The Overlords & the Wild Ones

by Matt Braun

  Quinn laughed. “Dutch, you’re not gonna believe it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Strand got busy early on Saturday morning. Stores and businesses opened at eight, and soon thereafter the sidewalks were crowded with weekend shoppers. Intersections were clogged as more tourists in cars spilled over the causeway.

  A warm sun rose higher against banks of cottony clouds. Durant and Aldridge left the bank a few minutes before nine and turned west along the Strand. Earlier, in Durant’s office, they had reviewed their strategy one last time. Aldridge, though nervous, felt it would work.

  “Just remember,” Durant said as they walked along. “Let me do the talking and try to stay out of it. I want his attention on me.”

  “You needn’t worry,” Aldridge said, a light sheen of perspiration covering his face. “I have no intention of speaking unless spoken to. I’m along strictly as an observer.”

  “Whatever happens, don’t cross swords with him. Getting him mad won’t turn the trick. We have to finesse him.”

  “Earl, we’ve gone over it a dozen times. You needn’t concern yourself with me. I’m fine.”

  “All right, Ira, let’s do it.”

  They crossed Twenty-second Street and entered the Magruder Building. Dappled streamers of sunshine filtered through the skylight as the birdcage elevator took them to the tenth floor. In the anteroom of Magruder & Company, the secretary greeted Durant by name, darting a curious glance at Aldridge. She ushered them into the inner office.

  Magruder was seated behind his ebony desk. His eyes touched on Aldridge, then shifted back to Durant. He motioned them to chairs.

  “You asked to meet alone,” he said. “Not that it isn’t a pleasure to see Mr. Aldridge. But curiosity forces me to ask why?”

  “Saves time,” Durant replied. “If we make a deal, Ira’s included in the package. I wanted him involved in our discussion.”

  Magruder pursed his mouth. “You said on the phone you might consider selling the bank. How does that involve Mr. Aldridge?”

  “Ira comes with the bank,” Durant said flatly. “It’s not a negotiable point. Without him, there’s no deal.”

  “In what capacity would he remain with the bank?”

  “You’d agree to keep him on as vice president. And you’d guarantee it with an airtight, ironclad contract for five years.”

  “Indeed?” Magruder said slowly. “You drive a hard bargain on behalf of Mr. Aldridge.”

  Durant shrugged. “Like I said, it’s not negotiable.”

  The strategy was to provide a credible reason for Aldridge’s presence at the meeting. Until that was established, there was nothing to be gained in probing more sensitive matters. Durant waited for a response.

  “Very well,” Magruder said at length. “I assume all of that is acceptable to you, Mr. Aldridge?”

  Aldrige held his gaze. “Yes, it is.”

  “You don’t like me much, do you?”

  “Business is business, Mr. Magruder. Personal likes or dislikes have no place in the scheme of things.”

  Magruder’s jowls shook with silent laughter. “So long as everyone benefits, who cares about a son of a bitch? Is that the idea?”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  “You always were the tactful one.”

  Magruder looked back at Durant. “Your uncle and Mr. Aldridge here never approved of my business tactics. Of course, your uncle was always outspoken about it. No diplomacy.”

  “No hypocrite either,” Durant said. “Was that what you held against him?”

  “On the contrary,” Magruder said magnanimously. “I respect a man who speaks his mind.”

  “So where are we with Ira? Do you agree or not?”

  “I will provide him with—what was your term?—an airtight, ironclad contract. Which brings us to the matter at hand. How much to buy you out?”

  “A hundred thousand,” Durant said evenly. “And that’s not negotiable, either.”

  “You surprise me,” Magruder said, his eyes narrowed. “You once refused my offer in the same amount. Why accept it now?”

  “I’ve had a bellyful of Galveston. On top of that, I’m bored stiff trying to act the part of a banker. Time to head back to California.”

  “And your motion pictures.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “A wise decision,” Magruder announced. “Of course, I will require an agreement in writing that you sever all connections with these so-called reformers. Adair and Baldwin, and that jackass, Cornwall. No statements from you, public or otherwise … even from California.”

  “Now that you mention it—” Durant hesitated, set the trap. “I have a condition of my own.”

  “Condition of what sort?”

  “I want an apology.”

  “Do you indeed?” Magruder appeared amused. “Apology for what?”

  “For putting the mob on me.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do,” Durant said equably. “You sicced those hoods on me, and had me beat up and almost shot. I want to hear you say you’re sorry.”

  “You’ve been misinformed,” Magruder said, shaking his head. “Whatever happened to you was not of my doing. You have my word on it.”

  “Do you want the bank or not?”

  “One has nothing to do with the other.”

  “Don’t play me for a fool,” Durant said shortly. “You made a call to Quinn or Voight, and they sent their boys looking for me. You know it and I know it.”

  “You are mistaken,” Magruder said. “I resent the implication.”

  “No apology, no deal,” Durant told him. “Phrase it any way you choose, but that’s the only way you get the bank. I want your apology.”

  Magruder leaned back in his chair. He stared across the desk, and then, abruptly, some inner revelation lighted his features. His eyes went cold.

  “You’re a clever one, bub. Damn me if you’re not.”

  “Nothing clever about it,” Durant said. “All I’m asking is to hear you say you’re sorry.”

  “Yes, indeed, very clever.” Magruder’s gaze flicked to Aldridge. “You brought along a witness and threw out the hook. I almost fell for it.”

  “Fell for what?” Durant tried for a note of confusion. “I offered you a pretty sweet deal. Do you want it or not?”

  “No, I do not,” Magruder said in a dismissive tone. “I believe that concludes our meeting. Good morning, gentlemen.”

  “You went from hot to cold mighty fast. What’s the problem?”

  “I have nothing further to say to you, Mr. Durant. Get out of my office.”

  Magruder began shuffling papers on his desk. Durant nodded to Aldridge and they walked to the door. On the elevator ride to the lobby they were silent, wondering where it had gone wrong. Outside the building, they turned back toward the bank.

  “Don’t feel too bad,” Aldridge said. “In a way, I’m not surprised he caught on. He always was a shrewd one.”

  Durant grunted unpleasantly. “Ira, I’m sorry I got you involved in this. There’ll be hell to pay.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Guess who Magruder’s calling right now.”

  “Quinn and Voight?”

  “Nobody else.”

  There were always large crowds for the opening night of a new act. Everyone wanted to say they were the first to see an entertainer imported from the Great White Way in New York. Tonight was no different at the Hollywood Club.

  Clint Stoner looked dapper in his tuxedo. Janice, who had gone to the beauty shop at the hotel, was a vision of loveliness. Her hair was upswept, coifed in the latest Parisian style, and she wore an elegant satin sheath trimmed with lace to accentuate her décolletage. She turned heads.

  The maitre d’, who had snubbed them on their last visit, practically fawned over them tonight. Charles Anderson, the manager of the Buccaneer, had assured them of special treatment, and guest membe
rship to the casino. Their table in the nightclub was beside the dance floor, near the stage. The maitre d’, with only slight exaggeration, called them the best seats in the house.

  “How about this!” Janice said as a waiter appeared with menus. “Last time we were at the back of the room.”

  “Well, Olive, honey,” Stoner said, opening his menu, “it pays to know people in high places. All this and the casino, too.”

  “I can’t wait to see Sophie Tucker. Everything I’ve read says she’s absolutely shocking!”

  “Hope she doesn’t offend your sensitive nature.”

  “Every little housewife lives to be shocked. Didn’t you know that, sweetheart?”

  Stoner ordered a bottle of champagne. They dined on foie gras, terrapin soup, and braised pheasant. Between the main course and dessert, the orchestra swung into a medley of lively tunes, and they joined other couples on the dance floor. Janice, her spirits soaring on champagne, dragged him into a fast-stepping fox-trot. He clumped around in his cowboy boots like a rancher stomping crickets.

  A while later the houselights dimmed. Sophie Tucker shimmied onstage, centered in a rosy spotlight, as the orchestra segued into show numbers. Her scarlet gown hugged her ample figure and she carried a glittery fan of peacock feathers. Her first song, playing off her trademark billing, was There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight. Her voice, a booming alto trained for vaudeville halls, rang throughout the club.

  The show became steadily more risqué. Sophie strutted around the stage, belting out songs laced with sexual innuendo and naughty words. She paused for a bawdy wink here and a roll of her eyes there, and punctuated suggestive bedroom lyrics with a flip of her peacock fan. On her last number, she blink-blinked her hips like a hootchy-cootchy dancer and ended on a warbling high note. The audience roared their approval.

  By the time she did an encore, and pranced offstage with a bump and grind, it was approaching ten o’clock. Janice applauded until the houselights came up, her eyes merry with excitement. “Did you ever!” she said, giddy with laughter. “No wonder they call her the Red Hot Mama!”

  “Time to go to work,” Stoner said, lowering his voice. “Let’s drift on back to the casino.”

  “Spoilsport, just when I was enjoying myself.”

  “No more champagne for you, Olive. Keep your mind on who we are and why we’re here.”

  “Do you think Sophie Tucker will come to the casino? I’d love to get her autograph!”

  “Maybe tonight’s your lucky night.”

  They walked to the far side of the room. Stoner gave his alias to the bruisers guarding the glass doors, and they were admitted with courteous smiles. As they moved through the lounge, the oak doors to the casino opened, and a stocky man in a double-breasted tux waited at the entrance. Stoner pegged him immediately as Dutch Voight.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Eberling,” he said with an amiable nod. “Welcome to our casino.”

  “Thank you kindly.” Stoner made a mental note that there was a hidden intercom between the doors to the lounge and the casino. Otherwise Voight would not have known their names, or appeared so quickly. “Are you the manager, Mr.—”

  “Voight,” Voight supplied. “You might say I look after things. What is your game, Mr. Eberling?”

  “Dice, roulette,” Stoner said with a touch of bravado. “Anything that’s got numbers on it. I play ’em all.”

  “We’ll do our best to accommodate you. I’ve arranged an opening line of credit for five thousand. Will that be satisfactory?”

  “Well now, that’s mighty neighborly of you, Mr. Voight. You make a fella feel right at home.”

  “We do our best, Mr. Eberling. Enjoy yourselves—and good luck.”

  “Take all the luck I can get. I’m obliged, Mr. Voight.”

  “Not at all.”

  The casino was rapidly filling with patrons. Stoner collected a thousand dollars in chips from the cashier’s cage, signing a chit with his alias. Janice, who smiled shyly, playing the part of the little woman, turned with him to survey the action. There were roulette tables, craps tables, and blackjack layouts aligned in orderly precision around the room. Banks of slot machines lined the walls.

  “Olive, honey,” Stoner said, “how’d you like to try them one-armed bandits? Think I’ll have a crack at the roulette wheel.”

  “Anything you say, sweetie. I believe I might just break the bank!”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Stoner signed another chit with the cashier for a hundred dollars. The cashier gave him a silver bucket, adorned with mother-of-pearl handle, filled with a hundred silver dollars. Janice, cradling the bucket in her arms, made a beeline for the nearest bank of slots. Stoner wandered over to a roulette table.

  The game of roulette was one in which true aficionados played complicated betting systems. Stoner preferred to appear the wealthy high roller who relied on luck rather than skill. He randomly scattered chips around the numbered layout, alternately placing a larger wager on red or black, which was the safest bet. The wheel spun and the ivory ball clattered while Stoner and the other players waited in hushed expectation. He regularly lost more than he won.

  The game was played at dizzying speed. The croupiers and pit bosses were cordial yet alert, raking in losing bets and paying winners with quick professionalism. All the while Stoner was casually inspecting the tables, the room, and the office at the rear of the casino. At one point, he clumsily dropped a few chips and knelt down, examining the understructure of the table and the floor. He saw nothing suspicious or unusual.

  The mystery of it left him baffled. On previous raids by the Rangers, he’d been told the gaming tables and slot machines vanished in a matter of minutes. The Rangers found instead a well-appointed game room, filled with billiards tables, backgammon boards, and bridge tables. What mystified him was not just how the switch was made, but where all the heavy gambling paraphernalia disappeared to, and so rapidly. He was thoroughly stumped.

  Across the room, he saw Voight approach Janice. She stopped playing the slot machine, and Voight, acting the convivial host, engaged her in conversation. Stoner pretended he’d lost interest in roulette and moved to one of the craps tables, where he whooped loudly, coaxing Lady Luck every time he tossed the dice. By the time he dropped a couple hundred, Voight had walked away from Janice with an encouraging smile. He meandered over to the slot machines.

  “Act happy,” he said to Janice, motioning back at the tables, “while I act like the big-time gambler. What did Voight want?”

  “Sweetie, I just got interrogated.” Janice fed a dollar into the machine and jiggled with excitement as cherries and lemons and numbers spun. “He was smooth as silk, just making friendly conversation.”

  “About what?”

  “Oh, he asked about the ranch, and the house, and how long we’ve lived in Blanco County. Things like that.”

  “And?”

  “And I gave him all the right answers.” She pouted prettily when the wheels stopped spinning without a winner. “No wonder they call these things one-armed bandits. Would you look at that!”

  “Honey, you’ll beat it yet. Just keep pumpin’ in them dollars. Think I’ll try my hand at blackjack.”

  Stoner took a seat at one of the blackjack tables. He wasn’t particularly surprised by Voight’s questions, and he was pleased by Janice’s artful talent for guile. But he was at a loss as to how the casino was converted into a social club, and irritated with himself that he hadn’t readily solved the problem. He mulled it over as the dealer dealt him a blackjack on his first hand.

  For the night, Stoner lost seven hundred and Janice dropped two hundred more at the slots. As they were departing, Voight walked them to the door, properly conciliatory over their losses. He wished them better luck next time.

  Stoner laughingly assured him they would be back.

  Saturday night was the busiest night of the week on Postoffice Street. The bordellos and speakeasies were mobbed with weekend to
urists as well as Islanders. The four-block stretch that encompassed the red-light district was like a seedy carnival that separated workingmen from their wages.

  Late that night, Sam Amelio emerged from a brothel near the intersection of Postoffice and Twenty-sixth Streets. He owned seven whorehouses, and on Saturday nights, he made it a practice to visit them at regular intervals. His madams were terrified of him, but he trusted no one, and he periodically dropped by to collect the proceeds. He was carrying almost two thousand in cash.

  Amelio turned toward the corner. He never worried about carrying so much cash, and he saw no need for a bodyguard. Everyone in the district knew him on sight, and they knew as well his reputation for violence. He owned seven houses by virtue of having intimidated his rivals, and, in two instances, beating pimps so badly they left town. He prided himself on being known as the “Prince of Pussy.”

  One of Amelio’s houses was located between Twenty-sixth and Twenty-seventh. As he approached the corner, mentally calculating the take for the night, he heard someone call his name. He stopped, looking south on Twenty-sixth, and saw Jack Nolan leaning against the fender of a Buick. Amelio considered himself a tough nut, but Nolan was one of the few men he genuinely feared. He turned down the block with a sense of something not quite right.

  “Hey, Jack,” he said, trying to sound jocular. “What brings you to nookieville?”

  Nolan flicked an ash off his cigarette. His diamond pinky ring caught the light from the corner lamppost, glinting fire. He smiled a lazy smile.

  “Just call me an errand boy, Sam. The boss wants to see you.”

  “Which boss is that?”

  “Mr. Voight.”

  Amelio felt a tingle along his backbone. He wasn’t fooled by Nolan’s relaxed manner, the easy smile. He was even more concerned that Voight had sent the mob’s chief enforcer out on a Saturday night. Something was definitely wrong.

  “C’mon, Jack,” Amelio said, suddenly wary. “You know Saturday’s my big night. What’s Mr. Voight want?”

  “Search me,” Nolan said, exhaling a thin streamer of smoke. “Probably won’t take long, whatever it is. Your girls won’t even miss you.”