The Overlords & the Wild Ones

by Matt Braun

  Two blocks down, he entered Brandt’s Gun Store. On his walks around town, he had seen the shop and never given it much thought. But now, with a man tailing him and fresh memories of the beating he’d taken, he felt prudence was in order. Perhaps it was all imagined, or Aldridge’s constant harping on the mob, and perhaps it wasn’t. Better safe than sorry.

  Durant found himself in a small ordnance depot. The walls were lined with rows of rifles and shotguns, and a double-shelved showcase was filled with pistols. At the rear of the store, he saw a portly man at a gunsmith’s bench, tinkering with the extractor on a hunting rifle. The man rose from the bench, wiping his hands on a rag, and pushed his spectacles up on top of his head. He walked forward as Durant stopped in front of the showcase.

  “Good day,” he said. “May I help you?”

  “I see you’re a gunsmith.”

  “Yes, I’m Willie Brandt, the owner. I do all my own repairs and guarantee every gun in the shop. Are you interested in a pistol?”

  Durant nodded. “Something for personal protection.”

  “Of course.” Brandt studied his battered features, but made no comment. “Any particular pistol?”

  On the showcase shelves were a wide array of revolvers and semiautomatic pistols. Durant wanted something more serious than a .38 but nothing as cumbersome as a .45. He pointed to a German Luger.

  “Is the Luger in good condition?”

  “Yes, quite good,” Brandt said, taking it from the top shelf. “Some of these came back from France, trophies of war. Good German engineering.”

  Durant hefted the Luger. A semiautomatic, it was chambered for 9mm, somewhat hotter than the American .38 caliber. He pulled the toggle-bar action to the rear and locked it open. With his thumbnail in the breech, catching light reflection, he looked down the bore and checked the barrel. There was slight pitting in the lands and grooves, but nothing that would affect accuracy. He worked the action several times, then tested the trigger. He nodded to Brandt.

  “I’ll take it,” he said. “How much?”

  “Twenty dollars with a box of cartridges.”

  “Sold.”

  Durant loaded the magazine with seven rounds. He chambered a round, flipped on the safety, and stuck the Luger inside his waistband, hidden by his suit jacket. He stuffed the box of cartridges in his hip pocket, and placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. Willie Brandt looked at him with a curious expression.

  “You seem to be a man who knows weapons.”

  “I was in France,” Durant said evenly. “I took one of these off a German and used it most of the war. It does the job.”

  Brandt squinted. “I hope you don’t have to use that one.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Outside the shop, Durant turned west on the Strand. As he walked back toward the drugstore, his eyes searched both sides of the street. He saw nothing of the red-haired man, or anyone else who appeared to be watching him. But he didn’t relax, for he knew he was easy to find. There was no place to hide in Galveston.

  Up ahead, he saw Catherine come out of the bank. She started toward the streetcar stop at the corner, and he suddenly increased his pace. On the spur of the moment, he decided to ignore the fact that no self-respecting banker would socialize with an employee. He’d eaten too many meals alone in the last ten days, and he needed someone to talk to. Someone so attractive made it all the better.

  “Hi there,” he said when he stopped her at the corner. “I don’t want you to think I’m forward—and I know this is awful sudden—but would you have dinner with me tonight?”

  “Dinner?” She looked startled. “Oh, I don’t think I could.”

  “Say yes to a lonely man.” Durant raised his hand, palm outward. “No passes, I promise. Scout’s honor.”

  “Oh, it’s not that, really it isn’t. It’s just my mother’s waiting dinner for me at home.”

  “I’ll bet she’d understand if you gave her a call. Try it and see.”

  “Well—” Catherine hesitated with a winsome smile. “All right, I will call her. Let’s find a phone.”

  Durant took her to Guido’s Restaurant on Water Street. The place was cozy, with candlelit tables that overlooked the bay. A waiter took their orders and there was a moment of awkward silence. The Luger in his waistband reminded him there were problems he wanted to forget. At least for the night.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he said, trying to put her at ease. “Have you always lived in Galveston?”

  “Always.” She laughed softly. “I’ve only been off the Island twice in my life—both times to Houston.”

  “So your family’s old-line Galveston?”

  “No, not in the way you mean. My parents moved here when they were married.”

  “What does your father do?”

  “Why … he was in the Coast Guard.”

  “Was?”

  Her smile slipped. “Yes, he was killed in the Hurricane.”

  Durant knew all about the Hurricane. Early in September of 1900, a storm developed off the western coast of Africa. In the days that followed, it swept north of Cuba, passed by the tip of Florida, and then roared into the Gulf of Mexico. On September 7, by now a full-blown hurricane, it struck Galveston with winds in excess of 120 miles an hour. The Island’s highest point was not quite nine feet above sea level, and by nightfall, the Gulf and the bay had converged. Galveston was under water.

  The center of the hurricane passed over the Island late that evening. The tide off the Gulf was at least fifteen feet and breakers twenty-five feet and higher battered the shoreline. By midnight the storm had petered out, but the following morning brought a scene straight out of hell. A third of Galveston was leveled to the ground, with 4,000 houses and hundreds of buildings simply washed away. The most devastating hurricane in American history had killed 6,000 Islanders.

  Everyone in Texas remembered the Hurricane of 1900. Durant was a boy at the time, but his recollection of it was still vivid. He looked at Catherine now.

  “Those were hard times,” he said quietly. “Losing your father like that must have been rough.”

  She smiled wanly. “Actually, I never knew him. I wasn’t quite a year old when it happened.”

  “So it’s been you and your mother since then?”

  “Yes, she worked in a laundry to put me through high school. She’s quite a lady.”

  “Sure sounds like it.”

  “Now it’s your turn,” Catherine said, her eyes bright with interest. “I’ve always been fascinated by motion pictures. How did you ever become a stuntman?”

  “I was working as an extra,” Durant said with an offhanded gesture. “In this one scene, the stuntman was on top of a train that was about to crash. He had to leap up and grab a rope stretched between a tree and a telegraph pole. He missed.”

  “Was he killed?”

  “No, but he was banged up pretty good.”

  “And you took his place,” she said excitedly. “You did, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I did,” Durant admitted. “I went to the director and told him I could do the stunt. So he gave me a shot and I pulled it off. That’s where it started.”

  “Which stars have you done stunt work for?”

  “Well, I do all of Tom Mix’s pictures. I doubled for Lon Chaney in The Hunchback of Notre Dame and The Phantom of the Opera. And some for Doug Fairbanks, like The Thief of Bagdad.”

  “Omigosh!” she yelped. “Do you know Mary Pickford?”

  Mary Pickford was a spirited young actress known as “America’s Sweetheart.” Douglas Fairbanks, her husband, was a dashing hero of the silver screen. They were idolized by fans and courted by every filmmaker in the industry. Their lavish estate, Pickfair, was the focal point of Hollywood society.

  Over dinner, Durant held Catherine spellbound with stories of Hollywood royalty and their escapades. He went on to tell her that his ambition was to become a movie director, and his greatest supporter was Tom Mix. But even as he talked, he
was reminded that Mix’s next picture started in two days. He would have to make a call tonight.

  Hollywood, for now, took a back seat to Galveston. His only other choice was to cave in and sell out. Which was no choice at all.

  He refused to run.

  The Funland Pier was ablaze with lights. There was a roller coaster, a Ferris wheel, a merry-go-round with painted ponies, and barkers hawking games of chance. Friday night was carnival time in Galveston.

  Arthur Scarett and his wife stood in a crowd beside the merry-go-round. Their boys, astride painted wooden ponies, whooped and laughed as they rode round and round. Scarett was pink from an afternoon on the beach, stuffed with hot dogs and orange soda pop. He debated whether his stomach would tolerate the roller coaster.

  Joey Adonis waited near the Ferris wheel. He was short and stout, attired in a pin-striped suit and a gray fedora. With him were two shooters, impassive cold-eyed men whose one talent was efficient, indolent murder. Their eyes flicked back and forth between the merry-go-round and Arthur Scarett. They’d had him under surveillance since he checked into the Beach Hotel.

  The problem, as Adonis saw it, was how to separate the prohibition agent from his family. Everywhere Scarett went, the wife and kids went, and Adonis, being a religious man, wasn’t about to pop mom and her bambinos. He had all weekend to catch Scarett alone, but he wanted to get back to Texas City and business. He was mulling the problem when he felt the snout of a pistol pressed to his backbone.

  “No cute moves, Joey, or you’re a dead man.”

  Nolan was directly behind him. Four of Nolan’s boys were crowded close around the two shooters, snub-nosed revolvers tented in their suit pockets. Adonis realized he had been so intent on Scarett that he’d gotten sloppy, and now Diamond Jack himself was breathing down his neck. Nolan nudged him with the gun. “Here’s the drill,” he said with amiable menace. “We’ll walk out of here like old pals, no fuss, no bother. Try anything sporty and you’re cold meat.”

  Adonis snorted. “You’re gonna give it to me anyway. Why should I play along?”

  “No, Joey, you’ve got it all wrong. Mr. Voight and Mr. Quinn just want to have a talk with you, that’s all. Use your beaner and you’ll live to a ripe old age.”

  “Are you on the square with me, Jack?”

  “Joey, c’mon, would I lie to you?”

  Adonis thought it was highly likely. But the odds dictated that he play for time and hope the Virgin Mary was watching over him. Two cars, motors running and drivers at the wheel, were waiting outside the Funland Pier. Nolan and one of his men got into the lead car with Adonis, and the other men, after disarming the shooters, got into the second car. No one spoke as they pulled away from the curb.

  Five minutes later the caravan approached the front of the Hollywood Club. The cars turned right and slowed to a stop outside the rear entrance to the kitchen. The cooks and dishwashers pretended temporary blindness as the men filed through the rear door. Nolan followed a service hallway which led to the employees’ lounge at the end of the T-head pier. The croupiers and stickmen in the lounge, like the kitchen help, went momentarily blind.

  The casino didn’t open until eight o’clock, and it was now seven thirty-one. Nolan, with his men trailing behind, led Adonis and the shooters from the lounge to the office. Voight was seated at the desk and Quinn stood at the picture window overlooking the dark waters of the Gulf. The door closed, and Adonis, with Nolan at his side, halted before the desk. Cuddles, the parrot, cocked his head and croaked “Oh, boy! Oh, boy!”

  Adonis straightened his tie. “What the hell’s the idea, Dutch? Why’d you have us rousted?”

  “I’ll get to you,” Voight said, then glanced at Nolan. “Where’d you find them?”

  “Funland Pier,” Nolan replied. “What with the crowd and the noise, I figured it was time to make our move. They were on Scarett and his family like mustard plaster.”

  “That’s bullshit!” Adonis flared. “Me and the boys was just down here seein’ the sights.”

  “Save your breath,” Voight said. “Jack and his boys were on you all day while you tailed Scarett. We’re not saps, Joey.”

  “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about. I got no business with Scarett.”

  “No, you just planned to snuff him and put the Feds on us. After the dust settled, then you’d make your move on the Island. We know all about it.”

  “Like hell,” Adonis snapped. “Whoever told you that’s a Goddamn liar.”

  “Liar! Liar!” Cuddles squawked. “Pants on fire?”

  Adonis scowled. “What’s with the bird?”

  “He’s a psychic,” Voight said with a mirthless laugh. “You’re lying, Joey. Caught out by a parrot.”

  “Dutch, I’m tellin’ you the truth. I swear it on the Holy Mother’s head.”

  “Careful lightning doesn’t strike you.”

  “I’m on the square here! I wasn’t out to ace Scarett.”

  Voight snorted. “Ollie, what do you think? Is he a snarf or not?”

  Quinn turned from the window. “I believe you’re right, Dutch.”

  “Wait a minute,” Adonis said, looking from one to the other. “What the hell’s a snarf?”

  “That’s you, Joey,” Voight said with open mockery. “A guy who bites the bubbles when he farts in the bathtub. Fits you to a T.”

  Nolan and his men chuckled out loud. Adonis glared at Voight. “You got a lotta nerve callin’ me names. Come down to it, you’re no better’n me, maybe worse. You’ve whacked a few guys in your day.”

  “Yeah, but my day’s not over, Joey. Yours is.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Voight nodded to Nolan. “Jack, we’re through talking here. Take him for a swim.”

  “Bye-bye!” Cuddles piped in. “Byebyebye!”

  Adonis paled. His expression was that of a man who has just heard death whisper a terrible revelation in his ear. He appealed to Quinn.

  “Ollie, for Chrissake, you and me go back a long ways. You gotta stop this! I’m askin’ you.”

  “Too late,” Quinn said in a flat voice. “You should’ve stayed clear of the Island. Let’s get it done, Jack.”

  Nolan and his men pulled their pistols. Whizzer Duncan, his wiry lieutenant, moved to the far corner of the room. He rolled back the carpet, then opened a trapdoor built into the floor, revealing a narrow flight of wooden steps. The sound of water slapping against timbers echoed from below.

  Duncan went down first. Nolan and the others then herded Adonis and his two shooters down the steps. A wide landing was bolted between stout pylons that supported the T-head of the casino. Nolan’s powerful speedboat, the Cherokee was lashed to the landing, bobbing gently in the surf. The prisoners were forced into the boat at gunpoint.

  Twenty minutes later Nolan cut the throttles. They were ten miles or so off the coast, the Cherokee wallowing in swells from the southern Gulf. On the ride out, Adonis and his cohorts had been bound hand and foot, and then wrapped in heavy logging chains. At Nolan’s order, the men got them on their feet, near the stern of the boat. Duncan held Adonis upright.

  The two shooters were wild-eyed with terror. For all the men they’d killed, one broke into sobs, mewling pitifully for his life, and the other seemed paralyzed. One at a time, they were hoisted into the air and thrown overboard, sinking beneath the choppy surf the moment they hit the water. Adonis watched them vanish with a look of stricken dread.

  “Mother of Christ,” he muttered, craning his neck to look at Nolan. “Jack, I’m begging you, shoot me first. Don’t drown me like that. I’m begging you … have a heart.”

  “No can do, Joey,” Nolan said with a steady gaze. “Nothing personal, I’m just following orders. Business is business.”

  Duncan and the other men lifted Adonis off his feet. As they tossed him overboard, his mouth opened in a shrieking curse: “You bastards, I’ll see you in hell!” He hit with a splash, taken deep by the roiling waters. />
  Nolan engaged the throttles. He brought the Cherokee around and headed back to shore. Duncan stared at their wake a moment, then turned forward. He chortled sourly.

  “Think Joey found his hell at the bottom?”

  “No,” Nolan allowed. “I’d say long before then.”

  “Yeah, long before then when?”

  “On his way down.”

  Duncan thought that was rich. He got a mental picture of Adonis trying to swim in chains. Holding his breath. All the way down.

  Chapter Nine

  The Magruders seldom frequented the Hollywood Club. William Magruder believed entertainment was a foursome at bridge, and nightclubs seemed to him a frivolous pursuit. Gambling, in his opinion, was a pastime for the mentally deficient.

  For all that, Saturday night was the exception. Magruder had asked his only daughter how she would like to celebrate her twenty-first birthday. She told him, knowing it would tilt his equilibrium, that she wanted to see Al Jolson’s closing night in Galveston. He had no choice but to call Ollie Quinn.

  Elizabeth, who insisted on being called Libbie, was a striking young woman. Her tawny hair and sumptuous figure was set off by bee-stung lips and an impudent nose. She was warmly attractive, by turns charming and spoiled, and she generally left men somewhat bewitched. An evening in her company, whatever her mood, was always memorable.

  Libbie prided herself on being the ideal of a liberated woman, a flapper. She wore short skirts, rolled her stockings below the knee, and kept her hair bobbed in a shingle cut. She smoked cigarettes, flattened her breasts to affect a slender look, and painted her face with an exotic blend of cosmetics. Her outfit tonight was a sheer champagne slip of a dress, glistening with glass beads, and a matching silk headband. She carried a white plume fan with an air of regal disdain.

  Her mother, by contrast, looked the wealthy matron. Opal Magruder, her hair piled atop her head, was pleasingly plump, her face lightly blushed by rouge. She wore an elegant black satin sheath with lace across the top and down her arms, the hem of her skirt touching the floor. Francis Magruder, Sherm’s wife, was presentable, if somewhat dowdy, dressed in an evening gown of tulle silk with a scooped neckline. The men were formally attired in tuxedos.