She holds up the empty martini glass, waving it to catch the waiter’s attention. “You go ahead. I’m just gonna have another one of these.”
Chapter 19
H ow to be hidden and remain in plain sight, the speakeasies’ dilemma. When you’re selling an illegal product, you gotta stay hidden, but not so much that customers can’t find you.
In the early days of Prohibition, speaks, saloons, and clubs were just what they’d always been before the country went ‘dry’. Police and the public presumed that the crazy idea of banning booze was just a political whim and would be over soon. Nobody was taking enforcement of the law too seriously. In fact, there was a certain caché to breaking it. There’s a bit of outlaw in us all. But, eventually, the politicians got serious and the raids started. Suddenly, if you were selling the hooch, you had to get clever about hiding it.
Now, eleven years in, the easy marks are long gone: shut down, front doors padlocked and boarded up. What’s left are clever enterprises, artfully disguised with some discrete notification in the front, and a clear extra exit or two in the back. There are secret tunnels and panels in others, ensuring that a quick get-away is always at hand. A decade of sneaking around gives customers and businessmen a certain skill set. And eyes in the back of their heads.
Perched on his barstool, Frank is watching the bartender at the Kit Kat Klub, one of the many speakeasies and saloons that Mickey Duffy has a partnership interest in. It’s more than a hole in the wall. A counter runs along one side of the room, booths on the other. There’s a certain sticky grimness to the place. Patrons come up to the bar to order, and carry their drinks back to the table. A single waitress keeps table tops clear and clean. There’s a stage at the back for the nightly entertainment, and small windows in the front. A clear view to what’s happening inside isn’t in the Kit Kat’s best interests.
Frank’s been on his stool since he left Maggie’s after Evening Report. One elbow on the bar, he looks around the room. Mickey is right. Business is booming. Folks are drinking beer instead of the hard stuff, but they’re drinking a lot of it.
There’s a different atmosphere when you’re drinking to forget. It’s not pleasant. I remember how it was before, in the Twenties. People were frantic to have a good time. And the energy was as intoxicating as those cocktails they were serving. It’s different now. Less noisy, less fun. Drinkers grip their glasses like they mean business.
Watching the bartender, Frank notices that every round is paid for at the time it’s ordered. No one runs a tab. It must be because of the hard times. You want to make sure you’ll be paid before the liquor is poured.
The other thing that Frank notices is that the proceeds from every fifth drink slide across the bar-top and disappear into the bartender’s pocket. Interesting. Subtle. Small enough noy to be missed, regular enough to add up. I wonder if it’s happening at Mickey’s other clubs and speakeasies? Frank slips down off the stool and heads out the door as a couple of other patrons come in. This could be a long night.
From the gin-joints that are dives, to the upscale Club Cadix, Frank wanders from bar stool to bar stool. Not all of the bartenders are in on it, but enough to suggest some kind of organization. This isn’t just one greedy bartender. There’s something more at play. I wonder into whose pocket the money from that fifth drink is poured?
Chapter 20
T he noise at the dog track is deafening: fans cheering the hounds roaring around the course, barking dogs waiting to race, the loudspeaker blaring. Hugging the railing, looking down at it all, are Eddie, Gus, and Fingers. Eddie is clutching his betting slip, yelling along with the rest of the fans as the dogs pursue the mechanical rabbit.
Eddie’s fave comes fourth. “No! You stupid dog. You were supposed to win.” Eddie rips up the slip, scattering the worthless pieces on the ground.
“If it were a sure thing, Eddie, it wouldn’t be gambling,” Gus says.
Eddie shoots him a look, not sure if he’s making a joke at his expense.
Fingers slaps him on the back. “Come on, Eddie, let’s check out the next race. Maybe that’s your lucky number.”
The three men head back to the boards to consult the line-up. “Speedy Pebbles. Too Hot To Handle. Like A Fox. That one sounds good. Whaddaya think, boys? Crazy Like A Fox?” Eddie asks, staring intently at the board.
“I dunno, Eddie. Too Hot has more wins,” Gus says, reading the racing form he’d picked up when they first came in.
Fingers nudges Gus, who looks up.
“Look it. Frankie Bailey and that brother of his,” Fingers hisses.
“Where?” Gus asks, looking around the crowd.
“Over there. Beside the pillar.”
Eddie turns around, too. “Who’s Frankie Bailey, and why would I care?”
“Frankie and James Bailey are brothers who were in the joint with a fella called Petey Ford. They must have got sprung,” Gus says.
“They tried to do a hit on Mickey, but missed. Used to work for Hoff,” Fingers says, watching the pair, their noses buried in the racing forms.
“Not sure what they’re up to now that Hoff’s outta the picture,” Gus says with a shrug.
“Put a hit on Mickey? What happened? I never heard about this,” Eddie says, craning to see the two men Gus and Fingers are talking about. He spots them by the pillar. There’s a rough edginess about them that Eddie recognizes. He watches them turn and make their way to the betting counter.
“Nineteen-twenty-seven, about this time. He and Edith were coming outta the Cadix. His bodyguard, John Bricker was with him,” Gus says.
“Bricker was a swell guy, eh Gus? Remember that time—” Fingers says.
“You can go down memory lane on your own time. Tell me more about the hit,” Eddie says.
“I told you. It wasn’t a hit. They missed. Really shot up the street though. Bricker got killed, Mickey spent time in hospital. Petey was driving, with the Baileys as the shooters. Tommy gun and a shot gun. Drove right past the Cadix,” Fingers says.
“And they missed?” Eddie asks.
“Yeah. Their sister was in the car and caused a bit of a ruckus, so I hear. They fired lots, but couldn’t aim worth a darn. Good thing for Mickey. Too bad about Bricker, tho’. You’re right, Gus, he was one of the good ones.”
Eddie stares at the Bailey brothers, who are unaware of the surveillance.
“So they used to work for Hoff?” Eddie says.
“Yeah, you remember the Grand Jury in ‘twenty-eight? They brought them down from prison to testify against Hoff. It was one of the things that did him in. Never went to jail or nuthin, but it cost him everything he had to avoid it,” Gus says.
“They sound like right peaches: the hit on Mickey, ratting out Hoff. A couple of guys you wouldn’t trust as far as you could throw them,” Eddie says, smirking. “What are they doing now?”
“Like I said. Don’t know. Didn’t even know they were out until now. I guess we’d better tell Mickey, so he can be on his guard. They got a heck of a grudge match going on.”
“Don’t worry about Mickey. I’ll let him know the Bailey’s are back. Why don’t you track them down so we can keep an eye on ‘em,” Eddie says.
“Sure thing, Eddie. I’ll get one of the new guys to do it and let you know.”
Eddie continues to stare at the brothers who are busy placing their bets.
“You goin’ to bet or what? The next race is going to start,” Gus says.
“Sure, boys. I feel my luck’s just turned,” Eddie says, grinning.
Chapter 21
F rank sits in Maggie’s living room, waiting for Evening Report to begin. He’s been watching the bartenders in Mickey’s speakeasies and is eager to share his findings with Maggie.
Maggie is pacing. She sits and then she stands. She’s pulled the drapes closed over the front window, she’s straightened the books and papers on her desk, and she’s fluffed the toss cushions on the couch.
“Maggie, please just set
tle. What’s got you so agitated?” Frank asks.
Maggie turns to face him, clasps her hands in front of her, and bows her head. “Inspector, I have something to tell you. You might be put out by something I did, and I don’t want you to be angry with me.”
Frank straightens in his chair. She has his full attention. “Just tell me.”
Maggie goes over and perches on the edge of her chair. “You’ve given me a lot of advice over the years about the importance of family. In fact, it was your urging that got me through the door to see my father after ten years of not speaking to him. This gave me the chance to make my peace with him and say goodbye before he died. I am grateful for that more than you can know.”
“Ye-es, go on,” Frank says, frowning. He is uncomfortable with personal discussions, and doesn’t like where this is headed.
“And you told me you’d lost touch with your own family. That you hadn’t seen them since spending time with your granddaughter, or great-granddaughter and her family at a long-ago Christmas.”
“I’m not sure a spectral visit would be considered ‘spending time’. More like a haunting, but go on.”
“Well, whatever you want to call it, it was a long time ago. Thanks to you, my father and Tommy got to know each other and—”
“You thought you’d find my family?” Frank asks, scowling.
“Exactly. How did you guess? Are you angry?” Maggie searches his face. “Oh no, you are angry.”
Frank takes a deep breath while considering his words. “Maggie, I can sympathize with how Mickey Duffy feels when—how does he call it?—oh yes, you poke your nose into his business. I’m a very good detective. If finding my family was important to me, I would have done it. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have lost touch in the first place.”
Maggie has the good graces to look sheepish. “I apologize for going ahead without your permission, Inspector. I didn’t know if I’d be able to find out anything, so I didn’t tell you.”
“Then why tell me now? Did you find someone?”
“I did. And met with her. A few times. She’s a great-granddaughter of yours, or something like that, and lives in New York.”
“Ah, I had wondered what took you to New York. When you said ‘family business’, you were referring to my family not yours. I’m disappointed in you, Maggie. You understood the significance that family has for me, but—” he holds up his hand when it looks like Maggie is going to speak, “—but you also know how I value my privacy. You’ve crossed a line, my dear.”
“Again, I apologize. If the box hadn’t arrived in the mail, I would have let the whole thing drop. I never would have mentioned it.”
“Not disclosing something like this is very close to lying, Maggie. A lie of omission.”
Maggie sits, awaiting forgiveness. Her hands are clasped in her lap, her head low.
Frank takes a deep breath. “You say a box arrived?”
“Yes. It arrived by mail about a month ago. I was going to tell you sooner, but with Father’s death and the funeral, and the turmoil at the office, I kept putting it off.” Maggie goes around and pulls a cardboard box from under her desk. She puts it on the coffee table and starts unpacking the items, laying them out so that Frank can see them.
Frank stands looking down at the photographs and documents. He looks at her, amazed and bewildered. “Mary? And Edna? Where did you get these? Little Frank, my grandson.” He points to a group photo. “This is, I mean was, my son-in-law Orrie Strohm. He was a stenographer at the Patriot News in Harrisburg. Lots of newspapermen in his family. And the rest of Edna’s children, Elizabeth and Dorothy. Oh look, another of Mary. And one of me. I remember that day. I’d retired from the police force and we were opening the detective agency. ‘Hanging out my shingle’. Mary wanted a photograph to mark the occasion.”
Maggie reaches into the box and pulls out the newspaper clipping from the event with the photograph of Inspector Geyer sitting in his office. The sign is visible on the door to the side: Frank P. Geyer Detective Agency.
“Did you know your former office and my office are both on Arch Street. Just down the street from each other.”
“Well, imagine that. I hadn’t made the connection.” He straightens, standing in front of her. “Again, where did you find all of this?”
“Please sit, Inspector. It’s a long story.” Frank sits, tense, his fingers gripping his cigar.
“I started with your obituary, and began tracing family members through wedding and funeral announcements, address directories, and military service records. Again, I must apologize, but I used Joe’s name to pull your personnel file from the police to get Mary’s last known address where her widow’s benefits were sent.”
“You went through my personnel file? Maggie, that is such an intrusion.” Frank says, frowning again.
“I know, and I apologize. I was just so focused on the hunt, and I kept turning up new leads to follow.”
“Good investigative instincts. But you should have told me.”
“I know I should have. I followed the trail from Mary and Edna right through to a living relative.” Maggie jumps up and pulls a family tree from a stack of papers on her desk. “This is what I’ve found so far.” She lays it on the coffee table in front of Frank. “And the box of photos and other papers is from her. The relative I found. She’s very old, and no one wanted the box, so she sent it here.”
“If she hadn’t, would you have told me?”
Maggie looks down at the floor. Silent.
“Maggie?”
“There was an interesting turn in the investigation. I found a connection to someone you already know.” Maggie returns to her seat, leaving Frank standing in front of the family tree diagram.
“Don’t tell me we’re related?” he says, turning to look at her directly.
“No, nothing like that. Goodness, wouldn’t that have been something? No, the relative is a great-great-grandson living in Philadelphia.”
“Who is it?”
“The woman’s name, who sent the box, who lives in New York, is Muriel.” Maggie's eyes dart with panic. “Muriel Duffy.”
The name hangs in the room.
“Duffy? You mean Mickey Duffy? I’m related to that bootlegger, that villain we’ve been chasing all these years? That’s impossible. Must be a different Duffy. You shouldn’t jump to conclusions, my dear.”
“I’ve checked further.”
Frank shakes his head. “No. There is no way someone like Mickey Duffy could be part of my family.” Frank begins to pace. Maggie sits and watches.
“Are you sure? Show me where on that diagram you’ve drawn out.”
“Here are your parents, you and Mary, then Edna, then her three children. These,” pointing to another layer, “are their children, and their children, and here’s Mickey.” Frank stares at the box at the bottom of the page, neatly labelled with Mickey Duffy’s name.
Frank studies the diagram intently. “You haven’t recorded his marriage to Edith,” he says, not turning to face her.
“No, it’s not quite up to date.”
Frank stares at the paper.
“This is who I sent the initial letter to,” she says, pointing to a woman who is Mickey’s great aunt with a Philadelphia address. “She didn’t recognize your name.” Maggie glances at Frank to check his reaction. “She forwarded it to Muriel, a cousin of hers. Apparently Muriel is a spinster who has become the keeper of the family history. She lives in New York, so I originally didn’t have her contact information. As you can see, Muriel is one of three children born to your granddaughter. Who had married a Duffy.”
Frank is lost in the diagram of neatly labelled boxes branching out into successive generations.
“Inspector?”
“This is very thorough. You are to be commended for your accuracy.”
Maggie, unsure of whether the comment was a compliment or criticism, merely nods. She returns to her chair.
Frank continues to stare at the di
agram, his back to Maggie. He’s not looked at her since the Mickey Duffy announcement.
“Muriel was able to fill in a lot of what I didn’t know.” Maggie sits, twisting her hands in her lap.
Frank makes a sound deep in his throat, and turns. “I would like to think about this, Maggie. I’m overwhelmed. Are you going into the office tomorrow?
“Yes. Why?”
“I’d like you to lay out the photographs, some of the documentation, and this diagram. Spread them out on the dining room table before you leave. That will give me the time and the privacy to process this. Not that I’m doubting your work, but I just need to work it out for myself.”
Come at the King Page 9
