The Overlords & the Wild Ones

by Matt Braun

  Two days had passed in their search for Lou Lera. Since Tuesday night, when he’d killed the man in Galveston, they had put out feelers to all their contacts on the mainland. Tonight, not an hour before, Nolan had received a call from a bootlegger in Texas City. Lera was bedded down with a whore at Bubba’s.

  Not long after ten o’clock, Lera emerged from the roadhouse. He was still dressed in the dark suit, black shirt, and white tie he’d worn the night of the shooting. As though he hadn’t a care in the world, he walked toward his car, shoulders squared in a cocky manner. Nolan and his men stepped out of the Buick.

  “Hello there, Lou,” Nolan said in a breezy voice. “Don’t try to run or I’ll have Turk break your legs.”

  Lera’s face went chalky. McGuire boxed him in from one side and Duncan the other. His mouth ticced in a weak smile, his teeth as yellow as old dice. “How’d you find me?”

  Nolan shrugged. “Got a tip you were here.”

  “Not a smart move,” Duncan said, relieving him of his pistol. “Pussy’s put more’n one man in his grave. You shoulda stayed hid out.”

  Lera flinched. “You boys gonna kill me?”

  “Depends,” Nolan said cryptically. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  “Where you takin’ me?”

  “Lou, the pleasure of your company has been requested. Leave it at that.”

  The ride back to Galveston passed in terse silence. A half hour later the Buick rolled to a stop at the side of the Hollywood Club. Nolan led the way through the kitchen entrance, with Lera sandwiched between Duncan and McGuire. The foursome followed the hall to the employees’ lounge, where Duncan and McGuire stayed behind. Nolan escorted Lera next door into the office.

  Quinn was seated at the desk. Voight stood by the window, a cigar jutting from his mouth. There was a cold stagnancy in his eyes as he turned, waiting for Nolan to close the door. He crossed the room, puffing his cigar, and slugged Lera with a straight shot to the jaw. Cuddles, the parrot, screeched, hiding his eyes behind a wing. Lera hit the floor on the seat of his pants.

  “You stupid sonovbitch,” Voight raged. “Why’d you kill that guy?”

  Lera got to his knees. “Dutch, he coldcocked me, just like you done. What was I supposed to do?”

  “You weren’t supposed to kill him. Why didn’t you stand up and fight him like a man?”

  “Honest to Christ, you should’ve seen the fucker. He was built like a barn.”

  Voight walked away in a cloud of smoke. Lera slowly levered himself off the floor and got to his feet. Quinn stared at him across the desk.

  “You know the rule, Lou. We never harm civilians and we never ever kill them. Where was your brain?”

  “Ollie, it happened too fast.” Lera massaged his jaw, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. “The cocksucker popped me, all because of that bitch Mae Hager. I just reacted, that’s all.”

  “You just reacted,” Voight mocked him. “That’s the lamest excuse I ever heard. You went dumb in the clutch, admit it.”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Lera said. “I know I didn’t handle it right. I got hot and lost my head.”

  “Too late for hindsight,” Quinn said sternly. “You’ve put the organization in a bad light, and brought the reformers out of their holes. There’s hell to pay.”

  “I’ll do anything you say, Ollie. I swear to God I will. How do I make it right?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” Quinn said. “We want you to stand trial for murder.”

  Lera blanched. “How’s that again?”

  Voight’s laugh was thick with anger. “Get the wax out of your ears and pay attention. You’re going to stand trial and no two ways about it. Understand?”

  “Gimme a break, Dutch.” Lera’s mouth tightened in a ghastly grimace. “They’ll jam my ass in the electric chair. I’m not gonna ride Old Sparky.”

  “Well, you’ve got a choice,” Voight said. “Go to trial and take your chances with a jury. Or we’ll let Jack take you for a swim—right Goddamn now.”

  “Ohboyohboy!” Cuddles squawked. “Take him for a swim!”

  Everyone looked at the parrot. Cuddles held their gazes a moment, then cocked his head and pretended interest in the ceiling. Quinn shifted in his chair.

  “Lou, it’s not as bad as it sounds,” he said. “We’ll hire the top defense attorney in Texas, whatever it costs. You’ll probably walk out of court a free man.”

  Lera broke out in a frosty sweat. “Ollie, there’s witnesses. Mae Hager’ll put me in the hot seat! They’ll fry my ass.”

  “Not to worry,” Quinn assured him. “We’ll send Jack around to have a talk with Mae. Depend on it, she’ll have a loss of memory. Won’t she, Jack?”

  Nolan nodded. “She won’t remember her own name. Guaranteed.”

  “I dunno,” Lera said hesitantly. “There must’ve been ten or twelve people in the joint that night. How you gonna shut ’em all up?”

  “Leave it to me,” Nolan said confidently. “The whole bunch will turn dummy. Nothing to it.”

  “Yeah, but they already identified me to the cops. How you gonna get around that?”

  “Quit weaseling!” Voight roared. “You’ve only got one choice here. Stand trial or go for a swim. Take your pick.”

  Lera ducked his head. “I’ll stand trial.”

  “Good thinking,” Quinn counseled. “Just make sure you keep your mouth shut about the organization. Anybody asks, you just stopped off in Mae’s for a drink.”

  “I got it, Ollie.”

  “Damn sure better,” Voight warned him. “You rat us out and you’re a dead man. We’ll get to you in jail or anywhere else.”

  “Hey, I’m no squealer,” Lera protested. “I never met you guys in my life. Don’t even know your names. How’s that?”

  “Keep it that way,” Voight said. “You walk over to the police station and turn yourself in. Tell ’em you’re surrendering voluntarily.”

  “I won’t let you down.”

  “Jack will be right behind you. Change your mind between here and there, and guess what?”

  Lera swallowed hard. “I’m dead.”

  “You finally got smart,” Voight said with a mirthless laugh. “Trot on over to the cops and keep your lip buttoned. We’ll have a lawyer there first thing in the morning.”

  Lera obediently bobbed his head. Nolan ushered him out of the office, and Quinn waited until the door closed. He looked at Voight.

  “Think he’ll stay mum?”

  “Sure he will,” Voight said with cold conviction. “Dumb as he is, he knows we mean business.”

  Quinn took the receiver off the phone. He jiggled the hook. “Operator, get me 8414.”

  There was a tinny ring on the line and William Magruder answered. “Hello.”

  “Bill, Ollie Quinn here.”

  “Why are you calling me at home? Don’t you know what time it is?”

  “I thought you’d want to hear the latest. Louis Lera is on his way to the police station. He’s turning himself in.”

  “Well now, that is good news. Excellent work, Ollie. Excellent.”

  “All’s well that ends well, Bill. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Quinn replaced the receiver on the hook. He smiled humorously at Voight. “Dutch, we’ve saved Galveston again. We deserve a medal.”

  “Forget the medal,” Voight said gruffly. “I want Durant.”

  “And you’ll have him. Once the reformers lose steam, he’s all yours.”

  “We’ll see if the bastard can walk on water.”

  “Waterwater!” Cuddles echoed. “Take him for a swim!”

  Voight grunted. “Goddamn bird’s too smart for his own good.”

  Cuddles wisely said no more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sun burnished the Gulf waters with coppery flame. The sky was opalescent and there was the smell of salt spray on the wind. Wispy clouds sped westward like ghosts fleeing an exorcism.

  Clint Stoner was seated on the balcony ove
rlooking the Gulf. The remnants of breakfast, delivered by room service, lay scattered across the table beside his chair. His attention was focused on the Friday morning edition of the Galveston Daily Chronicle.

  The article dealt with events of late last night. He got the impression that the paper had held the presses in order to make the morning edition. The gist of the story was that Louis Lera, accused of murder, had surrendered himself to the authorities. County Prosecutor Sherwood Butler was quoted as saying he would press for a speedy trial and the death penalty. A preliminary hearing was scheduled that morning in Superior Court.

  Stoner was intrigued by the case. He’d followed developments in the Chronicle which reported the killing as taking place Tuesday evening. Several identified Lera, and there was little question he was guilty of cold-blooded murder. There seemed no question as well that Lera was in the rackets, operating the slot machine concession. A henchman of Oliver Quinn and Dutch Voight.

  The manhunt that followed was heavily reported in the paper. Every lawman from Houston to the Gulf was on the lookout, and Lera had clearly gone into hiding to avoid arrest. Yet, out of the blue and with no explanation, he had surfaced last night and voluntarily surrendered to the police. All of which raised the question of why a man facing the electric chair would suddenly turn himself in. Why indeed?

  Janice came out of the suite onto the balcony. She was dressed for the day, wearing a navy skirt and a pastel blue blouse, with a scarf at the throat. Stoner gave her an appreciative look remembering last night in bed, when she wore nothing at all. Their eleven days on the Island seemed to have passed in a blur, except for the nights. She made the nights memorable.

  “Look at you,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “A man of leisure sunning himself with his newspaper.”

  “I need my rest,” Stoner said with a sly smile. “You keep me all wore out.”

  “I recall I had a little help, pumpkin. I think I’ll rename you Randy Andy.”

  “Things come over me when the lights go out.”

  “You’re telling me!”

  She poured coffee and nibbled on toast, ever conscious of her figure. Stoner laid the paper on the table, tapping the article, and gave her a nutshell version of Lera’s surrender. She glanced at him over the rim of her cup.

  “That’s one for the funny farm,” she said, puzzling on it a moment. “Why would someone who’s sure to get electrified just up and surrender? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe it does,” Stoner said. “What if there was something worse than the electric chair?”

  “Cripes, what could be worse than that?”

  “I’ve been sitting here thinking about it. Only one thing comes to me.”

  “Aha! Sherlock at work again. Go ahead, enlighten me, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Glad to, Dr. Watson.” Stoner leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Suppose Quinn and Voight somehow got their hands on this guy Lera. Suppose they put it to him in a way he couldn’t refuse.”

  “Ummm,” she said, munching toast. “Why couldn’t he refuse?”

  “Suppose there were only two options. One, you turn yourself into the cops. Or two, you get killed right now, something tough and dirty. Which would you choose?”

  “You think they would really do something horrendous?”

  “Jan, they’re gangsters,” Stoner said grimly. “Forget the Hollywood Club and all the glitz. They’ve got ways to kill people that would spoil your breakfast.”

  “Now you tell me!” she yelped. “What happens if they catch us?”

  “I warned you before we came here. Don’t get nervous on me now.”

  “Who, me? For your information, I have nerves of steel. Nothing fazes me.”

  “I’ll hold you to it,” Stoner said with a smile. “You’re my number-one undercover operative.”

  “I’m your only undercover operative,” she informed him. “Something bothers me about this Lera, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why would Quinn and Voight want him to stand trial? What do they gain?”

  Stoner thought it was a key question. Over the last week or so he’d eavesdropped on conversations in bars and gaming dives, and studiously read everything printed in the paper. Slowly, like an intricate mosaic, he had pieced together who was who in the Galveston power structure. Quinn and Voight, with their army of hoodlums, controlled the rackets. Yet the real power brokers, from all he could determine, were William Magruder and George Seagrave.

  Magruder and Seagrave, by all accounts, controlled the political apparatus of Galveston County. Quinn and Voight, by virtue of bribes and payoffs, operated under immunity from law enforcement and the courts. So it followed, as he fitted the pieces together, that some link existed between the mob and the two most prominent men on the Island. Corrupt politicians wedded to racketeers required the blessing of those who ruled the ballot box. Magruder and Seagrave were the names that came to mind.

  Stoner recalled as well the evening he’d tried to bluff his way into the Hollywood Club casino. He remembered that Oliver Quinn had shown special treatment to a large party celebrating a girl’s birthday. The maitre d’ had told him the girl’s father was William Magruder, and, in retrospect, it made sense that the other older man at the table was George Seagrave. Thinking about it now, Stoner wasn’t surprised that Quinn was playing footsy with the Island’s royal families. Even racketeers sometimes went on bended knee.

  How all that played on his investigation was, for the moment, a matter of conjecture. His assignment was to bring down Quinn and Voight, and he warned himself not to muddy the waters with dirty politics. He suddenly realized he’d drifted off into woolgathering about things beyond the scope of his investigation. Janice was watching him with a pixilated expression.

  “Knock, knock, anybody there? Aren’t you going to answer my question?”

  “I don’t know the answer,” Stoner said with a shrug. “Why Quinn and Voight put Lera in jail is anybody’s guess. We’ve got other things on our plate anyhow.”

  “Let me consult my crystal ball.” She wrinkled her brow in mock concentration. “Yes, I believe I see it now—the Hollywood Club.”

  “Give the little lady a cigar. I think it’s time we made our move.”

  “Dare I ask why, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Elementary, Dr. Watson.” Stoner wagged a hand back and forth. “We’ve built our cover story with me the rich sucker and money to burn. Today’s our day.”

  “So how do we work this magic act?”

  “I’d say it’s more of a tap dance. Let’s go see our buddy Charlie Anderson.”

  Downstairs, they walked through the lobby to the office of the manager. By now, with their lavish suite and generous tips, they were familiar to every employee in the hotel. Charles Anderson, the manager, welcomed them into his office with the courtesy reserved for wealthy guests. He offered them chairs before his desk.

  “Mr. Eberling. Mrs. Eberling,” he said unctuously. “Hope you’re enjoying your stay with us. How may I help you today?”

  “Need you to use your influence,” Stoner said, adopting his rancher persona. “You’ll recollect you told me to call on you for a favor? Anything at all?”

  “Why, yes, of course, I certainly do. How may I be of assistance?”

  “The missus and me would like to have a whirl at the casino over in the Hollywood Club. I figured you’re just the man to open the door.”

  “Easier said than done,” Anderson remarked. “The Hollywood Club requires membership for the casino. They’re very selective about their patrons.”

  “Hell’s bells and little fishes!” Stoner grumped. “I’ve been losin’ money hand over fist at the Garden Club and all these other crooked joints. I hear the Hollywood Club’s got square games. I want you to fix it for me, Charlie.”

  “Well—” Anderson appeared uncomfortable. “As I said, they are very, very selective.”

  Stoner slapped a hundred-dollar bill on the desk. “Lookit here n
ow, Charlie, I’m plumb serious. Olive’ll tell you so herself.”

  “Oh my, yes,” Janice said, jumping into her role of the good little wife. “Bob just has his heart set on this, Mr. Anderson. Couldn’t you help us … pleeeze?”

  “Perhaps I could.” Anderson deftly palmed the hundred-dollar bill. “I’ll make a call and see what might be arranged. No promises, you understand. I can only try.”

  “Good enough for me,” Stoner said with a broad grin. “I knew you’d pull it off, Charlie. Let me know, you hear?”

  “I’ll definitely be in touch, Mr. Eberling.”

  Outside the office, Janice laughed gaily. “What a ham you are, Mr. Eberling. I think you tap-danced us into the Hollywood Club.”

  “Olive, darlin’, I think you’re right. Damned if I don’t!”

  They went off for a day of sight-seeing.

  “Your friends are here again.”

  “What friends?”

  “Reverend Adair and Reverend Baldwin. And of course, our mayor in waiting, Herbie Cornwall.”

  Durant’s brow furrowed. “Wonder what they want?”

  “I don’t know,” Catherine said with an ingenuous smile. “Should I ask them?”

  “No, send them in.”

  Durant was immediately on guard. In the morning paper, he’d read that Louis Lera had surrendered to the police last night. His first reaction was one of surprise, for men who faced the death penalty rarely surrendered themselves voluntarily. His second was that Lera’s surrender would largely defuse the reform movement. The preachers would have little to preach about on Sunday, for the accused was now in jail. Justice was taking its course.

  The clergymen, followed by Cornwall, filed into the office. Their manner was that of Crusaders who had been thwarted in their quest for the Holy Grail. Durant got them seated as Catherine gave him a waggish look and closed the door. Reverend Baldwin went straight to the point.

  “I assume you’ve read the paper?”

  Durant nodded. “Most men wouldn’t turn themselves in, not with the evidence that’s been reported. Curious thing.”