Passion's Wicked Torment
by Melissa Hepburne
© All right reserved
CHAPTER 1
1923
It was horrible the way it happened. Kristin would never get the burning image of it out of her mind.
She had been walking with her older brother, Chad, after picking him up at the Tribune office, where he worked as a reporter. The evening was chilly, and the brisk Chicago wind whipped about Kristin’s shoulder-length blond hair. Chad pulled his overcoat tighter around himself and belted it. He seemed nervous, a trait he almost never displayed.
“I’m working on an assignment now,” he said, glancing to the left and right, “that’s the biggest I’ve ever been on. And the most dangerous.”
“What’s it about?” Kristin asked, sensing excitement.
"A man named Dallas Hunter. Runs one of the biggest speakeasies in town for Ironman Gianelli’s mob. But there’s more to this Hunter than meets the eye. He’s an ex-bootlegger who. . . .”
A black Packard drove by very slowly as Kristin and her brother walked up the street. The four occupants seemed to peer at them closely from within the darkness of the car. Chad bent forward a bit to look back at them. The car quickly moved on.
“Listen, Kristy,” he said with unusual seriousness, turning back to her, “I shouldn’t have mentioned that name to you. Forget you ever heard it.”
“Why?” she challenged, thrilled by the possibility of learning some “inside” information.
“The guy is nothing but trouble. Now, I’m not kidding. Forget you ever heard of Dallas Hunter. There’s a chance that he—”
Chad was interrupted by a squeal of brakes as the black Packard now turned in a circle and came streaking back toward them. It pulled up onto the sidewalk and squealed to a halt, blocking them off.
“Hey, what the hell!” shouted Chad.
Three burly men jumped out and grabbed them. “This the one?” asked the pug-faced bully who was holding back Chad’s arms.
The tall man struggling with Kristin peered squintingly at Chad’s face. “That’s him, TJ.”
“What about the girl?”
“Take her too, whoever she is,” he declared above Kristin’s shouts. “We’ll find out later.”
Chad had been struggling to free himself from the two men who held him. Now, instead, he lashed out at the man holding Kristin, kicking him as hard as he could when the man bent down to peer closely at him. The man screamed and cursed as Chad’s foot caught him in the cheek.
“You son of a bitch!” yelled the man named T.J. But before the hoodlums could start beating him, Chad leaped up and kicked the one holding Kristin again, this time with both feet. The man stumbled backward, releasing Kristin.
“Run, Kristy!” Chad yelled. “Run!”
She was free now. Instead of running, she rushed at the two hoods holding Chad and began beating at them with her small fists and scratching their faces. “Let him go!” she screamed.
“Forget the girl,” barked T.J., ducking his head to avoid her scratching nails. “Get this one inside. Now!”
Kristin kept scratching and screaming. They ignored her as they shoved Chad into the car, but only after belting him in the stomach and face several times. They had to get out of there—quick! Kristin was raising such a ruckus, help might come at any moment. Kristin even tried to force her way into the car to help Chad, but it was Chad himself who stopped her. He freed an arm and pushed her out before the thugs could grab her and hold her in.
“Kristy, run, damn it! Get the hell out of here.” His voice was raw. He was badly hurt after being hit repeatedly.
Kristin found herself sprawled on the pavement as the doors were slammed shut. The car screeched back out onto the street, then flashed away in a squeal of gears and a spray of loose gravel.
Kristin got to her feet and ran after it, screaming for someone to help her. But the car was gone in an instant, disappearing down the now-dark street. At least she had gotten the license number, she thought, as she slowed down, panting furiously, staring in frustrated helplessness into the darkness after the car.
She knew what she had to do now. Get to the police as fast as she could.
CHAPTER 2
The police were no help. They started the investigation right away, taking it very seriously. But after a week, the investigation was mysteriously abandoned.
Kristin was standing in front of the high counter of the 291st Precinct when they told her. First she was stunned. Then she angrily declaring to the sergeant, “But you’ve got to find him! You can’t just stop looking for him. They might kill him if they haven’t already!”
“Missy,” said the sergeant gruffly, trying to remain calm but losing patience quickly, “we are doing all we can, I assure you. Now, I been telling you this for every day of the past week. Why don’t you just stop coming around, eh? We’ll notify you just as soon as anything develops.”
He glared down at Kristin. She a strikingly beautiful face, with an elegance that was rare in a girl of only 19.
Her pale blue eyes were unusually large and specked with the hint of gold. Her lips were full and sensuous, which contrasted boldly with the fairness of her skin. Even her body was a study in contrasts, for she had a very shapely bustline, but the rest of her figure was rather slender.
“What did you stop this investigation?" she demanded. "What are you afraid of?"
The sergeant’s face became red. He didn’t say another word to her. He motioned over a young patrolman who was standing in the hall, watching the scene.
“Anderson!” the sergeant called to the patrolman. Then he nodded curtly toward Kristin and jerked his thumb sharply toward the exit.
“You can’t kick me out!” complained Kristin. “I have a right to be here!”
But she was escorted out. Outside, on the street, Kristin jerked her arm free of Patrolman Anderson’s grip. She glared at him fiercely.
“What are you looking at me like that for?” asked the young man, taken aback.
“Because you’re the only one here!”
Anderson looked at her sympathetically, then glanced back at the precinct entrance tomake sure no one was watching him. His voice became low and conspiratorial. “It’s not the sarge who’s to blame. Word came down from higher up for us to soft pedal the investigation.”
“Soft pedal?”
“The investigation has been called off.”
Kristin was shocked. Anderson saw from her expression that she was about to go marching back into the precinct house to protest violently. He grabbed her arm again.
“You’ll just get me in trouble if you go in there now,” he said. “I only told you this because I think it’s fair that you should know, and because I . . . well, I like you. But this is secret stuff, and I could get into trouble if you let on I told you. It won’t do your brother any good, I promise you that. Your letting them know that you know what’s going on will only make matters worse.”
Kristin was torn between the indignation she felt, which made her want to march back into the precinct and scream bloody murder for them to do something, and her understanding of what the patrolman was telling her.
Finally she managed to calm herself down. “I do appreciate your telling me this,” she said. “But I don’t understand it. Why would they call off the investigation?”
Anderson shook his head and glanced nervously at the entrance. “They won’t even tell us why. But I know this: Your brother must have been nosing around something very sensitive to face this tight a clamp down.”
“Who was it? Who ordered the investigation called off?”
“Don’t know. But it’s got to be someone pretty high up to bring this kin
d of pressure to bear. That license number you gave us? We traced it to a car registered to Dallas Hunter’s Crimson Club. That's when the stonewall went up and we were told to call off the investigation.”
"Dallas Hunter?"
"Uh oh. I see a look in your eyes. Don't even think about it! He's some kind of man of mystery, and the one thing we do know about him is: he's dangerous."
The Sergeant suddenly came out onto the precinct steps. "Get back on up here, Patrolman,” he said angrily.
Kristin watched the patrolman scurry back up the steps under the wrathful eye of the sergeant. Dallas Hunter, she was thinking. That was the name Chad had mentioned to her too. Dallas Hunter.
She stood outside the speakeasy, looking up at the brightly flashing sign on top of the building: the Crimson ¤ub. People were coming and going as she stood on the sidewalk, watching. She had a strong reluctance to go inside, even if they would let her, which they probably wouldn’t. She had heard about these clubs. They were supposedly the dens of most of the major forms of sin known to 20th-century man.
She knew she had to try to get in though. After talking to Louella, a girl she knew at Chad’s paper, she had learned that this was where she would find the mysterious Dallas Hunter. He was the head man at the Crimson Club, running it like a dictator, though in actuality it belonged to the mobster Ironman Gianelli.
Kristin had no illusions about how hard it would be to get in. Wearing her simple flowered dress and a cloth coat, with her long blond hair down to her shoulders, she looked more like a schoolgirl than like the grade school teacher she was.
Even though she knew the password from having heard it spoken by those who entered the club, she realized she would just be laughed at if she tried to use it. But she had to get in! She had to meet this Dallas Hunter, or at least see what he looked like, so she could devise some plan to learn where Chad was being held, and why.
Chad was her only living relative. Their parents had been killed years ago in an automobile crash. Kristin loved Chad, and she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.
She stood far back in the doorway of an adjacent jewelry shop for several minutes, watching the well-dressed men and women who entered the Crimson Club. The women were almost always on the men’s arms. Only one woman approached the club unescorted and was allowed in. She was dressed in a very classy, sophisticated manner.
Finally Kristin saw what she was looking for. A single man dressed in a tuxedo was approaching her cubbyhole, on the way to the club. He was beefy and middle aged.
Kristin stepped out from the cubbyhole and began walking along with him, by his side. He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “And who might you be, if I might ask?”
“A lonely girl who needs an escort for the evening,” Kristin replied.
The man looked amazed. “Why, I’m old enough to be your daddy!”
“That’s just what I need right now,” she said, hooking her arm into his.
He looked at her more closely now, noted that she was 19 or 20, and this seemed to calm whatever scruples he had. And she was beautiful. His hand closed over her arm, and he began patting it happily.
“Oh, yeah, honey,” he said, eyeing her.
Although, inwardly, Kristin flinched, she did not object. He’d find out the truth soon enough, and he’d be furious. But she'd worry about that later.
Her new escort rapped on the door of the Crimson Club. A peephole opened. “Granny sent me,” he said.
The door opened only a crack, instead of swinging open fully. The thin, mustached man inside looked at Kristin. He seemed about to say something about her age, but decided against it. “Good evening, Mr. Lapidus,” he said diffidently to Kristin’s escort, opening the door fully at last.
“Howdy, Ted,” said Lapidus, patting Kristin’s hand again, proudly showing off his new prize. He did not seem to notice—or did not care about—the scornful look the doorman gave Kristin in reaction to her youthful appearance. She was clearly out of place here.
They were escorted to a table by a svelte, young woman wearing a slinky black dress, who seated them and asked Mr. Lapidus what they were drinking. “The usual for me, honey,” said Lapidus. Then he looked at Kristin, smiling, for her order.
She was awkward and nervous. She knew nothing at all about liquor. “Oh, uh, I’ll have the usual too,” she said.
Lapidus laughed. “You’ll have what’s usual for me, is that what you’re saying? Honey, it’ll bum your insides out.” He turned to the waitress. “Get her something sweet a brandy alexander, something like that.” The hostess nodded and disappeared.
Lapidus noticed an old friend across the room, and he excused himself to go say hello. Kristin took advantage of her time alone to scrutinize the surroundings. The club was long and narrow. At the far end a band was set up and was playing as background to a sultry looking singer who was singing the current Bessie Smith song.
Next to the band was a dance floor, where a few couples were dancing. The rest of the room was taken up by the tables at which the guests sat. The club was very plushly decorated, with red velvet flock wall covering and dark mahogany fittings and tables. Unlike the hostess, who wore a slinky black gown, the waitresses were attired in skimpy, short, low bodiced costumes, which resembled crimson bathing suits, with fringe and tassels. Looking at them, Kristin had an idea.
She had not known, until now, what she would do once she managed to meet Dallas Hunter. Just seeing him once would not be enough to learn the whereabouts of Chad. He certainly wouldn’t volunteer the information. She would have to arrange to be in a situation where she was exposed to him frequently so that she could eventually make him trust her and loosen his tongue. Becoming a waitress here would give her the perfect opportunity.
The thought of it made Kristin shudder slightly. To be attired in one of those revealing costumes in such an environment? But what else could she do? Chad’s life depended on her alone now. The police would not help, unless she could tell them specifically where Chad was being held. Then they would be forced to act.
Kristin noticed that Mr. Lapidus was now making his goodbye at the table he had joined and was about to return to her table. She quickly got up and moved toward the red carpeted stairway near the side of the room. She had seen people discreetly going up and down it ever since she had entered the club.
She hurried up the stairs just as Lapidus started to go back to the table. He noticed she was gone, and his expression became first bewildered, then angry. Before he could look to the side to see her, Kristin disappeared up the stairs, coming out on the second landing.
This floor was totally different from the first, Kristin saw. It was a gambling den. Roulette wheels and crap tables were at opposite ends, with poker and dice tables scattered between them. Most of the patrons in this room were men who were standing or walking about rather than sitting at the tables.
The air was thick with cigar and cigarette smoke, and though the sound of the downstairs band was still audible, the main sound was the excited shouting and cursing of the gamblers. There was motion and commotion everywhere. Fists were raised in the air, shaking dice, ready to roll them on the green. Fingers waved bills about with a flourish. The gamblers begged, cajoled and cursed at the dice or the cards they were betting on.
A hand descended heavily on her shoulder. She turned to see a heavyset man with a five o’clock shadow beard. He was dressed in a dinner jacket, as were all the male help, but he looked as if he did not belong in one.
“All right, sister,” he said gruffly. “Ain’t you in the wrong place? The little girl’s room is downstairs.”
“I’m here to gamble,” Kristin said, raising her chin. “I’ve got money. Is there anything else you need to know?”
“Yeah. Like who let you in?”
“I ... I came with Mr. Lapidus.” She saw that the name registered on the pit boss’s face, making him hesitate. “I’m his guest for the evening,” she added, hoping for an even more positive effect.
“Yeah, well, I guess it’s all right then.” But he looked at her skeptically nonetheless. “What are you going to play?”
Although she knew very little about any type of gambling, Kristin remembered that in roulette you could choose a particular number and put your money on that. It sounded simple enough; so she replied “Roulette.”
“Over there,” he said, directing her.
Kristin could tell that the instant he left her alone, he planned to find Mr. Lapidus and confirm that Kristin really was his guest. That would be bad, since by now Lapidus would be furious with her.
She could give him some excuse, of course, such as, she was planning to come back to him after gambling. But what would that accomplish? She would only be stuck with him for the rest of the time she was in the club . . . and then perhaps afterward. She would still have to face his anger when she let him know she was not interested in him.
The only thing to do was to find Dallas Hunter quickly, before the henchman had a chance to talk to Lapidus. “Excuse me,” she said to him as he was turning away from her. “I’d like to talk to Mr. . . .” She hesitated. It was better not to mention the man’s name. He’d want to know where she had learned of it. “I’d like to talk to the man who runs this club,” she said finally.
“Yeah? And why might that be?” He was clearly suspicious of her now, believing that even if she had come with Lapidus, there was still something fishy about her.
“I ... I want to ask about a job.”
He looked her up and down slowly, then grinned in a frightening way. “You don’t need to talk to the boss about that, doll. I can help you out. Tell you what. You meet me after I finish here tonight, and we’ll discuss it.”
“No, thank you,” she said coldly. “I’d prefer to see the man in charge.”
Well, he ain’t preferring to see you. The hiring is done by the floor manager, and he’s down on the first floor. And, anyway, he ain’t hiring. It’s just like I thought. You’re not really with Lapidus, are you? You better come with me.”
“I demand to see him!” she said, raising her voice. People turned to look at them.
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