by Matt Braun
“Wait a minute—!”
Hardy Purvis bounced out of his seat and pushed through the balustrade separating the spectators from the court well. His features were wreathed in anger.
“Judge, just hold on,” he fumed, striding toward the bench. “You can’t allow this travesty to go on. There’s been a fix put in here.”
“Stop right there,” Woodruff commanded. “I will not have disruption in my courtroom.”
“Your Honor, I’m a captain in the Texas Rangers!”
“I don’t care if you’re John the Baptist. You will not upset these proceedings.”
“I raided the place,” Purvis said hotly, shaking his fist in the general direction of Quinn and Voight. “Saturday night me and my Rangers caught ’em red-handed. I know a felony arrest when I make one.”
“You are out of order.” Woodruff squinted down at him from the bench. “Mr. Butler represents the state and has every right to put forth any motion he sees fit. Return to your seat.”
“Butler’s been bought! Don’t you see what I’m telling you, Judge? It’s been fixed!”
“Bailiff, escort this man from my courtroom.”
“You can’t throw me out of here. I’m a Texas Ranger!”
“You will be a Texas Ranger in the county jail unless you obey the orders of this court. Bailiff, show him out.”
The bailiff was a stout man with rubbery jowls. When he started forward, Purvis turned about and stalked back through the balustrade. Stoner gave him a weary shrug as he went past, as if to say they’d played into a rigged game. Purvis marched out of the courtroom.
“Mr. Butler,” Woodruff said in the sudden silence. “Do you have anything to add?”
“No, Your Honor,” Butler said in a low voice. “The motion stands.”
“So ruled.” Woodruff nodded to the defense counsel. “Mr. Maddox, the charge has been reduced to a misdemeanor offense. How do your clients plead?”
“Guilty, Your Honor,” Maddox replied, as though reading lines from a script. “My clients beg the court’s leniency in view of the fact that they have never before been arrested. This is their first offense.”
Judge Thomas Woodruff fined them each one hundred dollars. The crowd broke out in applause, and Woodruff, unable to suppress a slight smile, quickly retired to his chambers. Voight peeled off hundred-dollar bills from a wad of cash and settled the fines with the court clerk. Nolan led the band of grinning housemen up the aisle.
Stoner watched with a bitter expression. His mind played back over the last month, and he thought justice bent like a reed before the wind when county officials were on the pad. He got to his feet, Janice at his side, as Quinn and Voight came through the balustrade. Quinn was in a chipper mood, and he put out a hand, stopping Voight in the aisle. He smiled at Stoner.
“You missed your calling, Sergeant. You should have gone into show business. You’re quite an actor.”
“I’m strictly an amateur,” Stoner said. “You boys wrote and directed your own little drama here today. Shows you what bums with money can do.”
“Hey!” Voight pushed forward with a rough look. “You remember what I told you, hotshot. You’ll get yours.”
Quinn warded him off. “Dutch, let’s call it water under the bridge. Sergeant Stoner was just doing his job.”
“I still am,” Stoner said sharply. “You want threats, I’ll give you one. Let’s talk about Earl Durant.”
Voight bridled. “What about him?”
“I don’t know the whole story. All he said Saturday night was that you’re after him. I’m telling you to lay off.”
Quinn and Voight exchanged a glance. Two of their men had been killed Saturday night at the cabin on Sweetwater Lake. They were stymied as to how Durant had found the cabin; but they were certain he’d killed the men. Quinn looked back at Stoner. “What’s Durant to you?”
“Just another innocent party,” Stoner said. “Anything happens to him, you boys won’t know what hit you. I’ll take it real personal.”
Quinn laughed. “Sergeant, I don’t think you care one way or another about Durant. I think you’re ticked off about the casino.”
“If you’re saying I hold a grudge, you’re absolutely right. I’ll get you bozos any way I can.”
Later, in the car crossing the causeway, Stoner was still steaming. He thought he’d wasted nearly a month of his life, and all for nothing. His threat about Earl Durant had been made in earnest. He would welcome the opportunity to come after Quinn and Voight.
“I almost hate to leave.” Janice was staring out the window as seagulls floated lazily over the harbor. “Even if things went wrong, we still had some good times here. Didn’t we, pumpkin?”
Stoner was forced to smile. “You’re easy to take on a regular basis. Never thought I’d hear myself say that.”
“Oh?” she said, looking at him with surprise. “So, what are you saying?”
“Maybe we ought to play house more often.”
“I don’t believe it! Are you serious?”
Stoner thought perhaps he was … maybe.
Late Friday morning Durant came through the door of the bank. He was carrying a legal portfolio, and he glanced at a calendar on the wall behind the tellers’ cages. The date was October 5.
Catherine was typing a letter. She paused, looking up with a humorous smile, as he stopped at her desk. “Almost lunchtime,” she said. “Some people would say you’re keeping banker’s hours.”
“Not much longer.” Durant grinned and patted the legal portfolio. “I’ve just come from Walter Kline’s office.”
“Everything’s set, then? You’re really going to sell the bank?”
“Lock, stock and barrel. By this afternoon I’ll be an ex-banker.”
She pouted. “It won’t be the same without you.”
“You never know,” Durant said, his grin wider. “How about dinner tonight?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“It’s a date.”
Durant motioned to Aldridge, who followed him into his office. The older man appeared recovered from his ordeal, and they had agreed never to speak of it to anyone. The police hadn’t yet uncovered a suspect in the killings at Sweetwater Lake, and Durant intended to keep it that way. He meant to leave Galveston a free man.
In the office, Durant seated himself behind his desk. He opened the portfolio and placed a document in front of Aldridge. “Kline covered everything from A-to-Z. Look it over and see what you think.”
“You’re sure about this?” Aldridge said, pulling his chair closer to the desk. “Anything could happen in five years.”
“Ira, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Durant was in a buoyant mood. On Monday morning he had received a call from Clint Stoner, the Texas Ranger. Stoner was on his way back to Austin and had stopped at a phone booth in La Marque. The purpose of his call had little to do with Quinn and Voight getting off on a misdemeanor charge. Everyone in town had already heard about the political shenanigans in the courtroom that morning. And hardly anyone was surprised.
Stoner’s call was more of a personal nature. He explained that he had confronted Quinn and Voight in the courtroom and put them on warning. Should anything happen to Durant, he would bring the full force of the Rangers to bear, and at the very least, send them to prison. Durant gathered that the Ranger, though concerned for his welfare, was more interested in keeping the heat on Quinn and Voight. Stoner ended the call by saying he thought Durant’s troubles were over. Mobsters, perhaps more than anyone else, understood a threat.
The call restored Durant’s resolve that he would escape Galveston alive. Then, early Monday afternoon, he had received a call from Jack Nolan. Dumbfounded, he listened as Nolan explained William Magruder’s true interest in People’s Bank & Trust. Magruder was in the midst of planning a resort hotel, and the bank owned property essential to the project. The land alone, Nolan went on, was why Magruder had gotten the mob involved. Du
rant was floored by Nolan’s sudden revelation.
“I don’t get it,” he’d said. “Why are you telling me all this?”
Nolan had laughed. “Let’s just say I’m wiping the slate clean.”
“What slate?”
“Galveston.”
The call ended on that cryptic note. In the space of a few hours, Durant felt he’d been handed a new lease on life. Sergeant Clint Stoner had bought him immunity of sorts from the mob, and Diamond Jack Nolan had revealed the source of all his problems. By late Monday afternoon, working with Aldridge, he had identified the piece of property so vital to Magruder’s hotel project. A few minutes later, he’d offered Aldridge a deal no one could refuse. He saw it as his ticket out of Galveston.
Early Tuesday, Durant went to see his late uncle’s attorney, Walter Kline. He instructed Kline to draw up two contracts, one for the sale of the bank, and one for the land contiguous to Magruder’s property on Seawall Boulevard. The bank contract transferred ownership of People’s Bank & Trust to Aldridge for ten thousand dollars down, paid out of bank funds, and ten thousand a year for five years. The contract for the land was drawn between Durant and William Magruder.
“Looks fine to me,” Aldridge said now, placing the contract on the desk. “Those are the most generous terms a man could hope for.”
Durant, as president of the bank, had loaned Aldridge the down payment on a personal note. He dismissed his generosity with a casual wave. “Ira, I think Uncle Joe would rest easy knowing the bank’s in safe hands. Let’s get it done before you change your mind.”
Catherine was called into the office. She was a notary public, and after they signed the contract, she witnessed their signatures. Durant, grinning broadly, clasped Aldridge’s hand with genuine warmth.
“Congratulations, Ira, you’ve just bought yourself a bank.”
Ten minutes later Durant walked into the waiting room of Magruder & Company. Ellen Morse, Magruder’s secretary, remembered his previous visits all too well. She rushed around her desk and blocked the door to the inner office.
“No farther, Mr. Durant,” she said acidly. “Leave now or I’ll call the police. I mean it!”
“Don’t worry, your boss will want to see me. Tell him Santa Claus is here.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just tell him Christmas came early this year. Mention a piece of land on Seawall Boulevard.”
“You wait right where you are.”
She disappeared into the office. A moment elapsed, then she opened the door, motioning him inside with a suspicious little frown. Magruder was seated behind his ebony desk, fingers laced over his expansive belly. His eyes were hooded, and alert.
“Well, Mr. Durant,” he said without expression. “I must say you bear scant resemblance to Santa Claus. What’s this about a piece of land?”
“Merry Christmas.” Durant took the contract from his jacket pocket and dropped it on the desk. “Read it for yourself.”
The contract was two pages long, double-spaced. Magruder scanned through it quickly, then turned back and read it line for line. He grunted something unintelligible, his mouth pursed in thought. He finally looked up.
“You’re a surprise a minute, bub. How’d you find out about the hotel?”
“What’s the difference?” Durant said, taking a chair. “Do you want the land or not?”
“Not for fifty thousand.”
“The price isn’t negotiable. I’m sure I could find other buyers.”
Magruder studied the contract. “I see nothing in here about the bank.”
“That’s true,” Durant said with a tight smile. “You’ll be happy to know that I’m leaving Galveston. I’ve just sold the bank to Ira Aldridge.”
“Aldridge won’t last six months.”
“You’re wrong there. He’ll last the same way my uncle lasted all those years. Lots of people in town don’t like you or your bank.”
“Nonetheless, the bank made the deal more attractive. I dislike competition.”
“You’re wasting my time. You wanted the land and it’s right there in front of you. Take it or I’ll put it on the open market.”
“You always were a hard one, weren’t you, bub?”
Durant stood. “Is that a yes or a no?”
“Keep your pants on,” Magruder said gruffly. “I’ll call my secretary in and have her witness our signatures. How do you want your money?”
“A cashier’s check.”
“You don’t trust my company check?”
“I don’t trust you.”
Ellen Morse, also a notary public, witnessed the signing of the contract. She was then dispatched to Magruder’s bank and returned a short while later with a cashier’s check. Magruder waited until she was out of the room.
“Fifty thousand,” he said, passing across the check. “I believe that concludes our business.”
“One last thing,” Durant remarked. “You know Walter Kline, the attorney?”
“Yes, I know him.”
“I’ve left a long, detailed letter in his safe. Guess what it says about you and your mob buddies?”
Magruder scowled. “Have you lowered yourself to blackmail?”
“Let’s call it insurance. Anything happens to me—anywhere, anyhow, anytime—Kline will deliver it to the attorney general and every newspaper in Texas. Think about it.”
“I’ll be glad to see the last of you, Mr. Durant.”
“The sentiment’s mutual.”
Durant walked out of the office. He thought the warning delivered by Sergeant Stoner offered a degree of protection. Yet he felt even more certain about the letter in his lawyer’s safe.
William Magruder knew when to call it quits.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Hollywood Club was back in operation. By Saturday evening, the casino had been restored to its former elegance, with new gaming tables delivered by truck from the manufacturer. The raid of a week ago might never have happened.
Quinn thought of it as a cloud with a silver lining. The raid had brought the club even more notoriety, and reams of free publicity. Newspapers in Houston and other cities carried tongue-in-cheek articles comparing the Texas Rangers to the bumbling Keystone Cops of movie comedies. The Associated Press put the story on the national wire in what amounted to journalistic satire.
The publicity provided promotion as well for the club’s latest headliners. Saturday night was opening night for the acclaimed dance team of Fred and Adele Astaire. A brother-and-sister act, the Astaires were two of the most popular figures in show business. Their singing and dancing career began as children in vaudeville, and now, in their twenties, they were the darlings of Broadway. Their most recent stage hit was the musical comedy Lady, Be Good!
The house was sold out. Quinn, with Nolan at his side, was stationed by the door to greet arriving guests. Those who were regular club patrons inevitably stopped to chat a moment about the raid, and congratulate Quinn on outwitting the Rangers in court. The cynicism of a generation was never more apparent than in their amusement at law enforcement officers being ridiculed in the press. Quinn treated it with witty nonchalance.
The Magruders arrived shortly before seven o’clock. The party included Magruder with Opal on one arm and Libbie on the other, followed by Sherm and his wife, Francis. The women wore expensive gowns and diamonds, except for Libbie, whose beaded flapper dress revealed a good bit of leg. Magruder’s expression was that of a man who had been shanghaied away from his pipe and slippers. His eyes flashed with anger when he saw Nolan at the door.
“Good evening,” Quinn said smoothly, the hand behind his back motioning Nolan to stand aside. “Always a pleasure to have the Magruders as our guests.”
“Speak for yourself,” Magruder grumped. “My daughter insisted on dragging us down here to see the Astaires. She says they’re the most sophisticated thing on Broadway.”
“Class with a capital C,” Quinn assured him. “Adele and Fred have taken dance to
the pinnacle of the art. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the show.”
“I think I’d need rose-colored glasses. I’m here under protest.”
Libbie carried a white plume fan. She raised it in an airy movement, shielding her face from Quinn and her father, and lowered one eyelid in a slow, suggestive wink. Nolan caught the wink and looked off into the club, amused by her audacity but forcing himself to hold a sphinxlike expression. Then the maitre d’ stepped forward, cued by Quinn, and led them to a table near the dance floor. The orchestra was playing the Sugartime Rag.
Magruder, at Libbie’s insistence, ordered champagne. After glasses were poured, and the waiter had taken their dinner orders, he excused himself. He threaded his way back through the tables, stopping here and there to greet friends, and approached the door. Quinn spotted him coming and saw the stinging look of anger he shot at Nolan. Magruder stopped a short distance away.
“What is it, Bill?” Quinn said, moving forward. “Something not right with your table?”
“No, no.” Magruder leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I trust the personal matter we discussed is no longer an issue.”
Quinn appeared confused. “I thought Monsignor O’Donnell would have passed along my message. Jack Nolan will never see your daughter again. You have my word on it.”
“I wasn’t referring to Nolan. Although I do appreciate your discretion in that regard. I’m talking about Earl Durant.”
Magruder had called Quinn yesterday afternoon. He’d briefly explained the land deal, and then elaborated on the fact that he was no longer at odds with Durant. He hadn’t mentioned the letter in Walter Kline’s safe, or that it would cause him irreparable harm if Durant met with foul play. He had simply expressed his concern for Durant’s continued good health.
“All taken care of, Bill,” Quinn said with a raffish smile. “I talked it over with Dutch and we’ll respect your wishes in the matter. Nothing will happen to Durant.”
