Watch Your Back

by Sherilyn Decter

  “Are you going to arrest them, Detective Kelly?” Tommy is gray and spent. Telling the tale has taken a lot out of him.

  “We’ll see what happens after I talk to them. Tell me, what happened after they left? You were still in the alley?”

  “Yeah. I tried to get up but couldn’t, so I just lay there for a while. Eventually, I got up and started trying to walk to the trolley stop. Everything was kinda blurry. I fell against a wall and bumped into some folks. I guess I must have been bleeding. A man put me in his car and drove me home. And then Mother took me to the hospital.”

  “And how do you feel now?”

  “It still hurts to breathe. There’s no blood anymore when I pee, so the doctor is happy about that. I have to sleep in this chair a bit longer, which is lousy. I tried lying down, but I couldn’t get up, and Mother had to help me back into the chair.”

  “I see you have quite the stack of magazines and books.”

  “Mr. Beamish and Mr. Mansfield brought me things to read. And Mr. Littleton is teaching me to play poker. Sometimes I get a headache. Mother’s reading me The Iron Mask. We’re almost done. They’ve figured out that King Louis, he’s a bad guy, has a twin brother who’s good. But the twin good guy is a prisoner and wears an iron mask. D’Artagnan is going to rescue him and make him king of France. It’s super exciting.”

  “Sounds like it. The old loyalty amongst brothers’ tale.”

  “I have a couple of glasses of milk to help wash down the cookies.” Maggie is in the doorway carrying two glasses.

  Both boys look happy. Interview finished, the trio catches up on news of Joe and Fanny’s little girl, who’s now walking, and the baby. The cookies are crumbs, and Tommy is nodding off, by the time Maggie walks Joe downstairs.

  “I’ll need a copy of the doctor’s report and a formal statement from you at some point. I’ll bring in Dutch and a few others. I’ll get them picked up in a squad car with sirens; maybe scare them a bit to loosen their tongues.”

  “Anything you need, Joe. And thank you again. They’re vicious hooligans and need to be locked up.”

  Chapter 10

  “Extra! Extra! Read All About it.

  Grand Jury struck to find McCloon’s killers.”

  D ick hears the call of the newsies through an open window at the Philadelphia Inquirer. He’s uncovered some disturbing things about the little side hustle Walter McGuiness is running. One of the guys printing the overnight First Edition is running a few extra papers. Not enough to be noticeable in the large print run, but enough to be profitable if you’re selling them on the side. McGuiness has a half dozen boys selling extra run papers, and the two Inquirer employees are pocketing a piece of the action. Dick’s got an appointment to talk to his editor about it. Wally’s and his partner’s days are numbered.

  Dick turns to his typewriter. He shakes his head as he thinks of Tommy’s condition. Even the kids are corrupt. These days, dishonesty’s from cradle to grave. They start out with the entry level position, selling extra papers—who can that hurt? Well, step on someone’s territory and we know there’s gonna be assault and retribution. Go up the food chain to the higher-levels like Duffy and Hoff and you’ve got yourself a Grand Jury. Lordy, someone’s gotta get a firm hold on this town and its morals. Let’s just hope the jury can’t be bought.

  Bill Starr, a fellow reporter at the paper, takes a seat across from Dick and parks his feet on the desk beside his own typewriter. His chair squeals in protest as his large bulk settles into familiar contours.

  Dick nods toward the window. “What do you make of this Grand Jury thing? Even the newsies are shouting the headlines louder than usual.”

  “People are riled up about the McCloon shooting. It looks like it’s the last straw. With over twenty gangland killings this year alone, folks aren’t going to stand for it anymore, and the politicians know it. Everybody’s fed up with all the bootleggers battling it out on Philly’s streets. And with William Vare not able to use the Machine to protect his bootlegging buddies, now he’s laid up with that stroke, the District Attorney’s office thinks it’s the perfect time to open an investigation. They got Judge Edwin Lewis to call for a Special Grand Jury.”

  “You’re right about that. Timing couldn’t be more perfect,” Dick says. “For as long as it lasts, until Vare either recovers or they replace him at the top, there’s nobody with the authority to use the Machine to arrange for an understanding judge, or smooth out the lawyers and the cops.”

  Bill rubs his hands together, sharing a gleeful chortle. “Chickens are coming home to roost, Beamish, and about time, too. Those bootleggers and gangsters are going to miss Vare and the protection he provides them in exchange for such generous support. As long as they act fast, the state should finally get to the bottom of all this racketeering and gangster action.”

  “Boy, are they acting fast. It’s only been a week since McCloon got shot, although there was the retaliatory shooting a couple of days ago. Jumping on this will be luster on ol’ Lewis’ chances for attorney general in the next election. And I hear that they’re going to get District Attorney Monaghan to prosecute, which won’t be too shabby for his future political aspirations, either,” says Dick.

  “Everybody’s got an agenda, and Vare’s not dead yet. The old coot is too mean to die. He could still recover and quash this thing,” Bill says.

  Dick leans closer to Bill. “So how come they’re using a grand jury and not a preliminary hearing? I mean, I can understand the secrecy because of jury intimidation but, if Monaghan’s wanting press coverage for a future election run, a secret grand jury isn’t the way to go.”

  “I have a feeling that this one isn’t going to be so secret. If they want to keep it on the QT, they’d better plug that leak at the courthouse because I’ve already got a list of jurors.” Bill leans back in his chair, the spring beneath the seat groaning in protest. He clasps his hands behind his head, a satisfied grin on his face.

  “Whoa, really?” Dick whistles. “Great work. That must have cost a few favors.”

  “It’s my charm and good looks, Beamish.”

  Dick crumples a piece of paper and throws it at Bill. “So, handsome, have you also got the details yet about what the Grand Jury is going to look into?”

  “McCloon’s shooting, of course. Word on the street is that somebody paid off his driver so they could do the hit. Given McCloon’s connections, every gangster in town will be suspect.” Bill pulls his feet off the desk and rolls his chair close. He hands Dick a few pieces of paper he’s picked up off his desk. “This is what we’re going to run with in the next edition. The headline’s going to be ‘Grand Jury probing liquor trade and eliminating banditry and thuggery surrounding it’.”

  Dick reads aloud. “…investigating organized bootlegging syndicates, gang violence, and police corruption.” He whistles again. “That’s going to be a tall order. How are they going to deal with the corruption allegations? Since Colonel Butler was police chief, nobody’s ever got near that.”

  Bill basks in the notoriety of having the inside scoop. “I heard that Washington ordered a unit of the Internal Revenue Service’s intelligence department to Philadelphia to aid the investigation.”

  “Those finance guys are getting to be as famous as G-Men. Elliott Ness don’t have nothing on a riled up IRS accountant looking for undeclared revenue and unpaid taxes. A grand jury’s a pretty sweet deal for the prosecution. Defense isn’t in the court room to argue the evidence. They should be able to get the jury to rubber stamp an indictment. They only need to prove probable cause, and not beyond a reasonable doubt, right?”

  “Yeah, although Lewis is calling it a ‘special’ grand jury because they’re just investigating, not indicting.”

  “That’ll change soon enough—once they find stuff. Probably the only way they could get Judge Lewis to call it. Philly’s never dared lift that corner of the rug to see what dirt is lying underneath,” Dick says.

  “I’m counting on
an interesting investigation. I’m thinking one of those new Pulitzer Prizes would look good with my name on it,” Bill says.

  “Here’s something for you to chew on. I heard that Hoff was bankrolling McCloon’s place,” Dick says, smiling at his colleague. He doesn’t want a good lead like that to get out, but figures he owes Bill for all the information he’s shared.

  “Let me know if you’re not going to use that, ‘cause I might want to. I figure to plant myself at the bottom of the courthouse steps and make a list of all the bootleggers and thugs going in and out. This whole Grand Jury is going to be good for a few barrels of ink.”

  “I hear they got reporters coming in from all over the country to cover it,” Dick says.

  Bill locks his fingers together and stretches out his arms, eventually bringing them to rest behind his head again. He leans back in the chair. “These will be stories that will just write themselves, buck-o.”

  Chapter 11

  A s the Phantom Informant, Frank wasted no time in opening the investigation. While Joe is continuing to investigate the McCloon shooting, Frank is investigating the apparently legitimate world of bonded-alcohol.

  George Remus had found his way to Philadelphia like a dowsing rod twitching to water. Once he’d learned of the concentration of industrial alcohol manufacturing plants located in the Delaware Valley, it was a straight route. And it wasn’t just the manufacturing capacity that attracted him, but the plants’ inventory; the liquor was legally made and now sitting in warehouses waiting for the end of Prohibition.

  Remus had identified and purchased several plants, and was hoping to close a deal on another. He was also keen to convince the current owner, Max Hoff, to stay on as a partner. Remus was headquartered in Cincinnati and needed someone on the ground close to his new enterprises to keep an eye on things.

  George Remus, unaware Frank is matching his steps, makes his way from the hotel to Boo-Boo Hoff’s downtown office building with its main-floor deli. In his former days, the Inspector had prided himself on his surveillance technique, but his current status surpasses even those skills. Invisibility has its advantages.

  Minutes later, Frank is standing in the corner of the boardroom, listening.

  “I already make a tidy profit from the liquor at the Pennsylvanian Medical Alcohol Company, Mr. Remus. If we are to be partners, what advantages do you bring to the table?”

  “I own a chain of pharmacies along the East Coast and Midwest under the Kentucky Drug Company banner. Pharmacies, as you are aware, are licenced to supply liquor for medicinal purposes with a doctor’s prescription,” says Remus.

  He slides a brochure across the table to Hoff. On the front is a stamp ‘for physician permittees only’. It informs pharmacists that, for sums ranging from $19.50 to $30, they can acquire twelve pints of Paul Jones Rye, Old Pirate Rum, Red Star Gin, White Star Brandy, or top-of-the-line Broad Ripple bourbon. Of course, the fortunate pharmacist isn’t meant to drink any of this, although who is to say he doesn’t? And, of course, the doctors are also benefiting from this unexpected and novel form of income. Liquor prescriptions are expensive. The business of liquor prescriptions serves many.

  “As the owner of these pharmacies, I can apply directly to the government for certificates to ship the bonded-alcohol. Everything’s legal and above board.”

  “While I can see the advantages of legally selling the liquor, I’m not sure I want a partner, Mr. Remus. Especially a partner with controlling interest.”

  “Every man has a price, and I can afford to pay it, Mr. Hoff.”

  “If I sell, do you foresee any changes for the PMAC plant? What happens to my people? They’ll all be kept on?” asks Hoff.

  “When you sell, we’ll roll it under the Kentucky Drug Company banner—my company. Most of your people will continue on as they are. I’ll want to bring a few of my own in, of course. I’d want to change out a few of the management and reorganize the delivery side of things. I use the American Transportation Company for all my distribution.”

  “I’m sure we can reach an agreement. It sounds like we’re going to be able to do some business, Mr. Remus. Welcome to Philadelphia,” says Boo Boo Hoff, rising to shake his new partner’s hand.

  * * * *

  While Frank’s busy working the Remus case, Maggie is also taking care of her bookkeeping business. When money had gotten tight and the roof needed to be fixed, Maggie had gone back to school to learn about accounting so that she could start a small business run out of her home. The extra money from looking after neighborhood clients’ books has given Maggie and Tommy financial security.

  Today she has an appointment with a client who operates a hat store a few blocks away on Marshall Street. As she walks down the street toward Les Chapeaux, the headline of the paper at the newsstand catches Maggie’s attention. She pauses to pick up a copy of the latest edition of the Philadelphia Inquirer.

  Boo-Boo Hoff called in Jury Probe of Crime.

  With his close association with Hughie McCloon, Boo-Boo is one of the first witnesses called before the Grand Jury. She scans the first few paragraphs before she heads continues the route to her client, Millie Malsbury.

  Maggie can’t help indulge herself in a bit of window shopping as she approaches the fashionable little store. An exquisite fall collection is on display: russets, browns, dark purples, ribbons, beaded fruits, feathers, jewels. Oh, to own such hats.

  Maggie pushes open the door and a small bell rings. Millie comes out from the back room. “Maggie. Darling. How wonderful to see you.”

  “When you called, I knew it must be important,” says Maggie.

  “Come in the back. I’ve got the kettle going for coffee. I’ve got myself in a bit of a pickle, my dear, with some of that Parisian inventory I picked up last year on my European buying trip.”

  “Oh, I love those hats. They have such style,” says Maggie.

  “Too much style, I’m afraid. The good ladies of Philadelphia haven’t bought a-one. They’re all still sitting there, and I’ve got to move them to make way for the new fall models that are starting to arrive.” Millie checks the kettle.

  “I know. I saw your window. Marvelous colors,” says Maggie.

  “Thank you. So you understand my dilemma. Out with the old to make way for the new.”

  “That’s too bad, Millie. Why aren’t they selling?”

  “I have no idea. I think they’re darling, but the biggest mistake any merchant can make is to buy stock they like instead of what their customers like. I let my own weakness for those bold colors do me in.”

  “Well, I love them. Why don’t you dig up the original invoices for me and I’ll see what I can come up with? Someone will buy them at the right price.”

  “But that’s the issue, dear, I can’t sell them. I’ve tried putting them on sale.” She waves her hand in the direction of the crowded display of French hats languishing in the corner of the store. “And there are more in storage that I pulled from the front window when it became obvious they weren’t selling. I thought I’d brought home my own treasure trove—that women would be lined up to buy them. I gravely miscalculated.”

  Millie goes to her file cabinet in the back office and hauls out a folder of invoices, handing several sheets to Maggie.

  “Oh dear, Millie. These hats were pricey. And there are a lot of them.”

  “Never fall in love in Paris, Maggie, even if it’s with a hat. It’s just too expensive.”

  * * * *

  Later that afternoon, at the dining room table, Maggie wrestles with the hat shop’s numbers while dinner is cooking. She’s got her assignment: help Millie get those French hats off her books. She’s reviewing the original invoices and calculating what value they still have on the books. The description of the hats is quite distracting.

  After supper, Frank and Maggie are in their customary chairs in the living room, the radio playing softly in the background, as Maggie awaits Frank’s report.

  “These bonded-alcohol
distilleries are fascinating places, Maggie. What George Remus has put together is nothing short of genius.”

  “Don’t tell me you admire the man.”

  “Admire might be the wrong word. There is an allure about him. Huge personality. Very charismatic. But it’s the vision that so intrigues me. He was perfectly positioned to understand how to blend his pharmacy background with his experiences as a criminal defense lawyer in Cincinnati. You may not recall, but that city went dry two years before the rest of the country, giving him plenty of experience with bootleggers. Imagine sitting in your law office preparing to defend a bootlegger and suddenly realizing, from your study of the Volstead Act and your pharmacy connections, that you’ve hit upon an opportunity that will make you millions?”

  “It sounds like he has a huge advantage.”