The Overlords & the Wild Ones

by Matt Braun

  On the third floor, Nolan walked along the hallway. Elmer Spadden, the ape who guarded the office door, would never wind up on an elevator either. Of all the men in the organization, Nolan gave Spadden and Turk McGuire a show of respect. He feared no man, but he’d seen them in action, and he knew he couldn’t whip either one in a fight. Before it came to that he would resort to a gun, and he liked them too much. They reminded him of overgrown boys with an aptitude for breaking bones.

  Quinn and Voight were seated at their desks in the office. Saturday was their most hectic day, busy from morning until late at night with the action at the Turf Club and the crowds jamming the Hollywood Club. Earlier, he’d phoned and told them he planned to drop by the People’s Bank & Trust. They were expecting results.

  “How’d it go?” Voight asked. “Durant ready to sign over the bank?”

  Nolan took a chair. “I’d have to say he surprised me. He’s a cool one.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, for openers, he doesn’t scare. I gave him the pitch and he never blinked an eye. Told me to hit the road.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Voight said, amazed. “Not losing your touch, are you, Jack?”

  “You be the judge,” Nolan countered. “You know how you accidentally-on-purpose show a man your gun? Just to put him in the right frame of mind?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “I showed him mine and he threatened to take it away from me. How’s that for brass balls?”

  Voight and Quinn were shocked. Their years on the Island had made them masters of extortion and intimidation, overlords who were never challenged. What they’d just heard mocked their authority, insulted them. Their reaction was predictable.

  “Does he know who we are?” Quinn said hotly. “Does he know we run this Island?”

  “Aldridge told him,” Nolan replied. “Followed me through the door and told him I’m the hatchet man for the mob. That got things off to a fast start.”

  “I’m sure,” Quinn said. “You didn’t let Aldridge stick around, did you?”

  “Didn’t have to lift a finger. Durant shooed him out of the office pretty as you please. Everything said was said in private.”

  “So you told him we represent Magruder and it’s in his best interests to sell. Does that cover it?”

  “More or less,” Nolan said. “I dropped the hint it’s not healthy for him on the Island. Told him to take the money and run.”

  “And?”

  “He as much as told me to stuff it.”

  Quinn and Voight exchanged a look. Nolan knew what they were thinking, for he’d had the same thought himself. But it was not his place to point out the obvious, or step on their authority. He waited for them to speak.

  Voight took the lead. “No way we can keep this from getting out. People are gonna hear a wise-ass nobody told us to go screw. We’ve got to turn that around.”

  “And quickly,” Quinn added. “We gave our word to Bill Magruder. We have to deliver.”

  “Magruder’s second on my list,” Voight said. “Durant’s made us look bad, and I won’t have it. We’ll send a message to the whole damn Island. Nobody fucks with the organization.”

  Nolan was always amused by the euphemism. Everyone on the Island, and the mainland as well, referred to them as the mob. The Texas Rangers, and the occasional reformer, labeled them gangsters and racketeers. Voight and Quinn, who considered themselves businessmen, opted for a more respectable term. Impervious to the irony, they called it the organization.

  “Dutch, I think you’re right,” Quinn said. “What we need here is an object lesson. One that will impress our associates.”

  Voight nodded soberly. “Hoods and bootleggers understand only one thing, and that’s cracked heads. We’ll give them a little reminder not to step out of line.”

  Nolan shook a cigarette from a pack of Lucky Strikes. He lit up with a gold lighter and exhaled a streamer of smoke. He looked at his bosses.

  “Why go halfway?” he said, as though offering a suggestion. “Why not clip Durant and leave him dead on the street? That’ll send the message loud and clear.”

  “No, I think not,” Quinn said quickly. “Magruder has a weak stomach when it comes to killing. He was very definite on the point.”

  “The hell with him,” Voight growled. “We’re the ones with egg on our faces. Jack’s got the right idea.”

  Quinn shook his head. “Dutch, it just won’t do. I agreed to the terms with Magruder, and that’s that.” His expression was stolid. “We have to stick with the original plan.”

  Voight was reluctant to concede the point. But he would never compromise his partner’s honor, and dismissed it with a wave of his hand. His gaze settled on Nolan.

  “We’ll do it Ollie’s way,” he said. “Catch Durant on the street, lots of witnesses, out in the open. Let everybody see what happens when we’re crossed.”

  Nolan took a drag on his cigarette. “How bad do you want him hurt?”

  “Stop just short of killing him. Use McGuire and Spadden for the job. They do good work.”

  “When do you want it done?”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Quinn said, as though thinking out loud. “No need to get the preachers harping about violence on the Sabbath. Wait till Monday.”

  “Monday, it is,” Nolan said. “Anything else?”

  Quinn checked his watch and suddenly jumped to his feet. “Dutch, will you take it from here? Jolson starts rehearsal with the band at one o’clock. I want to be there.”

  “Leave it to me and Jack.”

  A moment of silence slipped past as Quinn hurried out the door. Voight fired up a cigar in a thick wad of smoke. He laughed with satiric humor.

  “What a joke. Magruder wants to play dirty, but with rules, for chrissake! By all rights, we ought to ice Durant.”

  “I’d second the motion, boss. Too bad we’ve got our hands tied.”

  “Just make sure you bust his big brass balls. You hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  A picture of McGuire and Spadden at work flashed through Nolan’s mind. He thought Earl Durant would wish he was dead.

  The spotlights arced through a sky bright with stars. A warm evening breeze wafted in off the Gulf, the rolling waves of high tide pounding the beach. Far out across the darkened waters a streak of lightning briefly lit the horizon.

  The Hollywood Club was chaos in motion. A long line of expensive automobiles dropped off guests from as far away as Colorado and New Mexico. The ladies were clad in evening gowns, dripping with jewels, and the men wore white tie and tails. They were drawn there, in all the glitter and crush, by a once-in-a-lifetime occasion. Tonight was opening night for the man billed as “The World’s Greatest Entertainer.”

  The club was sold out. Tickets were thirty dollars, an outrageous price for the time, and did not include dinner or drinks. Still, the clamor for admission kept the phones jangling and even the lounge by the casino was filled to capacity. The crowd, apart from those few who had been to New York, knew Jolson only by his radio show or his records. They were there to see him in person—to actually see him perform—to say they had attended opening night. The air was electric with excitement.

  Quinn was in his element. He was the consummate showman, and never more alive than when he was staging an extravaganza. His vigor was contagious, infecting every employee of the club with pulsing enthusiasm. His charm, cranked up several notches, overwhelmed arriving guests and the raft of newsmen there to cover the event. He dispensed bottles of champagne to the favored few, constantly on the move, hopping from table to table, shaking men’s hands and beguiling their ladies. He was everywhere at once, never still.

  Dutch Voight, on the other hand, watched it all from the hallway by the lounge. He was still of the very strong opinion that Jolson had picked their pockets; but he begrudged his partner none of the glamour or the accolades from customers and press alike. He and Quinn had fought their way to the top, all too often in the lite
ral sense, and tonight was yet another affirmation that everything on the Island, legitimate or otherwise, revolved around their enterprise. As for Al Jolson, he was pragmatic, perhaps a little philosophical. He knew the casino would have a record night.

  The show was to begin at eight o’clock. A few minutes before the hour, Quinn crossed the dance floor and made his way backstage. He found Ben Pollack, the bandleader, talking with some of the musicians off to the side of the bandstand. Pollack, a dandy himself, was quick to admire Quinn’s white dinner jacket, lavishly tailored from silk shantung and set off by a scarlet boutonniere. Quinn, who was usually vain to a fault about his appearance, sloughed off the compliment. His interest was fixed on the star of the show.

  “Quite a crowd,” he said, moving fluidly into a non sequitur. “How’d you think Jolson sounded in rehearsal?”

  Pollack laughed. “Ollie, c’mon, stop worrying. You asked me that right after rehearsal.”

  “I did?” Quinn drew a blank. “What’d you say?”

  “What everybody in the band says. He’s never been in better voice.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I thought. I saw him perform at the Winter Garden in June, when I was in New York. I think he sounded even better in rehearsal.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  Pollack patted him on the shoulder. “You told me the same thing, almost word for word, this afternoon. Calm down, Ollie. Everything’s fine.”

  “Who’s worried? I believe I’ll have a word with Al. Wish him luck.”

  “Careful, Ollie.”

  “Careful of what?”

  “Don’t make him as nervous as you are.”

  “Who’s nervous?”

  Quinn rushed off backstage. Jolson’s dressing room was along a corridor with rooms where band members and entertainers changed, and a lounge where they could relax between acts. A gold star was affixed to one of the doors, and below it, painted in gold script, the words “Al Jolson.” Quinn rapped lightly on the door.

  “C’mon in, it’s open.”

  The dressing room was appointed with a plush couch and an easy chair, a mirrored makeup table, and a tiled bathroom. Jolson was seated before the mirror, putting the finishing touches on his makeup. He glanced at Quinn in the mirror.

  “Hey there, kiddo. How’s the crowd?”

  “Full house,” Quinn said. “You packed them in, Al.”

  “What the hey, I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread! I always pack ’em in.”

  Jolson dabbed greasepaint on his nose. He was made up in blackface, with a kinky black wig, his mouth and eyes outlined in clown white. To complete the costume, he wore a baggy black suit, a white shirt with a floppy black bow tie, and white gloves. He’d gotten his start in minstrel shows on the burlesque circuit, and later found it drew raves on Broadway. Blackface was his signature act in the world of show business.

  “Everything all right?” Quinn asked anxiously. “How are you feeling?”

  “Top of the world!”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “Not unless you’ve got a blonde stashed in your pocket.”

  “No, sorry, Al. No blondes.”

  “Whatta way to treat a star!”

  Jolson was at the height of his fame. He was forty years old, charismatic and full of vigor, completely taken with himself. The fact that Quinn was a mobster, and probably had people killed on the slightest whim, impressed him not in the least. He treated it all with jocular insouciance.

  “Well—” Quinn hesitated, uncertain how to make his exit. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do?”

  “I’ve got my pipes tuned and I’m truckin’ along to the melody. I’ll lay ’em in the aisles.”

  “Well, then, as they say in the theater, break a leg, Al.”

  Jolson mugged a blackface grin. “Hang on tight, sport. We’re off and runnin’!”

  Quinn gave a thumbs-up sign of victory. He went out the door, rushing across the backstage area, and waved to Pollack and the orchestra as they moved onto the bandstand. In the nightclub, he table-hopped his way through the crowd, laughing and pumping hands. His jitters on opening night were linked to a superstition begun with the first act ever to play the Hollywood Club. He always stationed himself at the rear of the room.

  Maxine was waiting for him. She wore a silver lamé evening gown, with sapphires at her throat, her flaxen hair piled atop her head in a French twist. She took his arm with a dazzling smile.

  “Oh, it’s just swell, boopsie. What a crowd!”

  “I know,” Quinn mumbled. “We could’ve sold out twice over.”

  She plumped her hair. “Do you like my dress? You haven’t said a word all night.”

  “Yeah, sure, you look swell.”

  “A girl likes to be told once in awhile, you know. I bought this dress especially for you.”

  “Maxie, you look like a million dollars. I’m trying to concentrate on the show.”

  “Oh, stop worrying, sugar. I mean, after all, you’ve got Al Jolson!”

  “Cross your fingers, anyway.”

  A murmur swept through the audience as the houselights dimmed. The stage was faintly lit, and as a hush settled over the room, Pollack raised his baton. The orchestra broke out in a rollicking tune.

  Jolson bounded onto the stage. A brilliant spotlight followed him as he opened with Swanee. His voice was strong, trained to fill the old vaudeville halls, and he worked without a microphone. He pranced around the stage, white eyes rolling merrily behind blackface, belting out the song. His performance was charged with vitality, energized by raw emotion.

  The audience roared as the last note faded. Jolson paused at center stage, framed in the spotlight, and boomed his trademark quip. “Folks, you ain’t heard nothin’ yet!”

  The orchestra segued into Mammy. Jolson’s voice took on a mournful quality and his features seemed wrought with angst as he warbled the lyrics of a son lamenting for his mother. On the last stanza, he dropped to his knees on a polished ramp attached to the front of the stage. He slid down the ramp, halting in the center of the dance floor, arms spread wide, moist eyes glistening in the spotlight. His anguished voice quavered on the final line.

  “My … my … mammmy!”

  The crowd went mad. Women wept, men swallowed their tears, all of them on their feet, applauding wildly. Quinn whooped and shouted, grabbed Maxine in a tight hug. His face blazed with excitement.

  Jolson held them enthralled for the next two hours.

  Chapter Six

  The day was bright, the sky like blue muslin. A forenoon sun peeped from behind mottled clouds scudding westward on a light breeze. Galveston lay almost somnolent on a lazy Monday morning.

  Clint Stoner drove down off the causeway. Janice was seated beside him in the canary-yellow Packard, her hair blowing in the wind from the open window. She pointed with little-girl wonder to the bay and tall freighters lining the portside wharves. Seagulls floated on still wings over the shimmering harbor.

  The smell of jasmine and magnolia drifted through the window. Broadway was lined with stately palms, and everywhere there was the pink-and-white profusion of oleander blossoms. Janice breathed deeply, filling her lungs, and scooted closer on the seat. She gaily hugged his arm.

  “Oh, Clint!” she said excitedly. “I love it. I just love it!”

  “The name’s Bob,” Stoner corrected her. “And you’re Olive and we’re the Eberlings. Time to get it straight—Olive, honey.”

  “I will, I will, I promise. I just slipped.”

  “No room for slips, now. We’re here, and we’ve got to be on our toes every minute. You remember what I told you.”

  “I know,” she pouted prettily. “One mistake will be our last. I won’t forget, sweetheart.”

  “I sure hope not, Olive.”

  The date was September 10. They had spent a day shopping, and another day rehearsing their cover story with Colonel Garrison at Ranger Headquarters. The drive from Austin h
ad consumed the weekend, and only now, after crossing the causeway, had it become real. They were on the island where gangsters operated with impunity.

  Ten minutes later they sighted the Buccaneer Hotel. To them it was palatial, four hundred rooms overlooking Seawall Boulevard and the Gulf. Intelligence reports from Ranger Headquarters indicated that Oliver Quinn, one of the two gangland kingpins, occupied the penthouse. The plan was to make themselves as obvious as possible, attract attention. They were wealthy tourists on a holiday.

  Stoner braked the Packard to a halt at the entrance. A bellman rushed out, greeting them effusively, and began unloading their luggage from the trunk. The four suitcases were expensive, glossy leather tooled with their phony initials, and they were dressed for the part. Janice wore a fashionable day dress of the new artificial silk called rayon, a cloche hat, and a strand of pearls. Stoner was attired in a whipcord Western suit, pointy-toed burgundy boots, and a wide-brimmed white Stetson. They looked like money on the hoof.

  The clerk at the registration desk snapped to attention. “Good day, sir. Welcome to the Buccaneer.”

  “I’m Robert Eberling,” Stoner said. “I reserved a suite for three weeks.”

  “Yessir.” The clerk riffled through his file cards. “Mr. and Mrs. Eberling of Johnson City. Is that correct?”

  “That’s me, pardner.”

  “You certainly picked the right place for a vacation, Mr. Eberling. The Buccaneer’s the finest Galveston has to offer.”

  “Just make sure we’ve got a suite facing the Gulf. I won’t settle for anything else.”

  “You have a wonderful view,” the clerk trilled. “As a matter of fact, you’re on the floor reserved for our special guests. You’re just down the hall from Al Jolson.”

  “Al Jolson!” Janice said, round-eyed. “The New York Broadway star?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Eberling, the very one. He opened Saturday night at the Hollywood Club. That’s the top nightspot on the Island.”

  “Oh, Bob,” Janice simpered, batting her eyelashes at Stoner. “I’d so love to see Al Jolson. Wouldn’t you, sweetie?”