by Matt Braun
“Curious indeed,” Baldwin said. “We’ve talked it over, and we’re of the opinion there was nothing voluntary about his surrender. He was forced into it.”
“That’s even curiouser,” Durant commented. “How do you force a man to risk the electric chair?”
Adair grunted. “Oliver Quinn and Dutch Voight are in league with the Devil. I’m sure they found a way.”
“All part of a greater conspiracy,” Baldwin added. “The objective being to derail the impetus of our reform movement. Which they have accomplished with infuriating ease.”
Cornwall arched an eyebrow. “Does the idea of a conspiracy surprise you, Mr. Durant?”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” Durant said. “Are you talking about Quinn and Voight?”
“Think back to our last visit,” Cornwall said. “Do you recall I asked about the beating you took at the hands of Nolan and his thugs?”
Durant held his gaze. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Your answer was quite evasive,” Cornwall said. “Something to the effect you weren’t sure of the reason yourself.”
“So?”
“So we think you were less than candid.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Nothing of the kind!” Baldwin interrupted. “Let us raise a hypothetical. Is that agreeable?”
Durant shrugged. “Fire away.”
“Everyone accepts without question that William Magruder and George Seagrave are the political kingpins of Galveston County.”
“And it’s hardly a secret,” Adair chimed in, “that Magruder and Seagrave tacitly condone the mob’s illegal enterprises. All for the sake of a booming economy.”
“Which leads to the conclusion,” Baldwin carried on, “that Magruder and Seagrave have a working relationship—perhaps mutual interests—with the underworld element. From that, we might naturally assume there is a reciprocal arrangement of some nature.”
“So we could hypothesize,” Adair said, “that if—if!—Magruder had designs on your bank, and you refused to sell… .”
“Presto!” Baldwin took his cue. “Magruder might well request assistance from his underworld cronies… .”
“And have you beat to a pulp,” Cornwall concluded. “All to intimidate you into selling your bank. How does that sound for a hypothetical?”
Durant stared at them. “How long did you boys rehearse this act?”
“We beg your candor,” Adair said. “Is it true or not?”
“Sticking to the hypothetical,” Durant replied, “what if it was? What’s your point?”
“We have a common foe,” Adair said earnestly. “Our community is under siege by a criminal conspiracy. Your bank is in jeopardy.”
“Not to mention you, personally,” Baldwin observed. “The next time these hooligans attack you they may not stop with a simple beating. And I believe you’ll agree, Magruder will ensure there is a next time.”
Durant’s expression betrayed nothing. He wasn’t about to tell them that there had already been a next time, men with guns intent on killing him. Nor was he willing to entrust them with the knowledge that he’d killed one of the mob’s men. His gut warned him that no secret was safe with holier-than-thou reformers.
“Why the big sales pitch?” he said at length. “What is it you want from me?”
“We want proof,” Baldwin said simply. “Proof that links William Magruder to these mobsters.”
“And everyone benefits,” Adair hurried on. “We obtain substantial grounds for reform, and you save your bank as well as eliminating the risk of further violence. Nothing could be more perfect.”
“You just lost me,” Durant said. “How am I supposed to get proof on Magruder?”
“Trick him,” Cornwall said slyly. “By outwitting Magruder this long, you’ve shown yourself to be a clever man. Trick him into an admission of his dealings with Quinn and Voight.”
“What if I did?” Durant said skeptically. “It’s his word against mine, and he’s top dog in Galveston. Who’d believe me?”
Baldwin laughed softly. “We’re not talking a court of law, Mr. Durant. We’re talking a court of public opinion, as preached from our pulpits. That is where the next election will be won.”
“And your private fight as well,” Cornwall rushed to add. “Your bank will be saved, and your personal safety will be assured. Neither Magruder nor the mob will defy public opinion.”
Durant looked from one to the other. Their argument was persuasive, for public opinion was not a force to be ignored. Yet he saw even greater risk if he tried to trick Magruder into something incriminating and failed. He warned himself not to jump too fast.
“I’ll think about it,” he said finally. “No promises, but I’ll think it over.”
“Time is of the essence,” Baldwin persisted. “How long will you need?”
“I’ll give you an answer tomorrow.”
“Splendid!” Adair grinned like a horse eating briars. “We know you won’t let us down. Nor yourself, for that matter. All in a good cause!”
The three men left after wringing his hand in fellowship. Durant leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. Nothing was ever as simple as it seemed to the schemers of the world.
He wondered how the hell he could trap Magruder.
The men began trooping into the Turf Club shortly before eleven o’clock. They took the elevator to the third floor, where they were frisked by Jack Nolan and Turk McGuire. Firearms, knives and brass knuckles were consigned to a box in the athletic club.
The meeting was held across the hall in the billiards room. The men gathered there were the vice chiefs of the Island, operating under the largesse of their overlords. Quinn and Voight had summoned them, though the purpose of the meeting was not announced. None of the men felt bold enough to ask.
Dan Lampis ran part of the slot machine concession. His counterpart, Lou Lera, was in jail for murder, and he hoped to take over the entire business. Sam Amelio owned seven whorehouses, and Gus Allen operated two of the larger gaming joints, the Garden Club and the Grotto Club. The other men, five in all, had various concessions for juke-boxes, pinball machines, and bootlegging. They were the underbosses of Galveston’s underworld.
The men seated themselves in chairs arranged along the back wall of the billiards room. Nolan and McGuire took positions on either side of the door, there to ensure that the meeting was conducted in a businesslike manner. Quinn and Voight walked through the door at the stroke of eleven, and halted behind the snooker table, facing their underbosses. The room fell quiet as the men ranged along the wall waited to hear the purpose of the meeting.
Voight nodded around the room. “You boys are here because of what’s happened over the past week. Anybody that’s not deaf, dumb and blind knows we damn near handed the reformers our operation on a silver platter.”
The men murmured their assent. Quinn silenced them with an upraised palm. “We got off the hook with some fast moves and a little luck. Lou Lera’s surrender to the cops was the only thing that saved us. Otherwise the reformers would have started a crusade to clean us out.”
“Holy roller cocksuckers,” Sam Amelio grated. “Why don’t we bump off a couple and teach ’em a lesson? They’d learn to keep their traps shut.”
“You always were a stupe,” Voight said, fixing him with a hard glare. “Lera killin’ that civilian was what got us into hot water. Wise up, for chrissake.”
Amelio looked stung. “I didn’t mean no harm, Dutch.”
“That’s the trouble with you lunkheads,” Voight said hotly. “Your mouth gets ahead of your brain, and before you know it, you’ve done something stupid. All that’s gonna end today.”
“Lera’s a case in point,” Quinn said. “He pulled a gun when he should’ve walked away, or at worst, fought the guy even-steven. Everybody has to put the good of the organization first. Forget the rough stuff.”
The men swapped glances. They thought it wa
s an odd statement, considering the fate of Joey Adonis. A week ago today Adonis and a couple of his goons were spotted at the Funland Amusement Pier. They seemingly vanished that evening, and while no one had the moxie to ask what happened, everyone in the room knew. Adonis and his boys were at the bottom of the Gulf.
“Talkin’ about Lera,” Dan Lampis said, his expression one of guileless curiosity. “How’d you and Dutch get him to face charges … if you don’t mind my askin’?”
“Lou’s a stand-up guy,” Quinn said with genuine duplicity. “He understood what was best for the organization and he did it. Our hats are off to him.”
No one believed a word of it. There was talk that Quinn and Voight had brought in a top defense attorney from Houston, and Lera intended to enter a plea of not guilty. The consensus was that he would nonetheless ride Old Sparky into the next life.
“The reason I asked about Lou,” Lampis said, pressing his case. “Somebody’s got to take over his end of the slots, and it ought to be somebody that knows the territory. I was thinkin’ it might be me.”
“Hold that for another time,” Quinn said. “We’re here to talk about other things.”
“Get the wax out of your ears and pay attention!”
Voight’s tone was like the rasp of sandpaper. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the snooker table, and his cold stare ranged over the men along the wall. His attitude was one of open menace.
“The Rule,” he said coarsely. “The Rule says you don’t touch a civilian, don’t rough him up, and you Goddamn sure don’t kill him. That’s the way we’ve operated from day one.”
“And for good reason,” Quinn added. “We need good public relations to keep things perking along. Harm a civilian and you put the organization at risk.”
“Lou Lera’s the exception,” Voight told them. “We needed him to stand trial to get the reformers off our back. But starting today, there’s not gonna be any more exceptions. No way, no how.”
The men returned his gaze as though under the spell of a hypnotist. A leaden stillness settled over the room as he glowered at them, his icy stare touching one, then another. His eyes were hooded.
“Here’s the story,” he said. “From now on, you break the Rule and there’s no excuses, no second chances. Jack will take it from there.”
Every eye in the room shifted to Diamond Jack Nolan. He looked back at them with an ironic smile, and they understood exactly what the smile meant. He would kill any man who broke the Rule.
“Everybody got it?” Voight demanded. “You screw up, we’re not gonna go through this again. Now’s the time to speak up if you’ve got any questions.”
There were no questions. Quinn, never one for loose ends, decided to tie it off. “One last thing,” he said. “Spread the word to everybody who works for you, anybody you’re associated with, anybody who could get you in hot water. No matter what, no matter why—” he paused for emphasis—“live by the Rule.”
The alternative, they all understood, would be unpleasant, and final. The men filed out of the room, bobbing their heads with nervous smiles as they turned toward the elevator. Quinn and Voight walked down the hall to their office. The phone rang as they came through the door. Voight lifted the receiver.
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Voight?”
“How’d you get my private number?”
“You gave it to me, Mr. Voight. This is Charles Anderson, manager at the Buccaneer.”
“How’re things, Chuck? What can I do for you?”
“I have a guest in the hotel,” Anderson said. “A wealthy rancher with more money than sense. He’s set on trying his luck at your casino.”
“Where’s he from?” Voight said. “You know anything about him?”
“His ranch is in Blanco County. I know he’s lost considerable money at the Garden Club and other spots. He’s heard you have the only honest games in town.”
“How long’s he been at the hotel?”
“Almost two weeks.”
“Would you vouch for him?”
“Well, yes, I suppose,” Anderson said hesitantly. “He and his wife are big spenders. Very generous.”
Voight laughed. “Gave you a tip to call me, did he?”
“Only a hundred, Mr. Voight. I didn’t see any harm.”
“What’s his name?”
“Robert Eberling.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Voight disconnected. He waited a moment, then jiggled the hook. “Operator? Get me 3684 in Austin.”
“Yessir, connecting your call.”
There was a metallic buzz on the line, three rings, and a man answered. “Burnett Detective Agency.”
“John, this is Dutch Voight. I want you to check somebody out for me.”
“Glad to, Mr. Voight,” Burnett said. “Who’s the party?”
“Robert Eberling,” Voight told him. “Supposed to have a big ranch in Blanco County. Find out if he’s legit.”
“I’ll call you with the rundown, Mr. Voight. Probably later today.”
Voight replaced the receiver on the hook. One gambler more or less was of no great concern, and he dismissed the matter from mind. He looked around at Quinn. “So how’d we do, Ollie? Think the boys will toe the line?”
Quinn smiled. “Dutch, I just suspect our troubles are over. No more grist for the reformers.”
Voight thought brute force and sudden death were the most persuasive of arguments. He told himself the message would spread through town by noon. Live by the Rule… .
Or say hello and good-bye to Diamond Jack Nolan.
Chapter Fourteen
The Rice Hotel was located in downtown Houston. One of the city’s older hotels, it was home away from home for visiting salesmen and businessmen. The lobby was appointed with heroic murals of the Texas Revolution.
Nolan, right on time, arrived at two o’clock. He went into the coffee shop and took a table with a view of the door. Earlier, after the meeting with the underbosses, he’d told Quinn he needed the afternoon off. The hours he worked entitled him to free time whenever he could fit it into the schedule. He wasn’t expected at the Hollywood Club until that evening.
Libbie entered the coffee shop a few minutes after two. She had taken the interurban railway from Galveston, rather than be seen driving her sporty Chevrolet coupe. Her simple day dress was conservative compared to her flapper outfits, worn so she wouldn’t attract undue attention. She crossed to the table and took a seat, her cheeks flushed with excitement. She breathed a nervous little laugh.
“God, I feel like Mata Hari. Do I look like I’m spying for the Germans?”
“You look beautiful,” Nolan said, trying to calm her nerves. “Sorry for all the sneaking around, but it couldn’t be helped. I’d be up the creek if my bosses found out.”
Four days had passed since their afternoon of lovemaking at the Rendezvous Roadhouse. They had talked on the phone in the interim and decided the roadhouse was too close to Galveston. Nolan had suggested Houston, and the Rice Hotel, for their liaison today. Neither of them questioned that their affair was worth any risk.
A waitress drifted by and took their orders for coffee. Libbie waited until she was out of earshot. “I hate to sound naïve, but I’ve never done this before. How do we arrange a room?”
“Already done,” Nolan said in a low voice. “I registered before you got here. We’re in Room three-o-four.”
“Do we just take the elevator up there—in broad daylight?”
“No, I’ll leave and you finish your coffee. Give it five minutes and then come on up.”
“Now I do feel like Mata Hari.”
“Just act natural and nobody’s the wiser. See you upstairs.”
Nolan dropped a dollar on the table and left the coffee shop. A few minutes later he opened the door of Room 304 and Libbie quickly stepped inside from the hallway. Her cheeks were even rosier.
“The elevator operator ogled me all the way up. I don’t think
we fooled him.”
“Elevator operators don’t bother me.”
Nolan enfolded her in his arms. She pressed herself against him, her arms around his neck, and their mouths met in a feverish kiss. They’d both spent four days thinking about the last time, and there was an urgency in their need. He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed.
Their haste left clothes strewn across the floor. Her passion was wild and atavistic, and he marveled again at her total lack of inhibition. Their lovemaking was filled with the zest of discovery, playful yet lustily fierce, unbounded by convention. When at last they parted, exquisitely sated, he was still amazed by the depth of her hunger. A welter of claw marks on his back bore testament to her fiery nature.
She snuggled close, her head against his shoulder. A warm breath, soft and velvety, eddied through the hair on his chest. He glanced around and found her watching him with an impish smile. She hugged him in a tight embrace.
“Do you believe in love at first sight?”
Nolan looked away. “I’m not the kind of guy you want to love.”
“Because you’re a gangster?” She plucked a hair from his chest, laughing when he winced. “I’ll choose my own man, thank you very much.”
“We’re from worlds about as far apart as you can get. I don’t think you’d much like mine.”
“Oh, so it’s just a quick roll in the hay. Wham, bam and thank you, ma’am?”
“You know better than that.”
“’Fess up, tough guy.” She wrapped a knot of his hair around her finger and threatened to pull. “Did you fall for me or not? Am I your girl?”
Nolan was forced to grin. “You’re my girl if that’s what you want. You’re asking for trouble, though.”
“I’m perfectly content to worry about that when it happens.”
Libbie was less certain than she sounded. She was a spoiled rich girl, her father’s favorite, even though Sherm was the heir to the throne. She had attended Bryn Mawr, a college for rich girls in Pennsylvania, where she became a convert in the struggle for women’s emancipation. Her heroine was Susan B. Anthony, who had founded the suffrage movement almost seventy-five years ago. She often thought Susan B. would have approved of flappers.
