“I was doing a bit of business at a nearby building and was glad to help. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’ve asked Detective Kelly to look into it. I’m sure that will be the end of it.”
“Goodness, Maggie, I’ve never known you to be a naive goose. Kelly’s not going to be much help.”
“I beg to differ. I’m sure the threat of jail will scare off those hoodlums.”
“Oh, Maggie. Jail would be a vacation from what those newsies deal with every day. You know they live on the streets, don’t you? They scrounge restaurant garbage bins for food. What Tommy needs to do is stop muscling in on their territory. A man protects what’s his, you know.”
“What are you talking about? Tommy’s paper route is in our neighborhood. He was only selling those extra papers that one time.”
“That’s what you know. He told me he’s been making a ton of dough from that little racket for a while now.”
“What? Why would he tell you something like that?”
Mickey leans back, a satisfied smile on his face. He takes out a cigar and lights it. “Well, we was chatting over a couple of beers—“
“What? Don’t tell me you had Tommy in one of your speakeasies. Mickey Duffy, that is beyond the pale, even for you.”
“Even for me? I’m the fella that chased those punks off. Not your white knight Detective Kelly. It was me. These aren’t cops’ streets, Maggie. I own these streets.”
And I aim to change that. Maggie is fuming. “Let me be clear. You stay away from Tommy. I’ll talk to him and make sure that your paths don’t cross again. At least downtown.” Maggie stands, clutching her handbag close. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Duffy.”
* * * *
Mickey roars with laughter, watching her stalk out of the café. He turns to Eddie. “Mothers, eh? She’s a tiger, that one. You know, I think that maybe I should cross paths with young Tommy Barnes again. He needs a man in his life if he’s going to amount to anything. She’s going to turn him into a regular little mama’s boy. Yeah, maybe I’ll take him under my wing. That would really drive his mother crazy, what with her holier-than-thou attitude. Come on, Eddie. I got places to go. Let’s blow this joint.”
Still chuckling, Mickey heads back to his suite, Eddie following close behind.
Chapter 23
F rank’s in the cab of a truck, thoroughly enjoying this latest adventure. The truck belongs to the Kentucky Drug Company, the operation owned by George Remus. The same George Remus who recently bought out the Quaker Industrial Alcohol Company, amongst others. The truck appears full of barrels of perfectly legit alcohol, stamped and permitted. In reality, it’s good old moonshine, brewed in the attic of the home connected to the tunnel where the truck is currently parked.
The driver finishes loading the last barrel and climbs up into the cab. The truck engine rumbles to life and they’re off. It’s a view of Philadelphia that Frank has never seen before. The automobile was just being invented in his day; cars were more horseless carriage than the modern vehicles they have now—a novelty more than transportation. Being high up in the cab is entertaining. He wishes the window were down so he could feel the breeze and enjoy the full experience.
Frank has picked this ride-along because it will take place within the city limits. It is a short-haul pick up and delivery trip, the details of which Frank had overhead during his surveillance of George Remus. He is also expecting trouble, which delights the old copper. It isn’t often he’s able to get up to no good.
So far, they have picked up at three residences, all home-based stills brewing moonshine. The streets and alleys they travel are twisting and narrow, following old creek beds and the original layout of Philly, rather than the grid structure imposed on newer areas of the city.
The area between Vine and Spring Garden Street, known as the Tenderloin, has been notorious for decadence and debauchery for years. It was a well-established area of ill-repute even in Frank’s day. Adjacent to the docks, it’s popular with sailors and dock workers. Then, as now, prostitutes, referred to as pro-skirts, frequent its boarding houses, seedy bars, and gambling dens. Ramshackle shops and street vendors sell exotic goods from all over the world, brought to them by sailors. Gangs have long prowled these neighborhoods, preying on the vulnerable. The Killers, the Blood Tubs, the Flayers are names scrawled on the sides of fences and derelict buildings, even if some of the art work is fading with time. It’s an older area gone to seed. Its decrepit buildings, many abandoned except for squatters, are a convenient breeding ground for vice and depravity. Crime is the norm.
With the back of the truck now full of inventory, Frank and the driver are making their way to the train station where the goods will be loaded onto freight cars and shipped to the mid-west. Pulling into the yard, they’re directed to a warehouse where their inventory will be off-loaded and stored until it’s ready for shipment. The front door to the warehouse is wide open, and Frank sees several trucks waiting inside. Outside, standing next to the doors, George Remus appears to be chatting with the drivers.
George is a jowly fellow, a bowler hat perched on a round face, a brown checked suit that’s hard to miss. The driver of Frank’s truck pulls up next to George and hands him the paperwork on the shipment through the truck cab window. “Morning, Mr. Remus, sir.”
George examines it closely. “A dozen barrels, with stamps. Excellent. Any problems?” The driver shakes his head. Remus hands the paperwork back to Frank’s driver. “Good. Pull up inside and we’ll start unloading it.”
George turns to the other drivers that he’s been standing with. “You lot know what to do. Get at it. I’m not paying you to stand and chit-chat.” The men head inside the warehouse and begin to transfer the loads from the KDC trucks into other un-logoed trucks. While they’re working, another loaded Kentucky Drug Company truck pulls in and also begins to move its barrels to the empty, waiting, anonymous trucks
Once everything has been moved, Remus pulls a list of delivery stops from his pocket and hands them over to the waiting drivers. “Here’s where you’ll be taking the stuff. Any problems with the cops, you’re all stamped.” He turns to the drivers of the KDC trucks. “Congratulations, gentlemen, you’ve just been hijacked.”
The delivery drivers hop into their trucks and begin to pull out of the warehouse. Frank hitches a ride-along with one of the trucks, no logos, no signage. Just an ordinary truck loaded with barrels covered by tarps. Renting the warehouse next to the tracks is great cover.
Frank’s driver consults his list, lights a cigarette, and they head out of the yard. A nice orderly process. No fuss, no muss. Remus turns and locks up the warehouse doors, securing them with a padlock. He tucks the key into his pocket.
Frank joins the driver in a smoke, lighting his own cigar. He’s more familiar with this part of the route, acquainted with several of the warehouses they stop at. He’s not surprised when they pull into the yard of Mickey Duffy’s warehouse. The driver slides down out of the cab and heads inside, returning shortly with Porter, Gus, and a few other Duffy crew members.
Shirt sleeves rolled up, shoulder holsters strapped on, they’re ready for trouble as they begin to unload the barrels.
“This is pretty slick, all stamped legit. Is the quality descent?” Gus asks over his shoulder to the delivery driver.
“I haven’t sampled it myself. This is my first run. Remus is new in town. You boys planning on cutting it or just bottling it?”
Gus manages a shrug while carrying the heavy barrel.
Back and forth they go, carrying the barrels into the warehouse. Gus signs for the last barrel, and the delivery driver climbs back into the truck. Frank decides to stick around the Duffy warehouse for a bit and see if anything else happens.
Gus heads into the small corner office and picks up the telephone. “It’s here and unloaded, Boss. No problems…. Yeah, stamped…. No, not yet…. Sure, we can do that.”
> “Okay, boys. The boss wants to rebottle it. But first we gotta sample the merchandise. Who wants to be quality control?” There’s good natured jostling as everyone lines up for a taste. A couple of guys tap the first barrel and take a sip.
“Not bad, Gus. Not imported, but not bad. I think you could put a Trader Jack label on this. You could definitely water it down for the bar stock labels. Which do you want to do?”
“Let’s check each barrel before we bottle it. This Remus guy is a new supplier and, until we’re sure he’s not trying to slip something past us, we should be thorough. Mickey wants to do at least one barrel of Traders for some private customers, and the rest we’ll water down to ship out to the speaks. Porter, you start setting up the bottles, and we’ll do Traders first,” Gus says.
Frank watches as the men fill glass bottles, attach the yellow Trader Jack’s Whiskey labels, and place them into wooden crates.
“Should we load ‘em, now?”
Gus looks up from the paperwork. “Just stack them off to one side and we’ll get started on the bar stock. Regan’s bringing the addresses for the private deliveries. We’ll do those later tonight. A couple of houses, a couple of restaurants, and the United Gas Improvement Company. They’re having some kind of shindig on the weekend. Looking to sign some agreement with Northern Liberties Gas.”
“Oh great, that means rates will go up.” The boys continue to bottle and chat, passing the time while they fill the bottles. Another one of the barrels is of good quality and the contents make it into Trader Jack bottles. Gus is pleased with the find; better mark-up on the good stuff.
This new player in town, George Remus, has a nice little racket. Frank watches, deciding that it’s time for Maggie to report to Joe what they’ve learned.
Chapter 24
“Extra! Extra! Read all about it.
Police Chief Ellison in coma after Grand Jury Grillings.”
T he newsboys hawk their papers as Maggie hurries along the street to Green’s Hotel to meet her mother for lunch. In a coma? With another senior police officer out of commission, this will certainly make Joe’s job more difficult. That grilling must have been intense to put him in a coma. I wonder what they’re finding out. I bet Dick knows. We’ll give him the grilling at dinner and hear all about it.
As she passes him, she looks the newsboy over. Is this Dutch? This unexpected luncheon with Mother is so out of character. We usually get together at my house so that she can visit with Tommy. And even those get-togethers are rare. The only time I’ve known her to set up a visit in a restaurant is near Christmas, which is months away.
As the maître-D’ escorts Maggie to the table where her mother is waiting, she has time to study her before the battle begins. And she’s shocked.
“Mother. What’s wrong? You look terrible.”
Cordelia tilts her cheek for a kiss. “You’d think I never taught you manners, Margaret. Is that how you normally greet someone, with criticism?”
“My apologies, Mother. It’s just that you look a little more tired than normal. And please, call me Maggie. You know I haven’t used Margaret in years.”
“A rose by any other name, my dear,” Cordelia says, lifting up her menu and disappearing behind it. “How are things with Tommy? How is he managing at school with his injuries?”
“Fine. Reg drops him off in the morning and picks him up at the end of the school day. For the first week anyway. We’ll see how he feels after that. Tommy’s chafing to escape from my apron strings, apparently.”
Cordelia lowers her menu so that she can catch Maggie’s eye. “Now, wherever would he have developed that attitude, I wonder?”
“Touché, Mother.” The two women place their orders and sip water. “How are things, Mother? Why the sudden telephone call? You scared me half to death last night. Any news that can’t wait until morning has got to be bad.”
Cordelia fusses with her water glass and examines the cutlery for water marks.
“Mother. What’s wrong?”
Cordelia takes a breath. “It’s your father. He’s had bad news from the doctor. It’s cancer.”
Maggie sits back in her chair. She stares open mouthed, slowly shaking her head.
“That’s not a becoming look, Margaret.”
Maggie gathers herself. “But what, how? Tell me what the doctor said. Is it bad?”
“Yes, it’s bad. It’s cancer for goodness sakes.” Cordelia snaps at Maggie. “He hasn’t been feeling up to par and went in to Dr. Lambert’s office for a check-up. He’s been seeing him for years. The test results came back yesterday.” Cordelia takes a shuddering breath, struggling to stay in control. “There’s no treatment, I’m afraid.”
Maggie reaches across the table and grips her mother’s hand. How dry her skin is. And frail. I can feel the bones. When did she get so old?
Over lunch, Cordelia weaves information about Maggie’s father through tales of the Garden Club. When the topic gets too intense or personal, she veers off in another gossipy tale of a fellow member or a casual but cutting criticism of a neighbor. Maggie follows, sorting as Cordelia talks.
“Margaret. Maggie. I have a favor to ask. Please dear, would you bring Tommy by for a visit? Your father would so love to meet him.”
Maggie had been anticipating this. It was inevitable since her mother’s pronouncement of cancer and no cure. “Yes. Of course. When would be a good time to come?”
Cordelia looks away, not seeing the room or the other restaurant guests. She looks back at Maggie, her lips trembling. “I think that sooner would be better.”
* * * *
That night, at Evening Report, Frank is full of news for Maggie about the ‘hijacking’.
“We’ll need to get this information to Joe. Maggie, are you listening?”
“I’m sorry, Inspector. What did you say?”
“I said that we’ll need to get this information to Joe so that they can begin their own surveillance and pull arrest warrants. My dear, you’re a million miles away. What’s troubling you?”
“I had lunch with Mother today. Father’s sick. Dying.”
“Oh, Maggie. I am so very sorry, my dear. What is it?”
“Cancer. And he’s not got long. He’s not been well for some time apparently, but only saw his doctor a few weeks ago.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Tommy and I are going to see him next weekend. This will be the first time meeting his grandfather.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Maggie. It’s long past due.”
“I’ve been working on it, Inspector. But it’s not easy letting go of a decade of resentment.”
“With this news of your father’s condition, you’ll need to forgive him for the role he played in Jack’s death. Or, trust me, you’ll live with the guilt for the rest of your life. Family is family, regardless of how he behaved.”
“Easier said than done. He has a lot to answer for. When he called in the mounted troops and the strike breakers, he knew what would happen. He knew that Jack would be on the front lines.”
“It was a direction by the Board. He had no choice but to comply. Don’t you think he’d take it back if he could?”
“I don’t know about that, Inspector. I haven’t talked with him in many years but, the last time we met, he had nothing but blame and harsh words for Jack. And it’s a long, rocky road I’ve had to walk, alone, since Jack died. A road my father’s actions put me on. I’m not sure that I can let years of resentment go so easily, even under these circumstances.”
“You can’t take Tommy over there to meet him with that chip on your shoulder, Maggie. You’ll need to come to some understanding with your Father. Forgiveness isn’t about changing the past, it’s about changing the future. It’s time to forge a new relationship with him, while you still have time, and for the sake of your son. One of the hardest lessons in life is letting go, whether it’s guilt or anger, love, loss, or betrayal. Change is never easy. We fight to hold on to those be
liefs, and we fight to let go.”
“You’re right, Inspector. I promise I’ll think it over. We’re not going out there until next weekend, so I have a few days to consider what you’ve said.”
“Just remember, my dear. Your opportunity to re-build bridges are running out. For Tommy’s sake, don’t wait too long. You might be surprised to find it’s for your own sake, too.”
Chapter 25
J oe, sitting at his desk, stares in disgust at the headline in today’s Inquirer.
Dismissal of twenty one police commanders is urged by ‘Racket’ Grand Jury.
How are we going to manage now? Don’t these yobbos realize that by taking the coppers off the streets, even if they are crooked, just gives the bootleggers free reign? The Police Chief is gone, my captain and many others gone. That’s almost half the districts in the city without top brass now.
Watch Your Back Page 10
