by Will Rayner
“Big and fancy, like clean sheets on the beds?”
“Clean sheets, towels, rubbers if they want them. With O’Doul, the profit margin ain’t worth the trouble. At ten cents a pop, you don’t pile up much gross income. Half goes to the dames, you got expenses, you gotta put a couple of cops on the pad, you gotta pay me so I allow you to operate.”
“The bands, too, I guess,” T.J. suggested.
“Nuts to a band. He uses gramophones in his joints,” Shannon said. “One guy spinning disks.”
Shannon pulled out his watch again. “That’s it, Flood. Talk to Digger O’Doul. Gimme a piece of paper.” T.J. ripped a page out of his notebook and handed it to Shannon along with his fountain pen. The crime boss scrawled a phone number on it. “That’s his unlisted line. If there’s a taxi-dancer named Tawny, Digger will know. Mention my name. If he doesn’t come across, call me.”
****
Walking back to the office, T.J. tried to figure out the economics of the taxi-dance game. How big would these dance halls be? Okay, let’s be modest about this. Thirty females dancing with their marks. That’s three bucks per dance. Half to Digger, half to the bimbo. That would be a buck and a half in the cash box. Deduct all the expenses that Packy mentioned and O’Doul would have little more than chump change left over, even if everybody danced non-stop all night. O’Doul had to have something else going for him.
Half a block later, Shannon’s mention of ‘ethnic trade’ struck him. Ethnic trade, he asked himself? Asians, Filipinos, Negroes, Hispanics? That’s even more illegal than taxi-dance halls. Mixing the races together is a federal rap, not local.
At the office, he gave his father Digger O’Doul’s phone number and a succinct summary of his conversation with Shannon. “I’ll start putting everything in writing for Agnes right now,” he said. “She can type it up tomorrow while I’m at the Palace. And pop, watch yourself when you meet this O’Doul clown. Packy Shannon’s got a little bit of class, but anybody who runs a string of illegal dance halls sure ain’t got any, from the sound of it.”
Chapter 6
Sam Flood called Digger O’Doul the first thing the next morning. The phone rang for a long time before a hoarse voice answered with a “Wha …?” Sam belatedly realized that someone who supervised night-time activity would still be sleeping. Well, too late now.
“Mr. O’Doul?” he asked.
“Maybe. Who are you?”
“My name is Flood. I wish to discuss your employees with you, if I may. Mr. Packy Shannon suggested I get in touch with you.”
“Yeah? Howd’ya get this number?”
“Mr. Shannon gave it to me.”
There was a long pause. When O’Doul came back on the line his voice was clearer. “So you want me to dig up some dollies for you, mebbe go dancing, eh? There’s a greasy spoon in the 800-block Post. I’ll be there all afternoon.”
“What’s the name of this establishment?”
“It ain’t got no name, but it has a big sign that says ‘Eats’. It’s near the corner a’ Hyde. Ya’ can’t miss it.”
****
Sam Flood didn’t miss it, after an unsettling walk along Post Street. What an unappetizing Tenderloin this is, he thought. Pool halls, strip joints, listless bars, the dust-streaked emptiness of many storefronts. The pedestrians were more stationary than mobile. The electric sign on the diner had a few burnt-out bulbs but was still readable. Inside, a fat man behind the counter wearing a greasy apron looked at him suspiciously. “WhatcanIgetchapal,” he said without pausing between words.
“I’d like to see Mr. Digger O’Doul,” Sam said.
The counterman jerked his head to the right, where a customer was sitting on a stool and drinking coffee. O’Doul was short and scrawny with a narrow chest. He was going bald. He wore a light-colored suit and vest with a dark blue shirt and a red tie. Classy duds for a taxi-dance pimp, Sam thought. He wasn’t impressed. “Mr. O’Doul, my name is Samuel Flood. I called you.”
“Yeah?” O’Doul said. “Let’s grab a pew.”
He carried his coffee over to an empty booth. Nobody offered to bring Sam anything. “Mr. O’Doul, I am looking for a young lady who didn’t come home the other night,” he said. “I was told she may be in company with a taxi-dancer named Tawny.”
“Yeah? What are ya’, some kinda peeper?”
“Private. Do you have a dancer named Tawny, Mr. O’Doul?”
“I don’t know no Tawny,” O’Doul said, but his eyes shifted away. “What’s in it for me, anyway? Ya’ sure I can’t dig up a sweetie for the night?” He took a sip of coffee.
“Mr. O’Doul, this is important. Are you sure you don’t have anyone named Tawny working for you? Do you have a list of employees?”
“A list! Whaddya think, I keep books? In my racket? Besides, they ain’t employees, they’re freelancers. I can’t help ya’, pal.” Again, O’Doul’s eyes shifted.
“This is very disappointing,” Sam said. “Mr. Shannon was sure you could help me.”
O’Doul shrugged. “Hit the road, pal,” he said.
****
Sam hit Post Street. Back at the office, he refreshed his memory about T.J.’s exact phrasing of Packy’s closing remark. Then he called Shannon’s number.
“This is Mr. Samuel Flood,” he told the anonymous voice at the other end of the line. “Tell Mr. Shannon that Digger O’Doul didn’t come across. Got that?”
“Didn’t come across. Got it,” the voice said, and hung up.
****
Loomis drove Randolph Baggett and T.J. to the Palace Hotel without incident. As T.J followed Baggett into the banquet room, he noticed a uniformed cop in the lobby. There were none of San Francisco’s finest inside the big room, however. They stopped by the reception desk and Baggett murmured to the receptionist. She put a tick mark alongside his name. Watching his client walk slowly toward a group of businessmen, T.J. took up a strategic position next to the door.
The receptionist looked at him. She was a pert brunette with tousled hair. And, T.J. realized, quite attractive. There was a hint of mischief – merriment – in her eyes. “Are you with this party, sir?” she asked.
“Sort of.”
“What is your name?” she asked, looking down at her list.
“Thomas Jefferson Flood. I was named after a famous American who was dedicated to truth and justice.”
“How extraordinary,” she said, still looking down at her list.
“That’s nothing. My poppa is named ‘Samuel Adams’ in honor of the great freedom fighter.”
“Flood?” she asked. “There’s a Flood Building on the corner of Powell and Market. Are you one of those Floods?”
“Sadly, no. Those were the Comstock Lode Floods. We’re from another branch of the family. The poor Chicago Floods.”
“Well, rich or poor, you’re not on the list. What is the nature of your business, Mr. Flood?”
Of a sudden, T.J. felt flirty. A little giddy. “Call me T.J.,” he said. “See that old bird with the cane? There’s a nutty gal trying to attack him and I’m a hardboiled private dick who’s gonna catch her and cart her off to the hoosegow.”
“Oooh,” the receptionist said, playing along. “Are you going to plug her with your rod?” They both laughed.
“Okay, this tough-as-nails gumshoe has got a hard question for you. What’s your handle, sister,” T.J. growled.
She giggled. “Indigo,” she said. “Indigo Cody. Miss Indigo Cody.”
By this time, the SOMIA attendees were lining up at the buffet table. Miss Cody began tidying the papers on the desk. “I must be off,” she said. “Would you like some coffee?”
“I’d like some of that grub.”
“Of course. How neglectful of me.” She beckoned a waiter over. “Ricardo, bring us a tray, please. Um, some cold chicken, some cold meat loaf, potato salad, and …”
“A dill pickle.” T.J. added.
“… a dill pickle,” she finished. “About that coffee – cream
, sugar?”
“Black as night, hot as fire, strong as sin,” T.J. intoned.
She chuckled, shook her head and went through the door. At the last minute, Indigo Cody turned and gave T.J. the tiniest of winks.
That gal is a real piperoo, T.J. thought. Her lyrical name suits her perfectly. Without warning, the image of his late wife filled his consciousness. Jessica had died during their honeymoon three years earlier. In contrast to the vivacious Indigo, Jessica was cool and regal. A stab of loneliness and longing made him blink and take a deep breath.
As T.J. was finishing his coffee – it wasn’t all that strong – he realized there was a meeting going on. The members were voting on the two SOMIA representatives at the official opening of the Bay Bridge later in the year. It appeared Randolph Baggett was not a candidate. Praise the Lord, T.J. thought. It would be a nightmare trying to protect anybody in that crush of people.
The next item of business was a tour of the structure itself – an exclusive preview for the people who would be greatly affected by radically different traffic patterns. They all piled into two cable car replicas, which normally catered to the tourist trade, and off they went. T.J. found a spot on the running board of the second car, close to Baggett. It gave him a good view of anyone approaching the vehicle. The view from the deck of the bridge was spectacular, except that T.J. stuck to business and didn’t let his gaze wander too much.
On the way back to the hotel along New Montgomery Street, he thought he saw a flash of grey from an alleyway. He hopped off and ran quickly into the alley, but it was empty. He thought – perhaps – that he heard the patter of running footsteps. Was that a confirmed sighting or just my imagination, he thought as he quickly rejoined the cable cars. I’ll report it, anyway.
When they disembarked in front of the Palace, there were SOMIA member striding off in all directions. Eager to get back to their businesses, T.J. thought. He kept a keen eye on the hubbub surrounding Baggett and escorted him to the spot where Loomis had parked the Packard. “Home, my good man,” T.J. said.
The drive back to Pacific Heights was uneventful and there was no sign of any SFPD radio car in the neighborhood. T.J. bid goodbye to Loomis and Baggett at their doorstep and headed for the streetcar and the ride back downtown.
There were no lurking malefactors in evidence. During the journey, T.J. wondered how the dingbat dame got her information about Baggett’s movements. There’s something we’re missing with that angle, he thought.
All thoughts about Baggett and his nemesis faded, however, when he reached the office. “Mr. Sam would like to see you right away,” Agnes informed him.
Choosing one of the client chairs, T.J. pushed his fedora back from his forehead. He had thoughts of going right out again for a beer and maybe a meal.
“What’s up, pop?” he asked.
“Mr. Digger O’Doul should be walking through our front door any minute now,” Sam Flood said. “He has decided to become more forthright about sharing information with us after I called Mr. Packy Shannon earlier this afternoon.” He then went over the salient points of his conversation with O’Doul a few hours earlier. “Mr. Shannon said to call if I felt Mr. O’Doul was not being cooperative. I decided he wasn’t.”
T.J. took his hat off and twirled it absent-mindedly around his index finger. “So if he’s holding something back, what is it?” he wondered aloud. “Does he actually know where this Tawny is, or maybe even – what’s her name? – Sharon?”
“That would be too easy. I …’’ Sam could see the front entrance through his open door and broke off as he watched Digger O’Doul arrive. “Our guest has made an appearance,” he finished.
O’Doul was wearing the same outfit he had sported during their Tenderloin meeting. He had added a flashy off-white Panama which wasn’t really suitable for the cloudy weather of the past few days. Agnes ushered the visitor in and closed the office door. Sam pointed to the empty client’s chair flanked by himself and T.J.
“Well?” the senior Flood barked. Oho, thought T.J. The lion in his den growls. That’s the spirit, pop.
“About this … ah … Tawny person,” O’Doul began. “I … ah … I remember now that one of my dancers is – was – called Tawny. There is sometimes quite a turnover and I … ah … she slipped my mind.”
“Phooey,” T.J. said. “Don’t give us that malarkey, kiddo. You knew about her all along.”
“You used the term, ‘was’,” Sam said. “What do you mean by that? Is this Tawny missing, too?”
“Well, she hasn’t come to … ah … dance for four nights now. She was one of my regulars, too.”
“Just where is this dance hall?” T.J. interrupted.
“On Hyde, just around the corner from Post. It’s our special hall, just for Filipinos. I manage it personally. Second floor.”
“And you haven’t seen her for four nights,” Sam said. “Have you seen her recently in company with another woman? Not a dancer?”
O’Doul shook his head. “Not in the hall. And I don’t have much contact with the girls after the dancing is over.”
“Sounds like another load of baloney to me,” T.J. said. “You mean to tell us you don’t get a piece of any extra action after your joint closes down?”
“Of course he does.” Sam said. “Tell us how this … ah … joint of yours operates.”
“And give us the dirt on the Filipinos. Don’t forget the Filipinos,” T.J. added.
Chapter 7
Agnes knocked softly on the door and poked her head in. “I can stay late if you want, Mr. Sam,” she said.
“No, no. No need. You go on home, Miss Wilkins. We’ll lock up.” As the door closed quietly, he and T.J watched Digger O’Doul impassively. Waiting.
“So okay, this is how it goes,” O’Doul began. “It’s a taxi-dance hall. Yeah, yeah, I know taxi-dancing is illegal in this city, but I got protection, okay?” Not for much longer maybe, T.J. told himself. “This one caters exclusively to Filipinos,” O’Doul continued. “Ya’ gotta be a Filipino to get up the stairs. Maybe a Chink now and then, but a hunnert per cent gooks most every night.”
“Where do the women come from?” Sam asked.
“I was getting to that. The women sort of … apply … to me. I give some of them a try and if they’re popular, they can stick around. They line up against the wall, see – white woman mostly, with maybe a Mezkin if she’s light-skinned enough. The Filipinos like them pale. What they do is, they pick one out, give them a ticket and have one dance.”
“At ten cents a pop,” T.J. said.
“Twenty cents. I charge our little brown brothers two bucks for a book of ten tickets.”
The Floods, father and son, digested that exhibition of blatant discrimination for a moment. They let it pass, however. “Was Tawny one of the popular girls?” T.J. asked.
“She sure was. Blonde, clear-skinned. Except there was one guy who wouldn’t let her go. Name of Manuel. Showed up about the same time this Tawny twist did. Really good dancer. Pissed me off a little, sometimes, though. Used to put on these dancing exhibitions, slowed down my turnover something awful.”
“This Manuel have a last name?”
O’Doul thought for a moment. “Santiago. Manuel Santiago. Come to think if it, he hasn’t shown up for a few days, either.”
“Where does everyone go after the dancing’s over?” Sam asked.
O’Doul shrugged. “Manilatown, naturally. That’s were all the Filipinos hang out, ain’t it?”
“Ever see a dark-haired girl with Tawny?”
“Naw. All I saw was Manuel and Tawny.”
“And you say they both left together one night and never came back,” T.J. said.
“I didn’t say that. I said they both stopped coming here at about the same time.”
****
After they let O’Doul slink away, the Floods summed up the interview together. “Manuel and Tawny dance together for a while, then haven’t been seen for several days,” T.J. said. �
��Manuel’s a Filipino who almost certainly resides in Manilatown,” Sam said. “I believe I will go look for him there.”
“Not by yourself, old man,” T.J. responded. “That real estate around Kearny and Jackson can get pretty lethal. It ain’t Nob Hill or Union Square. You’ll need someone to watch your back. I’m going with you.”
****
T.J. sat bolt upright in bed an hour before his alarm clock was due to ring. “Petey McNully!” he exclaimed to the darkened room “Manilatown!”
He arrived at the office well in advance of his father and a few minutes behind Agnes. He stood in front of her desk, cocked his fedora at a rakish angle and growled, “Hello sweetheart, gimme Rewrite!” I always wanted to say that, he told himself. Agnes was taken aback. “Wha … wha …?” she stammered.
“Settle down, Miss Wilkins,” T.J. said in his normal voice. “Dig up the phone number for the Examiner’s city desk, that’s the girl.”
Agnes recovered quickly from her confusion. This was a request she could understand. She opened up her card file and read off the number.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” T.J. said. He turned and skimmed his hat at the hat rack. This time it was a dead ringer.
In his office, he called the newspaper and was told McNully did not start until ten o’clock. T.J. left his name and number. “That’s right, mister. Flood, like in the Bible,” he told the skeptical voice on the other end of the line.
Sam Flood arrived just as T.J. finished his brief report on the Baggett assignment. Father and son went into Sam’s office together.
“Commendable work ethic, Thomas,” Sam said as he unbuttoned his jacket and sat down behind his desk. The morning post was laid neatly on the blotter before him. “An early start means a more productive day.”
T.J. grabbed one of the client chairs. “I have an idea, a plan, about these Filipinos,” he said. “You know there’s no use rattling around Manilatown, trying to find this Manuel Santiago character. We wouldn’t know who to ask, we wouldn’t know what doors to knock on. We’d get the brush-off, anyway.”
