by Matt Braun
Today, Nolan drove his own car, a sporty Stutz Bearcat with a collapsible top. At no small cost, he’d had the latest innovation installed, a customized compact radio. The automobile, with its range and mobility, had shattered the isolation of rural America forever. Yet it was the magic of radio that had shrunk the size of the planet.
A flick of a switch brought instant access to the outside world. People clustered around their sets, already addicted to favorite programs, and sat mesmerized before the talking box. Today’s news was reported today, and in a way, it was as if they were eavesdropping on the curious, and sometimes bizarre, secrets of distant places. There was a verve and excitement of immediacy about the broadcasts.
A stock market report came on as Nolan approached La Marque. The Dow Jones was up to 102, a new benchmark, and apparently headed to dizzying heights. Listening to the report, he remembered the crash of 1921, and how get-rich-quick investors had become overnight paupers. His view was that the stock market was run by shady New York financiers who periodically bilked the public. His own road to wealth was simpler, and far more certain. He invested only in himself.
The Rendezvous Roadhouse was on the highway south of La Marque. A two-story structure, it was part speakeasy, part dance hall, and a trysting place for lovers, married or otherwise. There was a bar and gaming room on the ground floor, and cozy bedrooms for rent by the hour on the second floor. On a Monday afternoon there were few customers, and Nolan virtually had the place to himself. He took a booth on the far side of the dance floor.
Libbie arrived a fashionable ten minutes late. A cloche hat set off her bobbed hair, and she wore a slinky crepe de chine dress with pleated flounces, her stockings rolled below her knees. Nolan watched as she crossed the dance floor, and felt more amused than flattered that the performance was solely for his benefit. She was decked out as Little Miss Sexpot.
“Forgive me for being late,” she said, scooting into the booth. “I had the most dreadful time deciding what to wear.”
Nolan chuckled. “I’ll bet you ransacked your closet.”
“Well, honestly, what’s a girl to wear to a roadhouse? I’ve never been to one before.”
“I guess there’s a first time for everything.”
A waiter drifted over. Libbie ordered a gin rickey and Nolan asked for bourbon with a water chaser. They made small talk, skirting anything of a meaningful nature, until their drinks were served. She lifted her glass in a suggestive toast.
“Cheers to our very first date.”
Nolan clinked glasses. “I thought we were just getting together for a drink.”
“You big fibber.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “You thought nothing of the kind. You know very well I have my sights set on you.”
“Never try to kid an old kidder. You don’t even know me.”
“Oh, don’t I? Diamond Jack Nolan, rumrunner, gangster, and all-around bad boy. I know everything about you.”
Nolan thought that wasn’t quite true. Only that morning her father had called off the hit on Durant, a job put on hold but not canceled. His amusement was tempered by the irony of the situation. He looked at her over the rim of his glass.
“How’d you learn all my better traits?”
“A girl’s entitled to her secrets. I’ll never tell.”
“What makes you think I’m the guy for you?”
“Kismet, the stars,” she said with a sultry laugh. “We were fated to be lovers.”
Nolan stared at her. “What is it, little rich girl has a fling with a gangster? Something you can shock all your society pals with?”
She looked wounded. “Now you’re being mean. I fell for you the minute I saw you. I haven’t thought of anything but you since Saturday night.”
“You don’t pull any punches, do you? Are you always this pushy with men?”
“No, I usually let them chase me. But you would never have called me, and that would have been the end of it. So I called you.”
Her honesty was strangely appealing to Nolan. He understood that liberated women of the Jazz Age were uninhibited, scornful of the old moral taboos. His own view of things was similar to hers, for he followed no rules, and few laws. Even more, she was young and vivacious, stunningly attractive. His kind of woman.
“We’d have big problems,” he said seriously. “You know I can’t be seen with you in Galveston. I’d get my butt kicked if anybody found out.”
“No one will ever know,” she said airily. “We’ll meet in out-of-the-way places … just our secret.”
“You’re used to parties, and dancing, and good restaurants. Might not be much fun.”
“Oh, yes, it will!” She scooted closer, shoulder to shoulder. “You must think I’m a wicked woman.”
Nolan grinned. “What the hell, I’m a wicked man.”
“Jeepers, I’m all tingly just thinking about it. Did you book us a room in this den of infamy?”
“Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Silly man, I already have.”
They spent the afternoon entwined in fierce love.
Chapter Eleven
The red-light district was on Postoffice Street. For four blocks, between Twenty-fifth and Twenty-ninth, sin was for sale. The locals jokingly referred to it as Fat Alley.
The bordellos were conveniently wedged side by side, two-story houses with narrow porches and wooden shutters painted in garish colors. Whores tricked out in skimpy dresses posed in lighted doorways, or leaned out open windows. They offered their wares to a randy stream of seamen, dockworkers, vacationers, and college boys. The going rate for quick lust was three dollars.
There were almost sixty houses of prostitution along Fat Alley. Galveston’s business leaders believed that a segregated red-light district was the only practical way to control the oldest profession. They agreed as well that ladies of the evening, like gambling dives and speakeasies, were essential to the Island’s well-oiled economy. Over a thousand whores plied their trade on Postoffice Street.
The brothels operated on a time-for-hire policy. Turnover was the key to a profitable venture, and the madams kept the traffic moving. Customers were shown into a parlor where they were encouraged to buy popskull whiskey while they inspected the merchandise. Those who refused to be rushed might feed quarters into a slot machine, but they soon found themselves upstairs with one of the girls. The love-for-sale transactions rarely lasted more than a few minutes.
Fat Alley, oddly enough, was one of the safest neighborhoods on the Island. The combustible mix of whiskey, men, and whores in any other town often led to muggings, brawls, and assorted forms of mayhem. But in Galveston there was a higher law than the one enforced by the police, and it had nothing to do with courts or time in jail. Anyone who caused a disturbance would be accosted by the Night Riders, the hard-fisted thugs who worked for Quinn and Voight. The penalty was a swift and brutal beating.
On Tuesday nights business began to pick up along Postoffice Street. Mondays were a day of rest for the girls, the trade slack from the departure of weekend tourists. But by sundown on Tuesday, Fat Alley came alive with men intent on getting their wicks dipped. The girls, after lazing about for a day, thought of Tuesday as the beginning of their workweek. They greeted the johns with restored vigor.
Harry Johnson and his buddy, Fred Doolin, were out for a night on the town. They were young and single, with good jobs at the Galveston Ice Company, and regular customers on Fat Alley. Their work, loading blocks of ice from the plant onto ice wagons, kept them in top shape and ever in need of a woman. Tonight, their first stop was a speakeasy, where a few drinks would get them primed for bedroom gymnastics. They loved to hear the girls squeal.
The speakeasy was jammed with workingmen. Mae Hager, who owned the establishment, circulated through the crowd. She was the only woman in the place, for men never brought girlfriends with them to Fat Alley. Her manner was brassy, with a loud, horsey laugh, and her customers enjoyed her ribald sense of humor. Johnson and Doolin, who drop
ped in two or three times a week, were among her favorite customers. She was in her forties, henna-haired and overly plump, but still a flirt. She liked young men.
Mae squeezed in between Johnson and Doolin at the bar. She ordered a drink on the house, and told them a dirty joke about a virgin and a duck. As their laughter faded, the door opened and her features suddenly turned sober. She rolled her eyes and said, “Shit!”
“What’s the matter?” Doolin asked.
“Trouble, that’s what,” she grouched. “Lera and his Goddamn one-armed bandits. He’s after me to put in his slots.”
Johnson, who was feeling his liquor, pushed off the bar. “Mae, you say the word and I’ll clean his clock. Nobody dumps on a friend of mine.”
“Yeah,” Doolin chimed in. “We’ll toss his ass out.”
“Boys, you don’t want nothin’ to do with Lera. Keep out of it.”
Lou Lera was a thickset man, who fancied himself a gangster. He wore a dark suit and a black shirt with a white tie, and carried himself with a cocky attitude. Quinn and Voight, who believed competition stimulated business, had split the slots concession on the Island between Lera and another distributor. Lera had been pressuring Mae Hager to switch to his machines.
Mae walked forward to meet him. “Evenin’, Lou,” she said with a phony smile. “Stand you a drink?”
“Let’s talk business,” Lera said roughly. “I gave you a deadline and tonight’s the night. What’s it gonna be?”
“I’ve told you a dozen times and the answer’s still the same. I’ll stick with what I’ve got.”
“You always was a stupid old cow. What say I send my boys in here and bust this joint to splinters? Think that’d change your mind?”
“Just you try it,” Mae snapped. “You don’t scare me.”
“I’ll do more’n scare you, you dumb cunt.”
“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!”
Lera backhanded her in the mouth. Her lip split, smeared with blood, and she fell against the bar. Harry Johnson took two long strides forward and slugged Lera with a looping haymaker. Lera went down hard, sliding on his butt across the floor. His flattened nose sprayed blood over his face.
Johnson started toward him to finish the job. Lera jerked a revolver from his shoulder holster and fired two shots as fast as he could pull the trigger. The first slug nipped Johnson’s arm and the second struck him squarely in the chest. His shirt colored as though a rosebud had been painted on the cloth by an invisible brush. His eyes went blank and his legs buckled at the knees. He dropped dead on the floor.
“Don’t nobody move!”
Lera waved the gun at the crowd. He scrambled to his feet, backing away, and disappeared through the door. Mae Hager stared down at the body, huge teardrops puddling her eyes, her mouth dripping blood. She tottered, almost fell, then recovered herself. She shook her fist at the bartender.
“Goddammit, don’t just stand there! Call the cops!”
The murder made the front page of the Galveston Daily Chronicle. The newspaper account was graphic, with all the gory details related by several eyewitnesses. The police were searching for Louis R. Lera.
Early the next morning, representatives of the Galveston Ministers Association stormed into City Hall. Reverend Josiah Baldwin, speaking for the Baptists, and Reverend Tyler Adair, the Methodist pastor, demanded an audience with the mayor. They were accompanied by Herbert Cornwall, perennial reform candidate in the mayoral elections.
Mayor Edward Pryor greeted them with a conciliatory smile. Elections on the Island were decided, in large part, by the political machine and the sporting crowd’s swing vote. But an astute politician nonetheless courted the clergy. No one wanted to be crosswise of God.
“Unconscionable!” thundered Reverend Baldwin. “An innocent man shot down in cold blood. We will not tolerate it.”
Reverend Adair railed on in condemnation. “Mr. Mayor, the Christian community decries this foul and dastardly act. We demand justice!”
“Gentlemen, please,” Pryor pleaded. “The police are combing the Island as we speak. I assure you an arrest will be made.”
Herbert Cornwall brayed laughter. “You and your administration are corrupt. Corrupt!” He pointed an accusatory finger. “The good people of Galveston will unite behind a coalition to put you out of office.”
“Come off it, Herbie,” Pryor countered. “You’d kill somebody yourself to be mayor. Don’t deny it, either.”
“This isn’t about politics,” Reverend Baldwin pronounced. “This is about gangsters running amuck in our streets. We—will—have—action!”
The shouting went on for a half hour. Mayor Pryor, promising results, was finally able to usher them out the door. He immediately called Chief of Police Axel Norton to his office.
“We’re in deep shit,” he said, explaining the situation. “Just the excuse they needed for a reform movement. And if it goes too far, we’ll be thrown out on the street.”
Norton squirmed. “We’re doing our damnedest, Eddie. I’m turning the Island upside down.”
“Not good enough,” Pryor said sternly. “I’m going to call Magruder and Seagrave, and alert them. You deliver the word to Quinn and Voight—personally.”
“What do I tell them?”
“Tell them killing civilians crosses the line. Lera’s their man and we’re holding them responsible. We want him in custody today—now!”
Ten minutes later Chief Norton walked into the Turf Club. Upstairs, there was a new guard on the door, Barney Ward, who had replaced the dead-and-buried Elmer Spadden. Ward stuck his head in the door, announcing a visitor, and got the okay. He admitted Norton into the office.
Quinn and Voight were seated behind their desks. Voight was in shirtsleeves, puffing a long, black cigar. He waved Norton to a chair.
“We don’t often see you around here, Chief. What’s up?”
“The shit’s hit the fan,” Norton said, seating himself. “Your boy Lera started the reformers yapping. They jumped all over the mayor this morning.”
“Who, exactly?” Quinn asked. “Which reformers?”
“Same old crowd,” Norton said. “The Ministers Association, Adair and Baldwin. Herbie Cornwall was with them, too.”
Quinn nodded. “And the mayor sent you to deliver a message, is that it?”
“Yeah, he did.” Norton swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “He says Lera’s your responsibility, what with a civilian being killed. He wants you to hand him over to the police … today.”
“Hand him over!” Voight said, puffing furiously on his cigar. “We don’t even know where the son of a bitch is.”
Quinn and Voight were both in a state of rage. Yesterday they had buried Elmer Spadden, and last night, Lera had violated their rule about no violence against civilians. They had a crew out searching for him, even though he’d seemingly vanished without a trace. Their orders were to shoot him on sight.
“I’m just doing what I’m told,” Norton said nervously. “The mayor puts it on your head because Lera’s your man.”
“Screw that!” Voight exploded. “We give the orders around here, not Eddie Pryor. Tell him I said to shove it—”
The phone rang. Quinn lifted the receiver, listening and nodding, and hung up with a perplexed expression. He exchanged a quick glance with Voight, then looked at Norton. He managed a tight smile.
“Thanks for coming by,” he said. “Assure the mayor we’re on top of things.”
Norton understood he’d been dismissed. He rose, relieved to be on his way, and moved to the door. When it closed, Voight turned to Quinn with a questioning look. He raised an eyebrow.
“Who was that on the phone?”
“Magruder,” Quinn said. “We’re invited to a meeting in his office at one. Seagrave will be there.”
“Let me guess,” Voight said. “We’re gonna talk about Lera, right?”
“Dutch, I’d say it’s the safest bet in town.”
The bank was crowded
for a Wednesday morning. Durant sat at his desk, trying to decipher balance sheets for the previous week. His mind was elsewhere.
Four days had passed since he’d killed the hoodlum named Spadden. He was still looking over his shoulder, no less convinced the mob would try to settle accounts. But he was preoccupied at the moment with an article he had read in the morning paper. There had been another killing in Galveston.
According to the newspaper, the police were scouring the Island for a thug named Lera. There was speculation that Lera had fled to the mainland, and police agencies there were on the alert. Durant toyed with the notion that the mob, with one of its own branded a murderer, would be reluctant to try another killing anytime soon. Then, on second thought, he doubted he’d gained a reprieve.
Catherine knocked, stepping inside the door. “Someone to see you. Reverend Adair and Reverend Baldwin.”
“Preachers?”
“And Herbert Cornwall, who’s always running for mayor. They say it’s very important.”
“Wonder what they want?”
“They didn’t say.”
“All right, show them in.”
The men trooped into the office. They introduced themselves and Durant got them seated. There was a moment of awkward silence, as though no one had been appointed spokesman for the group. Reverend Adair finally took the lead.
“Mr. Durant, we represent the decent people of Galveston. Perhaps you’ve heard of the murder last night?”
“I read about it in the paper.”
“Not to mention,” Adair went on, “the shooting of a gangster Saturday night. Two killings in four days!”
Durant’s expression was sphinxlike. “I’m not sure I follow you, Reverend. Why come to me?”
“We very much want to enlist your support in our cause.”
Adair offered a quick explanation. The Galveston Ministers Association was opposed to gambling, vice, bootleg liquor, and mobsters in general. Herbert Cornwall, the Association’s foremost ally, was their candidate for mayor in every election. Yet their reform movement met resistance from both the mob and many of the Island’s legitimate businessmen. Money being the root of all evil, greed too often prevailed. Filthy lucre was the driving force in any election.
