The Overlords & the Wild Ones

by Matt Braun

  “Look, tell him I’ll come by later tonight. Quick as things slow down, I’ll be right there.”

  “No, he wants to see you now.”

  Turk McGuire stepped out the rear door of the Buick. The driver’s door opened and Whizzer Duncan leaned out, his ferret eyes bright with malice. Nolan took a final drag, then crushed his cigarette underfoot. He pushed off the fender.

  “Don’t make it hard on yourself, Sam. Get in the car.”

  Amelio looked on the verge of running. His features went taut, the skin tight over his cheekbones, and he took a step back. McGuire, moving quickly for a man of his bulk, strode forward and gripped Amelio’s arm in a vise-lock. Duncan, almost as quick, grabbed the other arm. They shoved him into the backseat.

  Nolan moved around the car. Duncan slipped behind the steering wheel, and McGuire got in beside Amelio. No one spoke as Duncan started the engine and drove off in the direction of Seawall Boulevard. Five minutes later, the Buick slowed to a stop outside the Hollywood Club, near the kitchen door. The club, even on Saturday nights, closed at two, and the lights out front were already extinguished. The kitchen workers were busy scrubbing down for the night.

  “Listen to me, Sam,” Nolan said, twisting around in the passenger seat. “You make any trouble and I’ll turn you over to Turk. You understand?”

  “Who, me?” Amelio’s mouth jerked in a rictus of a smile. “Why would I cause you any trouble? I haven’t done nothin’ wrong.”

  “Well, it’s late and the kitchen help’s got enough to do without you raising a stink. Just mind your manners. Got it?”

  “Yeah, sure, I got it.”

  Nolan led the way through the kitchen. They followed the hallway to the employees’ lounge, and then into the casino, which was closed. The croupiers and dealers were sorting chips, waiting for the pit bosses to make a count, and paid them no attention. Nolan rapped lightly on the office door and stepped inside, McGuire and Duncan on either side of Amelio. Duncan shut the door.

  Voight was seated behind the desk. Quinn was slumped in an easy chair, his bow tie undone, a drink in his hand. Amelio looked from one to the other, still uncertain as to why he was there, but nonetheless petrified. Voight wagged his head with disgust.

  “You dumb guinea bastard. What the hell was that meeting we had yesterday? Tell me, what?”

  “Up at the Turf Club?” Amelio said, rattled. “Me and Gus and Dan?”

  “What the hell else would I be talking about? What’d I tell you? Ollie and me both?”

  “You told us no more rough stuff. Lay off the civilians.”

  “So you were listening?” Voight said sarcastically. “You got the message?”

  Amelio seemed confused. “I’m not following you here, boss. I haven’t done nothin’ out of line.”

  “Then how come I got a call from the police chief tonight?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. On my mother’s head, honest.”

  “Forget your mother,” Voight said. “Sally Urschel runs one of your houses, right? The one off Twenty-fifth and Postoffice?”

  “Yeah,” Amelio said blankly. “What about her?”

  “One of her girls rolled a john tonight. You with me now?”

  “No—”

  “And when the john started yelling, Sally’s bouncer whipped his ass and tossed him out the door. Get the picture?”

  Amelio paled. “Boss, you gotta—”

  “And the john went to the cops, bleeding like a Goddamn stuck pig. And that’s why the police chief called me. What do you think of that?”

  “Oh, boy!” Cuddles nervously flapped his feathers. “Deeep shit!”

  Everyone looked at the parrot. Cuddles hopped to the end of his perch and pretended to ignore them. Quinn stirred from his easy chair, finishing off his drink. His gaze fixed on Amelio.

  “Did you tell your people? Spread the word about laying off civilians?”

  “You betcha, I did,” Amelio said in a shaky voice. “Yesterday, right after the meeting, told ’em all. No more rough stuff.”

  Quinn stared at him. “The john pressed charges. Sally and the bouncer and the girl that fingered the wallet are being arrested right about now. You’ve made a big problem for us, Sam.”

  “I told ’em!” Amelio protested. “Honest to Christ, I told ’em!”

  “You’re lying,” Voight said. “It’s written all over your face.”

  “Think you’re right, Dutch,” Quinn agreed. “Sam’s the one who broke the Rule. Not his people.”

  Voight slapped the desk with the flat of his hand. The sound was like a gunshot in the office, and his eyes went hard. “We told you in plain English. Nobody—nobody—breaks the Rule.”

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

  “You heard the bird,” Voight said, nodding to Nolan. “Take him out and don’t bring him back.”

  “No!” Amelio lunged toward the desk, his features wild. “You cocksuckers can’t—”

  McGuire slugged him in the back of the head. He went down as though struck by lightning, and lay still. Nolan moved the carpet aside in the far corner and opened the trapdoor. Duncan took Amelio’s feet and McGuire his shoulders, and they carried him down the steps. Nolan followed them to the landing below, then closed the door.

  A few moments later the engines of the Cherokee rumbled to life. The speedboat pulled away from the landing, gaining headway, throttles opened to full pitch. The sound of the engines faded as the Cherokee headed south into the Gulf. A stillness settled over the office.

  “Too bad,” Quinn said, slouching in his easy chair. “Sam ran a good operation. He’ll be hard to replace.”

  Voight snorted derisively. “One thing’s for damn sure, Ollie. Nobody’ll break the Rule now.”

  Cuddles, ever the shrewd mimic, merely nodded. There was nothing more to say.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Galveston’s aristocracy lived on Broadway. The street was lined with palatial homes on a wide esplanade bordered by oleanders and palms. Streetcars festooned with electric lights clanged along the esplanade.

  Broadway was one of the first streets platted by the original settlers. The name was chosen because it was a broad thoroughfare, and the Island’s oldest and wealthiest families built their mansions overlooking the esplanade. One block, between Twenty-eighth and Twenty-ninth, was preeminent among the town’s elite. There, on opposite sides of the street, were the homes of William Magruder and George Seagrave.

  The Magruder mansion was an imposing structure, with large windows surrounded by heavy stone and Corinthian columns, and covered with a patterned slate mansard roof. In front, the entrance pavilion formed a tower with a series of grotesque superposed orders, ending at the top in a crown of garlands and cornices and iron spikes. Tourists came on weekends just to stand and stare at it.

  Late Monday morning Libbie turned off Broadway in her sporty Chevrolet coupe. She pulled into the pavilion, braked to a stop, and hopped out with an armload of parcels. Her morning had been spent in some of Galveston’s tonier shops, where she had purchased a cerulean silk dress, high-heeled pumps, and a pert little hat. She hurried up the steps, delighted with her new outfit, certain it would please Nolan. She planned to meet him in Houston that afternoon.

  The mansion was on three floors, with twenty-two rooms, and a lush floral garden in the rear. She came through the foyer, moving quickly toward a sweeping stairway off the main hall. Her bedroom was on the second floor, and she was in a rush to bathe, slip into her new outfit, and catch the one o’clock interurban to Houston. Last Friday, upon leaving the hotel, she and Nolan had made a date for this afternoon. Two days apart seemed an eternity, and she felt like a schoolgirl with a frantic crush. She couldn’t wait to see him.

  Opal Magruder came in from the back hallway. Her dress was baggy, her hands soiled, and she was carrying a long-stemmed red rose. She had a household staff of eight, including maids and cooks, a chauffeur and a gardener. Yet,
while she let the house run itself, she was forever grubbing around in the garden. Her roses were her passion.

  “Look, dear,” she said, holding the rose out to Libbie. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

  Libbie halted at the bottom of the stairway. “Oh, that is gorgeous, Mother. What a lovely shade of magenta.”

  “Yes, it’s one of the best of the year. I do so dread the season nearly over. How will I survive without my roses?”

  “You’ll have to start planning early for Christmas.”

  Her mother prided herself on having not just the largest, but the most elaborately decorated Christmas tree on the Island. Libbie often thought her father was wedded to his business empire, and her mother was the bride of horticulture and holidays. She wondered that they had ever gotten together to produce children.

  “Been shopping, dear?” her mother said, eyeing her packages. “I do hope you bought yourself something nice.”

  “Nothing really special,” Libbie said evasively. “I’m meeting some of the girls this afternoon.”

  “Well, enjoy yourself, dear. A girl can’t have too many friends.”

  The front door opened. William Magruder moved into the foyer and hooked his homburg on a hat rack. He saw them standing by the stairway and walked forward into the hall. His features appeared flushed.

  “Goodness gracious,” Opal said, genuinely surprised. “Why aren’t you at the office?”

  “Because I’m here,” Magruder said brusquely. “I have to talk with Elizabeth.”

  Libbie sensed there was something terribly wrong. Her father never addressed her in a formal manner unless he meant to find fault, or show displeasure. Nor had she ever known him to leave the office in the morning except on business. She was no less amazed than her mother.

  “I don’t understand,” Opal said. “What on earth do you want with Libbie?”

  “Nothing that concerns you, my dear. I prefer to speak with her alone.”

  “Honestly, how can you say that? Anything that brings you home in the middle—”

  “Opal.” Magruder silenced her with a frown. “I intend to speak with our daughter in private. Go tend to your roses, or whatever it is you do.”

  Opal was shocked by his tone of voice. She gave him a wounded look, and then, glancing at Libbie in bewilderment, she marched off toward the kitchen. Magruder turned off the hall into his study.

  “I’ll have a word with you, young lady.”

  Libbie followed him through the door. The study was a male sanctuary, all dark hardwood and furnished in leather. Magruder seated himself behind his desk and motioned her to a chair. She placed her packages on the floor.

  “I had a call not an hour ago,” he said. “A call about a man named Jack Nolan.”

  Libbie was stunned. Her nerves almost betrayed her, but she managed to hold her composure. “Who is Jack Nolan?”

  “Don’t act the innocent with me,” Magruder growled. “You were seen with him at the Rice Hotel in Houston last Friday. I have it from a reliable source.”

  “Your source must be mistaken, Daddy.”

  “The call was from a business associate. Someone who knows you and someone who knows Nolan from the Hollywood Club. He was not mistaken.”

  “Oh, really?” Libbie said, trying for a flippant attitude. “Today is Monday and your business associate is talking about Friday. Why did he wait so long to call you?”

  “Charity,” Magruder said shortly. “He spent the weekend deliberating whether or not to tell me. He finally decided a father should know his daughter is—involved … with a gangster.”

  “Well, what if I am? I don’t need your permission anymore, Daddy. I’ll choose my own friends.”

  “Do you realize what you’re saying? The man is a criminal, part of the underworld mob. Haven’t you any decency?”

  “Haven’t you?” Libbie fired back. “You’re very palsy-walsy with his boss, that Oliver Quinn. Don’t you dare lecture me on disgracing the family name.”

  Magruder inwardly winced. She was too close to the truth, for his involvement with the mob went far beyond what anyone suspected. He decided the situation called for a harder line.

  “I forbid it,” he said with authority. “You will not see this man again, and there’s an end to it. Do you understand?”

  Libbie laughed at him. “Please spare me your ultimatums. I’m of age and I’ll see whomever I choose.” Her chin tilted defiantly. “That includes Jack Nolan.”

  “I daresay Mr. Nolan can be persuaded otherwise. You leave me no choice.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “One way or another, young lady, it’s ended. Mark my word.”

  Magruder stormed out of the study. A moment later the front door slammed, and she suddenly knew what he intended. She moved to the phone at her father’s desk and placed a hurried call to the Turf Club. She waited impatiently until Nolan came on the line and then quickly explained what had happened. His reaction was much as she’d expected.

  “Forget meeting me today,” he said. “Once your dad tells Quinn, I’m in big trouble. I’ll have to do some fast talking.”

  Her mouth went dry. “He won’t do anything to you, will he? You’ll be all right, won’t you?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. I’ve been in tighter fixes before.”

  “When will I see you? You won’t let them come between us … will you?”

  “Never happen,” Nolan said with certainty. “I’ll find a way, trust me on that. You’re my girl.”

  “No matter what?”

  “No matter what.”

  Nolan promised he would call her later that afternoon. When they rang off, Libbie sat for a moment wondering if he meant it. Then, his voice still fresh in her memory, she heard him say it again. She was his girl … no matter what.

  She desperately wanted it to be true.

  Durant found it hard to believe. He read the article again, shaking his head, still dumbfounded. It just didn’t seem possible.

  On Saturday, only two days ago, Jack Dempsey had lost the heavyweight championship. The fight was held in a pouring rain at the Sesquicentennial Stadium in Philadelphia. Over 120,000 spectators saw the underdog, Gene Tunney, outbox the Manassa Mauler and take the heavyweight crown. Bookmakers across America had lost their shirts.

  Durant could hardly credit it. Dempsey had held the championship for seven years, defending his title against such great fighters as Tommy Gibbons, Luis Firpo, and Georges Carpenter. A savage puncher, inevitably winning by a knockout, no one in the fight game thought he could ever be beat. The one consolation, as Durant saw it, was that the new champion was a former serviceman. Gene Tunney had served in the Marines.

  A light rap sounded at the door. Durant hastily folded the newspaper and dropped it beneath his desk. All morning he’d been absorbed in his own problems, and then, after glancing at the sports page, the astounding defeat of the Manassa Mauler. He hadn’t yet so much as looked at the bank’s financial summary for last week. Catherine stuck her head into the office.

  “Your friends are back again.”

  “Friends?”

  “You know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Your partners in reform.”

  Durant wondered what they wanted now. Late Saturday morning, following his and Aldridge’s meeting with Magruder, they had come by the office. He had related the details of the fiasco with Magruder, and went on to explain that there was no hope of establishing a mob connection. None of them seemed willing to accept the facts.

  A heated exchange ensued. Herbert Cornwall took the lead, urging him to issue a public statement regarding Magruder’s ties to the underworld. Durant argued that it was speculation on his part, his word against Magruder’s; nothing to substantiate the connection. Cornwall pushed, backed by Adair and Baldwin, and he flatly refused. They left the office in a doleful mood.

  Saturday night, he and Catherine had attended a movie. On Sunday afternoon, they had toured the amusement p
iers and finished the day with dinner at one of the seafood places on the beach. While he was with her, he was able to set his troubles aside and simply enjoy her quick laughter and vivacious spirit. But the thought that Magruder had once again unleashed the mob was never far from mind. The reformers seemed to him yet another fly in the ointment.

  “Go ahead, send them in,” he said in a gruff voice. “I’m ripe for an argument, anyway.”

  Catherine frowned prettily. “Don’t let them get under your skin.”

  “I’ll try.”

  The clergymen, followed by Cornwall, stepped into the office. Durant gave them a neutral look and waved them to chairs. After they were seated, there was a moment of strained silence. Reverend Baldwin finally cleared his throat.

  “We wish to apologize,” he said with an offhand gesture. “We’ve talked it over and come to the conclusion we pressed you too hard on Saturday. Magruder would indeed prevail in a war of words.”

  The tone was too tactful by half, almost obsequious. Durant was immediately on guard. “Glad to hear we agree,” he said. “So what brings you around today?”

  Baldwin smiled slyly. “We spent the weekend exploring new avenues, new strategies. We believe we’ve found one that is—dare I say … Machiavellian.”

  Durant shrugged. “A three-dollar word for deceit and chicanery. I’m surprised at you, Parson.”

  “All in a good cause,” Adair chimed in. “God wages His battle against evil with every weapon at hand. We are but His servants.”

  “Which is to say,” Baldwin went on, “we have evolved a plan with considerable merit. One we believe will bear fruit.”

  “Why come to me?” Durant asked. “I’ve burned my bridges in Galveston.”

  “Hardly, hardly,” Adair assured him. “In fact, you are the very man for our crafty little plan. The only man!”

  “How so?”

  “Shall we say you are on personal acquaintance with one Diamond Jack Nolan.”

  “Nolan?”

  “Permit me to explain,” Baldwin said unctuously. “Jack Nolan is foremost among the mob’s henchmen. Every dirty secret there is to know, he knows intimately. Wouldn’t you agree?”