Mickey pulls into the yard in front of the warehouse. It’s a foggy night for May. The cone of light from the street lamps doesn’t intrude too much on the darkness. He stands there beside the car, looks at the yellow glow from the warehouse windows, and rolls his shoulders. God, it’s been a while. He smiles and goes inside.
“Boys.”
“Hi Boss,” the men in the room reply cautiously. Something’s up, but only the old guard and Eddie are in the know. Sitting at the table are the bartenders. They’re looking nervously at the men standing around them, and at Mickey walking toward them. There’s panic in their eyes, but not enough. Mickey plans on fixing that.
He walks past the table to a row of empty whiskey barrels, recently emptied, the fumes still strong. “We do some bottling today?” Mickey asks no one in particular.
Gus steps up. “We did, Boss. Shipped it out earlier.”
Mickey nods and walks over to the pile of heavy chain, nudging the links with his foot. The eyes of the bartenders are fixed on him as he makes his rounds.
“Fingers, you wanna put some holes in these barrels?”
“Sure, Boss.” Fingers picks up the brace and bit and starts drilling holes in the sides of the barrels. “You think four per barrel is enough?” he asks over his shoulder.
“Might be too slow. Do five. Five seems like a good number. We don’t want ‘em to float too long.”
The pale faces of the bartenders begin to bead with sweat. They watch as Mickey strikes a couple of matches on the edge of the table to light his cigar. The hiss of the flame is the only sound in the warehouse, except for the drill bit biting into the wood.
Mickey puffs, and then sits at the head of the table. “What? Nobody poured our guests a glass of whiskey? Gentlemen, where are your manners?”
Eddie, an oily, evil grin crawling across his face, grabs five glasses and pours. The bartenders look from the glasses to Mickey. “Go ahead, fellas. Bottoms up.”
Shaking hands grab the glasses. Some drain the glass in one swallow, some gag and choke. “Finish up. There’s more where that came from.”
When the glasses are drained, Eddie refills them.
“Come on. Drink up. It’s on me tonight,” Mickey says, leaning back in his chair and puffing on his cigar.
The liquor adds to the night’s strangeness. Each of them had been picked up at the speakeasies they were working at, dragged out from behind the bar, thrown into the backseat of a car, and brought here. No explanation. Just grim silence on the part of their abductors.
“You know I’ve been running speakeasies for over ten years, Eddie? Long time. You get to know a thing or two, though. You get to know people and how they drink.”
Eddie, standing behind Mickey, arms crossed, nods. “It’s important to understand the business, Mickey.”
“Especially now, with margins so tight. I count ever dollar, measure every bottle going out the door. You gotta keep track of that kind of stuff or it gets away from ya.”
The bartenders gag on their whiskey. “Glasses are empty, Eddie. Top ‘em up.”
Eddie refills the glasses.
“How’s them barrels coming, Fingers?”
“Almost done, Boss. You’re right, five holes should do the trick.”
“What do you think, boys? Five seem like the right number? Think we’ll get the right pour rate with five? Eddie, we got empty glasses over here. Keep it coming. How many rounds is that?”
“This’ll be number four, Boss,” Eddie says, circling the table, slopping whiskey into each glass. The bartenders are woozy, some are gagging. One looks ready to puke.
Half way down the table, one of the bartenders pushes his glass away. Mickey eyes it, and Eddie comes up behind him and grabs his head in an arm lock, pouring the whiskey into his mouth and over his face. When the glass is empty, Eddie pushes him away. The bartender gags and retches. Eddie grins and breathes in the sharp scent of panic.
“Last round, boys. You see, around here, the fifth round is always mine. When you get those holes done, drop a length of chain in the barrels, will ya Fingers? We need to add some weight.”
The bartenders flinch at the sound of the chains dropping into the barrels. One of the bartenders is moaning, blubbering into his whiskey. The one on the end has risen, turning to vomit, and has been shoved roughly back into his chair. The sour smell of vomit overpowers the sweet whiskey fumes. Mickey sits and smokes.
“You see, I promised a friend that I wouldn’t kill ya when I found out what ya done. Which is too bad for you dopes.” Mickey nods to his men, who grab the bartenders, dragging them over to the barrels. They’re lifted, and shoved inside. Some go easily, weak with fear, and intoxicated from whiskey. Others put up more of a fight, straddling the top with their feet. Their kneecaps are broken with a quick snap of a blackjack, and they’re stuffed inside. Screams. Moans. Begging for mercy. Lids are hammered into place, muffling their cries.
Mickey pours himself a whiskey, drains it, and smiles. He finishes his cigar to the sounds of desperation and panic coming from inside the barrels. Looking at Eddie, he sees lust. You are one nasty fella, Eddie. He stands up.
“Okay, let’s load these up and get them out to the docks. The boat is waiting.”
“Sure, Boss. You coming?”
Mickey turns his back on the rocking, moaning captives. “Nah, I think I’m going to turn in early. Regan here can handle it. Just make sure you take ‘em out into the Bay, maybe out past Cape May. We don’t want any floating back on the tide, do we boys?”
The big warehouse doors are opened and the barrels are rolled out and up onto the back of the trucks. Mickey watches while they’re loaded, and then climbs into his car. Flicking the cigar out the window, he heads to his Overbrook home. The King is back.
Chapter 37
R on knocks on the side of her office door. His face is grim. “Bankers Trust is shut.”
Maggie looks at him, alarmed. “That’s my bank, Ron.”
“I thought you’d want to know.”
Maggie gets up and pulls on her coat and hat.
“There’s no point, Maggie. The doors are locked. You won’t be able to get any of your money out.”
“I’m not worried about that. I took my money out months ago when the runs first started. No, it’s the loan against the house I’m worried about. What happens to it?” Maggie has one hand on the doorknob.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Ron asks.
“Do we have any clients coming by?”
“No, the day is clear,” he says.
“Then I’d appreciate it. Put a sign on the door that we’ll be back by four.”
The line-up to Bankers Trust starts two blocks away from the bank’s front door. People are anxious, but waiting quietly. They are sure that this can’t actually be happening to them, that their bank is different. They hang on to that slim thread with a desperate grip. There is some chatting amongst the crowd but, as no one person knows any more than the other, there is nothing much to say. People mostly wait silently, wrapped in their own dark thoughts.
“They’re opening the doors.” “They’re letting us in.”
The huge line moves slowly. Maggie and Ron inch forward toward the large golden doors. Police are waiting on the steps to keep the peace.
Inside, Albert Greenfield, from the Board of Directors, stands on a deposit slip table in the middle of the banking hall, barking instructions through a megaphone. Officers, including Bank president Samuel Barker, are making trips along the line, talking to groups of depositors, endeavoring to reassure them that Bankers Trust has never been in better shape. Bank tellers, frightened by the crowds and their own uncertain futures, huddle against the wall.
Maggie spies Mr. McKim, the loans officer who had arranged for her mortgage, and starts working through the press of people to reach him. “I need to talk to that man in the blue pinstriped suit, Ron. Can we get closer?”
Ron starts gently pushing a path towards the blue sui
t.
“Mr. McKim. I’m Maggie Barnes. I have a loan against my house. Can you tell me what’s happening?”
“Your deposits are safe. Bankers Trust has never been in better shape, Mrs. Barney.”
“Barnes. No, it’s not my deposits I want to ask about. It’s a loan. It comes due in May. Do I pay it?”
“A loan? No, those assets were sold long ago, Mrs. Barney. You need to find out who bought them.”
“It’s Barnes. How do I do that?” Maggie is pushed aside by a depositor, a red-faced man shaking his deposit book at Mr. McKim.
Shoved out of the way, she turns to Ron. “They sold my loan?” Maggie asks, bewildered.
Ron takes her arm. “Let’s get out of here. I’m not sure how much longer this crowd will be respectful.”
They push their way against the crowd and out the door. On the sidewalk, a prosperous looking business man is on the street, shaking his fist. “It’s the Jews,” he shouts. “They’ve done this. Greenfield and his ilk have sold us out.” The police at the front door move toward him. The crowd chooses sides.
“Okay, let’s go. This is going to get ugly.”
“I’d like to stay, Ron. I feel connected to all this.”
“Well, how about we grab a coffee at that café?” Ron says, nodding to the corner, within sight, but out of the line of fire should things turn violent.
Despite the crowds at the bank and in the area, there is room in the café.
“Bankers was supposed to be solid. I was one of the first customers. Back then it had $2.5 million in deposits. And now? Did I hear right? Today, there are over $50 million in deposits? That’s what Mr. Greenfield said, isn’t it?” Maggie settles herself at the table.
“You’re right. They are a client of my father’s firm. With over twenty-one branches in Philadelphia, they are one of the largest banks, and certainly this will rock the foundation of the whole financial sector here in the city.”
“What did they mean when they said they had sold the assets?” Maggie asks, hanging onto her coffee cup for dear life.
“When banks get into trouble, they start trying to raise money to stay liquid. Loans are considered assets, although those assets will have been significantly devalued because of the uncertainty of being repaid. You are one of the rare people who plan on repaying your loan and not just walking away.”
“If I walk away, Ron, I lose the house. I’ve got too much invested in the house and the loan to walk away now.”
“Let me ask my father about how to find out where your loan is. It could have been sold multiple times by now. We’ll get this straightened out.”
They look up and across the street when they hear a loud crash. Someone has thrown a brick through the bank’s front window.
“I think that’s our cue to leave.”
Chapter 38
S itting in Henry’s kitchen, Edith notices a woman’s touch: a homemade cake under a glass dome, several pieces missing; an apron hangs on a hook by the back door; a crisp, clean dish towel folded neatly next to the sink. And Henry also looks like he’s benefiting from a woman’s touch. For the first time since she’s known him, there is just the slightest suggestion of a paunch. Happy wife, happy life. Edith smiles.
“What’s Mickey up to this morning?” he asks, pulling coffee cups out of the cupboard and getting a pitcher of milk from the fridge.
“Sleeping late. He’ll probably stay in bed until lunch time.”
“Late night?” Henry asks. “I remember the way Mickey can carouse.”
“Ha,” Edith snorts. “It’s not like the old days. Him rolling in at dawn.” Edith also remembers the carousing: the perfume and lipstick on the shirts; the bruised knuckles from brawling; the sour smell of whiskey breath. Maybe sleeping late isn’t so bad, all things considered. At least I know whose bed he’s in.
“Where’s Sadie?” she asks him as he pours her a cup of coffee.
He sits down across from her. “Oh, she’s gone into the city to buy some fabric. She needs to make some looser dresses.”
“I’ve noticed she’s starting to show. Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“She’s still saying no to my proposals, and talking about finding a place to wait until the baby’s born.” Henry shakes his head. “I can’t believe she’d give away our baby.” Edith reads desperation in Henry’s eyes.
Edith slowly stirs her coffee. “Sometimes, when I’m dealing with a big problem, I tackle the small pieces instead of trying to find a solution for the whole thing. Maybe Sadie just needs to work through the process a bit at a time? Look at it from her point of view, Henry. In a few months she’s gotten knocked up, kicked out, and now she’s stuck out here in Overbrook.”
“I can understand why she doesn’t want to stay here if we’re not hitched. I could stare down the old biddies in the neighborhood, but it would be impossible for her. Wagging tongues are already making her life difficult.”
Maggie makes comforting noises.
“I just want her safe, is all. And close by. It’s my baby, too, Edith. Don’t I get a say?”
“Women in her condition are pretty emotional, Henry. From the sounds of it, her folks were pretty hard on her. Maybe she thinks she doesn’t deserve to be happy, or that what you two are doing really is wrong. It’s hard to say what’s going on in her head. Given how she’s been raised, and what’s happened to her since she told her parents, she could believe that this whole unwed-mother thing is something she’s got coming. She might be feeling like her parents are right and she needs to punish herself, or maybe be a martyr for the sake of the baby. Expectant mothers aren’t known for rational thought; too many hormones.”
“I can’t believe she’d think those things, but how would I know? She never wants to talk about it.”
“You’re going to have to make her talk to you, Henry. She’s got nobody else to help her through this except you. You’ve got to give her lots of love and support. She’ll get to where you need her to go decision-wise, but the last thing she needs right now is another man giving her an ultimatum. Be gentle,” Edith says.
“I offered to find a small apartment for her, not too many stairs, a private bathroom. But she said no to that, too. Said that she wouldn’t be a kept woman.”
“ ‘Kept woman’. Now, there’s a loaded phrase. Remember where’s she’s from and how she was brought up. Like I said, she’s dealing with a lot. Give her time. Maybe there’s a compromise. Look, I have a friend who might need someone. Light housework, some cooking. There’s a room. It’s kinda far from the bathroom, which might be a problem for Sadie, but it’s a safe household and close by. Want me to check into it?”
“Would you? Maybe it will help if I can come up with a workable option. It might take some of the strain off of her shoulders.”
“And don’t worry about what happens next. Once she holds that sweet baby in her arms, there’s no way she’ll let it go. Then you just need to figure out about the rest.”
“The easy part, eh?”
“One step at a time. First priority is to get Sadie tucked away somewhere safe. That gives you a few more months to work on marriage.”
“I talked to Max Hassel about that. He suggested that I think about converting.” Henry waits for Edith’s reaction.
“You’d become a Jew?”
“I’m thinking about it. Apparently, there are only a few congregations that would consider it. But it’s not hopeless,” Henry says.
Edith shudders. “You know what’s involved, don’t you? There’s that bit of surgery. You’d be prepared to do that?”
“Steps along the way, isn’t that what you said? First, I’ll need to find a willing rabbi.”
“Well, if you’re sure. Are you sure, Henry?”
Henry gives a tight nod.
“Does Max know anyone?”
“I haven’t told Max why I’m thinking of it, so we haven’t got into specifics. But I guess I’m going to have to, if I want to keep Sadie an
d the baby.”
“Well, we’ll stand by you, Henry. Mickey and I will help in any way we can.”
“I saw Mickey yesterday. He came over to play pool. He was in a pretty tense mood. You still giving him his drops, aren’t ya? It was almost like he was before.”
“I am. I cut back for a couple of days, to see what would happen, but he started getting edgy like he was before. I can’t go back to the way he was, Henry. I just can’t. So I started up with the drops in his wine and orange juice again. But it doesn’t seem to be kicking in. Lots of pacing. He barks at me and Hilda. He’s off at the Ritz more. Maybe he’s getting better?”
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