Come at the King

by Sherilyn Decter

  “Weren’t those photographs incredible? I couldn’t believe my eyes. They say Hooverville is the biggest temporary housing camp on the east coast,” Dick says.

  “I didn’t see it. What did you say, Dick?” Maggie asks.

  Tommy gets up and grabs the newspaper off the coffee table in the living room. “Here’s Mr. Beamish’s story.” He reads aloud, with Dick interjecting and emphasizing a word once in a while:

  “The Depression is taking a devastating toll on the people. With increasing despair, men pound the pavement in search of any work at all. After exhausting personal savings, the unemployed run up debts to local store owners, and skip out on paying rent, mortgage, utility, and tax payments. Thousands are hungry. Some turn to begging, petty theft, and scavenging for discarded or spoiled food.

  Further aggravating conditions, banks have foreclosed on delinquent homeowners. In the last five years, in Philadelphia alone, over 90,000 families have lost their homes. Evicted families, when they can, move in with relatives, whole families cramming into one or two rooms. Some squat in abandoned houses under appalling conditions. Makeshift homeless encampments have sprung up, derisively named Hooverville after the president, with the largest in Philadelphia along the east bank of the Schuylkill River near the Museum of Art. These cardboard-box homes do not last long, and most dwellings are in a constant state of being rebuilt. Some homes are not buildings at all, but deep holes dug in the ground, with makeshift roofs laid over them to keep out inclement weather. Pride and self-esteem have melted away like the snows of winter.”

  The rest of the table sits silent, caught up in the bleak images Dick has painted with words. Dick leans over and takes the newspaper from Tommy.

  “Imagine what it must be like to live there,” Maggie says, her sorrow and disbelief etched on her face. “These people were living in real homes a few months ago. Now they’re—”

  “Those shack towns are breeding grounds for crime,” Archie says, interrupting.

  “They’re homes for desperate people in desperate times. Even those with jobs are suffering. You saw the story I did about the Aberle Hosiery Mill?” Dick asks.

  “Yes, I did. Someone died because of poor working conditions. It was a situation that would have made your father furious, Tommy,” Maggie says. “I think their family lived near here. On Front Street? Jack probably knew them.”

  “Why is the Hooverville next to the river, Mr. Beamish?” asked Tommy.

  “Food is scarce, so some folks are planting gardens, and it’s a source of water.”

  “They’re living like animals.” Archie sneers.

  “Like they have other options, Archie? When I was coming home from work yesterday, I saw that the line-ups at the soup kitchens are getting longer,” Maggie says.

  “I counted, and we have over eighty soup kitchens right now,” Dick says.

  That earns a harrumph from Archie. “Freeloaders.”

  “The food may be free, but the price is humiliation. Is it true that Mayor Mackey is appointing Horatio Gates from the bank to chair an Unemployment Committee?” Maggie asks.

  “The churches and other charities have been trying to meet the need, but it’s overwhelming them. Gates’ committee will see to providing vouchers for food and fuel, and provide hot breakfasts for school children. They’ve got plans to open shelters for single men, and are coordinating with the private sector for work relief projects.” Dick leans forward, the next story already forming in his mind.

  “It all sounds noble and very ambitious. I’m glad the city is doing its part on behalf of us all,” Maggie says. “Maybe we should do more. What do you say, Tommy? Want to come with me to help out in a soup kitchen? Maybe on Sunday? I think that it would be a fitting way to mark the Lord’s Day.”

  “Sure, Mother. I’d like to help.”

  “Dick? Archie?”

  “I’ll be there. I’m sure there will be good material for future stories. What about you, Arch?” Dick asks, a challenge in his face.

  “Harrumph. Well, if everyone else is going, I guess I will too.”

  Chapter 34

  A fter dinner, and still thinking about the Hoovervilles and the upcoming shift at the soup kitchen, Maggie settles into her chair for Evening Report, the radio playing softly in the background.

  “Have you ever felt grateful for all that you have, Inspector?”

  She waits for an answer and then realizes her faux pas. “I’m sorry, Inspector. That was the wrong thing to say.”

  “Not at all, my dear. I count my blessings like you do. Family, friends, fulfilling work. I’m not sure why I’m here with you rather than with my dear wife, but I am content.”

  “I talked to Joe about whether there might be any collusion going on with the fifth drink scam at Mickey’s speakeasies.”

  “And what did he say?” Frank asks.

  “Mickey’s accountant says that he’s not aware of anything but, if there is anything going on, it would have to be coming from someone like that Eddie Regan fellow—high enough up the food chain that the bartenders are afraid of him,” Maggie says.

  Frank nods, lighting his cigar with two matches. “A silly habit,” he says, “but it helps me think. Did you know that Mickey lights his cigar in the same fashion? If you ever see him do it, can you ask him who taught him to do it that way?”

  “Of course I will. Do you think this Eddie Regan fellow could be behind Mickey’s thefts?”

  “It’s possible, but maybe not probable. While the pickings are good, they’re not good enough to split, or to compensate for the risk. No, I think it’s just a few enterprising bartenders. You were right in your assumption about a floating pool of bartenders. It’s a fairly tight employee pool that the speakeasies and clubs draw from. There are only a limited number of people Mickey would want in the know about his underworld activity. While the bartenders often work at the same establishments, when needed, they’ll be brought in to cover at other Duffy speakeasies rather than someone new. It wouldn’t be inconceivable that they shared the technique. It’s entirely probable that it’s just a petty inside scam, with greedy bartenders just trying to pocket some extra dough,” Frank says, puffing on his cigar with satisfaction.

  “So, are we ready to talk to Mickey?” Maggie asks.

  “I think so. And if you don’t mind, my dear, I’d like to tag along when you meet with him.”

  “Looking for family resemblances?”

  “Yes, actually. It’s been quite a while since I’ve had actual family. It’s quite novel.”

  * * * *

  “Thank you for coming in, Mickey.” Maggie, sitting behind her father’s desk, feels quite corporate. Mickey is twitching, unable to settle. He’s drumming his fingers against the arm of the chair. Maggie notices that he hasn’t yet shaved.

  Frank stands off to one side, in front of the window. He’s watching Mickey, frowning.

  “It took you long enough, doll. Do all your investigations drag out like this?”

  Maggie is taken aback by his aggressiveness. “There were one or two aspects to your case that I wanted to confirm before we met.”

  “So, out with it, then. Do I have a thief?”

  “You were right. Good instincts. You have not one but several thieves.”

  Mickey jumps up, slapping his fist into his palm. Maggie flinches, but stands.

  “Remember your promise, Mickey. You won’t kill them. Firing them is punishment enough.”

  “Sure. Sure. Whatever you say.” He drops back into the chair. Maggie carefully sits down as well.

  “So tell me: who and how?” Mickey barks.

  Maggie runs through the details. Mickey is sometimes two steps ahead of the scheme, leaping ahead to conclusions before she can finish laying out the information.

  “Great. And thanks Maggie. You do excellent work. I knew that I could count on you to get to the bottom of this.” Mickey stands and puts on his hat.

  “A moment, Mickey?”

  Mickey pause
s and then sits. “Sure, Maggie. What’s up?”

  “This may seem like a bizarre question, but have you ever heard of Bandits’ Cemetery?”

  Maggie can feel the Inspector tense.

  “Strange question. Who wants to know?” Mickey asks, his head cocked to one side.

  “A friend of mine.” Maggie shrugs.

  “Bandits’ Cemetery is supposed to be a myth, ain’t it?” Mickey asks. He holds up a cigar. Maggie slides an ashtray across to him.

  “So I’ve heard. But I’ve also heard that bandits all know about it. You’re the closest thing to a bandit I can ask.”

  Mickey takes out his clipper and snips the end, putting the clipper back in his pocket. He then takes two matches and begins the elaborate ritual of lighting his cigar.

  “See that clipper he used? That was mine. And now Mickey Duffy has it. Ask him about the cigar, Maggie,” Frank says, leaning forward, watching intently.

  “That’s an unusual way of doing it, with two matches. And a very handsome cigar clipper. A family heirloom?”

  Mickey pulls the clipper out of his pocket again, fingering it. “It belonged to my Grandpa Duffy. He gave it to me. He’s also the one that taught me how to smoke a cigar. Said it was more distinguished than cigarettes. My own pa had run off and left us, Ma and me, and so it was my grandfather that raised me. The closest thing to a father I ever had. He was also from Gray’s Ferry. He knew the streets, and didn’t give me any guff about where I was hanging out, or with who.”

  “He was a… in the business, too?” Maggie asks.

  A satisfied smile comes over Frank’s face. Another mystery solved.

  Mickey laughs. “Naw. Ran a store. Good with numbers. You two would have a lot in common.” Mickey puffs on his cigar. “Now, about this Bandits’ Cemetery thing,” Mickey says.

  Maggie waits. Frank waits.

  “The harder you’re pushed away from normal folks, the closer you bond with your own kind. You follow me?” Mickey continues.

  Maggie nods. “I think so.”

  “It’s not easy being cut off from family and, for a lot of fellas, even from the church. Better now than it was. Even the church needs a cash donation now and then, but back in the day it was harsh. Your family turned their back on you. Respectable society wanted nothing to do with you. You died and were buried in a paupers’ grave or were dumped in the river. A long time ago, boys like me took it upon themselves to look after each other. A brotherhood of thieves and ne’er-do-wells. So they made a Bandits’ Cemetery. A handy place if you needed to get rid of a body, and a final resting place if you were a comrade-in-arms.”

  Maggie nods, excited. “So Bandits’ Cemetery is real?”

  Mickey takes a deep breath. “Yes. It is. And it’s a secret known only to a few.”

  “Will you take me? Show me where it is?”

  “You want me to take you to Bandits’ Cemetery?”

  “Yes. And I give you my word I won’t tell a living soul,” Maggie says solemnly.

  Mickey considers the request. “You did right by me, finding these thieving bastards. What is it that the lawyers always say? Quid Pro Quo? I guess I could take you, as long as no one else ever knows.”

  “Not another living soul,” she repeats.

  “Fine. But I’m serious. They’d drum me out of the brotherhood if anyone found out. And it wouldn’t be pleasant. Even bandits got traditions to protect.”

  Maggie nods solemnly. “I promise.”

  “We’ll go next week. I’ll call you.” Cigar in hand, Mickey strides to the door, yanking it open. “I gotta go now. We’ll talk later.” He slams the door on his way out.

  “Does he seem all right to you?” she asks Frank, who is still off to one side.

  “He seems normal. Which shouldn’t be normal. Is Edith giving him his medication?”

  “I think so. But maybe I should talk to Edith. To make sure.”

  Chapter 35

  E ddie Regan walks into the dark speakeasy, letting his eyes adjust. The joint reeks of stale beer and piss, and a heavy cloud of cigarette smoke hangs thick. Sure ain’t a joint I’d want to spend any time in. A long bar runs down one side of the room, tables scattered around the rest of the space. At the far end is a pool table where a cluster of men are visible under the table light.

  He’s been thinking about the situation with the Lanzettas, tossing around ways to bring Mickey into the conversation. Bottom line is that he isn’t going to. Why split the profits? And let’s face it, Mickey would never go for it anyway. Work with the Lanzettas? Not a chance.

  Sitting at the bar are the two men he’s here to see. It had taken some legwork, but one of the men he had personally brought into the crew had finally tracked down Frankie and James Bailey.

  These were the desperados that almost brought down Mickey Duffy? Eddie’s lip curls in disgust. A pair of losers, but useful losers I guess. If that makes a difference. Eddie sits down on the stool next to Frankie and orders a whiskey.

  “Say, ain’t you Frankie Bailey?” he asks, after the bartender has put down his drink.

  Frankie, sallow from years in prison, a two day growth on his face, well-worn clothes, peers at the newcomer.

  “Who wants to know?” he says blearily. He’s been on the stool a while.

  “I hear you once had the stones to take a run at Mickey Duffy. That true?”

  “Whad if it is? Whad you say your name was, mishter?”

  “Didn’t. Just no friend of Duffy’s is a friend of mine.”

  James Bailey, sitting next to Frankie, snorts. “That bastard ain’t got many friends.”

  “Here, let me buy you a beer. And this fella next to ya, who might you be?”

  “Thish my brother, James,” Frankie says, his swinging arm causing him to tip off balance.

  “Whoa, there pal. Easy does it. Two beers for my new friends,” Eddie says, slapping a tenner down on the bar. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Frankie eyeing the bill hungrily.

  “Is it true that Hoff set you up to take the fall on the hit? Ratted you out to the cops?”

  “Bastard,” Frankie mutters into his beer.

  “Yeah, bastard,” James echoes.

  “That was harsh. Although I guess you got your revenge, eh?”

  Frankie looks up from his newly arrived beer, puzzled.

  “Hoff’s done. Fled town. Not a dime to his name. I hear he’s sick,” Eddie says.

  Frankie nods. “Bastard,” repeats James, guzzling the fresh beer.

  “Too bad you didn’t have a hand in it. That would make the ruin of the man even sweeter,” Eddie says.

  The three grip their glasses and stare ahead into the mirror.

  “So, are you gonna take another run at Duffy?” Eddie asks casually, not looking at the Baileys.

  “We was thinkin’ on it,” Frankie says, equally casually.

  “Bastard,” James repeats. Eddie’s not sure which bastard he’s talking about.

  “I might be interested in a piece of that,” Eddie says, turning to look Frankie in the eye. The reptile blinked.

  “Whaddaya say your name was?”

  “Sam. Sam Smith.” Eddie holds out his hand. Frankie’s grip is surprisingly strong.

  “Pleased to meetcha, Sam. And thanks for the beer.”

  Chapter 36

  S tanding in the small powder room near the kitchen, Mickey stares at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Sorry, Edith. But I need the old Mickey back. It’s time for the King of the Bootleggers to regain his throne.

  Mickey takes his orange juice and pours it down the drain, as he’d done with the doctored wine last night and the orange juice the day before. He’s been careful not to let Edith see. He wants to slide back into reality with as few bumps as possible.

  The news of the thieving bartenders has lain coiled in his gut since Maggie told him yesterday afternoon. It’s taken some thinking of how he’ll deal with them, but he believes he has a plan. I’ll call Gus and Fingers to
pick the five of them up and bring them to the warehouse later tonight. I better get a hold of Eddie as well. He’ll enjoy this, too. Vicious bastard. Mickey smiles in the mirror. The King smiles back.

  He spends much of the day going over his plan. Mickey pulls on his coat and hat and heads into the city. There’s new energy in him, intoxicating in its unfamiliarity. He grips the steering wheel of his Duesenberg, pushing the gas pedal to the floor. The car was meant to fly, and so was he.