Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

by Jack Martin

  Barnes ran his handcuffed hands through his hair. “Listen, G-man, what do I got to do to stay out the chair?”

  “Well, that would depend on a few things. If the court hears that you have helped the Bureau in its investigations, it might very well give you a life sentence.” Bierce took from his breast pocket a silk handkerchief, removed his spectacles, and began to methodically clean the lenses.

  “I ain’t a fool,” Barnes replied desperately. “I kept my group small and independent of the big gangs. I ain’t got nothing but chicken feed, and you know it.”

  “Pity,” replied Bierce, carefully inspecting his lenses for any hint of a smear.

  “There is one thing I can give you, but you can’t ever breathe a word that it was from me.”

  “So what little morsel of, as you say, chicken feed do you have to give me?” responded Bierce in a bored voice, his fingers drumming heavily on the table.

  “There’s a shyster down New Orleans way who’s got connections,” Barnes said. “Word is if you need papers, if you need any sort of favor from the Long crew, even if you need out of the country, he can square it. Name of Abner Rocha. Buddy of mine put me in contact with Rocha before the Oklahoma job. This was in January. The swells ain’t heard of him, but he’s well known on the street. Even has an office in a bank building with a regular waiting room. People going in and out all the time, all kinds of people. Just in the short time I was there, a half a dozen people go in and out. Everyone from the Mayor of New Orleans to some little midget wop.”

  The drumming stopped. Bierce leaned forward, eyes glowing, focused as if he were an animal with prey in his sights. Involuntarily, Barnes leaned back in his chair to distance himself.

  In a low voice that was more threatening than anything Barnes had ever heard, Bierce said, “The ‘midget wop’, describe him to me.”

  Sensing he was on dangerous ground but not knowing why, sweat broke out on Barnes’s forehead and trickled down his back into the waistband of his pants. Bierce could smell the fear and focused his gaze on Barnes until the man practically squirmed in his seat. “Uh, well, I tried not to pay too much attention to Rocha’s other visitors. Just like I wouldn’t want them paying too much attention to me, you know?”

  Bierce said nothing, waiting for Barnes to continue.

  “I tried not to look at him, but it was hard not to stare at the ugly bastard. Not more than five feet tall, and an Italian face pockmarked like ten miles of bad road.”

  “Just how did you know the gentleman was Italian?”

  “Gentleman?” Barnes barked out a nervous laugh, then clamped his mouth shut at the withering look Bierce gave him. “Uh, well, the skin color, the face, the way he carried himself. When you’ve been dealing with Dagos as long as me, you just know.”

  Slowly, Bierce rose to his feet. His hands flat on the table, back bent, he stared at Barnes—or rather stared through him, as if he wasn’t there. Fearing he was about to get the third degree, Barnes cringed pitiably, holding up his cuffed hands to protect his face. But Bierce made no move to strike the prisoner. Instead, he stood stock-still for over a minute. Finally, he spoke.

  “I will speak to the United States Attorney and the judge on your behalf. Especially in view of the fact that no one actually died during your crimes, I think that they will agree to not give you the supreme penalty—providing the information you have given me is accurate. It is accurate, is it not? I have recently witnessed an execution by electrocution. There is no good way to die, but that clearly is one of the worst ways.”

  “I swear, G-man, swear to God, what I’ve told you is true!”

  “One final thing before I go. I presume you wish me to ask for mercy on behalf of your wife.”

  Barnes considered Bierce’s question, and how, because of his wife’s vicious greed, he’d been led deeper and deeper into more serious crimes. He shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn’t matter much to me, one way or the other.”

  Bierce peered at Barnes for a long moment, his face still expressionless. Then he walked to the door and exited the life of George Barnes forever.

  Abner Rocha pulled a crystal tumbler and a bottle of his favorite bourbon out of his lower left desk drawer. He poured a stiff measure, restored the bottle to its resting place, took a sip, and leaned back in his leather chair, savoring the pleasurable burn as the liquor slid down his throat. The smile taking shape on his self-satisfied face disappeared abruptly when the door to his private office flew open, and his lumbering henchman, Eddie, strode in.

  “Hey boss, some bull from the Feds wants to see you. Told him to come back when he has a war—”

  Without warning, the big man flew forward, landing flat on his face with a smushed nose bleeding on the imported silk carpet. Rocha choked back his drink and jumped to his feet to see who had dared to knock down his massive bodyguard as Harry Bierce stepped over the stunned man still sprawled on the floor and pulled out his badge.

  “Mr. Rocha, I am Special Agent Harry Bierce of the Bureau of Investigation.” He restored the badge to an inner coat pocket, not caring whether Rocha had been able to read it. “Please tell your associate to leave quietly. There is business to discuss, just between the two of us.”

  As Eddie pulled himself to his feet, murder on his face, Rocha waived him off. “That’s all right, Eddie. I’ll handle this. Please shut the door behind you.”

  With a surly grumble, the bodyguard did as he was told. Without being invited, Bierce seated himself in the chair before Rocha’s desk, crossed his legs, took his hat off and placed it primly on the corner of Rocha’s desk. Bierce stared directly at Rocha through the lenses of his spectacles, which, for no reason Rocha could easily pin down, unnerved him. Rocha waited for his visitor to announce his business. But, as the seconds passed without Bierce uttering a word or diverting his eyes, Rocha grew more nervous, until finally, he broke the silence himself.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Bierce. What business do you have with me?”

  “I have business with your business,” replied Bierce, his voice soft, barely above a whisper. “Your business is to provide criminals and fugitives with protection in exchange for a percentage of their ill-gotten gains. You provide forged documents. You get the police and state authorities to ignore the activities of your clients and yourself. You get district attorneys to drop charges, judges to solicit rulings in favor of defendants. You are a conduit for corruption. The word on the street is that if one is in legal trouble in Louisiana, or if one needs to leave the country quickly, you are the man to see. Even forged passports and other documents of extremely high quality are procured. All in return for handsome fees. Quite a racket you have, Mr. Rocha.”

  Rocha, an excellent poker player, allowed no emotion to show on his face, although inwardly, he was seething with anger—and panic. He wondered just how much this G-man actually knew, and how much was guessing and how much was just bluff. The man’s face gave nothing away. He decided to play the wounded, outraged, honest attorney.

  “Mr. Bierce, I can’t imagine who has been telling these detestable lies, or what their motivation might be. I am a respected and valued member of the legal community. No one has ever filed an ethics complaint against me. Please, with my blessings, check with the Louisiana Bar Association. No doubt some local, less-successful attorney has been spreading vile slanders. Besides, if such crimes did occur, they would be in violation of state laws, and hence, of no concern to the Federal government.”

  “I respectfully beg to differ. The forging of, let us say, United States passports, is a federal crime. And if documents pass through the United States mail, this, is also a crime. Felonies, Mr. Rocha. And if, for instance, one of your clients needed said documents to leave the country after a kidnapping, the Lindbergh Act provides for the death penalty. Even for accomplices.”

  Rocha allowed himself a smile, rocking his glass of whiskey and watching the amber liquid swirl in the light. “You haven’t got anything, G-man. If you had any e
vidence, I’d be cuffed and on my way to the tank right now. So, now, why don’t you just run along and play your little games on someone who wasn’t playing them before you were born.”

  Bierce stood up and settled his hat on his head. “You can cooperate now and turn state’s evidence, or you can go to Alcatraz. The choice is yours. Call me at the Federal building should you change your mind. Oh, and as for you playing these ‘little games’ longer than I’ve been alive, I sincerely doubt it.” With that, Bierce spun on his heel and barged through the door, shouldering Eddie aside and causing the infuriated muscle-man to reach for his gun. Bierce just kept on walking.

  Eddie glanced behind him one more time before he entered the seedy, downtown hotel room. Rocha was going down and he had no intention of going down with him. As he closed the door, he spotted the man he had come to see, reclining comfortably in a worn easy-chair. Eddie removed his hat and twirled the rim between his fingers. He tried not to let his voice shake. In a halting manner, he described the visit of the Federal agent to Rocha. The man in the chair grinned broadly, then snickered in a way that made Eddie’s fear slither up from his belly and settle at the base of his throat. The man lit a cigarette and blew a ring of smoke at the ceiling.

  “So the Feds are suspicious. Rocha appears to have not handled things very well—indeed, not well at all. And, according to you, he all but dared the G-man to prove wrongdoing.” The man took a long draw from his cigarette, then shook his head. “Not a smart move. Best to have shown an air of bewildered innocence. Big Brother will not be happy—not happy at all.”

  “Uh, yes sir.”

  The man leaned back in his chair and blew several smoke rings before again sitting upright and crushing the cigarette with undue force. “You have done well, Eddie. Your loyalty is appreciated, indeed it surely is appreciated. Now, what to do about Mr. Rocha? No telling how quickly the Feds will be back with warrants, and no telling what he might say to save himself from prison.”

  Eddie shifted uneasily, but said nothing.

  “Still, I imagine Mr. Rocha will meet with an accident before the Feds get back. If that accident occurs in a timely manner, I imagine my brother would be very grateful.”

  “Uh, how grateful?”

  Again, Director Hoover confronted Agent Bierce from behind the expanse of his mahogany desk. Again Hoover fumed at his agent’s unerring ability to involve the Bureau in more delicate political issues.

  “Congratulations on the conclusion of the Machine Gun Kelly business. The local agents are getting the credit in the newspapers. But I am well aware who was responsible for the operation’s success.”

  Bierce made a deprecating gesture with his right hand. “Agent Rorer and his men did most of the groundwork. I have no problem with them receiving credit for this success. In any event, such things are of little concern to me.”

  Hoover grimaced. “There is, however, another matter that concerns me. Without permission, you went down to New Orleans to investigate some document forger named Rocha. Already, the Bureau has received a complaint from Baton Rouge.”

  Bierce frowned in puzzlement. “Why should the State of Louisiana care one way or the other? More importantly, why should the Bureau care that it cares?”

  “Are you being deliberately obtuse?” Hoover tried not to shout. “You know as well as I do that Senator Huey Long is dictator in all but name in Louisiana. You also know as well as I that Long is the only possible challenger to Roosevelt for the Democratic nomination in ’36. Everything about Long has to be handled with kid gloves, and the White House will not thank you for irritating the senator or his minions back home. So, when Baton Rouge says lay off the Rocha matter, we lay off.”

  Bierce, his eyes like ice, bore into those of his superior. “Sir, at least let me haul in Rocha for formal questioning. I’m sure that some time under the light would break him.”

  “I said no, Bierce. Besides, there is no point.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I made some inquiries of my own. This morning the New Orleans office telegraphed me that a grain barge heading for the Gulf picked up a floater. The fish had been at it, but eventually dental records identified the body as your Mr. Rocha.”

  “So, that is where it ends?” asked Bierce, an edge of fury in his quiet voice.

  “That is where it ends.” Hoover grimaced as if bile had risen from his stomach. “If the Bureau is to retain its independence from politics, it must sometimes sway with the wind. I like it no more than you, Bierce. But there it is.” Hoover swiveled his chair around and stared out the window while he continued to speak.

  “Still, we may get lucky. If, for instance, an agent on leave stumbled across some connection between Rocha and Machine Gun Kelly, the Bureau could hardly ignore it. Speaking of which, I understand you have accumulated nearly the maximum amount of leave.”

  Bierce stared at the back of Hoover’s chair, a small smile gracing his features.

  “Make no mistake, Bierce, I expect you to spend all your Bureau time helping our field offices clean up the gangster mess in the Midwest and South, but what you do with your vacation time is up to you. Understood?”

  “Understood.” Bierce stood, nodded curtly at the back of the chair and left without another word.

  Hoover continued to stare out his window. “Good day, Agent Bierce,” he whispered.

  Bierce drove his rented Hudson convertible through the entrance of the large country estate. The Kentucky bluegrass property was enormous, with mature trees and stables obscuring the long distance views. Night had fallen, but Bierce unerringly navigated the roads of the property before he pulled up before a plain Federal brick mansion, the stately home on the century-old estate of Dignitas. He knew the property well.

  He exited the car, bound up the steps, then knocked loudly on the door. After a short interval, a somberly-dressed black man opened the door and went to shoo the visitor away.

  “Git you! Mrs. Belasco don’t see no one at nights….” His voice trailed off when he recognized Bierce. “Beg pardon, Mr. Bierce. Didn’t recognize you in the dim light.”

  “That’s all right, Ulysses. Please tell your mistress I will wait for her in the library,” Bierce said as he strode past the servant, continued down the hall, and turned left into the mansion’s library. An awe-inspiring room, every inch of wall not adorned with a door or windows, was covered floor to ceiling with shelves full of gleaming, leather-bound books. Bierce did a slow circuit of the room, his fingers wistfully caressing the volumes.

  “Well, I’m surprised to see you. Here to give me another dressing down on the way I choose to live my life?”

  Bierce’s heart lurched and he turned and looked for several moments at the tall, lithe woman standing in the doorway. Public records showed that Mrs. Brigid Belasco was over sixty-years-of-age, but her raven black hair was untouched with grey, her face unlined, her voluptuous form showed no signs of sagging. Bierce knew that her image appeared with some regularity in the newspapers, and briefly wondered why none of them commented on her unusually youthful appearance. He supposed that interest in her fabulous fortune, consisting partly of a controlling interest in Standard Oil of Kentucky and partly in her war-profiteering husband’s vast holdings, interested readers more than her youthful looks. After all, there is much a woman with a fortune can do to hold back the ravages of time.

  Bierce favored Mrs. Belasco with his thin smile. “You need not fear any lectures from me. You have chosen your course, and I must respect it.”

  Mrs. Belasco responded with a silvery laugh that nearly broke Bierce’s stony heart. “Indeed I have. This world is full of endless diversions and pleasures for those with the money to afford them.”

  “Do you wish to end up like your husband? If he is ever found alive, he will get the chair.” Bierce knew he couldn’t hide the sadness in his voice, and he didn’t try.

  Last year, Mr. Belasco had invited twenty-some guests, not including his wife, to a wild, extended party in which t
o celebrate the completion of his rural Maine mansion. The party had gone on for literally months. The few servants who left Belasco’s service in disgust whispered of daylong orgies, drugs, devil worship—even of human sacrifice. The state police were reluctant to interfere with the pleasures of such a rich and powerful man, but as the rumors grew, they were forced to investigate. When they broke down the door, they found the new mansion is utter disarray and twenty corpses littered about the place—Belasco was not among them.

  Mrs. Belasco laughed again. “Ah, he certainly knew how to enjoy himself. Too bad he never knew how to keep from going … too far.”

  “Be that as it may, you must still be in contact with your brother, who, I believe, is spending far too much time in Germany with those dangerous people in the Thule Society. Can’t you persuade him to return to America and perform more, ah, socially useful activities?”

  “You poor fool. You still think you can persuade us to share your love for this country and its people? I suppose you will never accept that we don’t give a damn for America, or its ridiculous inhabitants.”

  Bierce found his thoughts turning inward, but he refused to dwell on them. “Well, preaching to you is not the reason I came. I came to ask for $50,000.”

  Mrs. Belasco threw back her beautiful head and laughed. “Money. I should have known. Washington not paying you enough?”

  “My personal needs are few. I am performing an investigation of potentially great importance—one in which Washington can afford no formal involvement. I will require cash of my own for travel expenses, bribes to informers, that sort of thing.”

  “So, you are off on some quixotic adventure to protect your pathetic country and its even more pathetic citizens. Haven’t I already told you that those matters are of less than no interest to me?”

  “You have. I do not expect you to give me the money for the sake of ‘my pathetic country,’ as you put it. I expect you to give it to me for your mother’s sake.”

  A shadow passed over Mrs. Belasco’s face as her expression of cynical amusement turned to one of thoughtfulness. She walked over to the large desk, sat down, and drew a checkbook out of the upper drawer. Like her mother, she will always be beautiful, Bierce thought and struggled to push his memories aside as he watched her pick up a gold pen, swiftly fill out a check, sign it, and rip it out of the book. She rose and walked over to him, handing him the check.