The Overlords & the Wild Ones

by Matt Braun

  “Come right in, Captain Purvis,” Voight said with a wry smile. “What can we do for you tonight?”

  “None of your wisecracks, Voight.” Purvis glowered around at the billiards tables and backgammon players. “We’re here to shut you down for good.”

  “Well, in that case, be my guest.”

  The Rangers conducted their usually thorough search. As with previous raids, they tapped the walls, stomped on the floor, and inspected the billiards tables. Stoner was impressed, and relieved, that Purvis never once looked in his direction. He thought the Ranger captain was a surprisingly good actor.

  The search lasted almost thirty minutes. Finally, with a parting shot at Voight, Purvis led his Rangers back through the nightclub. The orchestra playfully announced their departure, and the audience joined in the spirit of things. Their voices carried through the lounge to the casino.

  “The eyes of Texas are upon you

  All the livelong day!”

  “Well, Sherlock?” Janice whispered, her eyes bright with excitement. “What do you think?”

  Stoner grinned. “I think Saturday night’s our night. Our last night.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Durant got to the bank about eight-thirty on Saturday morning. The doors opened at eight but he was rarely ever there on time. The bank functioned just as well with or without him.

  Nothing about People’s Bank & Trust interested Durant. At first, when he’d decided to stay on, he had attempted to assume the duties of president. But he soon realized that the thing holding him in Galveston was his determination to thwart William Magruder. The bank itself was like a yoke around his neck.

  There was never a moment he didn’t resent how the bank had changed his life. He’d been in Galveston almost four weeks, and not a day passed without some bitter reflection about Hollywood. Though he kept in contact by phone, his friends in motion pictures were beginning to doubt he would ever return. He wasn’t all that certain himself.

  The phone conversations with Tom Mix and others in the film industry were frustrating. He found it impossible to unburden himself and tell them the truth. How could he explain that the mob had tried to kill him and would try again? How could he explain refusing to run and not come off sounding like some dime-store hero in a low-budget film?

  The upshot was that he fudged the truth. He told them that selling a bank was far more difficult than he’d ever envisioned. Yet that explanation wore thin, particularly over a period of weeks. His friends listened, sometimes with sympathy, but they really had no interest in his problems. People in motion pictures were single-minded about their work, and they were quick to point out that Hollywood had a short memory. Your reputation was pegged to what you did today. Everything else was history.

  The mere thought of it put Durant in a bleak mood. He wasn’t sure he would get out of Galveston alive, much less return to the life he’d known in Hollywood. Entering the bank, he dreaded yet another day of twiddling his thumbs while pretending he understood balance sheets and financial summaries. Catherine intercepted him outside his office.

  “Good morning.” Her usual cheeriness seemed off a note. “Have you seen Mr. Aldridge?”

  “No,” Durant said. “He’s not here?”

  “Not yet. Fortunately, Mr. Jenks knows the combination to the safe. Otherwise we wouldn’t be open for business.”

  Jenks was the head teller, Aldridge’s principal assistant. Durant was at a loss. “Have you tried Ira at home?”

  “Mrs. Aldridge called here.” Catherine looked perplexed. “She said he went out last night and hasn’t come home. She’s so upset she started crying.”

  “Did she say where he went last night?”

  “Some sort of meeting at the Knights of Pythias.”

  “Did she try calling any of the other members?”

  “Early this morning she talked to two of them. They both said Mr. Aldridge didn’t attend the meeting. Don’t you think that’s awfully strange?”

  Durant felt a sudden chill. For four days, since his meeting with Jack Nolan, he’d expected another attack by the mob. He’d taken Catherine out twice in that time, always armed with his Luger, and always on guard against another assault. Yet nothing had happened, and with every passing day, he’d grown increasingly wary. He wondered now if they had decided on a different tack.

  “I’m very worried,” Catherine said, interrupting his ruminations. “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

  “Let me talk with Mrs. Aldridge first. Maybe there’s something we… .”

  Jack Nolan walked through the front door. Whatever doubt Durant might have had abruptly turned to certainty. Catherine saw the change in his expression and looked around, watching as Nolan moved toward them. Her mouth ovaled.

  “Oh, God,” she said on an indrawn breath. “I’m going to call the police.”

  “No,” Durant said crisply. “Let me handle this.”

  Durant reassured Catherine with a touch on her arm. He entered the office, closing the door, and seated himself behind his desk. Nolan took a chair, tapping a cigarette from a pack of Luckies, and clicked a lighter. He lit up in a haze of smoke.

  “We’ve got Aldridge,” he said, pocketing his lighter. “Or maybe you hadn’t noticed he’s missing.”

  “I noticed,” Durant said without inflection. “What do you want?”

  “Same thing we wanted all along. Sell your bank to Magruder and you get Aldridge back in one piece. Otherwise… .”

  “You’ll kill him.”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  Durant stared at him. “Do you enjoy hurting old men?”

  “Not my style.” Nolan exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Look, chum, it’s just business. Nobody has to get hurt.”

  “Why the turnaround? I thought you were after me, not the bank. Magruder refused my last offer.”

  “So he’s in the market again.”

  Nolan was playing a new angle. Late last night, in an effort to stall for time, he’d talked to Quinn at the club. He suggested that Magruder would be even more in their debt if they convinced Durant to sell the bank before killing him. Quinn, after only a moment’s thought, agreed.

  Whether it was the late hour, or simply that he was pleased with himself, Quinn was in an expansive mood. He mentioned having met with Magruder on charity matters Friday afternoon, and then bragged about finally discovering the importance of People’s Bank & Trust. Magruder, in a rare moment of candor, let slip that the bank controlled property he needed to complete his new resort project. His on-again, off-again ambivalence was now understandable. He might not get the bank, and the property, if Durant were dead.

  Quinn then convinced Voight to follow Nolan’s suggestion. By arranging for Magruder to acquire the bank, they positioned themselves to take a piece of the action on the resort project. Magruder had always insisted that they stay out of the hotel business; but with the debt so large in their favor, he could be persuaded to accept them as partners. Voight liked the idea so much he agreed to let Durant live a little longer. Still, he insisted that the bank deal be closed by Monday. He wanted Durant dead by Monday night.

  Nolan had bought less time than he’d hoped. Yet he knew that running a con required not just craft but flexibility. By Monday he might think of a new angle that would spare him from killing Durant. Somehow, though he couldn’t have explained it, he saw a link between sparing Durant and finding a way out for himself and Libbie. He thought perhaps it was Irish superstition, the ancient Gaelic belief that God granted favors for favors done. Whatever the reason, he’d already decided he would never kill Durant.

  “Your move, slick,” he said now. “The bank or Aldridge?”

  “How do I know you’ll let him go?”

  “Hey, what more do you want? You’ve got my word.”

  Durant placed a call to Magruder’s office. He went straight to the point when Magruder came on the phone. “Your mob buddies are holding Ira Aldridge hostage. How would you like to buy a bank
?”

  Magruder hesitated, as though digesting the news. “How much do you want?”

  “One hundred thousand, and it’s not negotiable. I get my price or your pals can keep Aldridge.”

  “Quite frankly, I am tired of haggling with you, Mr. Durant. Your terms are acceptable.”

  “How soon can your lawyer draw up the papers?”

  “I’ll have him work on it over the weekend.”

  “Tell him to work fast. I get Aldridge back by Monday or it’s no deal.”

  Durant hung up. He nodded curtly to Nolan. “Satisfied?”

  “You’re a tough cookie,” Nolan said, stubbing his cigarette in an ashtray. “What if he hadn’t met your price? Would you’ve walked away from Aldridge?”

  “Like you said before, it’s just business.”

  “Well, whatever the case, looks like we’re on hold till Monday. I’ll see you around, slick.”

  Nolan rose with an unreadable smile and went out. When the door closed, Durant told himself it was all hot air and soap bubbles. Even if he sold the bank, they would never run the risk of a live witness who could charge them with felony abduction. Aldridge would be killed.

  So all he’d done today, Durant realized, was to buy some time. He had to find another way to bring Aldridge home alive. And the clock was ticking.

  He had to get it done before Monday.

  The spotlights cast flashing beams a thousand feet into a moonlit sky. Tonight was opening night for the Ritz Brothers, and a line of cars crept forward outside the Hollywood Club. Parking attendants rushed to keep them from blocking the entrance.

  Stoner and Janice arrived in their canary-yellow Packard. She wore a gold lamé gown with a matching stole, and he was attired in a tuxedo and cummerbund. Earlier, when they were dressing, he had wedged a Colt .45 automatic into the cummerbund, at the back of his trousers. In his hip pocket, he carried a leather badge holder with the shield of a Texas Ranger. He felt confident that tonight’s raid would close the place down.

  The nightclub was packed. Quinn, ever the genial host, greeted guests as they came through the doors. He looked the debonair showman in a white dinner jacket, a scarlet boutonniere blazing from his lapel. His manner was lighthearted, almost ebullient, the impresario staging yet another extravaganza. Jack Nolan, in a double-breasted tux, was at his side.

  “Mr. Eberling! Mrs. Eberling!” Quinn offered them a warm handshake as they entered the club. “Your table’s reserved, just as you requested. The best seats in the house.”

  “We’re much obliged,” Stoner said, noting that Nolan was back on duty tonight. “You folks sure know how to treat your customers right. Wasn’t I just sayin’ that, Olive?”

  “Yes, you were, sweetheart.” Janice dimpled her cheeks in a bubbly smile. “We just love your club, Mr. Quinn. You’re sooo gracious.”

  Quinn preened. “Nothing’s too good for our guests. We even bring in the Texas Rangers for added entertainment. How’d you like our little improvisation last night?”

  “Oh, an absolute riot!” Janice squealed. “Honestly, those Ranger boys were fit to be tied. I could hardly keep a straight face.”

  “Same for me,” Stoner added, bobbing his head in admiration. “We were sayin’ Houdini must’ve rigged them topsy-turvy tables. Regular magic show.”

  “We’re proud of it ourselves,” Quinn said with a beaming grin. “The Rangers are always good for a few laughs. I get a kick out of it.”

  “Bet you do,” Stoner said, forcing himself to smile. “Speakin’ of laughs, we’re lookin’ forward to the Ritz Brothers. Hope they’re as funny as the Rangers.”

  “Funnier by far,” Quinn assured him. “I know you’ll like the show. Enjoy yourselves.”

  The maitre d’ led Stoner and Janice to their table. Nolan watched them as Quinn turned to greet other guests. All through the conversation he’d been reminded of Tuesday morning, at the tobacco shop in La Marque. He still thought it strange that a wealthy high roller would be standing around a phone booth, waiting for calls. But he decided once again to say nothing to Quinn or Voight. He had all the problems he could handle for the moment.

  Stoner, after being seated at the table, was having second thoughts himself, He was glad to see Nolan in the club, for the mob’s enforcer, more so than dealers or pit bosses, deserved to be arrested. But he filed a mental note to keep an eye on Nolan when he made his move on the casino. No need to get careless and risk getting himself shot. He’d staked everything on pulling it off tonight.

  “I’m so proud of you,” Janice said, after the waiter had taken their orders. “The way Quinn was talking, I thought for sure you’d belt him in the puss. He has nothing but contempt for … well, you know who.”

  Stoner’s mouth curled in a cagey smile. “Before the night’s over he’ll have nothing but respect for you know who. We’ll wipe that grin off his face.”

  “I still think you’re a model of restraint.”

  “Well now, Olive, you were pretty good yourself. Nobody could’ve done it any better.”

  “You’re so nice to say so, Robert, honey lamb. I just love working with you … among other things.”

  Stoner laughed. “Don’t go practicing your wiles on me.”

  “Why not?” She gave him a lewd wink. “Don’t you like it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Oh, I think you do.”

  “I think you’re right, Mrs. Eberling.”

  “I’m always right, Mr. Eberling.”

  The houselights dimmed shortly after they finshed their dinner. A buzz of excitement went through the audience, for everyone eagerly anticipated the show. The Ritz Brothers were an antic trio—Al, Jimmy, and Harry—celebrated for their slapstick humor. The oldest was twenty-five and the youngest nineteen, and they were already stars of vaudeville and the Broadway stage. Their act featured dizzy comedy routines and raunchy songs.

  The orchestra brought them skipping onstage in baggy pants and floppy jackets. Their first number was a bawdy tune about a one-eyed nymph and her energetic lover, a peg-legged sailor. The audience followed the lyrics with gasps and giggles from the women and guffaws of laughter from the men. The end of the song prompted the crowd to a wild round of applause.

  The orchestra stilled, and without missing a beat, the brothers went into a comedy routine. Al, the oldest, began talking about the dumbest man he’d ever known. “So dumb,” he said with a straight face, “that he only took a bath when it rained.”

  “Hey, that ain’t so bad,” Jimmy said, rolling his eyes. “I knew a guy one time, when they said brains, he thought they said trains. He got on the wrong one.”

  “You wanna hear dumb?” Harry jumped in with a goofy smile. “Fella in the neighborhood, you gave him a penny for his thoughts—you got change!”

  The crowd responded with a wave of laughter. Quinn, ever constant to his superstition about opening nights, was standing at the back of the room. His girlfriend, Maxine, looked like she’d been poured into a silk dress that revealed every curve. Her hair was piled atop her head in a French twist and her breasts threatened to spill out of her low-cut gown. She hugged his arm.

  “Oh, Ollie, I just love opening nights. It’s all so swell!”

  “There’s no business like show business, Maxie. Nothing even comes close.”

  “And you’re the best showman there ever was. I mean, golly, you’re an artiste!”

  Quinn chuckled. “Don’t tell Dutch.”

  Durant stepped out of a taxicab. The doorman was busy with people waiting for their cars to be brought around, and didn’t pay him any attention. He walked into the Hollywood Club.

  The layout was generally familiar. From what he’d heard around town, there was a nightclub, and then, at the end of the T-head pier, the casino. He moved through the entry hall, opening a set of glass doors, and heard the sound of an orchestra. He was alert to any sign of Jack Nolan.

  All day, Durant had deliberated on a course of action. The police would be o
f no help, and if he waited until Monday, he knew Aldridge would be killed. Even if he sold the bank, he was convinced the mob would eliminate the only witness. Then, at the first opportunity, they would kill him.

  There was nothing for it but to take the fight to them. He wouldn’t allow Aldridge to be killed, and the only way to stop it was to force their hand. Whether it was Quinn or Voight, or maybe both, he meant to offer them their lives in exchange for Aldridge. The only place he knew to find them was the Hollywood Club, and he’d waited until they were busy with a Saturday night crowd. Surprise was his one advantage.

  The orchestra was playing dance tunes. On the way in, Durant had noticed a billboard advertising the Ritz Brothers, and he assumed the show was over. The nightclub was nonetheless still crowded, and several couples were dipping and swaying on the dance floor. The maitre d’ stopped him at the door.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “You sure can.” Durant had already concocted his story. “I represent Al Jolson and Mr. Quinn asked me to stop by when I was in town. Trouble is, we’ve never met, except on the phone. Could you point him out?”

  “Certainly.” The maitre d’ nodded to a man talking with several guests at a table. “The gentleman in the white dinner jacket.”

  “Appreciate your help.”

  “Not at all.”

  Durant intercepted Quinn as he turned away from the table. “Hello, Quinn,” he said, blocking the club owner’s path. “We need to talk.”

  Quinn smiled amiably. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “I’m Earl Durant.”

  “Well—” Quinn seemed momentarily at a loss. “What can I do for you, Mr. Durant?”

  “Act like we’re old pals.” Durant brushed his suit jacket aside, tapping the butt of the Luger in his waistband. “Don’t sic anybody on me or I’ll kill you. Got it?”

  “You’ll never get out of here alive.”

  “How would you know? You’d already be dead.”