by Matt Braun
“A wise decision, Bill. I know just who you mean. Consider it done.”
Magruder hung up, nodding to Sherm. Then he jiggled the hook and asked the operator for another number. A courteous young man answered.
“St. Mary’s Rectory.”
“Monsignor O’Donnell, please.”
“May I tell the Monsignor who’s calling?”
“William Magruder.”
“And the purpose of your call, Mr. Magruder?”
“A personal matter.”
“High time!”
“Dutch, I told you he’d come around.”
“Yeah, you did,” Voight said. “Wonder what took him so long?”
Quinn smiled. “Magruder works at his own speed. You wanted Durant and you’ve got him. Don’t ask questions.”
“Who’s asking?”
The phone rang. Voight lifted the receiver, still grinning. “Yeah.”
“Dutch, this is Dan Lampis.”
“What’s up?”
“I was out checking the slots this morning. Guess who I saw on Postoffice Street?”
“Who?”
“Frank Nitti.”
Voight’s grin slipped. “You’re sure?”
“Dead certain,” Lampis said. “How could I forget his ugly mug?”
Voight was formerly from Chicago. Four years ago, he had imported Lampis from the Windy City to handle part of the slots concession. They both knew Frank Nitti on sight.
“Keep it to yourself for now, Dan. I’ll get back to you.”
Voight replaced the receiver on the hook. “Frank Nitti’s in town,” he said to Quinn in a cold voice. “Dan Lampis saw him on Postoffice Street.”
“Nitti?” Quinn repeated hollowly. “You’re talking about Nitti from Chicago?”
“One and the same. He’s Al Capone’s right-hand boy. And I don’t need a crystal ball to tell me why he’s here.”
“You think Capone means to put a move on us?”
“Nothing but,” Voight said tightly. “Capone knows there’s only one way to get his hands on Galveston. He sent Nitti here to plan our funeral.”
Quinn’s jaws clenched. “We’ll scotch that in a hurry. Capone doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.”
They called Nolan into the office. He listened without expression as Voight told him about Nitti. His eyes narrowed.
“I’ll get on it right away. You want him aced?”
“Not just yet,” Voight said. “Find him and bring him here. I’ve got some questions I want answered.”
“Whatever you say.” Nolan started toward the door, then stopped. “What with Nitti in town, I almost forgot to tell you. Earl Durant called me a little while ago.”
“Durant?” Quinn echoed. “Why would he call you?”
“I haven’t got a clue. He said he wanted to meet, something about it would be to my advantage. Sounded pretty mysterious.”
“What did you say?”
“I agreed to meet him tomorrow morning. Figured I’d see what’s what.”
Quinn and Voight exchanged a puzzled glance. After a moment, Quinn looked back at Nolan. “Something screwy’s going on here. Magruder just called and gave us the green light on Durant. Said to take him out.”
“Why so sudden?” Nolan asked quizzically. “I mean, him and Durant calling at the same time? Doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Quinn remarked uneasily. “You’re sure that’s all Durant said?”
“Yeah, he kept it short and sweet.”
“I don’t like it,” Voight interjected. “Somebody knows something we don’t. Too much coincidence for my money.”
“Dutch, I couldn’t agree more.” Quinn walked to the window, gazed down at the street. “I think we’d better go slow here. See how it plays out.”
“Damn right,” Voight said sternly. “Could be somebody’s playing us for a patsy. Question is, who?”
“How about Durant?” Nolan said, looking from one to the other. “Do I meet him or not?”
Quinn turned from the window. “String him along and see what he wants. We might learn what we’re missing in all this.”
“Good idea,” Voight said. “We can settle his hash anytime. Nitti’s our first order of business.”
Nolan nodded. “I’ll take some of the boys and hit the streets. He shouldn’t be hard to find.”
Voight grunted. “Look for a wop with a hooked nose. Fancy dresser, about my size. Always wears spats.”
“I’m on it.”
Nolan went out. When the door closed, Voight bit off the end of a cigar and lit up in a dinge of smoke. Quinn again turned his gaze out the window.
“What do you make of it, Dutch?”
“I think something’s fishy. Stinks to high heaven.”
“Yes,” Quinn said quietly. “I can smell it from here.”
Catherine invited Durant to dinner that evening. She expressed the opinion that he was in desperate need of a home-cooked meal, and she also wanted him to meet her mother. Durant readily accepted.
The Ludlow home was pleasantly comfortable. The living room was filled with overstuffed furniture, bric-a-brac scattered here and there in playful groupings. A sideboard with hand-carved garlands dominated the dining room, and the table was piled high with steaming dishes. Durant’s invitation was clearly an occasion.
Alma Ludlow was a slim woman in her early fifties. She was animated and cheery, with bright blue eyes and wisps of gray in her hair. Durant thought it was apparent where Catherine got her good looks and spirited disposition. Her mother would have been a beauty in her day.
Alma stifled her curiosity until they were seated at the dinner table. Then, much like her daughter, she proved to be a devotee of motion pictures, and more particularly, movie stars. She began peppering Durant with questions once his plate was loaded with food.
“Catherine tells me you’re a stuntman in motion pictures?”
“Yes ma’am,” Durant said, ladling gravy onto his mashed potatoes. “I’ve been working at it pretty regular the last few years.”
“Well, then, you must know everyone’s juicy secrets. Is it true, what the papers say? Did Fatty Arbuckle really kill that girl?”
Scandals gave Hollywood the unsavory image of a modern Babylon. Fatty Arbuckle, a popular comedian, allegedly raped an actress, adding a sadistic twist by using a Coke bottle. The actress died and he was charged with murder, facing trial three times. Twice he got a hung jury, and in the third trial he was acquitted. The scandal nonetheless resulted in him being blackballed from movies forever.
Durant wasn’t surprised by Mrs. Ludlow’s interest. The story had been covered extensively in the press, and movie fans everywhere were fascinated by the sordid headlines. He tried to answer the question without getting drawn into details.
“Everyone in Hollywood thought Arbuckle was guilty. The general feeling was that he got away with murder.”
“How terrible,” Alma said with a little shudder. “And is it true what they say about John Barrymore? Is he a drunk?”
“Yes, ma’am, it’s a fact.” Durant paused, a chunk of pot roast speared on his fork. “Barrymore’s half stiff all the time and sloshed most of the time. He’s still a good actor, though.”
“Oh, I think so, too. You must think it’s silly of me, but I just love all these handsome leading men. Did you know Rudolph Valentino?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say we were buddies. I doubled for him in stunts on The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. He seemed like a pretty nice guy.”
Rudolph Valentino was the matinee idol of the day. He had died little more than a month before from a peritonitis infection following an appendicitis operation. Thousands attended the funeral of the man who would forever be known for his role in The Sheik. Women across America were still in a state of mourning.
“How tragic,” Alma said weepily. “To die so young, at the height of his fame. I read he was only thirty-one.”
“Mother!” Catherine scolded. “Le
t Earl eat his dinner. You haven’t stopped to catch a breath.”
“Well, honestly, dear, how often do you meet someone from Hollywood? I’m just making conversation.”
“I don’t mind,” Durant said with a smile. “For a meal like this, I’d talk all night. You’re a mighty fine cook, Mrs. Ludlow.”
“Aren’t you the flatterer,” Alma simpered. “All right, I’ll ask only one more question and then I’m through. Does Mary Pickford really earn a million dollars a year?”
Durant verified it was true. He went on to explain that Mary Pickford’s husband, Douglas Fairbanks, as well as Charlie Chaplin, made a million a year. Not long ago, he noted, the threesome had pooled their resources to form United Artists Studio and produce their own pictures. They were now millionaires many times over.
Alma clapped her hands with delight, and then true to her promise, let him finish his dinner. Later, while she was clearing the table, Catherine led Durant into the living room and took a seat beside him on the sofa. She shook her head with a rueful smile.
“I apologize for Mama,” she said, clearly embarrassed. “She’s even more star-struck than I am. Do you forgive me?”
“Nothing to forgive,” Durant assured her. “Tell you the truth, it was good to talk about something else. Took my mind off my problems.”
“Things were so hectic today I didn’t have a chance to ask. Are the reformers still pestering you to make a public statement about Magruder?”
“No, we’re into a whole new game. I’m meeting with Jack Nolan tomorrow.”
“My God!” she blurted. “What on earth for?”
Durant shrugged it off. “Let’s just say he might be able to help out. I’ll know more after I’ve talked with him.”
“You’ve said any number of times how dangerous he is. Aren’t you taking an awful chance?”
“Sometimes you’ve got no choice but to take a chance. Don’t worry, I’ll keep both eyes open.”
She felt clotted with emotion, and fear. She took his hand in hers, squeezed tightly. “Promise you’ll be careful.”
Durant smiled. “Cross my heart.”
Alma bustled in from the kitchen. “Now!” she said eagerly, seating herself in an overstuffed chair. Her eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Tell me everything unprintable about Greta Garbo.”
The car pulled into the Beach Hotel early that evening. Knuckles Drago was at the wheel, and Nitti, stuffed with seafood, was in the passenger seat. He was pleased with himself, satisfied he’d learned all he needed to know about Galveston. He planned to call Capone when he got to his room.
There was no valet attendant out front. Drago honked the horn, peering past Nitti through the doors into the lobby. The back doors of the car suddenly popped open, and Drago automatically reached for his gun. Turk McGuire jammed the snout of a pistol into his neck with a rumbled warning. Nolan scooted in behind Nitti.
“Easy does it, Nitti,” he said in an amiable voice. “Mr. Voight just wants to talk. Let’s keep it simple.”
Nitti craned around. “I’d lay odds you’re Jack Nolan.”
“You win your bet.”
“How’d you get on to me?”
“Wasn’t all that hard, Mr. Murphy. We have friends here at the hotel.”
“I’ll make it worth your while to forget you found me.”
“Save your breath and enjoy the ride.”
Ten minutes later the car pulled into the garage behind the Turf Club. McGuire relieved Drago of his gun, and after Nolan unlocked the back door, they were marched inside. A narrow stairway, closed to the public, led them to the third floor. Barney Ward waited at the end of the hall, posted outside the office. He knocked three light raps, then opened the door.
Voight was seated behind his desk. His eyes were coldly impersonal, touching an instant on Drago, then shifting to Nitti. Nolan shoved them forward as Barney Ward closed the door. A moment of strained silence slipped past.
“Well, Frank,” Voight said without a trace of warmth. “Long time, no see.”
“Too long, Dutch,” Nitti replied evenly. “What’s the idea of rousting us?”
“I’ve got a better one for you. What’s the idea of sneaking into Galveston on the q.t.?”
“We’re here for a couple days’ vacation. Little surf and sand.”
“You’re a fucking liar.”
Nitti was a man of carefully calibrated composure, mandarin inscrutability. He stared back across the desk with a level gaze. “It’s a free country, Dutch. I don’t owe you any explanation.”
“Let me guess,” Voight said, as though contemplating some arcane riddle. “Capone sent you here to scout out the territory. Arrange a nice funeral for Ollie Quinn and me. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds like something out of left field. I told you why we’re here.”
“Don’t try to play dumb on me. How many shooters was Johnny Renzullo gonna supply? What’d he promise you?”
Nitti smiled a frosty little grin. “Who’s Renzullo?”
“What do you take me for?” Voight said coarsely. “You think I don’t know Joey Adonis was married to Renzullo’s sister? I had it figured the minute I heard you were in town.”
“Nobody ever gave you much credit for smarts. Good thing you left Chicago when you did.”
“You guinea son of a bitch! I ought to send you back to Capone in a box.”
“Dutch, you don’t have the guts for it. You never did.”
Voight opened the desk drawer. He took out a .38 snub-nose and moved around the desk. He pressed the muzzle between Nitti’s eyes.
“Say that again, hotshot. Let’s see who’s got the guts!”
Everyone in the room went stock-still. Nitti stared into the bore of the pistol, and his eyes blinked once, then twice. He drew a deep breath.
“You don’t want to kill me, Dutch. All that would get you is a war with Capone.”
“Looks like I’ve already got a war. What’s the difference?”
“Let me go and that’ll be the end of it. You know I never break my word.”
Voight cocked the hammer on his pistol. “Say ‘please.’ ”
A doomsday silence settled over the room. Nitti swallowed against a rush of bile in his throat. His voice, when he spoke, was almost inaudible.
“Please.”
“You just bought your life.” Voight eased the hammer down, lowered the pistol. “Get out of Galveston tonight. Don’t go back to the hotel. Don’t even stop to take a piss. Got it?”
Nitti slowly nodded. “Got it.”
“Tell Capone to stick to Chicago. The climate down here’s not good for his health—or yours.”
“I’ll give him the message.”
Voight dismissed him with a curt gesture. McGuire opened the door, where Barney Ward waited in the hall, and motioned Nitti and Drago out of the office. Nolan started after them.
“Jack,” Voight said. “Wait up a minute.”
“Yeah, boss?”
“Follow them over the causeway. Let Nitti know he’s being tailed.”
“Good as done.”
“One other thing,” Voight said with quiet malice. “I want the score settled with Johnny Renzullo. Figure out a way to pop him in Houston. The sooner, the better.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Nolan went out. Voight returned to his desk and lit a cigar. He chuckled to himself, puffing smoke. Sometimes things worked out just right.
Al Capone would never set foot on Galveston Island.
Chapter Eighteen
On Tuesday morning, Stoner and Janice came down in the elevator a little before ten. As they moved through the lobby, Charles Anderson stepped out of his office. He greeted them with an effusive smile.
“Good morning,” he said, nodding politely to Janice. “Off for more sight-seeing?”
“You bet,” Stoner said with a chipper manner. “The missus never gets enough of the Island. Do you, Olive, honey?”
“Oh, dear
me, no!” Janice trilled. “You are so very fortunate to live here, Mr. Anderson. I envy you greatly.”
“Yes, ma’am, I sometimes envy myself.” Anderson laughed at his own wit, glancing at Stoner. “I trust they’re treating you well at the Hollywood Club, Mr. Eberling?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, pardner, it’s the old case of win some and lose some. I’ve got a ways to go to get even.”
“I am sorry to hear that. Of course, I’ve heard gambling men say that luck does require patience.”
“Yessir, the worm always turns. I’ll get mine back and then some.”
“I’m sure you will,” Anderson said, stepping aside with a little bow. “You folks enjoy your day.”
“We plan to, Charlie. We surely do.”
Stoner led Janice toward the entrance. He thought the likelihood of getting even was practically nil. They were now welcome guests at the casino, having played there Saturday night, Sunday night, and last night. So far, even though he believed the games were honest, he was down almost two thousand dollars. He felt he was playing against time with a dwindling bankroll.
Their canary-yellow Packard waited outside the hotel. The valet attendant kept the car washed and polished, and it gleamed beneath golden sunlight and a cloudless sky. Stoner marked the date as September 26, slightly more than two weeks since they had arrived in Galveston. Yet, despite his slimmer bankroll, he was still obliged to play the part of the wealthy rancher. He tipped the attendant ten dollars.
A short while later they drove onto the causeway. Seagulls wheeled and circled above the harbor as a freighter slowly maneuvered into the docks. Janice watched the tranquil scene while Stoner concentrated on the road and the rearview mirror. Over the past two weeks, he had called Colonel Garrison twice, always from phone booths in La Marque. He was wary of calling from the hotel, for fear a curious operator might eavesdrop. He was wary as well of being followed.
The Packard was so distinctive that it attracted attention. By now, tooling around Galveston for two weeks, practically everyone in town recognized the car. All the more troublesome, three nights at the Hollywood Club made it known to parking attendants and others who worked at the casino. Stoner was not apprehensive by nature, but he thought it better to err on the side of caution. Someone with a sharp eye might wonder why they drove over to La Marque so frequently. Or even worse, why a wealthy rancher used phone booths.
