Vamps, Villains and Vaudeville

by Ellen Mansoor Collier

  Funny choice of words. “You didn’t give her a ring? Did you actually propose to her? Or was it her idea?” I tried to contain my nosiness, but I wasn’t succeeding.

  “We sort of fell into it. Nothing that formal.” Burton seemed amused as he looked over the menu. “What would you like to eat?”

  I got the hint. Now I was really curious—and how! How could we discuss trout vs. salmon, or lasagna vs. chicken marsala or anything when all I could think about was his ex-fiancée? So many questions I wanted to ask, but perhaps she should remain a mystery.

  After the waiter took our order—mixed grill and seafood—I had a chance to glance around Mario’s. Candles flickered in the dim lights and a violinist strolled around the restaurant, stopping at each table to accept a request or more likely, a tip. Personally I preferred jazz, yet I enjoyed listening to classical music for a change.

  During dinner, we made small talk, careful not to bring up the bloody knife or missing man or even Derek in case of eavesdroppers. I literally had to bite my lips and tongue to keep from blurting out nosy, none-of-my-business questions. Still, it seemed forced, when all I wanted to do was ask about his ex: What was she like? Was she pretty? Why did you really call it quits?

  Finally when I couldn’t stand it, I asked, “Why did you move to Galveston—because of your break-up?”

  He nodded. “Partly. I needed to get out of upstate New York. I felt suffocated, stagnant, living and working in the same town where I grew up.”

  “Why Galveston, so far away? I imagine it’s very different than what you’re used to.”

  “That’s exactly why I accepted this assignment.” He grinned. “I thought an island atmosphere might seem more like a tropical vacation. Lucky for me, I got to meet you, and enjoy the company of a beautiful woman.”

  What a line! “Boy, you’re a smooth talker.” I batted my lashes. “Keep it up, handsome.”

  Without warning, a menacing man knocked into our table and stood there, as if daring Burton to fight. The table wobbled and I reached out to steady the candles, worried the tablecloth might catch on fire. I looked up to see a thug glaring at Burton, a smirk on his strong features.

  The waiter arrived with our dinners, took one look and scurried away to the kitchen. The restaurant buzz died down to a whisper while the diners waited for Burton’s reaction. Slowly he removed his napkin and stood up, facing the bully, not afraid to back down.

  “Excuse me, but I believe you bumped our table,” Burton said evenly, working his jaw. “If you have anything to say to me, we can go outside. Now.”

  The goon patted his tailored jacket pocket, indicating a gun. He moved inches away from Burton, chest puffed out like a rooster.

  “I’ll say it to your face, Fed. Johnny Jack has a message for you and your good pal, Sammy: Keep off the Downtown Gang’s turf—or else.”

  My stomach knotted. How did this thug know Burton and Sammy were friends?

  “Oh yeah?” Burton leaned in, blue eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat?”

  “I’d call it a warning.” The hood glared at Burton, his eyes dark as coals. “You’ll know when it’s a threat.”

  Then he tipped his hat, leaning over so close I smelled whiskey on his breath. “Sorry to spoil your dinner, little lady. But if you know what’s good for you, I’d suggest you find another fella.”

  What? Why was he threatening both of us—in public? Was he gunning for both Burton and Sammy? I held my breath, placing my hands in my lap so no one could see them shaking. If he really wanted to harm Burton, he could have shot at him, at us, outside. A scary thought.

  The goon left as suddenly as he’d appeared while the diners stared at Burton, perhaps hoping for a real showdown. He seemed unfazed—or else he was a better actor than Derek.

  “Who was that bully?” I asked when I could breathe.

  Burton pressed his mouth tight. “George Musey. He runs the Downtown Gang when Johnny Jack Nounes is gone or occupied.”

  “That’s George Musey?” I shivered. “Sammy says he’s dangerous, worse than Nounes.”

  The hard-boiled gangsters knew how to keep their ugly mugs out of the papers and the public eye. Safer for them, not for their rivals. In contrast, Sam Maceo reveled in the spotlight, always eager to spread his goodwill and retain his good name.

  “We haven’t crossed paths before, but I’ve heard rumors.” Burton patted my hand, as if comforting a frightened child. “Sorry about that interruption. Where were we?” He signaled for the waiter, who stood by the kitchen door, eyes wide.

  “Is everything jake?” the young waiter asked warily, and set down our plates.

  “Just a misunderstanding,” Burton said, picking up a fork. “Looks good.”

  “James, how can we eat when that gangster just threatened us—in front of everyone?” I tried to keep the fear out of my voice. “Is he just bluffing?”

  “You know how Rose Maceo watches out for Big Sam, Ollie Quinn and the Beach Gang?”

  “Of course. He’s Sam Maceo’s big brother, the protector and the punisher.” Everyone in Galveston knew Rose Maceo’s penchant for guns and fists.

  “Right. George Musey plays the same role in the Downtown Gang. He’s Johnny Jack’s right-hand man, known for his violence and hot temper. He acts first, thinks later—as mean and cold as a rattlesnake.”

  Burton put down his fork, his voice low. “Sorry to say, we’d better not be seen together for a while, until this incident dies down.”

  “Dies down?” Poor choice of words. “What about Sammy? Think they’ll find him?” I gulped, worried they might track him down in Houston.

  “That goes double for Sammy.” Burton stared out the window, watching the fog slowly envelop the night. “No one escapes the Downtown Gang and gets away. Not from Nounes or Musey. Not for long.”

  ******

  CHAPTER TEN

  Here we go again...I shuddered, afraid of Musey’s threats, worried about both Burton and Sammy. Thank goodness Sammy was safe in Houston—60 miles away from Galveston.

  I waited for the violinist to start playing, to drown out our conversation before I badgered Burton for more information. “What I want to know is, why did Musey show up out of the blue? Do you think he followed us? Or did some snitch call him the moment we arrived?”

  “Possible,” Burton nodded. “Musey and Johnny Jack obviously have friends here, or they get a piece of the take. For all we know, the gang controls this place. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mario’s was a front for mob activity, an easy way to launder money.”

  “Makes sense. But why did he threaten you like that? He’s taking a big risk, confronting you in public. I thought mobsters worked in the shadows, behind the scenes.”

  “Musey thinks he’s the head honcho while Johnny Jack is gone.” Burton rearranged his silverware as he spoke. “Nounes must still be out of town, maybe looking for new suppliers and outlets for his booze, or perhaps new business partners. So Musey sees a chance to take over his pal’s operation, when he’s not looking.”

  “While the big cat is away, the rats come out to play.” Suspicious, I glanced at the diners, who tried to avert their eyes. “They seem innocent enough. Still, I wonder if anyone here is also involved in the Downtown Gang? In any case, I’m getting the willies. Why don’t we shake a leg?”

  “You mean do the Charleston? Here?” Burton cracked.

  I smiled at his joke. “You’re a riot.”

  “What about dessert? No ice cream?” Burton teased, knowing my cravings for sweets.

  “You said the magic word. I’m not ready to go home.”

  After we paid, Burton helped me with my coat and we began heading for the hat check stand. That’s when I heard a woman cry out, “My beaded bag! Help! Somebody stole my purse!”

  Burton rushed over to the attractive young woman, and diners gawked while the maitre d’ and staff gathered round. I stood near her table, craning my neck to listen.

  “Madam, are you sure there hasn’t b
een a mistake?” The maitre d’ looked upset as he tried to calm the crowd. “Perhaps it was misplaced during dinner. Why don’t we help you look for it? We can search the premises at once.”

  “Of course I’m sure.” The flapper’s short curls bobbed, and she threw down her white napkin, indignant. “I always carry an evening purse to dine out. One minute my bag was on the table, the next moment it was gone.”

  “When did you first notice it was missing?” Burton asked her.

  Nervously, the young woman clutched her throat, gasping, “Say, you’re the man involved in the tussle with that bully. My purse disappeared right after he left. I’ve looked everywhere, in my coat pocket, even under the table. I’m so worried! I kept my valuables in there.”

  “Were you seated here all night or did you go to the powder room?” Burton asked.

  “We’ve been right here the whole time,” her dapper date confirmed, squeezing her trembling hand. “She never left my side. Some scoundrel lifted it right off the table!”

  “If you give me your information, we can investigate further,” Burton offered.

  She frowned, her blue eyes anxious. “Say, who are you? A cop?”

  “I work with the police department, yes.” Burton smiled to console her. Thank goodness he didn’t announce that he was a Prohibition agent to the unsuspecting guests. We’d had enough drama for one evening.

  “Before I give out any private information, you should search your entire staff!” The flapper pointed at the workers standing by, singling out our waiter. “Start with him! He hovered over me all night, admiring my jewelry. Probably trying to find a way to steal my purse!”

  The poor young waiter’s face turned beet-red as he turned his pockets inside out and the maitre d’ patted him down. “Nothing, madam,” the maitre d’ said with relief.

  “Well, then I want all of your workers searched, including the kitchen help. At once!”

  Nodding, the maitre d’ clapped his hands and asked our waiter to get the remaining kitchen staff. Clutching my mesh bag, I motioned for Burton to come over. Of course I empathized with the victim—getting robbed was my least favorite activity—but this could take all night.

  Who was this rich gal anyway, and why did everyone kowtow to her demands? She seemed familiar, yet in her low-cut shimmery beaded gown and jeweled choker, she looked more like a vamp or a gangster’s moll, not a society princess. Were those real gems or rhinestones?

  “Does every person here need to be searched and interrogated?” I sighed to Burton. “Robbery isn’t even your department. What if it takes all night?”

  “Just being a good Samaritan. But you’re right. I can think of better things to do with our time. I’ll get her information so we can leave.”

  While Burton wrote down the victim’s name and phone number, I surveyed the dining room, wondering about the timing of the theft. Had the thief used our confrontation with Musey as a chance to steal the bag—or would Musey’s men be that stupid and greedy?

  Outside, stars covered the night sky, twinkling like white Christmas lights. “Glad Musey’s gone. He gave me the creeps.” I shuddered.

  “Musey is a creepy fella.” Burton smiled. “Sure it’s not too nippy for you?”

  “I like the cool night air. Such a pleasant change from the muggy summers.”

  “You said it. Galveston is almost tolerable in the fall.”

  “Say, why don’t we get ice cream cones at Tootsies? Then we can take a walk on the Seawall,” I suggested.

  “Sounds swell.” Burton helped me get into his Roadster and we headed to the beach.

  As we strolled along the Seawall, he took my hand, and I snuggled against his shoulder, glad for a change of scene. Now the unease and awkwardness I’d felt earlier after Derek’s surprise visit was gone, almost forgotten. The waves curled and unfurled as we listened to the ocean sounds, the screeching seagulls, the roar of Model Ts and Cadillacs and Studebakers driving down Beach Boulevard.

  Still, the ugly confrontation with Musey stuck in my mind, and I couldn’t help but bring it up again: “Do you think it’s just a coincidence that the woman’s purse was stolen after Musey appeared? Think he may be connected?”

  Burton shook his head. “Frankly, petty theft is beneath a hard-boiled hood like Musey. He’s in the big leagues, not a common criminal. I doubt he or his men would stoop so low as to swipe a handbag. That’s like taking penny candy from the five-and-dime—an easy mark.”

  I held onto Burton’s arm as we watched the waves crash onshore. “Maybe Musey thinks we’re easy marks. He has some nerve, threatening a Fed agent in such a busy restaurant. What does he want with you?”

  “Musey’s just testing me while Nounes is gone.” Burton shrugged. “He wants money, power, control, like any typical gang leader.”

  Great—that’s all Galveston needed: more cut-throat gangsters vying to be top gun, literally.

  ******

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Agent Burton and I stopped for some chocolate chip ice cream at Tootsie’s, and for once it didn’t drip all over my glad rags. As we walked along the Seawall, the soft breeze turned into chilly gusts of wind. Burton noticed me shivering, and placed his jacket over my coat, gallant as usual. Afterwards he drove me home and we lingered on the porch saying our good-byes, but he didn’t come inside.

  Too much had happened that day, too many unpleasant surprises. Burton brushed my cheeks with a light kiss and waved as he drove off.

  Disappointed in his let’s-be-friends parting peck, I went inside, wondering if he was still angry about Derek. After making small talk with Amanda and Eva, I crept upstairs and turned on my Egyptian maiden perfume lamp, hoping the fresh citrus scent would lull me to sleep. Instead of sleeping, I tossed and turned, replaying the day’s events, anxious about Burton and Sammy—again.

  By the time I finally nodded off, I dreamed that Musey and Derek were villains in the vaudeville show, complete with black top hats and capes. Burton and Sammy played the heroes, of course, and wore cream-colored Stetsons and badges on their lapels.

  The lawmen circled the evil villains, guns drawn like an old silent Western, when a shot rang out and a body fell to the ground. The dream seemed so real that I awoke in a cold sweat, frightened to death, not knowing if the good guys or bad guys had won.

  Sunday

  Sunday morning, I got up early and dressed for work, hoping to get a sneak peek at my review. From past experience, I expected it to be edited beyond recognition, and wanted to be prepared for any changes. Since I now knew Derek acted in the show, I wondered what he’d think of my critique—not that his stereotypic villain performance rated much of a mention.

  The trolley squeaked and creaked as it bounced along, keeping me from falling asleep. Outside the Gazette building, Finn hawked the Sunday paper, giving me a bright smile. Figured newsies and news hawks never got Sundays off. “Hiya, Jazz. What’cha know?”

  “Whatever I read in the paper.” I grinned and handed him a few coins. Noticing his threadbare outfit and worn-out shoes, I made a mental note to find him some suitable clothing. Still, Finn was too proud to accept charity, so I’d have to invent a reason to give him a new change of clothes. Maybe a job as a copy boy?

  “Sold many papers today, Finn?”

  His face fell. “Waiting for folks to get out of church.”

  He made it sound like they were locked up in prison. “I’m sure you can find a few sinners on the sidewalks.” All he had to do was find the nearest speakeasy. “Hey, did you see my review in today’s entertainment section?”

  “You don’t say. Attagirl, Jazz!” Finn beamed at me as I pointed out my review, doubtful he could even read.

  Luckily the newsroom was quiet and I sat down at my desk for a quick look. The vaudeville troupe had provided stock photos of the show and actors, naturally highlighting their best features. Derek’s handsome face was positioned right next to my piece, as if he headlined the show.

  To be honest, seeing him a
gain stirred up feelings that I didn’t even remember, or didn’t want to acknowledge. Had Burton noticed?

  I skimmed the review, comparing it to my original version. So far, so good. But near the end, I stopped to re-read the part about the villain. Apparently the director or someone contacted the paper to make sure Derek’s name was included as a last-minute replacement, stating that the original lead actor had dropped out at the last minute without mentioning why. The review implied that Derek had not only saved the day, but the entire show, with his professional performance.

  What? I didn’t write that!

  A short sidebar with Derek’s bio listed his credits and high school accomplishments with a bold 24-point headline: HOMETOWN ACTOR HEADED FOR HOLLYWOOD and a smaller subhead: A STAR IS BORN IN GALVESTON.

  “Damn!” I muttered out loud. What hogwash! The article seemed to gush over Derek and his talents, highlighting his meager roles in local plays and regional productions as if he were the next Douglas Fairbanks or Lionel Barrymore.

  Worse, since the bio wasn’t by-lined, folks might assume I did the gushing. Oh, brother—this publicity stunt was beyond humiliation.

  Who planted this piece of claptrap—the director? Derek’s high-school drama teacher? What would Derek and Burton think when they read this puff piece? No doubt they’d assume I still had a crush on my ex-beau. Who had the gall to publish this junk—my boss?

  Of course I was no Dorothy Parker and the Gazette didn’t compare to The New Yorker, but this scheme seemed totally unethical, not to mention unprofessional. Did Dottie ever have to endure such a disgrace?

  My short-lived career as a theatre critic had ended before it began. Fawning and gushing didn’t qualify as an actual critique. Could I ever undo this damage?

  Furious, I crumpled up the paper and threw it in the trash—where it belonged.