As Time Goes By

by Michael Walsh

  “Andrew Jackson,” he whispered to Lois as they were led to their table.“Works every time.”

  Then he spied the great Dion O'Hanlon himself, holding court at his usual table against the back wall, not far from the kitchen.

  They said that as a youth, O'Hanlon had been lured into an ambush in a restaurant and, before he got any of the three pistols he always carried with him out of the special pockets he had had sewn into his custom-made suits, had been shot eleven times. Dion, however, survived; the three guys who tried to clip him were dead within a week. O'Hanlon was never seen in public again without both backup muscle and a handy escape route. Dion O'Hanlon was the Houdini of gangsters.

  Rick was mesmerized at the sight of him. He had seen O'Hanlon only in odd photographs in the newspaper—the Irishman wanted to stay out of the papers, and fearful reporters happily obliged—but Rick knew it was him. It was like coming face-to-face with Satan.

  “Champagne,” Rick told the hovering waiter. Tonight was special.

  “Champagne!” exclaimed Lois. ”What's the occasion?

  “I’ll tell you after it gets here,” said Rick.

  O'Hanlon was a short, dapper, well-dressed fellow who filled out a dinner jacket like a small ice chest. Since nobody in gangland outranked him, he kept his hat on, wearing his fedora cocked low over his left eye, but Rick knew he could see everything that mattered. Mentally Rick compared O'Hanlon's splendor with Solly's rumpled proletarianism and tried to decide which look he preferred. It didn't take long.

  Walter Winchell was talking to him earnestly:“I got the dirt, I mean, do I ever!” He was shouting loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear, but O'Hanlon was paying only half attention to the scribe, apparently preferring his conversation with a handsome blond man in evening clothes. A real Joe College type, thought Rick, the kind of guy he loathed on sight.

  Suddenly O'Hanlon rose.“Good evening, Mae,” he said, tipping his hat. He turned to Winchell.“Walter, would you mind leaving us alone for a while?”

  While Winchell scrammed, Mae West herself sauntered over as only Mae West could. She plunked herself down next to the gangster and began to whisper what Rick assumed were sweet nothings in O'Hanlon's ear. Everybody in New York said they had been an item once upon a time.

  “Look!” exclaimed Lois.“There's Mae West!”

  Rick was contemplating the wonder that was Mae West when he noticed O'Hanlon glance his way and then nod to someone behind him. It was a short, brisk downward motion of the head, almost imperceptible unless you were looking for it.

  Two seconds later he felt a hand on his shoulder. Not a friendly hand, not a“Hey, buddy” hand, but just a hand, leaning on him as if he were a lamppost. Rick twisted his head to the side and saw that the hand belonged to another little man, about the same size as O'Hanlon and even sleeker. Rick hadn't heard him approach, but here he was. The man glided like a dancer, smooth and silent.

  Rick knew who he was: George Raft, the society tea-dancer whom O'Hanlon was making into a movie star out in Hollywood. Some gangster picture called Scarface.

  “Mr. O'Hanlon sends his greetings and invites you to join us at his table,” said Raft.

  “Who's Mr. O'Hanlon?” Lois asked innocently.

  “He's the gentleman with Miss West,” answered Raft.

  Lois was up and out of her seat before Rick had a chance to say anything.“Smart girl you got there,” Raft said to Rick privately as they followed Lois.

  O'Hanlon was on his feet and bowing graciously.“It is an honor and a singular pleasure to welcome the daughter of a treasured business partner to my table on this fine evening,” he said. Lois extended her hand, and O'Hanlon took it in his, pressed his lips against it, and kissed it.

  “Do sit down, Miss Horowitz,” he suggested. Although his speech patterns were Irish, he had a faint English accent, a legacy of his youth in the mill towns of England, where his parents had sweated enough money for the passage to America.“You, too, Mr. Baline. I’ve heard a lot about you, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.” He snapped a finger in the air, and the headwaiter materialized instantly.“Champagne, please.”

  “We've already ordered some,” said Lois.

  “I refuse to let such a lovely young lady as yourself drink ordinary champagne, miss,” he told her.“As someone who knows a bit about the liquor business, I keep my own private stock here, precisely for moments like these.” His lips widened in a mirthless smile that showed no teeth.

  “Of course you know Miss Mae West and Mr. George Raft,” O'Hanlon said as if of course they would.“May I present Miss Lois Horowitz and Mr. Yitzik Baline, daughter and protÉgÉ, respectively, of my esteemed associate Mr. Solomon Horowitz of Harlem and the Bronx.”

  Rick could hear the contempt for Horowitz, Harlem, and the Bronx in he Irishman's voice and hoped it was lost on Lois. It was found not in his tone, but rather in his manner or pronunciation, the way he separated each word in order to draw attention to it, the way he implied that Harlem and the Bronx were now alien places that no decent person would live in if given a choice. It was the contempt of the city for the boroughs, of the big-time for the smalltime, of the winner for the loser.

  “Now to complete the introductions,” continued O'Hanlon, addressing Lois.“This good-looking lad who's been struck dumb in obvious admiration of your great beauty is none other than Robert Haas Meredith, whom you may have been reading about in all the New York newspapers recently, and by that designation I do indeed include the Journal, the American, and by God, even the Times.”

  Now Rick recognized the man. Meredith was the scion of a rich Upper East Side family, a Park Avenue lawyer in private practice with big political ambitions, who charged his rich clients a fortune to win equal justice under the law. Meredith was too smart to defend gangsters like O'Hanlon in public, but there was no law against helping out on the side—and besides, it never hurt one's image to be seen in their company. Why, Mayor Walker had made a career of it.

  “Good evening, Miss Horowitz,” said Meredith.

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” replied Lois, who was.

  “Mr. Baline,” O'Hanlon said, addressing the table,“has quite a head for business. In the space of a few short weeks, he has transformed the Tootsie-Wootsie Club uptown into the foremost rival of my own dear Boll Weevil.” As everyone knew, the Boll Weevil was Harlem's leading jazz nightspot—although not for long, if Rick could help it.

  “Love that name, the Tootsie-Wootsie,” said Mae West, as only she could.“I hear you've got quite a piano player there, you know, what's-his-name.”

  “Sam Waters,” replied Rick.

  “I’ll have to come up and see him sometime,” said Mae.

  “What's your line there, Baline?” Meredith asked.

  “I’ m—“

  Just then the champagne arrived. Everyone was poured a glass except the attorney and the host, and after a brief toast by O'Hanlon, the sparkling wine went down smoothly. Even Rick had to admit it was good stuff.

  “I’m a drunkard,” he said jocularly as he drained his glass.“Or at least I will be after much more of this.”

  “Mr. Baline exaggerates his fondness for the bottle, I’m sure,” said O'Hanlon.“For with Prohibition the roaring success that it is, surely there is not a true drunkard left in America at the moment—and more's the pity! They were my best customers.” He took a sip of ice water.“Mr. Baline is the manager,” he told Meredith.“And would you think it to look at a young fellow like him?”

  “I’d think a lotta things to look at him,” said Mae West, tugging on her champagne.

  Everybody laughed. O'Hanlon set both his impeccably manicured hands on the tabletop.“Mr. Meredith,” he said,“I wonder if you would be so kind as to escort Miss Horowitz and the rest of the group to that empty table over there so that I might be permitted a few private words with Mr. Baline.”

  O'Hanlon turned to Lois.“I most heartily apologize for depriving you of the company of your esc
ort, but I hope you'll have no objection to dining with Miss West, Mr. Raft, and Mr. Meredith.”

  “The pleasure would be all mine,” added Meredith, taking her by the arm and starting to lead her away.“Goodbye, Mr. Baline,” he said.

  “Is it okay, Rick?” asked Lois, already in Meredith's grip.

  Rick tried to read her expression but couldn't.“I’ll be right over,” he said reassuringly.

  “I’ll make this as brief as I can,” O'Hanlon said as they departed, and Rick realized that this was now serious business. He was not frightened by O'Hanlon so much as respectful of him. Solly's contemptuous dismissals of the man now seemed to ring very, very hollow.

  “Mr. Baline, you will please tell the charming Miss Horowitz's father that I harbor no hard feelings toward him for what he's been doing to my Canadian trucks. If his boys can take my liquor away from my boys, then that is my problem and I am just going to have to find me some better boys. That is the nature of our business, and a very good business it has been up to now for all of us.”

  “Solly says you've been chiseling him in Montreal with Michaelson,” countered Rick.“That you're trying to put him out of business.”

  O'Hanlon waved off his objections.“Solomon Horowitz and I go back to the days of Lefty Louie and Big Jack Zelig and—God help me, for doesn't this date me as an old-timer—the great Monk Eastman, his own dear departed self. And wasn't Monk, who treated me like a son, a Hebrew like your own good self, and didn't I love him like a father.” He took another sip of his drink.

  “Unlike so regrettably many of my fellow Christians, I have nothing whatsoever against Jewboys or sheenies of any kind,” O'Hanlon continued.“Under the misguided scourge of the Noble Experiment, those of us who serve the common weal have got to work together in a spirit of harmony and mutual understanding, and sure, isn't there plenty of turf for us here in the great and united city of New York. I have no interest in Solomon's policy rackets in darktown, and what he does north of a Hundred and Tenth Street and along the Grand Concourse is basically of no interest to me.

  “However,” O'Hanlon continued sotto voce,“anything he does to affect my shipments from our brothers in Quebec very definitely is my business. It is messy, and messiness of any kind disturbs me greatly. Now I am a kind and gentle man, as you know, and I don't want any further trouble between us. Therefore, I have a proposition for him. Please tell your boss that I want a truce between us, and to that end I am prepared to offer him a considerable consideration, one of my most valuable and prized political assets—a lad I have been grooming myself for quite some time—in return for his promise to lay off.”

  Rick was listening, but not quite understanding. His blank look proclaimed as much.

  “It's known far and wide that the one thing that Solomon Horowitz wants is respectability,” said O'Hanlon,“and he'll get it if he has to kill for it. There isn't a soul in New York he hasn't told that he's reserving his little girl for a big man. Now that I have met the young lady, I can see why. She's extremely beautiful, and I am a man who has known and loved a great many beautiful women in my time. And I intend to love a great many more before the good Lord calls me home.”

  O'Hanlon drained his water glass and wiped his lips daintily on his napkin.“In the shape and form of Mr. Robert Meredith here, I think I have quite the candidate for the hand of Miss Horowitz. He is everything Solomon hopes for in a son-in-law. He is independently wealthy. He is a lawyer, which is always a handy thing in our line of work. And he is a gentile with a distinguished name and a pedigree that would put a prize pigeon to shame. I had been intending to effect the introduction soon, but fate, it seems, has lent a hand.”

  O'Hanlon had been fiddling with the tableware as he spoke. Now he looked up and into Rick's eyes.

  “Just as I thought,” he said.“Lovesick. You have my deepest sympathy, but I advise you to put the very thought out of your mind. She's not for you, lad, and there's no gainsaying it.” He began polishing a perfectly clean knife.“But just as in the days of old, when warring kingdoms could settle their differences in a rational and civilized manner in the furtherance of their common interests, so can we today ameliorate our differences by letting the young people bring us together. Good for Solomon. Good for me. Good for her. And good for you, too, if you're smart enough to see it that way.”

  He put the knife down.“There's a lot of very hungry men in this town, lad,” he said.

  “Aren't you big boys ever going to join us?” drawled Mae West, who had sashayed over from the other table.“You know how rude it is to leave me with only two gentlemen?”

  O'Hanlon stood up.“I was just remarking how hungry I was gettin’,” he said to her.“Shall we join the ladies, Mr. Baline?”

  Rick glanced over at the adjacent table. Raft appeared to be in the middle of a funny story. Meredith had both arms on the table, chortling away.

  Lois was leaning against him, laughing gaily, her left hand on his arm, her hair brushing his face.

  “I think maybe I’m not wanted over there,” he said.

  O'Hanlon shrugged jauntily.“Suit yourself, lad,” he said.“It's the wise man who knows where his place isn't.”

  They shook hands, and O'Hanlon pulled Rick close.“I heard about what you did, saving your boss from taking a hit from one of my boys. Very brave of you. But very stupid as well. Remember: Only a sucker is willing to take a bullet for another man, no matter who he is. Stick your neck out for no one, that's my motto, Mr. Baline. You'll find you live longer that way.”

  Rick made to leave. He couldn't wait to get out of there.

  “One more thing,” said O'Hanlon.“Always go with the winner, whether it's in a horse race, at the gaming tables, or at the fights. The smart man always knows who the winner's going to be in advance.” He patted Rick avuncularly on the arm.“Your boss has been warned. And so have you. The smart man hears and heeds a warning. You look like a smart lad to me. It's your chief I’m not so sure about.”

  At that instant, Rick saw Meredith kiss Lois, a quick peck on the cheek. Her eyes were shining like the diamonds he would never be able to give her. And here he was going to propose to her this very night. He felt like a fool.

  “Ain't love grand!” said Mae West, who ought to know.

  “I’ll see she gets home safely,” Dion O'Hanlon said.“You can count on me.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Don't you see, Ricky?” Renault was saying,“it's crazy. Even if the bomb goes off, even if it actually kills Heydrich—and I have my doubts on that score—the consequences will be dire for everybody left standing. And I most certainly include myself in that number.”

  Renault was pacing around Rick's rooms at Brown's. Sam was playing at Morton's. Rick was sitting in a wing chair.

  “A bomb thrown into his car as he comes over the Charles Bridge from the StarÉ Mesto! It's preposterous! The chances of its actually working are one in a hundred, maybe one in a thousand. How is the assassin supposed to get away? How is he even going to get close to him? What if the device malfunctions?”

  “That's what the rest of the team is for,” Rick reminded him.“That's why they're carrying guns.” He laughed.“That's why they may even get a chance to use them.”

  Renault was unconvinced.“As if they would have a chance against Heydrich's security men.”

  Rick blew a smoke ring into the air.“I really don't think Victor Laszlo cares much whether he gets out of Prague alive, as long as Heydrich doesn't.”

  “Why are you going, then?”

  “Because it amuses me. Because I like lost causes. Because I have nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. Because it's time to stand and fight instead of sitting this one out on the sidelines.”

  “Fight for her, you mean,” said Renault.“For Ilsa Lund. Or is it more than that?”

  “It's a lot of things.”

  Renault looked at his friend.“Ricky, back in Casablanca I asked you why you couldn't return to America. You gave me a very evasive
answer.”

  “It was the truth, Louie.”

  “If you don't want to tell me—”

  “I can't.”

  “—or if you can't tell me, very well. But let me ask you this: After you left New York, why did you spend all those years in Ethiopia and Spain, fighting for the losing side? Surely a man of your sophistication would have known that neither the overwhelmed Ethiopians nor the outgunned Republicans had a Chinaman's chance.”

  “Maybe I liked the odds.”

  “Why?”

  “Do I have to draw you a picture?” Rick fought the impulse to get angry; it wasn't Renault's fault he was curious. Hell, he'd be curious himself if he didn't already know the answer.“I was trying to get myself killed.” He shrugged.“I failed.”

  “That really doesn't explain anything,” said Renault.

  “Okay,” said Rick.“Let's just say that a long time ago I did something I wasn't proud of. I made a mistake—hell, I made a whole series of mistakes—and before I knew what hit me, a lot of people I loved were dead and it was my fault. It cost me everything I had. I’m still paying for it.”

  Rick and Renault both fell silent for a time. Neither was very comfortable exchanging confidences.

  “What else is bothering you?” Rick said suddenly.“You're acting like a cat on a hot stove. Don't tell me you're losing your nerve.”

  Renault sat down in the chair across from Rick's.“I’m not quite sure how to say this,” he began.

  Rick looked up. It was not like Renault to speak with anything but derision.“Try English. You know how bad my French is.”

  “I’m serious, Ricky,” replied Renault.“We have a saying in France,‘Albion perfide.’ Perfidious Albion. Treacherous England.”

  “Maybe you should have stayed in Casablanca,” Rick suggested.

  Renault rose, drawing himself up to his full height. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.“What I mean,” he said angrily,“is that something about this whole operation stinks to high heaven. I know something about fixes—”