E very good party must come to an end. The Roaring Twenties had been the cat’s meow: fun, exciting, good times. And like all good parties, it’d left partygoers with a headache. The Great Depression came crashing down on Philadelphia like a ten-ton weight. There’s nothing like the loss of easy money to create panic.
Sure, the crooks were still making money—crooks on both sides of the badge. Nah, it was the regular folk that were suffering. While the politicians were all promising a bright new day, by the 1930s it was definitely overcast.
* * * *
Maggie looks out the kitchen window at the snow and pulls her sweater closer.
“Supper ready, Mother?” her son Tommy asks, coming into the kitchen.
Fourteen year old boys are like bottomless pits.
“Just waiting on the potatoes. How was school today?”
Tommy shrugs. “You know, the usual.”
“No, I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” Boys that age. He never wants to tell me anything anymore.
“I had to give a book report today. We do them every Friday.”
“And what book did you choose?”
“The one that Grandfather leant me, by that guy Keynes. It’s called the Treatise on Money and it’s all about, well, money. About spending it and saving it, and what happens if governments don’t have enough of it.”
“My goodness, Tommy. That sounds like an ambitious report. What did your teacher say?”
“He liked it well enough. We got into a good discussion about unemployment.”
Maggie grabs the pot off the stove and drains the potatoes, putting the pot on the counter. “Here, sweetheart, give these a mash for me?” She hands Tommy the masher.
Maggie recalls Tommy’s first day at the Boys’ Central High School. It had been a combined effort to get him accepted; Tommy’s own hard work academically, her father’s influence with the administration, her lodger, Archie Mansfield, a teacher at Boys’ Central, putting in a good word, and her own sheer determination. It was a goal she’d had for years, since Tommy was a wee boy, and she had relentlessly pursued it.
The school building itself was massive and intimidating. Over a thousand boys attended the high school; the facilities and the opportunities for graduates were outstanding. Negotiating the hallway the first day had reminded her of her own academic experience at Drexel University. Streams of students trying to find the right room. A classroom full of strangers, all of them seeming to judge her. Tommy didn’t appear to have those same insecurities. He came home every day full of stories about sports teams, the observatory, something interesting a teacher had said in class. She was so proud of him.
Rescuing the potatoes from Tommy, she scrapes them into a serving bowl and hands them to him. “Carry these through and call everyone to the table. I’ll bring the meat and the rest of the vegetables.” Tommy dashes into the dining room. “If you could come back for the bread?” she asks the suddenly empty room. Maggie hears him calling the lodgers.
Today was an ‘off-day’, meaning she was at home and not at the office. She works in the Center City district in downtown Philadelphia at her father’s accounting firm on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and from home on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Meals on off-days are always hearty to create the leftovers she needs the next day.
Maggie has been running a boarding house for seven years. Initially, the rent had kept a roof over her head and given her the financial security to go back to school and get training in accounting so that she could start her own bookkeeping business. But now, with the steady income and expanded opportunities from working with her father at his accounting firm, she doesn’t really need the rent income.
No, the lodgers now provide a different kind of support. She enjoys the camaraderie of having the group around her table. Long-time lodger, Reg Littleton, had moved on a few months ago, prompting the usual musical chairs of bedroom changes. Dick Beamish, a reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer, had moved into a room upstairs, leaving the small bedroom off the kitchen empty. And she’d left it that way. There was no financial urgency to fill it, and the right tenant hadn’t materialized. At the moment, the bed in that main floor room off the kitchen was covered with papers from work, and Maggie was considering turning it into a home office; clearing her work off the dining room table was always inconvenient, so the extra room had come in handy for the work she brought home.
Archie Mansfield settles into his chair next to Dick. “How was school today, Tommy? Did you get that essay on Keynes handed in?”
“Yes, sir. Although Mr. Friedlander gave us another to do over the weekend.” Tommy’s eye-rolling is dramatic, and generates a chuckle or two from the rest of the table.
“How about you, Dick? What’s new in the great wide world?” Maggie asks. He’s always such an entertaining source of news, bringing them the real story behind the coverage in the newspapers.
“There was another bank run today. Erie National. I was down there taking pictures and interviewing depositors. They lost everything when the bank closed and locked the doors.”
“These are brutal times, for sure,” Archie says nodding. “I took all my money out of my bank over the last few months and have hidden it.” Archie glances around the otherwise empty dining room, as if checking for eavesdroppers.
“Buried treasure in the back yard?” Tommy asks.
“No, and don’t you go looking for it, young man. If there’s money missing, I’ll know who took it.” Archie’s words are softened by a fake scowl and then a grin.
Maggie knows that he’s tucked his funds away in a box under his bed, joining several other boxes of newspaper clippings and memorabilia of bootleggers and gangsters that he’s been collecting over the years. There have to be a dozen scrapbooks under there now. Protective camouflage for his money?
“That’s probably a good idea, Archie. Perhaps I should buy a safe and we could all use it until things settle down. I hear President Hoover is calling for new banking regulations.”
“That’s only the tip of the iceberg, Maggie,” Dick says. “Right now, in Philadelphia, a quarter of the workforce is out of work. And that doesn’t count those that are only able to find part time work. The men are getting desperate. The soup kitchens can hardly keep up with the lines.”
“Tommy, didn’t you say you were reading something about unemployment?” Maggie asks.
Tommy shrugs and continues to eat. “We have a relief bin at school for canned food and clothes and stuff like that,” Tommy says.
“Yes, Boys’ Central is trying to do its part. We empty it once a month and take it down to one of the charities. Those of us still fortunate enough to have a job should help out those less fortunate.” Archie intones this sanctimoniously. He is of the firm belief that those who want to work can find work and, of course, the corollary of that, those not working aren’t trying hard enough. The sheer magnitude of the number of men out of work hasn’t seemed to influence this thinking.
“What a wonderful idea. I’ll pack up a few things for you to take in on Monday, Tommy. Mr. Mansfield’s right that we should help when we can. ‘For those to whom much is given, much is required.’ I think we should all do more’” Maggie says, with a nod for Archie. “These hard times won’t last forever, will they?”
“Every little bit helps. There are thousands that are hungry right now. If you look down the alleys behind the restaurants and grocery stores, you’ll see folks scavenging for food. Not just men. It’s the women and kids rooting through the discarded and spoiled food that get to me.” Dick shakes his head, sad images reflected in his eyes.
Everyone looks at the food on the table, and their empty plates. They’re suddenly less hungry, their appetites affected in equal measures by gratitude and guilt.
“Perhaps it’s the wrong moment, but there is pie for dessert,” Maggie says, rising and beginning to clear the table.
The unusual, less-than-enthusiastic take up of her offer is not a surprise. “Letting f
ood go to waste doesn’t feed those in need. Tommy, help me clear the table and maybe everyone will be ready for dessert in a bit.”
Dinner dishes done and the kitchen put to rights, Maggie carries her coffee through to the living room. Waiting for her is a dapper, older gentleman in a Victorian suit. He’s contentedly smoking his cigar in front of the fire.
“Things were bad in the 1870s as well. That depression lasted five years. We had bank failures then, too. It was after the Civil War. A nasty time,” Inspector Frank Geyer says, shaking his head and puffing on the cigar. “Labor strikes, hunger, homelessness. Some say it went on for another twenty years and took in the collapse of the stock market. That was just before the turn of the century—the crash in ’97, not the one that happened in ‘01. It took every one of those twenty long years for America to get on her feet again.” Frank studies the glowing end of his cigar. “No, it wasn’t until the Great War that things really took off again. Nothing like a war to drive prosperity.”
“Well, I hope this depression doesn’t last that long. And the last thing we need is a war. Tommy will soon be old enough to go and fight.” Maggie shudders at the thought.
Maggie sips her coffee and wishes for pie. “You’re a fount of inspiring knowledge tonight, Inspector. I forget how much you’ve seen.”
Frank Geyer is the ghost of a Victorian police detective. He’s been Maggie’s investigative partner and mentor for the past seven years. Together, they seek to stem the impact of the lawlessness and corruption brought about by Prohibition. They’ve had some success, with the most significant being their partnership with the Philadelphia police. Former lodger and police detective, Joe Kelly, has been instrumental in establishing and utilizing the services of the Phantom Informant, Frank’s code name on the force.
“There’s been a lot of water under the bridge this past century, but the one certainty is that the more things change the more they stay the same,” Frank says.
“Why don’t you speak more of the past? Even the small bit you shared tonight about other economic depressions puts the current situation into context.”
Frank shakes his head and look at her with sad eyes. “You know me, my dear. I always follow the Little General’s advice. ‘The stupid speak of the past, the wise of the present, and fools of the future’.”
Chapter 3
W hile Maggie and Frank are chatting in the living room in Philly’s Northern Liberties neighborhood, outside of Philadelphia, in one of the country estate suburbs that have sprung up along the Main Line, King of the Bootleggers, Mickey Duffy, is standing on the stone terrace of his mansion. It’s known as The Black Palms because of the large black iron decorative images of two palm trees that his wife Edith had insisted upon during the renovation. The black palms are a topic of conversation around the neighborhood and a cause for notoriety, which is probably the point.
Leaning on the stone balustrade, Mickey stares broodingly across the back lawn toward a neighbor’s house. The smoke from his cigar curls lazily toward the starry night sky. Over there, the downstairs lights are on, and Mickey imagines his former friend, Henry Mercer, sitting by the fire, nursing a whiskey and listening to the radio. No, scratch that. Henry gave up drinking years ago. Mickey modifies the image to replace the liquor with a cup of coffee. Still, a pretty cozy scene, all in all.
The door to the terrace opens slightly, and Mickey’s wife, Edith, pokes her head out. “Bunny, it’s freezing out here. Come back inside.”
There’s an edge to her voice that grates. Mickey sighs, and turns, coming back into the living room. Decorated in a substantial art deco style, it is the perfect showcase for his beautiful wife. She, too, is all hard angles and glittering façade.
“What were you doing out there? It’s the middle of January for goodness’ sake. You didn’t even have your overcoat on,” Edith says, heading over to the bar cart to pour another martini. While it’s hard for other people to get quality gin to mix a good martini, it’s not an issue for the King of the Bootleggers—or his wife.
The fussing just flows over Mickey. The new medicinal drops the doctor has him on make it hard to get worked up about anything anymore. Everything just washes over him. Standing with his back to the French doors, his gaze wanders around the room, in search of… familiarity? Comfort? What drew him back inside?
Settling in with her drink in hand, Edith persists, her smile brittle. “You know, I saw them delivering a pool table over there the other day. You and Henry used to play pool all the time. Why don’t you go over and see about a game?”
Mickey, who has picked up his own drink, tries to find a comfortable chair in all this edgy splendor. Sitting in something meant to be admired but not used, he just stares into the bottom of his glass of whiskey.
“I hate seeing you brood, Bunny. Not when you can do something about it. If you don’t do something to make this right, you’re going to lose Henry permanently,” Edith says.
“You don’t lose friends, Edith. You just learn who the real ones are.”
Edith rolls her eyes, tapping the edge of her cigarette into a heavy crystal ashtray. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. You and Henry have been friends for years. Since you were boys terrorizing Gray’s Ferry. How can you give up on him so easily?”
“I didn’t give up on him. He’s the one that left.” Mickey shrugs listlessly. Left me.
“He left the business. So what?”
“You don’t understand, Kitten. You don’t just walk away from bootlegging. Killed, sure, happens all the time, but just leave? It was good of me to just let him leave. I let him have his freedom because of those Gray’s Ferry days.”
Mickey sighs, and drinks, lost in his thoughts. “But then to have him go over and start working with Max Hassel? That was a low blow, Edith.”
“Oh, don’t start that again. Henry’s not the kinda fella that can retire. Too much get up and go. Have you ever asked him about it? About why he did it?” Edith says.
Mickey shrugs again. Go. Gone. Gone fishing. “I don’t care one way or the other. It is just a lousy thing to do to a pal.”
Edith rises, and walks behind his chair, laying a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, he’s so lost in his thoughts. Fishing. For whales. Great white whales.
“Come on, Bunny. Don’t be a mope. Hilda’s got a lovely dinner on the table.” When he doesn’t respond, she grips his shoulder harder. He gets up slowly, leaving his cigar smoldering in the ashtray. Edith stubs it out vigorously. She grits her teeth, slides her arm through his, and leads him to the dining room. “Do you think you might be up to going into the city tomorrow? Maybe spend some time with the rest of the boys at the Ritz? Check up on things. It might do you some good to get out of the house, Mickey.”
A whale of a story. A whale of a good time.
Chapter 4
D etective Joe Kelly pushes the remains of his breakfast away. He’s sitting at the counter of the diner close to Mike Malazdrewicz’s office. Mike is Mickey Duffy’s accountant; ‘on the payroll’, so to speak, for the past year and a bit. During the Grand Jury investigation in 1928, the police had come into the possession of ledgers and boxes of financial receipts belonging to Mickey Duffy. Some good investigative accounting by Maggie Barnes had revealed that Mickey Duffy’s accountant was skimming off the top. The feds gave Malazdrewicz two choices: cooperate and feed them information about Duffy’s gang activities, or have Duffy find out about the skimming: wind up with cement overshoes and tossed overboard. Mike chose to cooperate, not being much of a swimmer.
Joe, as the officer who had brought the embezzling information to the federal treasury agents, had been assigned to be Mike’s handler. Joe finds the cloak and dagger stuff appealing, and is enjoying his role.
He and Mike meet for breakfast once a week. They had decided that the diner was the most inconspicuous place for them to debrief; doing nefarious things in plain sight was often the best strategy.
Saturdays are Joe’s preferred day to get together.
The diner is full but not crowded this time of the morning, and it also gets Joe out of the house Saturday mornings, the energy of two small children unfamiliar and annoying. When Jo-Jo, as he and his wife, Fanny, call the baby, is older, he’ll take him sledding and to ball games, but what he should do right now to keep a two year old boy amused is a mystery. And don’t get him started on five year old girls. Dollies and hair ribbons. Nope, the diner is the spot to be.
Joe sips his coffee in peace and watches the diner door in the mirror behind the counter. He sees Mike arrive and walk over to the empty stool next to him. The two men nod casually.
Dorothy, the long-time waitress in the diner, comes over with a pot of coffee. “The usual, Mike?” Mike nods, and adds cream and sugar to his coffee. While he waits for his toast, he makes what looks like idle chit-chat with the person on the next stool.
“I have some new pages for you,” Mike says in a quiet voice, stirring his coffee and staring at the mirror.
Come at the King Page 2
