by Matt Braun
“We desperately need your support,” Adair concluded. “You are new to town and yours will be viewed by all as an objective voice.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s much of a voice,” Durant observed. “I only got into town a couple weeks ago. Hardly anybody knows me.”
“On the contrary,” Reverend Baldwin announced. “Your uncle was widely respected in our community, and you have taken his place here at the bank. Your views will carry considerable weight, Mr. Durant.”
“And there’s William Magruder,” Adair hastily added. “He actively works to defeat all reform, and he and your uncle were archenemies. You would be marching to the cause in your uncle’s footsteps.”
“I don’t know,” Durant said uncertainly. “I’ve never been much for politics.”
Cornwall cleared his throat. “There’s talk around town that the mob subjected you to a terrible beating. Diamond Jack Nolan was reported to be the ringleader.” He paused, head cocked in scrutiny. “May I ask what you did to incur their anger?”
“Hard to say,” Durant lied, his features deadpan. “I’d like to know myself.”
“But you don’t deny it’s so?”
“No, I don’t deny it.”
Cornwall spread his hands. “Then all the more reason for you to join our cause, Mr. Durant. You will be standing foursquare against the mob and William Magruder.”
Durant was all too aware that they were attempting to use him for their own purposes. But by joining the reform movement, there was the possibility it would deter the mob from coming after him. As he thought it through, there semed every likelihood the mob would hesitate to kill a man aligned with the clergy. There was the added bonus of hitting back at Magruder. He liked it.
“All right,” he said after a prolonged silence. “I’m on the bandwagon. Count me in.”
“Excellent!” Reverend Adair crowed. “We are delighted to have you with us. Absolutely delighted!”
“How do we go about it?” Durant asked. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing just yet,” Adair said. “We first have to formulate a plan to win public support. Perhaps we’ll be able to get something in the newspaper.”
“Our congregations are the starting point,” Reverend Baldwin said, nodding sagely. “On Sunday, we’ll deliver sermons condemning gangsters and murderers. We must rally the Christian brotherhood to our cause.”
“Amen,” Reverend Adair added. “God loves a righteous scrap.”
The meeting ended on that note. Durant showed them to the door with a round of handshakes, and returned to his desk. A moment later, Aldridge stepped into the office, clearly overcome by curiosity. His expression was one of bemusement.
“Aren’t you the popular fellow,” he said. “What was that all about?”
Durant wagged his head. “Believe it or not, they recruited me into the reform movement.”
“Yes, they’ve been trying to reform Galveston for years. I assume the Johnson boy’s murder last night has them steaming?”
“Yeah, they’re steamed, all right. They’re talking about taking the fight to the mob. God against the gangsters.”
“You already have a bull’s-eye on your back. Doesn’t joining them put you at even more risk?”
Durant smiled. “Ira, it might just save my life.”
Chapter Twelve
Quinn and Voight arrived at Magruder’s office shortly before one o’clock. The moment they came through the door, they knew there was trouble in the works. The air was all but frosty.
Magruder was enthroned behind his desk. George Seagrave was seated in a wingback chair, and Sherm was in his usual spot on the couch. They looked like barnyard owls, their features solemn.
“Have a chair,” Magruder said without preamble. “I’ve called you here on a matter of the utmost urgency.”
Quinn and Voight seated themselves. Seagrave gave them a perfunctory nod, then averted his gaze. There was a moment of terse silence while Magruder seemed to collect himself. His color was high.
“We have an untenable situation,” he said in an orotund voice. “Last night one of your homicidal maniacs killed a man in cold blood. What do you have to say for yourselves?”
Voight glowered at him. “Who the hell are you to call us on the carpet? I don’t like your Goddamn attitude.”
“Nor I yours,” Magruder said sullenly. “The reformers are out bleating their usual denouncements of George and myself, and the political structure of Galveston County. They threatened the mayor with everything short of crucifixion.”
“Pryor scares too easy,” Voight retorted. “So do you and George, if you want my opinion. These reformers are all hot air. Always have been.”
“No, you’re wrong,” Seagrave said sharply. “The murder of an innocent man gives them the underpinnings of a moral crusade. They could bring us all down.”
Quinn shifted in his chair. “We’ve beaten back the reformers any number of times over the years. All this will blow over in a few days.”
“You miss the point entirely,” Magruder informed him. “George and I provide immunity for your activities on the Island. If they bring us down, they bring you down.” He paused, staring across the desk. “We must find a solution—quickly.”
“Quickly, as in today,” Seagrave added. “We have to defuse these reformers before they get started. By tomorrow, they’ll be pounding their drum all over town.”
Voight laughed sourly. “You want ’em defused? Hell, we’ll just kill Lera and dump his body outside City Hall. How’s that for a solution?”
Magruder and Seagrave appeared startled. They exchanged a wary glance, weighing the repercussions of so final a solution. Magruder finally shook his head.
“However fitting, it simply won’t do,” he said. “We can’t afford another dead man, even a murderer. More violence would add fuel to the fire.”
“So what’s the answer?” Quinn asked. “You don’t like our solution—what’s yours?”
Magruder steepled his fingers. “George and I have talked it over, and we feel there’s only one prudent measure. Your man Lera must stand trial for murder.”
“You’re nuts!” Voight woofed. “You expect Lera to strap himself into the electric chair? That’ll be the day!”
“What we expect,” Seagrave said firmly, “is for you and Ollie to convince him to surrender. Only a jury trial will take the wind out of the reformers’ sails. We need a public display of justice.”
Quinn and Voight looked at each other. They suddenly realized that the matter had been discussed, and settled, long before they arrived. Magruder and Seagrave were playing them like violins. Cleverly, a step at a time, they were being manipulated.
“You boys are dreaming,” Voight said. “You want us to convince Lera to commit suicide. Why not ask pigs to fly?”
“There is no other way,” Magruder said with conviction. “The community must have its spectacle—a catharsis—see him tried and convicted in a court of law. Only then will we squelch the reformers.”
Voight snorted. “How the Christ are we supposed to pull that off? Lera’s on the lam and we don’t have a clue where he’s at. He could be in China by now.”
“Yes, but you’re looking for him,” Seagrave said with a studious gaze. “He broke your rule—your law against violence—and you intend to kill him. Isn’t that true?”
“So what?” Voight said gruffly. “We take care of our own in our own way. Nobody’s complained so far.”
“But we must have him alive!” Magruder trumpeted. “How can I make you understand the salient point in all this? We cannot allow the reformers to mount a crusade in the name of God and church.”
“Dutch—” Quinn waited until he had Voight’s attention. “I’ve been sitting here thinking about it, and they’re right. A murder gives the reformers all they need to preach hellfire and damnation. They could bust our balloon.”
“And?” Voight stared at him. “What’s the rest of it? What are you saying?”
“I think we should listen to what they’re saying about Lera.”
“Even if we found him, so what? You think he’s gonna roll over and agree to stand trial?”
“I think we could make him agree.”
Something unspoken passed between them, and Voight finally nodded. “All right,” he said, looking from Seagrave to Magruder. “No promises, but we’ll give it a try. Our boys are already looking for him, anyway.”
“I couldn’t be more pleased,” Seagrave said with a sigh of relief. “We knew we could count on you and Ollie.”
The meeting concluded with a sense of harmony restored. Magruder mentioned that he would like to have a word with Quinn and Voight, on a matter of personal business. Seagrave, as usual, preferred not to know what such business entailed. He left after an exchange of handshakes.
When the door closed, Magruder sank back in his chair. “I am reminded of the line from Macbeth. ‘Double, double, toil and trouble.’ ”
Voight gave him a blank look. Quinn, who had some passing knowledge of Shakespeare, suddenly became alert. “Don’t tell me there are more problems?”
“I’m afraid so,” Magruder said, his eyes glum. “I’ve learned that Earl Durant has joined forces with the reformers.”
Voight frowned. “How’d you find that out?”
“Like you, Dutch, I have my sources. I received a call just before lunch.”
“Talk about odd company,” Quinn said speculatively. “I wouldn’t think Durant has much in common with preachers. Not after the way he shot it out with our boys.”
“Be that as it may,” Magruder said. “So long as he is involved with the reformers, you cannot harm him. That would merely galvanize Adair and Baldwin to greater action.”
“How long do we wait?” Voight said, his eyes cold. “Maybe it slipped your mind, he killed one of our men.”
“You wait until I say otherwise. I must insist you follow my wishes in this matter.”
“You’re hurting yourself, you know,” Quinn smoothly intervened. “You’ll never get that bank till we get Durant.”
Magruder waved him off. “We have more pressing problems at the moment. Specifically, this fellow Lera.”
“And after we deliver him?” Voight persisted. “How about we tend to Durant?”
“All in good time, Dutch. All in good time.”
Magruder was struck by a wayward thought. He told himself he had much in common with Daniel Webster. So much so the irony was difficult to escape.
He too had sold his soul to the Devil.
A brilliant orange sunset shimmered off the waters of the bay. Guido’s was slowly filling with the early evening dinner trade. Waiters scurried back and forth through the restaurant.
Durant and Catherine were seated at a window table. Tonight was the first time he’d asked her out since the shooting incident. He had waited, concerned for her safety, certain the mob would try to exact revenge. But his alliance with the reformers, by now public knowledge, had altered the scheme of things. He thought he’d bought himself some insurance.
Catherine was confused. She was immensely attracted to him, and after their date Saturday night, she believed it was mutual. Then four days had passed with hardly a word or a smile, his manner somehow distant, strangely impersonal. She had accepted his invitation tonight, hoping she’d imagined his odd behavior. She tried to put a bright face on things.
“You’re the talk of the office,” she said, after the waiter had taken their orders. “Two pastors and Herbert Cornwall calling on you! Everyone’s dying of curiosity.”
Durant chuckled. “Believe it or not, I’ve been enlisted into the reform movement. Just about the last thing I ever expected.”
“What are they reforming against?”
“You heard about the shooting last night?”
“Yes, it was dreadful,” she said with a little shudder. “No one’s safe from these gangsters.”
“That’s the whole idea,” Durant said. “The preachers and Cornwall intend to use the murder as a political springboard. They want to run the mob out of town.”
“Oh, they’ve been trying to do that for years. I’m not surprised a murder has set them off again. But why would they come to you?”
“Couple reasons, the first being Magruder. They know I’m at odds with him because of the bank, and they say he’s involved in dirty politics. They figured I’d be a natural to hop on the bandwagon.”
“Magruder’s certainly dirty,” she agreed. “You said there was another reason?”
“The mob,” Durant replied. “They knew I’d gotten beat up by Nolan and his thugs. Cornwall was especially interested about why I’m on the outs with the mob.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing even close to the truth. Fact is, I pretty much lied.”
Durant thought he was lying to her as well. A lie of omission, however justified, was nonetheless a lie. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to tell her he’d killed one of Nolan’s men in the shootout Saturday night. He didn’t want her to see him in that light, to think of him in that way. A killer.
“Listening to you—” she hesitated, her features set in a musing expression. “Well, I was wondering if this wouldn’t anger those gangsters even more. You joining with the reformers, I mean.”
“Ira asked me the same thing. I’m betting they’ll think twice now. Wouldn’t look good to jump a man associated with preachers.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“That makes two of us.”
The waiter brought their plates. He served Catherine veal cutlets with carrots and peas, and Durant a T-bone steak with a baked potato. As Durant cut into his steak, he told himself he’d let the conversation drift off course. A pretty girl deserved to be entertained, not frightened. He tried for a lighter note.
“You remember you told me how crazy you are about motion pictures?”
“Yes, I did, didn’t I? What made you think of that?”
“I got to wondering—” Durant paused, a hunk of beefsteak speared on his fork. “What’s your favorite movie of all time?”
“Oh, there’s no question!” her eyes shone with excitement. “It would definitely have to be Don’t Change Your Husband.”
“What was it you liked about it?”
“The laughs and humor—you’ll think I’m terrible … and the marvelous naughtiness.”
Cecil B. DeMille, the director, was ever aware of the box office. Cynicism was an outgrowth of the World War, and he sensed that audiences were bored with traditional heroes and histrionic villains. The Victorian Age was falling before the Jazz Age, rapidly being replaced by a new morality. Sex and sex appeal were in.
DeMille introduced avarice and lust, human frailty and fallibility in Don’t Change Your Husband. In the end, virtue triumphed over infidelity, but not until the audience had a full serving of vice. DeMille’s star in the movie, and a sequel, Why Change Your Wife?, was Gloria Swanson. She projected the glamour of a Roaring Twenties emancipated woman.
“I just adore Gloria Swanson,” Catherine said gaily. “She’s so beautiful, and all those furs and jewels. Have you ever met her?”
“Only in passing,” Durant said with a crooked smile. “She’s a real card, though. Regular prima donna.”
“Oh, I love Hollywood gossip. Tell me!”
“Well, they play music on some of the sets. Directors like to put their actors in the mood.”
Catherine forgot her veal cutlets as he went on to explain. The cranking grind of cameras often intruded on the concentration of actors. The noise of nearby sets being constructed or dismantled unsettled the mood as well. The sets were built next to one another, and sometimes, three or four films might be shooting at once. Every studio kept several small orchestras on hand to work different sets.
“So this one day,” Durant elaborated, “Pola Negri was shooting on one set and Gloria Swanson was on the set beside her. Keep in mind, they hate each other. Couple of real cu
tthroats.”
“I can’t stand it!” Her eyes sparkled with merriment. “Don’t stop, go on!”
“You have to remember movie actors take themselves pretty seriously. Especially when they’re into emoting hearts and flowers.”
Pola Negri, he went on, was faced with a particularly difficult emotional scene. She insisted on the soft, woeful strains of a single violin to establish the mood. She insisted as well that musicians on other sets stand down until her scene was completed. Gloria Swanson, who was piqued by the demands, quickly recruited a brass band and played a rousing military march at the critical moment. Pola Negri threw a fit, and a Hollywood feud was born.
“I love it!” Catherine said with a mischievous laugh. “I can just see it now. Gloria Swanson at the head of a brass band!”
Durant grinned. “Yeah, it blew the lid off things. Turned into a real catfight.”
Her expression was still animated with laughter. “You’re better than a movie magazine,” she said, picking at her veal. “Do you know Greta Garbo, too?”
“I’ve seen her around the studios.”
“Is it true what they say about her and John Gilbert?”
John Gilbert was a handsome matinee idol of the day. Greta Garbo was an exotic Swedish actress, recently imported to Hollywood. Their torrid love affair was the talk of fans everywhere.
“You haven’t heard the half of it,” Durant said. “Movie magazines leave out all the good stuff.”
“Nooo,” she breathed. “You mean there’s more?”
“Lots more.”
“Oh, I can’t wait. Tell me!”
Durant told her all the racy details.
Bubba’s Roadhouse was located on the outskirts of Texas City. The ramshackle structure was a dive that catered to the rougher crowd. Gambling, prostitution, and bootleg hooch were housed under one roof.
The dimly lighted parking lot was full. A black four-door Buick was positioned with a view of the main entrance to the roadhouse. Nolan was in the passenger seat, with Whizzer Duncan at the steering wheel, and Turk McGuire in the backseat. They waited in stony silence.
