Chapter 3
T he hospital drama yesterday, a sleepless night of worry, and sick room duties are throwing Maggie’s routine out the window. She checks the clock by the stove and starts preparing supper. The sounds draw Dick into the kitchen. “Maggie, there’s a bit of blood when he pees. Is that normal?” Dick asks.
“Apparently. The doctor said that might happen. Next time you have him in the bathroom, ask if his back hurts. We’re supposed to keep an eye out for that. Hopefully, it will clear up in the next day or two. The doctor said he’ll come by and check on him tomorrow morning.”
Reassured, Dick plants himself at the kitchen table, raw carrot that he’s raided from the fridge in hand. “Those newsies are a rough bunch, Maggie. Very territorial.”
“Can’t the newspaper do anything? I am surprised the Inquirer lets them get away with that.”
“They don’t just sell the Inquirer. No, they’re more like independent contractors. Each boy will sell a number of different papers. They buy them from the newspaper at a wholesale price and then pocket the profits. Like an indie newsstand, but mobile. There’s not much money to be made. They work hard to eke out a few pennies, which is why the good locations are protected so viciously.”
“What kind of homes do they come from to behave this way?”
“Most of them are orphans. They live on the street and look out for each other. The head newsie is a kid called Dutch. He’s older, about fifteen. He runs the rest: gets them organized, gives them some protection and, in return, takes a few of their pennies.”
“Tommy had mentioned Dutch as his main attacker. Do you know him? I’m going to talk with Joe Kelly about this. I think we should press charges against this Dutch goon.”
“Yes, and I’m sure Joe will, too. Dutch’s had a few brushes with the law, I imagine. I’m going to check more into Tommy’s story; about what he said about Wally. If he’s got that kind of deal with Tommy, there’s bound to be more. And Wally must be working with the guys that print off the papers if there are that many extra copies. Yup, heads will roll, which is always a good front page story.”
“So, what’s new in the world?” Maggie says, passing Dick the cutting board on which rests a bread knife and a large loaf. “Can you slice this for me?”
“You heard that William Vare had a heart attack?”
“No. But it's not surprising, given the pressure he’s been under. First, the voter fraud when he ran for Senate, and then those other business corruption investigations.”
“The drinking didn’t help. What a lush,” Dick says, passing the sliced bread back to Maggie.
“Dick.” Maggie frowns.
“I’m just repeating what was told to me. The guy’s had a problem for years. Since the mess of the election.”
“Who’s going to run things while he’s on the mend? Philadelphia can’t function without its political Machine. How will anything get done at City Hall without knowing who to pay off?” Maggie says, smirking.
“I imagine there’ll be a bit of a power struggle. There are too many juicy kickbacks to leave the spot vacant while Vare recuperates. Speaking of recuperation, how long is Tommy going to be laid up?”
“The doctor says a couple of weeks at least. There’s a good chance he’ll miss the first few days of school. We’re supposed to keep him sitting in the chair for a while—the doctor is still worried about pneumonia—then bed rest for a few days and, then, maybe he can come downstairs during the day. Everything depends on his ribs, although apparently little boys mend quickly.”
While the two have been talking, Maggie has been pulling supper together. Archie is still upstairs, Reg in the front hall, just home from his day at the car dealership.
“I’ll go check on Tommy and make sure Archie isn’t wearing him out. The doctor says rest is the best medicine,” says Maggie.
Dick gives her a wry smile. “Helped along with a couple of aspirins.”
“Poor kid. How’s he doing?” Reg catches the conversation.
“He took a real beating. Doc says that kids heal fast. I hope so,” says Dick.
“Why don’t I just pop in and say hi? I’ve got a deck of cards; thought I’d teach him how to play poker.” Reg grins.
“You boys will wear him out. He needs his rest,” Maggie cautions, coming back into the kitchen. “I’ve asked Archie to let him sleep for a bit. Supper will be ready in a while. One of you can take him his tray.”
* * * *
The dinner table talk is not the same without Tommy. After supper, Maggie carries a couple of bowls of peach cobbler upstairs. Reg has taken the tray up and eaten with Tommy. A sweet treat might coax him to eat more. She can hear Reg laughing—no doubt at one of his own stories. She smiles; there’s more to healing than pills and bed rest.
With Tommy tucked in his chair for the night, Maggie settles into her evening ritual: wiping the kitchen counters, pouring a cup of coffee, heading into the living room, and turning on the radio for background music. It’s been her norm for the last five years and the household is used to her routine—the part they don’t know is that she is in there for Evening Report.
Inspector Frank Geyer, cigar in hand, is waiting for her in the chair by the fireplace. “I know about Tommy. Is he going to be alright? How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad. The doctor said it wasn’t just a school yard scuffle. He was badly beaten. A broken rib and a dislocated shoulder are the worst of it. Hopefully, the ribs won’t cause pneumonia. Lots of cuts and bruises on his face, arms, and the backs of his legs where they kicked him.”
“Poor boy. I’ll go up and take a peak once he’s asleep, if that’s alright? I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”
Maggie smiles. It’s not likely that Tommy would hear him even if the Inspector decided to sing the Star Spangled Banner at the foot of his bed. Frank’s the ghost of a retired Philadelphia policeman. He’s been an important part of Maggie’s life for five years. They started working together to weaken the bootleggers’ hold on Philadelphia. The disappearance and subsequent discovery of a small boy who had been killed, and a mutual alarm over the growing violence and anarchy in in the city, have united them in the pursuit of justice.
Although, if Maggie were being honest, anarchy isn’t the right word. The state of the city right now isn’t chaotic, but rather ruthlessly organized by the various gangsters who are running things. Enacted eight years ago, the city has grown to tolerate the corruption and lawlessness that has grown with Prohibition. That’s been the principle evolution during the last few years—the way regular people are accepting the new order, waiting it out rather than fighting back.
Recognizing the scope and root causes of the problem, Frank and Maggie’s attention has shifted from trying to catch the gangsters red-handed running their bootlegging operations to trapping them in financial fraud schemes. As the gangsters operations have gotten more complex, so have the efforts to snare them. Maggie and Frank have great hope in what’s happening in the Midwest, where Al Capone, vicious ruler of Chicago’s underworld, may finally be brought down because of unpaid back taxes.
Maggie sits at her desk, opening a text book on tax law—a large one she’s borrowed from the university library. She begins making thorough notes.
“Yes, you should look in on Tommy and let me know if you see he needs anything. I’m going to report the attack to Joe tomorrow. Tommy knows who did it and Joe can arrest the culprit.”
“I’m sure Joe will be able to do something, especially if Tommy can testify. How goes the tax research?” Frank says with a nod toward her notes.
“It’s tough going, Inspector. Quite complicated.”
“Why don’t you ask your father about it? He might have some insight.” Maggie’s father had been an executive with the shipyards, the American International Shipbuilding Corporation, out on Hog Island. He’d worked as their Vice President of Finance before his retirement from the company.
Maggie delivers a look that speaks volumes. “No.�
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“I thought that you were softening in your approach to your father?”
“I’m working my way around to it, Inspector. It’s not easy to put aside years of bitterness and betrayal. You weren’t there through it all: my husband—Tommy’s father—was killed during that labor demonstration protesting the layoffs of tens of thousands of shipyard workers after the war. I’ve told you before, my father was the one who called in the strike-breakers—a rough lot of club-wielding thugs, and mounted troops. I blame him for Jack’s death. He’s the reason Tommy doesn’t have a father, and he’s the cause of these hard years of raising a child alone.”
“If I may be so bold, Maggie my dear, in order for there to be betrayal, there would have had to have been trust first.”
Maggie’s eyes narrow. “Fine, I’ll admit that we had been close before Jack, but he destroyed that, too.” She pauses and then scowls. “You know, I hate it when you’re right.”
“I’ll try to be wrong more often in the future.”
Chapter 4
L ike most gangsters, Mickey Duffy has moved his headquarters from an old brick warehouse near the tracks into more palatial digs downtown. It is the bootleggers’, gangsters’, and racketeers’ way of telling the world they’ve arrived as businessmen, and an effective way of rug-ranking the competition. A hotel suite is also a good way of putting a bit of appropriate distance between the business and the little woman at home, an added benefit that cemented it for many as Prohibition dragged on and the new order became established.
As befitting his title of Philadelphia’s King of the Bootleggers, Mickey’s location at the Ritz is the most opulent. Its other advantage is that it’s close to City Hall and the financial corridors of power. Mickey likes to be close to his money.
Max ‘Boo-Boo’ Hoff, his biggest competitor and arch rival, is a few blocks away at the Sylvania Hotel. Boo-Boo uses the classic art deco décor as part of his modern man-about-town persona. While not as convenient to business, it is close to the stadiums where Boo-Boo’s boxers fight, and Boo-Boo likes to be close to the action.
The other gangster kingpin in Philly is Max Hassel. While extremely active in the city scene, his headquarters are a couple of hours down the road in Reading. Not content with renting rooms, he bought the Colonial Hotel. The Colonial is aging and caters to the sporting and theatrical crowd, so he‘s on the lookout for classier digs and has his eye on the Berkshire Hotel, a few blocks over from the Colonial. A swank place, but unfortunately not for sale. But then again, the owners haven’t talked to Max Hassel yet, a charming gangster with a reputation for negotiation.
Henry Mercer is Mickey’s top lieutenant within the gang. Henry and Mickey grew up together in the Gray’s Ferry area of Philly. Back then, it was one of the rougher neighborhoods in the city; it hasn’t improved with time. As youngsters, they’d knocked over their first apple carts together, gone to juvie together, and eventually got sent up to Eastern State Penitentiary together. They always have each other’s back, although Henry’s the only one with scars to prove it.
Henry Mercer relaxes on the couch in Mickey’s suite. He glances up from the racing forms as Mickey and Eddie Regan come in. Eddie is a recent arrival, trying out for the job as Mickey’s bodyguard and driver. Mickey’s had a hard time finding a replacement for John Bricker in the year and a half since the shooting at Club Cadix. There’s never been a good fit. Nobody’s been able to get inside Mickey’s head, one of the chief characteristics of a good bodyguard, the way John could. No one, that is, until Eddie came on scene. The pair of them are thick as thieves. Coming in, they are laughing over a shared joke, but break off when they see Henry on the sofa.
“Hiya, Mercer,” Eddie says on his way to the bar cart. “Can I get you anything?”
Henry’s back goes up. He’s never liked nor trusted Eddie. The guy is too suave and too accommodating. Even though it was before his time when Mercer quit drugs and alcohol, cold turkey, Eddie knows Henry Mercer doesn’t drink anymore and is always ribbing him about it. Like ya gotta drink to be a real man, as if. What would he know about being a real man? We don’t know anything about him. He just shows up here, all loud mouth and brash. And he’s always making me look bad in front of Mickey, always trying to prove something. But what? That he’s a better man than me? What an asshole. Henry’s a good poker player and he’s careful to never let Eddie see how much he resents Eddie’s constant jabs. His only tell is a narrowing of the eyes and a tightness around his mouth.
Mickey smirks at Henry and turns to Eddie. “Sure, I’ll have whatever you’re pouring.”
Henry folds his racing forms. And when did Mickey start smirking? I don’t remember him doing it before Eddie showed up on the scene. Maybe another aspect of the mood swings the boss has been having? I’m too young to be getting nostalgic for the good old days, but things sure seemed simpler then. He rises and walks toward the door. “I think I’ll go check out Chalkie. See how his day is going.”
Mickey gives a two finger wave, busy chortling at whatever story Eddie is spinning.
Around the corner and down the street from the Ritz, Henry pushes open the door to Chalkie’s barbershop. It’s a small, one story building in the middle of a street of small, one-story buildings. On the street in front of the barber’s is a large, metal burning-barrel, a wisp of smoke snaking upward.
Henry smiles. Early in the day to be burning the trash. Business must be good.
The large window in the front shows three red leather barber chairs, usually unoccupied, and some fading posters advertising various men’s hair products, some of which haven’t been available for years. A bored fella in a pin-striped suit, a suspicious bulge under his jacket, is reading the newspaper, taking up space in one of the leather chairs. His feet are propped up on another. He looks up when Henry walks in, the small bell above the door tinkling.
Henry nods and walks to the door at the back of the shop. Flanking the doorway are cabinets full of hair tonic—more hair tonic than the modest shop would ever require. Chalkie’s is a cover-up house: barbershop in the front, selling bootleg alcohol disguised as hair tonic out of the back. A common enough arrangement, but that’s not all they’re doing at Chalkie’s. The real secret is revealed when Henry opens the door to the back room.
Behind the door is one of the city’s busiest bookie-joints. The burning barrel on the street is a receptacle for the crushed dreams and crumpled betting slips of the customers. The bookie-joint is packed. Men and a few dames, from all walks of life, crowd the counters. A dozen bookies scramble to take their bets, give them their slips, or pay off any winnings. Bettors, sure they’ve got a ticket to easy street clutched in their hand, stare up at the chalk boards lining the walls. These boards are constantly being updated: horse and dog races, boxing matches, ball games.
There had even been a betting pool for the recent mayoral election, although anyone but the Republican candidate, Harry Mackey, was a long shot. There was never any doubt that the former Mayor William Freeland (call me Freddy) Kendrick’s political ambitions were dead. Betting on such a favored replacement candidate as Harry Mackey, backed by Philadelphia’s infamous Machine of political insiders, was as sure a bet as you could find in Chalkie’s.
Not wanting to get in the way of business, Henry stands to the side, lights up a cigarette, and waits. A bookie notices him and scurries to find Chalkie.
Albert Pool, known as Chalkie by everyone including his dear old ma, comes out from behind the counter. Chalkie defies the phrase ‘there isn’t a mean bone in his body’. Chalkie is mean through and through: from the sinewy cords that tether his bald head to his whip thin body, there is nothing kind, soft, nor generous about him. If there had ever been an inclination to be anything else, it has been eroded by decades of working with desperate gamblers, scoured into liars and cheats unable to pay their debts. He looks like the rat he is: sloped shoulders, darting eyes, over-bite. All he needs is a scaly tail and the image will be complete.
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��Mr. Mercer, I’m surprised to see you here today. Don’t Gus and Fingers usually do the collections? Is everything all right?”
“Sure, Chalkie. I just wanted to drop in and check on things. Business looks good.”
Chalkie looks behind him nervously, as if he expects to see dozens of customers vanish. “Yes sir. It’s been steady all day. The Phillies are playing tonight and that always means a busy day.”
“What do you give their chances?”
“Are you asking as a betting man or a sports fan?” Chalkie asks with a sly grin.
Henry laughs. “To get any odds at all this season, you need to be betting against them. But hey, there’s always next year, right? Actually, I was thinking of putting a bit of dough down on a nag running tomorrow. I’m looking at Hope Springs Eternal in the third race.”
Watch Your Back Page 2
