One Shining Moment

by Gilbert, Morris

  Jesse grinned, but he knew this man. Carl Thomas knew as much as any man alive about making a movie, and Jesse paid him the compliment of seeking him out and listening to him for hours.

  The four stood there talking, and it was Carl who brought up the subject of Capone. “We can call the main character of The Gangster any name we please—but we won’t fool anybody. Everybody who buys a ticket will know it’s Capone we’re putting on the scene.”

  “And you’re afraid he’ll get tough?” Jesse asked idly. “If he does, it’ll mean we did a good job.”

  “It could also mean we’ll be dead!” Carl snapped. “You don’t know these people, Jesse. They put no value on human life.”

  “That’s why we’re making the film, isn’t it?” Amos asked quietly. “To show what Capone and his sort are like?”

  “They’re too busy making bootleg whiskey to pay attention to us,” Jesse stated flatly. “Now, let’s talk about this idea of yours to show the gangster meeting the president, Amos.”

  Jesse for all his astuteness had misjudged the nature of the lords of Chicago. On the same day he’d shrugged off any possibility of the criminal element paying attention to a mere movie, a meeting was taking place that would have changed his mind.

  “I thought we were supposed to meet Al at Lindy’s place,” Eddy complained. He was driving the heavy Packard, but before they’d gone more than a block, Nick told him to go across town to the old Hotel Lexington.

  “You know Capone,” Nick shrugged. “He don’t like to be regular with his appointments.”

  Eddy nodded slowly, thinking of how Al Capone spent a fortune protecting himself. He’d bought a $30,000 custom-built Cadillac limousine, which weighed seven tons and had a steel armor-plated body, a steel-hooded gas tank, bulletproof windows half an inch thick, and a movable window enabling passengers to fire at pursuers. Even with this vehicle, Capone always kept a small scout car ahead and a touring car full of sharpshooters behind.

  “What’s this meet’n about, Nick?” Eddy inquired, his eyes moving restlessly.

  “He didn’t say.” He shifted in his seat restlessly, then added, “He’s more cautious than ever. Won’t cross a sidewalk without his bodyguards. Guess Torrio’s close call shook him up.” Both men thought of how Johnny Torrio had been gunned down and almost killed. Since his recovery he’d been in hiding, and Capone ran the city in his stead.

  The two spoke of business briefly, then Eddy said, “Here we are, Nick.” The two got out and walked up the steps of the Hotel Lexington. They were greeted in the lobby by two of Capone’s bodyguards, who pleasantly reminded them to check their guns. After this bit of formality they were taken upstairs to room 430, a six-room suite that was the nerve center of Capone’s activities, where they found Capone having his dinner. He looked up and asked, “You wanna’ eat? This is pretty good stuff.”

  “Naw, I gotta’ take the wife out later,” Nick said. He sat down at Capone’s gesture, and Eddy took another chair. Capone was eating spaghetti, and he ate like a starved wolf. He could not seem to get the long strands into his mouth quickly enough, and eager grunting sounds erupted as he crammed the food down. From time to time he would choke, whereupon he would snatch up a glass of Chianti and wash the spaghetti down. He seemed to have forgotten his visitors, but when he finally shoved the plate away, he looked at them with a sharp light in his eyes.

  Eddy had met only twice with the leader of the Chicago underworld, and he paid him careful attention. Capone was a little over five feet, ten inches tall and had a rock-hard body just beginning to put on fat. His shoulders were meaty, and his big round head sat on a short, thick neck. His hair was dark brown, his eyes light gray under thick, shaggy eyebrows. A scar ran along his left cheek from ear to jaw, and he was touchy about it. He always presented his right side to news photographers, and he hated the sobriquet the press had given him—Scarface.

  He was wearing a lemon yellow, custom-made suit from Marshall Field that cost $135, with the right pocket reinforced to bear the width of a revolver. On his middle finger he wore a flawless, eleven-carat, blue white diamond that had cost him $50,000.

  Eddy’s study of Capone was cut short when Capone said, “I hear bad things, Nick.”

  Carefully Nick asked, “What kind of bad things, Al? More trouble from Weiss?”

  “Nah, not him. I can take care of that.” Capone pulled a monogrammed silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his meaty lips. “This is about your friend Amos Stuart.”

  At once alarms ran through Nick’s nerves. He stiffened and then tried to look calm. “Them stories he writes about you? Who cares, Al.” Nick forced a laugh and spread his hands wide. “Well, we grew up together—in my mama’s house—and you should see what he writes about me!”

  Capone picked up a knife, ran the edge of it along his palm, then shook his head. “Times are changin’, Nick. The Feds are breathin’ down my neck. I don’t need no hassle from him. Tell him that.”

  “I’ll tell him, Al.”

  Capone frowned and threw the knife down. “It ain’t just his stories, Nick. They’re making a movie about me. The way I hear it, that sister of his, the actress, she’s set up here in Chicago over on the North Side. She’s gonna make a movie that’ll show the world what an animal I am.” His eyes turned flat and hard. “I want you to stop it, Nick. These people, they’re friends of yours, ain’t they?”

  “Well, sure, but—”

  “Then you be a friend to them!” Capone’s mouth twisted cruelly, and he turned his eyes full on Nick Castellano. “I’m givin’ them a break, Nick, on account of you. Tell that woman—and Amos Stuart—if they think they can make a movie showing me like I was some kind of monster, they’d better think again.”

  Nick sat very still, his mind racing. He knew Capone would never have called him and Eddy to talk to them unless he was serious—and to Capone being serious could be a killing matter.

  Finally Capone laughed, but the laughter didn’t reach his eyes. “You tell ’em just to go easy on ol’ Al, Nick. I got people who know watchin’ ’em. I don’t mind bein’ in the movies—but it’s gotta be right. You tell ’em that, Nick—and make sure they understand it.”

  That concluded the interview. Capone waved them out of the room, and as soon as they were in the car, Eddy groaned, “Nick, this is bad! You know how Capone is about things like this! Remember that reporter—what’s his name? Tibbets? Yeah, that’s it. Remember how he got smashed up so bad he was never right? And it was Capone that got the job done.”

  Nick shook his head silently. He was feeling sick, for he knew as well as Eddy what Capone was capable of. “Go get ahold of Amos, Eddy. We gotta talk to him!”

  Eddy said gloomily, “You ever know Amos to back off from anybody, Nick?”

  “I’m hoping this time he will, Eddy.” Nick bit his lip nervously, then shook his head. “We got to show them how it is, Eddy. We got to!”

  CAPONE STRIKES

  That won’t do, Emory—we’ll just have to shoot it again.” A groan rose from the lips of Emory Jannings. Turning to face Carl Thomas he complained, “What’s wrong with the scene, Carl? We’ve shot it five times.”

  Carl hesitated, then came to stand before the tall actor who had been chosen to play the lead in The Gangster. Carl had disapproved strongly the choice and had protested to Lylah, “He’s a pretty dull fellow—on the screen at least. Whatever makes the people who buy tickets sit up, well, he just doesn’t have it.” But Lylah had answered, “He’s the best I can get, Carl. We’ll just have to wring a good performance out of him.”

  But as Carl stood before the actor, he realized that he was asking the impossible. What’s wrong with the scene? he asked himself with frustration running through him. You’re what’s wrong with it! But he sighed, then said patiently, “I want to try one more time, Emory. In this scene you’ve got to let the audience know that you’ve decided to get what you want out of life—no matter what you have to do. They’ve got to see
in your face you’re ready to kill to get your way. Understand?”

  “Sure, Carl.” Emory went back to his place and did his best. When the scene was shot, Carl said heavily, “All right, that’s a take. Everyone get ready to go to the street scene.”

  As the cast and crew hastily loaded into vehicles to go to Little Italy for a scene, Carl went to Lylah’s office where he found her with Jesse going over the script for the next day’s shooting. “How did it go, Carl?” she asked. She played the role of a policeman’s wife in the film and was wearing a gray dress for the scene.

  “Lylah, I just don’t know,” Carl scowled. Since the picture had started, he had thrown himself into it with gusto, but now he looked tired. He threw himself down on a chair and brooded, “Emory tries, but he just can’t give me what he hasn’t got.”

  Jesse and Lylah exchanged glances, for they both felt the same way. Jesse said, “Well, we’ll just have to make up for his performance in other ways—camera angles and good performances by the rest of the cast.”

  Lylah knew this was not the answer, but she said nothing. Emory looked the part, and she had been with him in several plays. He was a good actor—but only for certain parts. The Gangster was one of those dramas that had to be carried by the star, and Lylah knew that Emory just wasn’t strong enough to pull it off. “You’re doing a fine job, Carl,” she said and went to give him a hug. “Nobody could do better.” Almost desperately she summoned a smile, adding, “We’ve got the best script and the best director in Hollywood—so let’s go with it!”

  Carl stared at her shrewdly. He knew the burden that lay on Lylah, that she was gambling everything on the success of this picture. He had grown very fond of the entire family, and he had been accepted into the circle as a trusted friend. He was a kindly man, and this endeavor had gotten to be the biggest thing in his life. But he knew the business, and a heaviness had come to him. We’re not going to make it, he thought as he left the office to get into the car. Emory just can’t put the fire into it.

  Jesse turned to Lylah and saw the doubt in her eyes. He moved to her, putting his arms around her. She leaned against him, putting her face against his chest. Lylah was a strong woman, but the pressure of this production was far more intense than she had dreamed. Always before she had been able to concentrate on her own performance while others did the necessary work of getting the production into gear. Now she worked all day shooting, and at night she and Jesse worked over the script, or she and Carl planned the shooting schedule. Weariness had drained her, and she gave in to it as Jesse put his arms around her.

  “When this is over, we get married,” Jesse said gently. They had agreed that it would be best if they waited until the picture was finished before they married. Now Jesse stroked her hair and whispered, “Did you know that in the Old Testament times when a man got married, he quit work for a year.”

  “To do what?”

  “Why, he did nothing but please his wife. How about that?”

  Lylah lifted her head, a smile turning the corners of her lips up. “I think it’s a good idea.” She took his kiss, clinging to him almost fiercely. She was not in her first youth and had known other men, but her love for Jesse had come with a shocking passion. Finally she pulled back and said breathlessly, “Don’t tease an old woman like that, Jesse!” Looking up, she studied the clean cut of his jaw and the steady brown eyes and said, “I can’t believe the way I feel—like I’m sixteen.”

  Jesse kissed her again, then said, “Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord.”

  “Is that in the Bible?”

  “Sure, it’s in Proverbs 18,” he nodded. “That’s why I’m marrying you, really. The Lord favors married men, and I don’t want to miss out on that.”

  The two of them laughed, and Lylah’s eyes lost some of the heaviness that he’d seen in them. As they talked of timing, Jesse noted that it was the first of March. He calculated the scenes to be shot, balancing it against the money in the bank and the work he had to do on the script. They were speaking of this when the door opened and Amos came in, accompanied by Jerry.

  “I thought you two were making movies,” Amos grinned. “Looks to me more like making whoopee!”

  “It’s her fault, Amos,” Jesse drawled. “She just can’t keep her hands off me. Hello, Jerry.” He shook hands with the young pilot, asking, “When did you get in?”

  Jerry looked tired, his eyes red from lack of sleep. “Just a couple hours ago.” He looked around and asked, “Where’s Bonnie?”

  “Helping Sam with the developing.” Lylah smiled as Jerry immediately left the room. “He looks exhausted, Amos. Can he fly like that?”

  Amos shrugged, saying, “They fly in every condition, but he’s off for a week. Guess he’ll be underfoot. I’ve got a project he’s going to help me with.”

  An alert expression came to Jesse’s face. “Something to do with the series you’re doing for the paper?” Amos was in the middle of a series of stories laying bare the activities of the Chicago criminal element. They were blunt and hard-hitting, and the response to them had been tremendous. “Capone and his bunch must be simmering!”

  Lylah looked worried. Putting her hand on Amos’s arm, she protested, “You could get into trouble with them. I wish you’d let off—at least for awhile.”

  “Not a chance, Sis,” Amos shook his head firmly. He had thrown himself into the battle with an energy that he hadn’t known he possessed. “If the newspaper business doesn’t speak out against Capone, who will? He can be hurt—but it’s going to have to be done the hard way.”

  “Had any more warnings from Nick?” Jesse asked.

  “Sure. He’s worried about me—about you, too, Lylah.”

  “You’re the one hurting Capone most,” Lylah argued. “He wouldn’t try to get at me. I doubt if he even knows what sort of a picture we’re making.”

  “You’re wrong about that. Capone may be a monster, but he’s a crafty one. He’s got somebody in your company, Lylah, you can bet on it. And if he decides you’re hurting him, he’ll get at you.”

  “If he’s that smart,” Jesse said thoughtfully, “he may be likely to see the difference between a movie and a newspaper story. People who never read an editorial go to movies. Capone likes publicity, but he’s sharp enough to see that if a movie came out showing him to be—well, what he is, it could hurt him. Maybe we’d better hire some security, Lylah.”

  “It would take too many to watch this whole operation.” Lylah was more concerned about Amos. “But you be careful. Don’t go into any dark alleys.” The three of them stood there talking, but when Lylah asked what Jerry was going to do, Amos shook his head mysteriously. “Better you don’t know,” he said.

  As soon as Jerry went into the developing room, he was greeted by Bonnie. She was wearing her favorite costume, a pair of riding pants and boots set off by a bright green silk shirt. Jerry grinned as he said, “Don’t you have any other outfits?” He admired the trim form set off by the garb, but he wouldn’t dare say so. “How about something to eat?”

  “Yes, I’m starved!”

  The two left the lot, and ten minutes later they were sitting at a table in a small cafe close by. Jerry ate hungrily, listening as Bonnie told him how the picture was doing. She made a striking picture, her straight hair as black as hair can be, and her dark eyes flashing with excitement. She doesn’t know how pretty she is, Jerry thought. And how many girls are there as good as she is? He had been out in the world enough to know that most young women boasted of their free ways. They drank and smoked and treated purity as if it were something to be ashamed of. Now as he munched his hamburger, he found himself comparing the sweetness of Bonnie’s expression to the knowing light in the eyes of Cara Gilmore. He still remembered her, and he thought of her often. But when he looked at Bonnie, Cara’s image faded.

  “I’m getting into a new line of work,” he announced. “Just for a few days.”

  “New line of work?�
�

  “Sure, I’m going to be an undercover newspaperman.” He picked up the glass of milk before him, drank it down, then grinned at her. “I’ll be working for my dad.”

  “You have a milk mustache,” Bonnie frowned. Picking up her napkin, she leaned across the table and patted his lips. “You are the messiest eater I’ve ever seen, Jerry—worse than Adam!”

  “A neat person is ineffective.”

  “Who said that?”

  “I did—just then.” He leaned back and put his hands behind his head, relaxed as a cat. “Don’t you want to hear about my new job?”

  “You’re kidding me, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m going to dress up like a sheik and mooch around to get the background for the stuff Dad’s writing for the Examiner.” He closed his eyes, a smile on his wide mouth. “Dad was complaining because he didn’t have some of the facts, so I volunteered to help until I go back to flying.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Oh, I’ll be a very wicked fellow!” Jerry opened his eyes and leaned forward. Her hands were on the table, and he suddenly picked them up. “You have nice hands, Bonnie. How do you keep your nails? I bite mine all the time.”

  Bonnie was stirred by the touch of his hands, and a slight flush came to her cheeks. She didn’t try to pull her hands back but asked, “What do you mean, a wicked fellow? What exactly are you going to do, Jerry?”

  “Oh, drift into some of the speakeasies Capone runs. Do some gambling and—other things.”

  Bonnie looked up instantly. “What does that mean—other things?”