Innocence Lost

by Sherilyn Decter

  “It’s lonely, yes. I miss having someone to talk to about Tommy. That’s my son. And I miss having someone look at me in that certain way. You know?” Maggie says, wiggling her eyebrows like Edith had. Both women laugh. “It’s tough only being someone’s mother. I enjoyed being someone’s wife.”

  “I getcha, doll. I’m alone a lot, too. Mickey’s on the road a ton and doesn’t take me with him as much as he used to.”

  “He’s working hard?”

  “Oh yeah. Who knows when this Prohibition gravy train will stop? Right now we're sitting pretty, raking in the dough. And it keeps me in glad rags and hats.” Edith flutters her eyelashes and blows a kiss to Maggie. “But everybody knows it's gotta end sometime.”

  The Inspector’s instruction included not to be too eager. “Oh, gosh, look at the time. I must run. Edith, thank you so much for a wonderful afternoon. Next time it’s Child’s, okay? And let me know how the new hat works out.”

  “Ab-so-lute-ly, Maggie. Getting together again will be the bee’s-knees.” Edith jumps up and gives Maggie a big, noisy kiss on the cheek. She scribbles her telephone number on the back of a napkin. “See you soon, doll.”

  Chapter 35

  S ince he’s moved to the city, Joe’s seen so much. Heard it, too. After all, he is more than a police officer; he’s Fanny’s fella and there’s a lot of razzamatazz in that gal. He thinks jazz is the perfect music for these times. Heck, he wouldn’t even be surprised if folks in the future look back and call it The Jazz Age.

  Every time has its symbols. For the 1920s, it’s the music. Jazz, the voice of freedom and abandon. Get out there and improvise, take chances, break rules. It’s the only music where the same note can be played night after night, but sound different each time. There’s wildness in jazz, and it flows out of the clubs and speakeasies and onto the streets.

  Downtown Philadelphia sparkles at night. The streetlights glow and the electric bulbs in the marquee signs above the clubs and restaurants blaze brightly. Folks dolled up in their glad rags and wrapped in furs head into clubs and speakeasies up and down the strip. Anything can happen on a night like tonight, and usually does.

  The strip stands for everything that Colonel Smedley Butler despises about his assignment as the chief law enforcement officer in Philadelphia. It’s a wanton flaunting of the law. He’s offended by the giddiness people feel at being outlaws. If there was no demand, there’d be no bootleggers or moonshiners, and the city would be a safer place. Joe knows, despite Butler only being on the job a few months, that the colonel‘s determined to restore dignity and authority to the city.

  Joe stands in the squad room with other policemen; they’re getting ready for the raid. The officers cluster around the colonel.

  “Okay men, we know what we’re up against, and we know what we’re fighting for. Our wives and children are depending on us to keep the streets safe and to uphold the law.” Butler marches back and forth across the front of the room. At every turn, his scarlet cape, his trademark, swirls. “For too long, these criminals have grown fat off the sale of illegal alcohol. Tonight, we’ll take another step toward making our city pure again.”

  Listening to Colonel Butler, Joe feels a swell of pride, mixed in with a healthy dose of adrenaline. He loves going on the raids. Busting speakeasies and gin joints are always chaotic. Lots of people, lots of noise, and maybe a little gunfire.

  “Captain Copeland will give you your assignments.” Colonel Butler nods to a chubby police officer at his side.

  * * * *

  As they pull alongside the curb, the officers pile out of the cars and charge into the nightclub, nightsticks raised. Joe is at the end of the pack; he can already hear the men inside shouting and the women shrieking. Joe bursts through the door.

  It is a large, elegant room with crystal chandeliers and matching wall sconces. Clustered around the dance floor are small tables, once full of cocktails and bottles of champagne. Where the clientele had been sitting a few moments before, enjoying the music and watching the dancers, now chairs are overturned as men leap to their feet with the arrival of the police. Women are squealing, slapping the policemen with their small evening bags. Police call for order. Waiters scramble over the fallen chairs, heading for the exit door.

  On stage, members of a Negro jazz combo lean against the wall or sit on stools, smoking and watching the drama play out on the floor in front of them with bored indifference. They’ve seen it all before, many times.

  In one corner, a portly man in a tuxedo calmly finishes his steak. On the table in front of him is a half-empty bottle of wine. Across the table sits an elegant woman, dressed in feathers and jewels, smoking a cigarette in a long holder. She tilts her head and blows a stream of smoke to the ceiling. One gloved arm is casually hooked across the back of her chair. The pair regard the raid action as if it is part of the floor show.

  Captain Copeland walks over to the couple and stands deferentially off to one side, waiting for the gentleman to stop eating. The club patron reaches over and takes a long swallow of wine to wash down the last bite of steak.

  Joe is behind the bar, boxing the contraband booze. He watches the curious scene play out between his captain and the two swells. He can’t hear what is being said, but the captain pulls out the lady’s chair and the gentleman collects his top hat and holds out his arm to her. Instead of leading the pair out the front door to the waiting paddy wagons, Captain Copeland escorts them to the kitchen door. Joe assumes they’re going into the back alley.

  When the captain re-enters the room he’s alone, tucking a wad of bills into his pocket. He isn't the only one making sure some of the patrons find a secure exit from the raid. Throughout the room, lucky customers are being ushered out of another back door exit by the police. City councillors, wealthy businessmen, two judges.

  Joe longs to work with honest cops. “Forget about fighting for justice. It seems the real reason we’re here is to line our pockets. At this rate, there won’t be anyone left to take back to the precinct,” he says to no one in particular. He knows the colonel is trying to clean up the force, but it’s tough to fight on two fronts, and the bootlegging racket is the priority.

  The bartender locks the liquor cabinet and argues with Captain Copeland. The captain moves away and seizes a few open bottles from the tables.

  Officers direct a dozen waiters and one cigar girl to the paddy wagon. They join a few patrons who didn’t have the pull to escape the consequences of the raid. The officers are in a jubilant mood, slapping each other on the back as they leave the bar.

  “A good haul tonight, boyos.”

  “There will be lots of pay-olla for this job.”

  “I’m going to put this on one of those Nash Rambler coups. Fast and sweet.”

  “Ha! Fast and sweet. Just like your wife.”

  Joe loads the last of the prisoners into the back of the paddy wagon and then looks back at the door of the club where the bartender and captain are talking. He watches the bartender count out a stack of bills into the outstretched hand of Captain Copeland. The bartender then goes back into the building; a tidy up and he’ll be ready to open tomorrow. By then, his waiters will be out on bail and the customers will be back, thirsty for more.

  Joe sits on the hard bench in the back of the paddy wagon with the luckless lawbreakers they’ve picked up in the raid. It’s dark in the back, and he can barely make out the people sitting across from him.

  “I hope this isn’t going to take long,” a male with a gravelly voice says.

  “It shouldn’t. Bennie keeps on top of these things pretty good. Lots of palms are greased so it shouldn’t take too long,” another male answers.

  “Have you got plans for tonight?” a female asks. “I was thinking that once we’re sprung, we could head over to the Pirates’ Den for a drink. They have a great band playing.”

  “Sure, that would be great. Say, can you do the Lindy Hop?” the gravelly voiced man asks.

  “Can I ever.” She
giggles. This trip to the station is a mere detour between watering holes.

  Joe’s eyes are shut, his head leans against the side of the paddy wagon. He’s jolted with every bump in the road. He’s is in a pretty glum mood as they drive back to the station to book their prisoners and put the few cases of confiscated booze into lockup for evidence.

  “Not much action?” inquires the desk clerk as the unfortunate few from the speakeasy raid are brought in. “Yeah, it was a dud. The place was half empty, right boys?” Captain Copeland says.

  “Yeah, a real bust,” says one.

  “Not worth our time to go out,” says another. Both comments lead to some good-natured backslapping and ribbing.

  Joe stands apart. He focuses on filling in the paperwork for the raid led by Philadelphia’s finest. Joe knows that corruption is rampant in the force. Officers from the captain down through the ranks to the beat cops are on the take. Over four-hundred officers were implicated in a brewery surveillance operation bust last month, and Colonel Butler is assigning as many police to watch over their fellow officers as he is assigning to watch the criminals. The take from tonight’s small raid is merely a drop in the payoff bucket.

  There are days when he thinks of quitting, but then who'd be left to keep the streets safe for the likes of Fanny, or Maggie and Tommy? Eventually, Prohibition will be repealed and this madness will be over. He places his hand around his shield: Honor. Integrity. Service.

  Chapter 36

  A h, spring. Even though drifts of stubborn snow remain against fences and under porches, buds are starting to appear. Sidewalks are busy with boys on bicycles and girls playing hopscotch. Women sit on verandas and front steps, enjoying the sunshine. Maggie, Joe alongside, nods to them as she pulls her wagon of groceries—some are friends since the early days of Oskar’s disappearance.

  “Thanks for helping me carry home these groceries, Joe. You’re sure those bags aren’t too heavy for you? I can put more in the wagon.”

  “Not a problem, Maggie. I’m glad to do it. That grocer seemed particularly put out to see me, though. He sweet on you?”

  “There’s been a certain interest on his end for some time, although I can’t imagine why. I keep trying to discourage him, but he’s persistent. I did notice that he didn’t tuck a jar of imported marmalade into the bag like he usually does, so maybe he’s got the hint.”

  “Too bad. That sure is good marmalade. I guess there won’t be any more? I was always telling me mam it was magic what she did in the kitchen, and you’re a great cook, too, Maggie. When I write home, I tell her about your delicious pies and stews.”

  “Do you miss home, Joe? Are you enjoying living in the city?”

  “I’m glad to be on the police force. I’m really enjoying that. But I do miss my family, especially mam and me sisters. My oldest sister is getting married this summer, so I’ll go home for the wedding. Even though Ardmore isn’t that far away by train, it’s hard to get away. There’s always something happening in the First.”

  “I think Colonel Butler works you all too hard,” Maggie says. “You’ve not had a day off in ages, Joe. Fanny is complaining.”

  “Well, nobody works harder than Colonel Butler. He had a cot brought into his office so he could sleep there. The first few weeks, we were working round the clock on those raids. It’s a bit better now that the number of raids has slowed down.”

  “I take it progress is being made, then?” Maggie says.

  “Ah, I wish. More like the saloon owners are getting wise to how to work the system. Lots of places aren’t even looked at anymore because somebody’s paying somebody else off.”

  “How terrible, Joe. Surely it’s not as bad as all that?”

  “Oh, it’s even worse. Colonel Butler’s threatening to resign. He and Mayor Kendrick are fighting each other in the newspapers and at rallies all over the city. Kendrick says that if he can’t have a man who will cooperate with him, he’ll find another man. When he heard that, the colonel called Kendrick disloyal and said that he regretted not pulling his nose.” Joe throws back his head and laughs. “I’d like to pull his nose, too.”

  “He sounds like quite a character, your colonel.”

  “Ah, he is. I think the hardest thing he's had to figure out is the pay-offs. He’s a military man and thought he could run the Public Safety Department like the Marines. But he didn't understand that almost every single position in the city, and probably the state as well, is a patronage position. We have to pay a ward boss to get and keep our jobs. When he took on the job, I don’t think he thought he'd be trying to lead a bunch of police who carry their wallets with more enthusiasm than their badges.”

  “I thought everyone in Philadelphia knew that’s how it works.”

  “That’s part of the problem, for sure. It’s not a big stretch for everybody that’s paying out to start thinking that somebody should pay them under the table, too. It’s the way things have always been done in Philadelphia. Imagine there’s a long line of city workers: you have your hand in the pocket in front of you and somebody’s hand is in your back pocket; the line stretches from here to the state capital.”

  “A regular chain gang. I've read about it in the newspaper, and the women in the neighborhood seem to think it's perfectly normal. But I gotta say, Joe, it's upsetting to hear you talk about it.”

  “Oh, I’m not on anybody’s payroll. Not to worry. I slip the ward boss a few bucks for the job every month, but I don’t take any money for doing the job.”

  “So, what’s Colonel Butler trying to do about all the payoffs?”

  “Well, that’s going to be the tricky part. It’s certainly ruffling a lot of feathers at city hall. He’s trying to end the payoffs: the hand in the back pockets, first. He met with all forty-two police districts and said that we had forty-eight hours to end the corruption. He said that he didn’t care what had happened yesterday, and we should tell that to the bootleggers and saloon owners who are trying to silence us. He says what’s more important is how we conduct ourselves going forward. That it’s a new day in Philadelphia policing. He says that we need to earn back the respect of the public.”

  “And how’d that work out?”

  “Pretty much like you’d expect. That was a while ago and nothing’s changed, except maybe the lads got smarter at accepting the bribes. The big problem is that everybody is so poorly paid. I figure I make only about twelve hundred dollars a year. You just can’t look after a family on what a copper makes.”

  Joe juggles the bags, shakes his head. “I heard about this one cop in California who was getting a divorce from his wife. He made thirty-five dollars a week. When she demanded her share of the family assets, they found a townhouse, a country house, two cars, a speedboat, and a bunch of bank accounts. The goodies dangled by millionaire bootleggers are pretty tempting for cops making thirty-five a week.”

  “It sounds pretty bad, all right,” Maggie says

  Joe and Maggie climb the steps of the back stoop to the kitchen door. “Well, don’t quit, Joe. You’re good at your job and, from the sounds of it, one of the few honest cops we have. Philadelphia needs you.”

  “Oh, not to worry, Maggie. It’s not just Philly that needs me. Colonel Butler needs me, too.”

  Chapter 37

  “I t’s swell you’re coming for supper, Jimmy. My ma doesn’t usually say yes when I ask her about my pals coming over,” says Tommy. They round the street corner and pick up the pace to Tommy’s house.

  “It’ll be great. We can figure out what we’re going to do about getting even with Duffy. What do you think about the plan?” Jimmy asks.

  Tommy shrugs. “I don’t know, Jimmy. It seems crazy. Mickey’s got guns and stuff.”

  “Now who’s chicken?” Jimmy shoves Tommy into a hedge.

  “Ow! Quit that.” Tommy brushes off the prickly twigs caught in his jacket. “The other times we was only looking in windows and stuff. This is a whole lot different. What happens if they catch us? Oskar was our
best pal, but maybe we should let the police catch the guy that did it, if it happened at the warehouse.”

  Jimmy bunches his fists and steps toward Tommy. “To do that, them cops would have to know we was there. And that would be telling. You ain’t a rat are ya Tommy?”

  “No, I’m not a rat.” Tommy thrusts his hands in his pockets and turns away. Jimmy catches up.

  “We was all at that warehouse. We need revenge, buck-o. Now, let’s go see what your ma has cooked for supper. I could eat a horse.”

  * * * *

  Jimmy’s elbows are on the table. He chews noisily, opening his mouth to show Tommy the food. He hasn’t even swallowed when he gulps a big glass of milk. A second later he leans back in the chair and belches. Tommy's eyes widen as he dares to look at his mother.