dance with me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, lifting her head and smiling up at him. She took Angelo’s hand and followed him to the dance floor.
They held one another close, finding comfort in each other’s grasp, heads at rest on shoulders, feet sliding across the waxed wood floor. The music washed over them like sun-splattered waves, as they both kept their eyes closed and their minds filled with the youthful dreams of a couple enjoying the first taste of love.
• • •
JAMES GARRETT WAS a New York City first-grade detective. He was tall, reed thin and had a rich crop of carrot-red hair. He had been a cop for twelve years and was married to an overweight Catholic schoolteacher who was far too religious for his taste. They had an eight-year-old son who lost the sight in his right eye after a playground accident. Around the station houses he worked Garrett was considered a solid badge. He did his job, cleared his desk of unsolved cases and always found the time to lend a hand to a nervous rookie or an overworked veteran. Garrett liked being a detective, deriving pleasure from the power he wielded with a flashed badge.
With that power came access and it allowed James Garrett, the forty-one-year-old son of a merchant seaman, a free pass to the good life he could not otherwise afford on a detective’s salary. Front-row tables at choice restaurants, prime seats at boxing matches and baseball games, easy entrée to opening night on Broadway and the best medical care available for his ailing son were there for the taking, so Garrett grabbed it all with a fierce hunger. He was much more than a good cop with an impressive arrest record. He was also a dirty cop with a monthly on-the-pad income that tripled his detective’s salary.
He was politically savvy and navigated the silent sanctum of the corrupt wing of the New York City Police Department with a politician’s discretion. He made it his business to be known and to be in the know, playing his game in the warmth of the murky shadows. He was shaded in safety by captains and deputy police commissioners, ward supervisors and district bosses, all of whom relied on him for their weekly envelopes.
To the average citizen, James Garrett was the very portrait of the cop who cared, his choirboy looks, Boy Scout smile and diligent work habits all the evidence they needed to back up that belief. They could count on him to be there to protect their lives and defend them against the rampant crime taking hold of their streets.
The underworld held a different portrait of James Garrett. To them, he was a bought badge, paid to protect and serve the best interests of Jack Wells.
In addition to his regular payoffs, Garrett had been put in charge of Wells’s citywide payroll. This gave him complete access to the black books containing all the names and sums received by the corrupt elite. Most other gangsters would have been leery to give any one cop such enormous clout. They would fear exposing themselves to potential extortion and betrayal. But Jack Wells was never one to worry. He took pride in his chosen role of the rebel gangster and felt that with fear and intimidation he could hold sway over anyone, especially a cop with a stained badge.
• • •
GARRETT STOOD IN the dark entryway, across from the lights and steady traffic stream outside the Cotton Club. He stamped his feet against the cold, hard concrete step. He lit a cigarette, the glow from the match highlighting a run of freckles dotting the sides of his cheeks and neck. He tossed the match aside, took a deep drag from the unfiltered Camel and stepped out of the darkness. He walked with confidence and ease toward the Cotton Club entrance. He smiled when he saw Angelo step out of the club, crunch a tip into the doorman’s palm, exchange a few words and then turn right. He was heading downtown, his arm wrapped around Isabella’s shoulders.
Garrett picked up his step and eased in behind them. He watched them walk, content for the moment just to follow, listening as the low murmurs of their voices echoed down the empty street.
“Where are the dago lovers off to now?” Garrett asked. He was close enough to Angelo and Isabella to be partially hidden by their shadows.
Angelo gripped Isabella’s shoulder tighter and stopped walking. He looked straight ahead, waiting to see the face behind the voice. Garrett walked around them, one hand in his jacket pocket, the cigarette still dangling from his mouth. “How can you stand being in a place like that?” he said, nodding his head back toward the Cotton Club. “You should have a little more respect for your lady than to bring her to a jig bar.”
Angelo stared at Garrett, did a quick check on his clothes and demeanor. He was looking not to put a name to the face but to determine motive. He knew the man blocking his path wasn’t a gangster and this wasn’t going to be a hit. A shooter never takes the time to talk or risk being seen by any potential witness. That meant the man tossing the cigarette to the ground was nothing more than a messenger, paid to act tough, but not a real threat. He looked too old to be new at verbal shakedowns and too young to be used as a sacrificial setup, a dupe for the actual hitter lurking in the dark street beyond. Angelo looked over at Isabella and noted how calm she appeared and how defiant her eyes were in the face of danger.
“They tell me you ain’t much on talk,” Garrett said, leering over at Isabella. “That doesn’t matter to me. It’s your ears I want.”
Garrett reached into the side pocket of his coat and pulled out a slice of chewing gum. He unwrapped it and shoved it slowly into his mouth. He inched a couple of steps closer to Isabella.
“I have to give you dagos credit,” Garrett said, smiling at Isabella. “You know how to pick the kind of woman a man doesn’t mind waking up next to.” He turned back to Angelo. “You know the kind I mean, don’t you?”
Angelo didn’t answer. He kept his temper lever at idle, his anger shoved down deep, well below any visible level. He watched as Garrett stroked Isabella’s arm and felt her recoil at his touch. He stayed distant and impassive as Garrett’s fingers ran the length of Isabella’s face and neck.
“Do yourself a big favor, dago,” Garrett said to Angelo, his hungry eyes never leaving Isabella’s face. “Make your deal with Wells. Let him make you a rich man. A beauty like you got needs a man around her with deep pockets. She doesn’t get that, then before you know it, she goes looking for somebody else. Maybe even a somebody like me.”
Garrett held Isabella’s look, then brought his hand back down to his side. He lifted the collar on his jacket and stood square in Angelo’s face. “You and your partner got till next week to make the smart call. After that, Wells takes it out of your hands and puts it in mine. Which means, next time we meet, it won’t be as friends.” He tipped the brim of his fedora at Isabella and winked at Angelo. “Enjoy what’s left of your night,” he said, walking past them and reaching for another cigarette.
• • •
ANGELO HELD ISABELLA’S face in his hands, wiping loose strands of hair from her eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked her softly.
“Yes,” she said, nodding her head. “I just didn’t like him touching me.”
“It’s the last time that cop will ever touch you,” Angelo said. “I promise that.”
“How do you know he was a cop?” she asked, curious.
“He had the look and the smell.” Angelo’s voice had a trace of disdain. “Just because a man is given a badge and swears to follow the law, it doesn’t make him honest.”
“What are you going to do?” They were walking slowly now, her arm held tightly under his. “About what he said to you?”
“For now, nothing.” Angelo stared straight ahead into the dark street. “He gave me a week to decide.”
“And what then?” she asked, her eyes searching his face for any sign of concern. “When the week is up?”
“Then, I’ll find out if the cop’s actions are as strong as his words,” Angelo said.
“And what if they are?” She stopped walking and stood in front of Angelo, her hands gripped around his arms. “What if that cop is all that he says he
is?”
“Then one of us will be found dead,” Angelo said.
8
* * *
Summer, 1926
FRANCIS THE PIMP looked across the table at the nervous young prostitute. He reached a hand into the rear pocket of his tan slacks and pulled out a thick roll of tens, bound together by a rubber band. He unfurled the roll, counted out six bills and dropped them on the wooden table. He leaned forward and slid them toward the girl. She was smoking a cigarette with her left hand and curling the strands of her dark brown hair with her right, the nails on both chewed down to the nub.
“You understand what it is you’re supposed to do?” Francis asked.
“Believe me, it don’t take much to get Pudge Nichols into bed,” the girl said. She spoke with a thick, nasal accent, filled with the flat sounds of her Columbus, Ohio, childhood. “At least not for me.”
“Once you get him in bed, make sure he stays there,” Francis said.
“For how long?” the girl asked.
“Do whatever it takes for as long as it takes,” Francis said.
“There’s just so much I can do. I mean, Pudge Nichols wants to go, he goes. There’s no way to stop him.”
“Listen to me, Shirley!” Francis shouted. He slammed his hand down on the table, knocking over an empty whiskey glass. “I don’t give a good damn where he’s gotta go or what you gotta do to keep him from going. All I know is if you want to keep yourself alive, you put Pudge Nichols in your damn bed and you keep him there.”
“I don’t like any of this,” Shirley said in a little girl voice. “What did you go and get yourself into? Whatever it is, if it means messing with a lit fuse like Pudge, it’s going to end up bad.”
Francis sat back in his chair, the wood end of a match shoved into a corner of his thin lips. “Pudge Nichols is who they’re coming to get,” he said. “Not me and not you.”
“What if I say no?” Shirley asked, looking down at the sixty dollars. “You’re not exactly settin’ me up for life, you know.”
Francis the Pimp’s eyes narrowed and a smile slithered over his unshaven face. “There’s more money to be had,” he said. “Maybe a lot more. How much is really up to you.”
Shirley grabbed the bills from the table and jammed them under the shoulder strap of her dress. “How much more?” she asked. “Enough so I don’t have to turn over any more johns?”
Francis the Pimp handed Shirley a hand-rolled cigarette and waited while she put it to her lips. He lit a match, cupped a palm around it, leaned over and placed it against the raw end. He watched as she blew a thin line of smoke at his face.
“After this job, you want somebody to take a taste, you can do it for free,” Francis said. “All it takes is a little courage.”
“What do I have to do?” Shirley asked. “For the extra money?”
“Will it bother you if Pudge gets killed?”
“I like the guy,” she said, “but I’m not in love with him or nothin’ like that.”
Francis the Pimp leaned his arms and chest over the table and brought his voice down to a raspy whisper. The tiny first-floor room was filled with clouds of smoke, the only window locked tight and shaded. In a dusty corner, a large roach crawled along the baseboard in search of the nearest crumb.
“Then all you have to do is kill him,” Francis said.
• • •
THE LITTLE BOY’S face was a frozen and frightened blank as he watched the spilled vanilla ice cream soda drip down the side of the table. He watched as the man sitting across from him pulled his chair back and stared at the splattered stains on his creased pants. “You stupid little bastard!” the man snarled. “Look at what the hell you went and did.”
“I’m sorry,” the boy said in a quivering voice. “It was an accident.”
“It’s always an accident with you,” the man said, his angry words catching the attention of the other patrons sitting in the crowded diner. “No matter where the hell we are or where the hell we go.”
“I didn’t mean it, Mr. Tyler,” the boy said, fighting back the urge to cry. “It won’t ever happen again. I swear it.”
An elderly counterman ambled toward the table, carrying a wet dish towel bundled in his hand and a weak smile. “It’s just a spill,” he said. “In this place, they’re about as regular as the rent.”
“Just leave the rag,” Tyler said. “The boy made the mess and the boy will clean it up.”
“It’s not his job,” the counterman said, still smiling. “It’s mine. And besides, I don’t think his mamma will be all too happy with either one of you if he walks through the door with his clothes all a mess.”
Andrew Tyler stood against the edge of the wet table, anger clouding his eyes and rushing the blood to his face. He was a tall man, in his mid-thirties, with thick dark hair and a quick as lightning temper. He had been a boxer in the army and had gone undefeated in the four years he wore stripes on his arms. He owned an uptown lumber supply company and had been dating the boy’s mother for six weeks. He liked everything about her except for the fact that she had a son.
“I said the boy will clean it up,” Tyler said in harsher tones. “Now hand him the rag and get the hell back to making milkshakes.”
The counterman caught the edge in Tyler’s gaze, nodded over at the boy and rested the dish towel on the tabletop. “Just leave it when you’re done,” he said, turning away. “I’ll deal with it later.”
Tyler jabbed the boy in the shoulder and smirked when he saw him grimace. “All right, Edward,” he said, “start cleaning. And make sure you don’t spill any more of it.”
Edward, one week past his sixth birthday, reached for the dishrag, leaned over and started to wipe at the milky white flood. He kept his head down and spread the rag out as far as it would go in an attempt to catch all the spillage. The large puddle around his feet matched the one on the table by his elbow. He wanted very much to cry.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Tyler said, raising his voice. “If you’re always going to make a mess, then you better damn well learn how to clean one up.”
“I’ve never done this before, Mr. Tyler,” the boy stammered. “I’m doing the best I can.”
Without a word of warning, Tyler reached down and yanked Edward off his chair, lifted him into the air, then sent him crashing to the floor. The boy landed with a squishy thud into the center of the puddle, milk covering his blue slacks and black shoes, his face dotted with spots of vanilla ice cream. “Start from there and work your way up,” Tyler said, his rage at full vent. “And we’re not going to leave here until every damn drop is cleaned up.”
Edward looked around at all the faces staring at him, some in horror, others just curious, and he felt the warm tears rush down his cheeks. He lowered his head and began to sob. “Please don’t do this, Mr. Tyler,” the boy whispered.
“If you’re going to cry, there should be a goddamn good reason,” Tyler said. He leaned over and landed two hard slaps across the back of the boy’s head. The sounds echoed through the hushed diner. He lifted his hand a third time, his fingers now balled into a fist and swung it down toward the boy’s face. A hand caught the fist in midflight and held it there.
“I’ll give you a better fight than the boy,” Pudge Nichols said calmly. “And I’ll try not to spill any ice cream on you while I do.”
Tyler stared at Pudge, more than eager to swing his anger toward the intruder. “You have no idea the kind of beating you’re in for,” he hissed.
“Sammy,” Pudge said to the counterman who was now standing directly behind him. “Any damage that’s done, send the tab to the Café. I’ll see that it’s covered.”
“It’s my treat,” the old counterman said. “Just make sure when you’re through with him, he isn’t in any shape to walk back into my shop.”
“A free bust-up,” Pudge said, smiling at the much taller Tyler. “Sammy must really like you.”
Tyler landed the first punch, a glancing blow off the side
of Pudge’s head. Pudge stumbled backwards, knocking over two chairs. He felt his lower lip and tasted the warmth of his own blood. “Hey, kid,” Pudge shouted over to the boy. “This guy mean anything to you?”
The shivering boy shook his head no.
“That’s good to hear,” Pudge said.
Pudge immediately jumped into Tyler, hitting him at chest level, sending him to the ground. Tyler’s feet gave way under the melted ice cream and the back of his head hit the hard cement floor. Pudge dragged the dazed bully into a corner booth, pushed him down and held him in place with his knees. His attack was relentless, a steady assault of fists, bites, slaps and elbows. Pudge felt Tyler weaken under him from the rain of blows, heard his breathing choked back by bile and shattered bone, but he wouldn’t let up. A number of the patrons had left the diner before the fight began. Those few who remained behind held their collective breath, mesmerized by the power and viciousness that was taking place before their eyes. This was the Pudge Nichols they had heard so much about, a few had even read about, but none had ever witnessed up close.
Pudge, breathing hard and drenched with sweat eased himself off the battered Tyler. He picked up a lantern from the center of a wood table. He stared down at what he had done, nodded and smashed the light on top of the prone body, glass shattering against the center of the slow-heaving chest. Pudge looked up and caught his image in an overhead mirror. He was soaked through with another man’s blood, his blond hair matted down with sweat, his new jacket torn at the sleeve. Pudge Nichols, victorious once again, smiled.
He walked over to the boy, who had remained frozen in place under the table, reached a bloody hand down and lifted him to his feet. Pudge grabbed a napkin off the table and wiped the tears from the boy’s face.
“You never did get to finish that ice cream soda,” Pudge said. “You in the mood for another?”
The boy nodded.
“You up to making two fresh ones?” Pudge asked Sammy.
“You’ll be drinking them before you know it,” Sammy told him.
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