by Matt Braun
“I wish I could help, Mrs. Eberling,” Quinn said, smiling at Janice. “Unfortunately, I’m not too much on these new dances myself. I seem to miss the beat somewhere.”
“Know exactly what you mean,” Stoner said with a haughty gesture toward the dance floor. “Give me a fox-trot any old day. That’s my speed.”
Quinn nodded affably. “We try to provide something for everyone here at the Hollywood Club. I’d say the casino is more your speed, Mr. Eberling.”
“Well, that’s yet to be proved,” Stoner said ruefully. “You boys are into my pocket pretty deep. I’m lookin’ to make a comeback.”
“I’m sure you will, and then some. Your luck’s bound to change.”
“We’re sure enough gonna find out tonight. I aim to hit the craps table like a bulldog on a bone.”
“Mr. Quinn,” Janice said, dismissing the subject with wifely disdain. “I understand the Ritz Brothers are opening tomorrow night. Are they as good as everyone says?”
“Even better,” Quinn assured her. “They’re born clowns, the jesters of Broadway. The best comedy act you’ll ever see.”
“Oh, I just can’t wait!” Janice exclaimed. “You be sure to reserve our table, you hear? I adore comedy.”
“You always have a table with us, Mrs. Eberling. We appreciate your patronage.”
Quinn wandered off to greet other customers. Stoner watched him with an amused look. “Tomorrow night he’ll wish he’d never seen us. Talk about a rude awakening.”
“Careful, Mr. Eberling,” Janice said sweetly. “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch. Isn’t that what ranchers always say?”
“You’re thinking of chicken farmers, Olive. Ranchers raise cows.”
“Six of one and half a dozen of another, Roberto. You know what I mean.”
“Honey, we’re gonna take this place like Grant took Richmond. You wait and see.”
The houselights dimmed as they finished their dinner. Trumpets blared and drums rattled as Sophie Tucker strutted onto the stage, framed in a rosy spotlight. “The Last of the Red Hot Mamas” wore a spangled gown that left little of her zoftig figure to the imagination. She carried a large feathered fan that swished with sexual innuendo.
She opened her closing show with what audiences now thought of as her signature song. The orchestra led her into There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.
“I should be back by ten.”
“You need your sleep, Ira. You’re not getting any younger.”
“Yes, dear.”
“You’re not listening to a word I say. You never do.”
Naomi Aldridge was seated in an overstuffed chair. Her crocheting needle moved with steady precision as she worked on an elaborate lace doily. She was short and plump, and believed that men were overgrown boys who required constant bossing. She darted Aldridge a sharp look.
“No later than ten, you hear me?”
“Yes, dear, I hear you.”
Aldridge gave her a peck on the cheek. He went out the front door and walked to his Chevy, which was parked in the driveway. The house, a modest two-story Victorian, was on a quiet, tree-lined street west of the business district. He backed out of the driveway and drove toward the Strand.
The problem, as Aldridge saw it, was that they’d never had children. Whether Naomi was barren or he was sterile seemed to him a moot point. All her friends had children, and with age, she’d grown increasingly bitter with her empty nest. He felt her frustration, but at times she could be a handful. She treated him more like a mother than a wife.
On the way downtown it occurred to him that he had no room to talk. In private moments, he sometimes wished Earl Durant was the son he’d never had. He liked to think that his son would have been just as intelligent and resourceful, though perhaps not so foolhardy. He still couldn’t understand Durant’s obstinate refusal to leave Galveston. Discretion, given the situation, was absolutely the better part of valor.
Downtown, Aldridge turned north on Fourteenth Street. The Knights of Pythias building was located on the Strand at Fourteenth, and tonight was the night for the weekly board meeting. The Knights of Pythias was a fraternal and benevolent organization that devoted its resources to a range of charitable causes. He’d been a member for twenty-three years, and was quite honored to serve on the board of directors. His particular interest was the plight of needy children.
Aldridge parked the car around the corner on Fourteenth. He got out, dropping the keys in his suit pocket, and walked toward the Strand. A dark four-door Buick coasted to a halt beside him, and two men jumped out, crossing to the sidewalk. One was lean and wiry, the other was stout as a bull, and in light from the street lamp, he recognized them as hoodlums. Underlings, but nonetheless men known to virtually everyone in town. Turk McGuire and Whizzer Duncan.
“Don’t give us no trouble,” Duncan said in a clipped voice. “Come along nice and peaceful.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” Aldridge searched the street for any sign of help and saw no one about. “Take your hands off me!”
“Get in the Goddamn car.”
McGuire grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and bodily lifted him into the backseat of the Buick. Duncan hopped into the passenger seat and McGuire crawled in beside Aldridge, slamming the door. The car pulled away, braking at the corner, then crossed the intersection headed south on Fourteenth. Aldridge, still trying to collect his wits, realized there were four men in the car. He looked at the man seated on his left.
“Evening, Mr. Aldridge,” Nolan said with a roguish smile. “Hope the boys weren’t too rough. We had to move right along.”
“I resent being manhandled,” Aldridge said indignantly. “What is it you want with me?”
“Just business, Mr. Aldridge. Nothing personal.”
“I demand an explanation.”
“Well, you might say you’re our hostage. We’re holding you for ransom.”
“I don’t believe you,” Aldridge said. “This has to do with Earl Durant and the bank, doesn’t it?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” Nolan lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke. “Just play along and don’t worry about it. We’re not going to hurt you.”
Aldridge didn’t buy it. They had abducted him by force, which under Texas law was punishable by life in prison. Even worse, he could identify them, and they weren’t the sort of men to chance a live witness. He thought it very unlikely he would ever see his wife again.
The Buick turned a corner, moving west on Stewart Road. Nolan stared out the window, smoking his cigarette in silence. His crew had tailed Aldridge for the last three days, looking for the right moment to make the snatch. He had decided on Aldridge, rather than the Ludlow girl, for what seemed to him the most practical of reasons. Aldridge, who handled the day-by-day operations of People’s Bank & Trust, was the better bargaining chip. Durant could never run the bank by himself.
Nolan was nonetheless troubled. Until he found a way out for himself and Libbie, he had to stall for time with Quinn and Voight. Grabbing Aldridge would make them think he was on the job, and perhaps string them along a few days more. Yet he was under orders to dust Durant by the weekend, and he’d already decided it would never happen. Somehow, between tonight and Sunday, he had to come up with a ploy that worked for him and Libbie, and Durant. He didn’t have the least idea how he would pull it off.
Some six miles west of the downtown area, the car turned north onto a dirt road. Aldridge saw Sweetwater Lake on their right, a part of the Island that was largely uninhabited except for scattered farms. A short distance down the road, the driver turned onto a dirt track that meandered through a stand of trees and ended at a clearing overlooking the lake. Closer to the water, visible in the pale moonlight, was a ramshackle cabin. The windows were dark.
The men climbed out of the Buick. McGuire took a firm grip on Aldridge’s arm, and with Nolan leading the way, they walked to the cabin. Inside, Nolan struck a match, lighting a coal oil lamp, and th
e sudden flare revealed what looked to be a backwoods camp for fishermen and hunters. There was a main room with a woodburning stove, rickety table and chairs, and a window looking out onto the lake. Through a door was a small bedroom, with two iron-framed single beds and a window at the side of the cabin. The smell of the place was musty, ripe with odors.
“All the comforts of home,” Nolan said with a casual wave of his hand. “Think of it as your hideaway, Mr. Aldridge. You get your choice of beds.”
Aldridge felt dizzy with fear. “I take it I’m being held prisoner.”
“Let’s say you’re our guest. We stocked the place with groceries and Whizzer’s not a bad cook. You could do worse.”
“How long do you intend to hold me?”
“I’ll let you know when I know.”
Duncan and the driver, Lem Brewster, were assigned to stay behind and guard Aldridge. Nolan motioned to Duncan as he went out the door with McGuire. They stopped in the shadow of the cabin.
“No rough stuff,” Nolan said pointedly, staring at Duncan. “Anything happens to that old man, I’ll have your balls. Got it?”
“Hey, Jack,” Duncan said with a wiseacre grin. “No need to throw your weight around. I’ll treat him like he was my own father.”
“Just make sure there’s no slip-ups.”
“What if he tries to escape?”
“You better hope you can outrun him. Otherwise you’ll have to outrun me.”
Duncan frowned. “I don’t get you, Jack. What’s the old fart to you?”
“We’re not playing twenty questions here. Do like you’re told, understand?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever you say.”
They left Duncan standing in front of the cabin. McGuire got behind the wheel of the Buick, starting the engine, and Nolan took the passenger seat. A short while later they turned on to Stewart Road and headed back to town. McGuire glanced across at Nolan.
“What was that with Duncan? You think he’d croak the old guy?”
“Whizzer’s got a mean streak that pops out now and then. Better safe than sorry.”
“Why you so worried one way or the other?”
“Without Aldridge we don’t have the bait for Durant. You follow me, Turk?”
“You’re sayin’ we need him alive to set the trap, right?”
“You just won the nickel cigar.”
McGuire was Quinn’s man, loyal to the last. Nolan knew that everything he’d said tonight would be reported to Quinn, and not long afterward, to Voight. The problem he’d now set in motion was running a con with no end in sight. No clear way out.
He thought he might yet get himself killed.
Traffic was heavy on the causeway. The crush was particularly bad on Friday nights as weekenders rushed to join the revelry. The Island was a carnival in motion.
There were three cars in the Ranger convoy. Captain Hardy Purvis and four men rode in a Buick, the doors emblazoned with the Ranger emblem. Directly behind were two Chevrolets, standard departmental patrol cars, each carrying five men. One man in every car was armed with a Winchester pump shotgun.
The traffic inched off the causeway at a sluggish crawl. Taillights blinked along the esplanade of Broadway, where cars were jammed bumper-to-bumper, barely moving. The towering electric sign at roadside—GALVESTON, THE TREASURE ISLAND OF AMERICA—seemed to mock those stranded in traffic. Their weekend was off to a slow start.
Hardy Purvis checked his watch. The raid on the Hollywood Club was scheduled for nine o’clock and it was now eight-fifty. He cursed, surveying the traffic jam, all too aware his raiding party would never make it across the Island in ten minutes. His anger was compounded by the thought of Stoner waiting in the casino, tonight’s plan stymied by their late arrival. He opened the door and stood on the running board, scanning the street ahead. He saw no break in the traffic.
A part of his anger was born of resentment. For three days he had stewed on what he considered an affront to his rank and his years of service. Colonel Garrison had effectively placed him under the command of a sergeant, and there was nothing for it but to swallow his pride. But now, the damnable Friday night traffic was about to make it appear he couldn’t execute the simplest part of the plan. Garrison was sure to rate his performance tonight with the deadliest threat to a Ranger’s career, the ominous Four Ps: Piss Poor Prior Planning.
Purvis made a spur-of-the-moment decision. Far better to announce your arrival, he told himself, than to be thirty minutes late. He turned, looking at the Ranger cars directly behind, and rapidly pumped his arm up and down in the air. Then he stepped off the running board and slid back in the passenger seat. He motioned to the driver.
“Let’s have the siren and the chase lights.”
“You sure, Cap’n?” the Ranger said blankly. “They’ll hear us a mile away.”
“Goddammit!” Purvis thundered. “Don’t argue with me. Do it!”
The driver hit the switches. The siren blasted a shrill wail and the bubble-gum lights on top of the Buick began flashing. The cars to their front were stuck in traffic, nowhere to go and unable to move out of the way. For a moment, with Purvis glowering like a singed rooster, they sat locked in place. He abruptly flung an arm off to the side.
“Take to the curb,” he ordered. “Get around ’em, Goddammit!”
The Buick bounced over the curb. Two wheels on the street and two wheels on the lawn of a house, they lurched east along Broadway. The patrol cars followed, sirens blaring and lights flashing, plowing ruts in one lawn after another as they bumped down the street. Purvis ordered a right turn at the corner of Broadway and Fiftieth. They headed south toward Seawall Boulevard.
Twelve minutes later the cars skidded to a halt in front of the Hollywood Club. The sirens wound down with a mournful screech and the bubble-gum lights winked off as the Rangers piled out and rushed the door. The doorman, resplendent in top hat and tails, quickly moved aside. He waved them on with a pearly grin.
“Good evening, Cap’n,” he said in a piping voice. “Mighty fine to see you again.”
Purvis slammed through the door. The Rangers, formed in a tight phalanx, followed him down a hall lined with exotic plants. As they disappeared into the club, the doorman moved to a small button secreted behind one of the plants, mounted on the wall. He pressed it three times.
“Yessir, Cap’n,” he said merrily. “Welcome to the Hollywood Club!”
Stoner was standing at the craps table. Another customer was rolling the dice and he was betting the numbers on the felt layout. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Janice playing the slots along the far wall. He sneaked a peek at his watch.
Seven minutes past nine. He wondered what was keeping Purvis and his Rangers. Early that morning, he’d driven into La Marque, using the phone booth in the pharmacy, and called Houston. Purvis, irked at being questioned, had assured him the raid would come off as planned. Nine o’clock sharp.
So where the hell were they?
Three sharp blasts sounded on a gong. Stoner turned and saw the hammer pounding on a fire alarm at the rear of the room. For a moment, everyone in the casino froze, and then Dutch Voight appeared in the doorway of the office. He raised his arms as the fire alarm went silent.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out. “We are about to be raided by the Texas Rangers. Please follow the directions of the housemen and don’t worry about a thing. Just stay calm.”
The dealers and croupiers instructed the customers to pocket their chips and move back from the tables. Voight waited until everyone was clear of the equipment and then stepped into the office. Through the open door, Stoner saw him walk to his desk, stoop down, and pull a lever mounted in the floor. A low hum of machinery vibrated through the casino.
The slot machines folded like Murphy beds, rolling into the walls. The reverse sides of the slots, now facing outward, were framed posters of popular motion pictures. The floor separated beside the craps tables and the roulette tables as housemen hurriedly slipped elas
ticized covers over the equipment. In the next instant, the gaming tables rotated 180°, turning top to bottom as the floors cranked back into place. The bottoms of the tables, when they appeared, were baize-covered billiards tables. The cue sticks and balls were quickly removed from compartments along the edges.
Stoner was no engineer, but he immediately grasped the fundamental concept. Beneath the floor, and in the walls, was a massive hydraulic system, powered by electricity. He suddenly understood why the casino had been built at the end of the T-head pier, suspended over water. Below the casino, probably housed in steel and hidden from view, was a custom-designed marvel of hydraulic engineering. His respect for Quinn and Voight went up a couple of notches.
Even as he watched, the blackjack tables revolved into the floor, replaced by backgammon and bridge tables. Housemen produced cards and chairs, got the guests seated at the tables, and then mingled with the crowd. Gamblers who only moments ago were tossing dice and playing roulette now took up cue sticks and began banging balls around on billiards tables. The swiftness of the transformation was startling, hard to comprehend unless seen firsthand. A casino had been converted into a social club in less than three minutes.
Janice paused at Stoner’s side. “Have you ever!” she said in a breathless voice. “Houdini has nothing on these people.”
“Maybe he designed it for them,” Stoner said with a bemused look. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself.”
“Sweetie, we’re talking serious magic here.”
“Yeah, and all without smoke or mirrors. A nifty operation. Damn nifty.”
Voight walked to the front and unlocked the heavy oak doors. Hardy Purvis and his Rangers burst into the room as though storming fortified battlements. From the nightclub, announcing their arrival, came the strains of the orchestra playing The Eyes of Texas. Everyone looked up as if sharing a private joke.
