Vamps, Villains and Vaudeville

by Ellen Mansoor Collier

  Finally Mack approached my desk, dangling some papers before my nose like a feed bucket. “Thought you might like to take a look before it goes to press.”

  “What’s that?” I feigned indifference, wondering who he wanted to torture in print.

  “See for yourself. Make it snappy. Wanna make the evening edition.” With a smirk, he dropped the papers on my desk, pulled out a cigar and stepped outside.

  Skimming the pages, I felt my face grow hot as I read Mack’s article, full of innuendos and implications about Sammy. His diatribe claimed the cops released Sammy not only because he’d paid them off, but implied that he served as a go-between with the gangs—he all but called Sammy a snitch. Mack may as well have signed Sammy’s death warrant. Talk about libel!

  “The question remains: How has Sammy Cook, who’s been in and out of prison for the past year, managed to escape the law’s wrath? Could it be that he plays both sides, as friend and foe to both the local gangs and police force? Perhaps his alliance with Prohibition Agent James Burton explains away his luck with the law. Other than his ramshackle bar on Market Street, Cook doesn’t seem to have been born with a silver or even silver-plated spoon in his double-dealing mouth.”

  Livid, I clutched the papers, my hands shaking, trying to control my breathing. How dare he! Mack still stood outside, yakking it up with a few newsboys who lingered on the steps, taking a smoke.

  Surely Mr. Thomas would object to such a flagrant piece of sensationalism without any hard evidence. No use confronting the enemy directly, so I decided to take Mack’s tripe to the top—and walked into Mr. Thomas’ office without knocking.

  “Have you seen this yet?” I sputtered. “Mack’s latest handiwork.”

  I bit my lip, tempted to say “hatchet job” since he’d chopped Sammy to pieces in print, but didn’t need to editorialize. Fortunately the editor-in-chief was a decent, fair man with a good reputation to uphold. His friendship with my father had landed me this job, and I trusted his judgement.

  While waiting for his reaction, I glared at Mack through Mr. Thomas’ window. By now, Mack had figured out what I was doing and he stormed back inside the office, also without knocking.

  His eyes shifted back and forth between us. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “A conspiracy?”

  Mr. Thomas slowly placed the paper on his desk, his fingers laced. “Why don’t you answer that question, Mack? What was your motive in writing this piece of yellow journalism? Are you trying to provoke a gang war? Why are you trying to tarnish this man’s name, and possibly get him killed in the bargain? Have you gotten an official statement from Chief Johnson saying Sammy Cook is a police informant, or is this simply sensationalism based on mere observation and opinion?”

  Mack looked dumbfounded. “From what I’ve seen, all evidence points to...”

  “What evidence? I don’t see one bit of evidence to support your theory. We don’t publish libelous statements that might implicate a man in print. You can’t serve as both judge and jury.” Furious, Mr. Thomas gathered up the pages and threw them in the trash.

  “That’s my only copy!” Mack protested, starting to pull the papers from the trash bin.

  Mr. Thomas stuck his leg out and pushed the bin away. “Leave it there—where it belongs. We’re not a yellow rag. I’d advise you to work on stories with more merit, backed up by fact, not fiction.”

  By now, I couldn’t hide my smile and turned to Mack with glee—and yes, to gloat. Mack gave me such an indignant glare that I pretended to shiver with fright. Mack stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

  “Thank you,” I told Mr. Thomas.

  “You’re welcome. But I didn’t do it only for you and your friend Sammy. I wanted to avoid a libel lawsuit—and to keep the peace between the gangs and local law enforcement.”

  “Whatever the reason, you saved the day—and probably Sammy’s life.”

  Mr. Thomas gave me a wink. “It’s the least I can do for you and your father. After all, I made him a promise—to look out for his children, both of them.”

  I stared at him in surprise. So Mr. Thomas knew about Sammy all along. I opened my mouth to speak, but he only nodded at me as a reply. Without a word, I left his office and returned to my desk, too rattled to work.

  Still now I had to face the wrath of Mack. “What in hell were you doing, going behind my back? Who said you could give Mr. Thomas my article?” His chubby face looked like an overripe tomato, ready to burst. “I should have known better than to show my work to a ditzy dame.”

  “Who are you calling a ditzy dame?” I gave him the once-over, hands on my hips. “At least I don’t use snitches for sources and pass off rumors as facts just to sell papers.”

  A couple of guys jeered, and Mack moved closer to me, fisting his right hand. “My stories pay for your wages.”

  “Oh yeah? Maybe you should take up fiction and start writing serials for the penny dreadfuls!” I shot back, emboldened by Mr. Thomas’ support.

  “Mind your own beeswax. If you weren’t a dame, I’d slug you,” Mack threatened, inching forward.

  “What a gentleman.” Eyes blazing, I stood my ground, all five-feet-five inches, knowing I wouldn’t be so brave once we left the office. So much more I could say, but name-calling never accomplished anything.

  “Lay off, Mack.” Nathan stood between us, hands out like a referee. “Men aren’t supposed to hit girls.” I knew he was thinking of Holly, who’d survived her boyfriend’s brutal attack.

  “Tell that to the wife-beaters who kill their spouses and get away with murder.” I glared at Mack. “Sammy may own a speakeasy, but at least he knows how to treat women with courtesy and respect.”

  Mack seemed to deflate before my eyes. “If Sammy’s such a hero, maybe he should run for mayor. Better yet, governor of Texas.”

  “Thanks for the suggestion.” Still fuming, I let my breath out slowly, trying not to provoke him any longer. From now on, I knew I’d have to learn the world of journalism on my own, without Mack’s guidance. Not that he’d offered much help in the past.

  If my heroine—famed female journalist Nellie Bly—could travel the world in seventy-two days all alone, couldn’t I navigate a small-potatoes town like Galveston on my own?

  Mr. Thomas stuck his head out of his office. “What’s the ruckus out here? Why don’t you reporters go cool your heels? We’ve got a deadline at noon.” He gave Mack a warning look. “Work on something we can actually print.”

  Mack looked like he’d been struck by a firing squad as he skulked off to his desk. Glad Mrs. Harper wasn’t around to hear our latest row, and lecture me on “unladylike behavior.”

  To cool off, I headed to the broom closet that doubled as the ladies’ room, and stopped Nathan on his way to develop photos. “Thanks for sticking up for me. I can’t believe Mack was such a bully today. What’s wrong—are the gangs threatening him again?”

  Nathan pulled me inside the darkroom. “We need to talk.” Inside, the room glowed an eerie red. Photos hung from wires strung across the ceiling like a clothes line.

  “I’ve never seen Mack so volatile, so out of control before, have you?” I shook my head. “What was he thinking, writing those ridiculous lies? The paper could be sued for libel!”

  Nathan nodded in understanding. “Between us, I think Mack’s been hitting the bottle a little too hard. To go off half-cocked that way, in the middle of the newsroom?”

  “Mack should dry out before he comes to work and takes out his frustrations on us. Prohibition was passed because of drunks like him. I doubt Mr. Thomas will put up with his antics for long.”

  “You said it,” Nathan agreed. “Mack’s on thin ice. One of these days, I’m afraid he may go too far.”

  ******

  CHAPTER FORTY

  That evening when the door bell rang, I opened the door expecting to see Agent Burton, but jerked back in surprise when I spied Sam Maceo standing on the porch. After all, it’s not every day th
at a notorious gangster shows up at your door.

  “Well, hello, Mr. Maceo,” I stammered, trying to regain my composure. “I didn’t know you made house calls.”

  “Call me Sam.” Maceo flashed me a smooth smile and held out a hand. “I remember you—from the paper, right? I’m here to pick up our pal, Sammy Cook.” He didn’t seem the least fazed that we all appeared to be staying at the same boarding house—no doubt he had a no-questions-asked policy that kept him out of more trouble.

  Sammy appeared next to me with a devilish grin. “Ready to go, Big Sam.”

  I gave Sammy a questioning look, but he only winked.

  “Keep up the good work,” Maceo called out to me as they left. What did that mean? Did he have my editors in his back pocket or did he actually read the society pages?

  “What in the world is Sammy doing with Sam Maceo?” I said to Amanda. “I know they’re friends, but if Johnny Jack or any of his men catch Sammy with the Maceos....”

  “I wouldn’t worry. Did you see the muscle he brought along?”

  Indeed, two armed thugs leaned against Sam Maceo’s fancy black Cadillac, parked not-so-discreetly across the street. I only hoped the neighbors wouldn’t notice—fortunately, it was getting dark. Wouldn’t that have been a spectacle if Agent Burton also appeared at that moment?

  After they left, Eva stuck her head out of the kitchen. “Who was that, Agent Burton? Why didn’t he come inside for a bit?”

  “Just a friend of Sammy’s. He’ll be back later,” I said quickly.

  Close call! What would Eva say if she knew Sam Maceo and his goons had shown up at her boarding house?

  For once, Burton was running late so I checked my new frock and matching wool cloche in the hallway mirror. No, it wasn’t the fanciest shindig in town, but I wanted an excuse to wear my latest finds from Eiband’s.

  By the time Burton picked me up, we only had fifteen minutes until curtain. In his Roadster, I asked, “What was the hold-up?”

  “We got back our reports from the M.E. on Nick Turturo’s murder. Turns out he wasn’t only strangled, he’d been stabbed.”

  “Stabbed? You mean like Patrick?” I was stunned. “Do you think it was the same person who killed Patrick?”

  “We don’t know yet. The captain suspects it may have been a revenge killing—to even the score for Patrick’s death. Or we go back to our theory that perhaps it’s a copycat, to throw off the police.”

  “Who had ties to both Musey and the vaudeville troupe—and the most to lose?” I wondered.

  Burton and I traded looks, both voicing our suspicions. “The director, Draper?”

  “I thought he didn’t want to get his hands dirty. At least that’s what Derek told me,” I reasoned. “Besides, wouldn’t he ask someone else to do the deed?”

  “Let’s keep our eyes on Draper tonight,” Burton said, parking in front of Martini Theatre. When the valet came out to object, Burton simply flashed his badge and the young man retreated, hands up in apology.

  Inside the theatre, the lights were dim and the M.C. had just started introducing the new acts. As we settled in our seats by the aisle, I glanced at the program, noting quite a few changes in the line-up, to cover for the actors who had dropped out or “disappeared.”

  The first few acts remained the same, save for Bella, the ballerina, who did a short routine from the Nutcracker, probably to promote the show starting two weeks before Christmas.

  A cute Pierrot and Columbine sketch was next—with a handsome harlequin added who was vying for her affections—a sort of modern-day love triangle. Naturally, Pierrot won her heart in the end. Was there ever any doubt?

  I glanced over at Burton, wondering if he considered Derek a rival at all? Perhaps he was a bit too sure of himself to feel threatened by an old beau. Speaking of, Derek appeared on stage next, twirling his handlebar moustache and swishing his cape around, acting more dastardly than ever. No chance that a hometown actor would be cut from the routine since he was so popular with the audience. Mrs. Harper and his mother made sure of that with their fawning “reports.”

  Burton kept his eyes glued to the stage, waiting and watching the director, who doubled as the MC and appeared to introduce or explain a new act. So far, nothing seemed amiss or out of order. I nudged Burton, whispering, “See anything unusual tonight?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head. “That’s what worries me. It’s running like clockwork.”

  After someone shushed us, I slid down in my seat, staring at Derek from my safe distance. I had to admit, he’d turned into a handsome man, almost the polar opposite of Burton with his dark hair and eyes and pale skin. Even his wanderlust spirit seemed appealing since I’d definitely felt restless lately.

  The orchestra broke into a crescendo during the fight between the sheriff and the villain, with the cowboy circling Derek in a menacing way. Tonight Derek was ultra dramatic, waving his arms around and rubbing his hands together in a most evil fashion. Was he overdoing the theatrics a bit for my sake?

  When the cowboy finally pulled out his pistol and took a shot at Derek—I mean, the villain—his eyes widened and he dropped convincingly in a heap onto the stage floor.

  He had outdone himself this time—was it for my benefit? When the curtain fell, the audience leapt to its feet, shouting out “Bravo!” Whether it was for Derek’s dramatic demise or the overall production, I couldn’t tell, but the applause was long and appreciative.

  Soon the curtain calls came and the acts appeared one by one to take their bows, the applause growing louder each time. When the final act came onstage, the sheriff appeared alone, without Derek. Strange.

  Was Derek taking a separate bow? Had he hurt himself when he tumbled down? If I knew Derek, he basked in the limelight—so why wasn’t he there?

  “I didn’t see anything suspicious tonight, did you?” Burton said as he reluctantly stood up to applaud a second and third curtain call. Still no Derek.

  “Something’s wrong,” I told him after the final curtain. “Derek’s not onstage.”

  “Probably too busy helping the girls out of their costumes,” Burton cracked.

  I ignored his jab. “I’ll go backstage, see where he is.”

  “Want me to come?”

  “No need. I’ll return in a jiffy.”

  I snuck past the stage and climbed up the side steps behind the curtain, surrounded by a flurry of excited performers, speaking in loud, exaggerated voices.

  “Did you see the crowd? They loved us!” the sword-swallower exclaimed.

  “We were the bee’s knees tonight!” an acrobat agreed.

  I smiled at their enthusiastic expressions. Looking around for a familiar face, I spied Bella the ballerina, who’d already changed into a smart wool suit, yet she was easy to recognize from the tiara still attached to her head, her long blonde hair in a bun. Always a prima donna.

  When I approached, she frowned and turned in the other direction. Frantic, I poked my head down a few halls but couldn’t find Derek. I saw Milo rush past followed by his assistant, still in their sparkly costumes topped with capes. Her long black velvet cape fanned out as she hurried by, and I held out my arm to stop her.

  “You’re Millie, right? Have you seen Derek? I didn’t see him onstage after the show.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.” She threw out her hands and kept walking. “You know how crazy things get after a performance.”

  Trying to stall, my eyes focused on a striking jeweled brooch shaped like a horseshoe pinned on her velvet lapel.

  “What a pretty pin!” I reached out to touch the gleaming gem, realizing it was the same one the wealthy woman described at the Galvez. “Very chic.” And expensive, I thought.

  Her face brightened and she placed her hand over the pin, possessively. “It’s a gift from a fella. I couldn’t possibly afford such a luxury on my pauper’s salary.”

  “Lucky you. Who’s the generous guy?” I smiled.

  Was Millie havi
ng an affair with Milo, twice her age? Perhaps it was an actor or musician—or did she steal the jewelry herself?

  “Oh, he works with the troupe.” Millie shrugged, looking around nervously.

  “So unusual. Looks like a Flato design.” I watched her reaction.

  “Flato?” Her blue eyes flashed and her sweet face turned stony when she realized that I knew. “Thanks. Say, I think Derek may be in his dressing room.”

  She led me by the elbow down a side hall to a room in the back, away from the gaiety and the noise. I noticed her fingers felt sticky, waxy—rosin?

  “I don’t need an escort.” I yanked away from her grasp, but her talons dug deeper as she shoved me inside. Various props covered the room, a rack of costumes stood to one side, and a row of make-up mirrors lined one wall. At least she told the truth about the dressing room.

  “What do you want?” she hissed, twisting my arm.

  Ouch! I had no idea such a tiny gal could be so strong. “Jewelry, is that it? Did Derek send you here?”

  “Jewelry?” I tried to remain calm, so she wouldn’t overreact. “Horsefeathers!” I forced a laugh. “I got worried when Derek didn’t make his curtain call, that’s all.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How much did he tell you?”

  My heart began a slow thud. “Enough to know the troupe is in trouble. Maybe I can help you?”

  “How?” Millie’s sweet face twisted. “By ratting us out to the cops? Your Fed fella? The papers?”

  “I’m here as a friend, not as a reporter. Derek said Draper was behind all these thefts, that you were all victims, forced to steal on demand.”

  She let out a sigh. “Now you understand the pressure we’re under, trying to keep this stupid show going. They expect us to perform round the clock, onstage and off.”

  “You mean Milo and Draper? Did they force Patrick to steal the jewels?”