Arthur Scarett drove across the causeway on Friday morning. The prohibition agent was looking forward to a long relaxing weekend with his family. As head of the Houston office, he had the authority to approve leave for all agents. He’d given himself time off.
Ruby Scarett was a plain dumpling of a woman. On the drive down from Houston, she had acted as referee for their two boys, who were in the backseat. The boys were nine and ten, young hellions who enjoyed nothing quite so much as pounding the whey out of each other. She was exhausted even before her holiday began.
For his part, Scarett ignored the commotion. He was content to leave discipline to his wife, who, he was convinced, had been a drill sergeant in a previous incarnation. His mind was focused instead on sandy beaches and crystalline skies, which were a harbinger of fair weather and sunshine. He planned to spend the weekend working on his tan.
Scarett hoped to avoid running into Jack Nolan. He was on the take, turning a blind eye to the rumrunning operation, but nonetheless prudent. He could have called Nolan and been comped to hotel accommodations, top restaurants, and probably tickets to the Al Jolson show. But he saw no reason to risk exposure by openly associating with gangsters. He figured the ten thousand a month payoff was ample reward.
The Beach Hotel was located at Twentieth Street and Seawall Boulevard. A rambling five-story structure, the hotel was distinguished by its baronial rotunda, marble floors, and a grand stairway sweeping upwards from the lobby. Ruby held the boys in an iron grip while Scarett checked in at the front desk. A bellman, wary of the struggle between mother and sons, escorted them to the elevator.
Their suite was on the fifth floor. Scarett felt a man of his means could afford to splurge, and he’d reserved the best the hotel had to offer. The sitting room was bright and airy, with modernistic furnishings and broad windows that afforded a spectacular view of the Gulf. There were two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, which ensured Ruby privacy if not security. She thought the boys would have the place wrecked before the weekend was out.
The bellman fled the suite as though escaping a war zone. Scarett, who could be a taskmaster when the occasion demanded, rapped out a command. “Let’s have some quiet!”
The boys, Fred and Hank, snapped to attention. Their mother was tough as nails, but their father, once he got going, was hell on wheels. They waited like good little soldiers for whatever came next.
“Here’s the score,” Scarett said. “You break anything in this suite and I’ll blister your backsides. Got it?”
“Yes, Pa,” the boys mumbled in unison.
“All right, now that we have that settled, get changed into your swimsuits. We’re going to the beach.”
The boys scampered off to their room. In the master bedroom, Scarett avoided watching his wife change. He loved her, but Ruby in a swimsuit was like stuffing ten pounds in a five-pound bag. From the rear, he thought it looked like two porkers wriggling around in a gunnysack. He was thankful Jack Nolan wouldn’t see them on the beach.
Across town, Jack Nolan walked into the Turf Club. His crew had spent the last three nights shadowing Durant, and he wasn’t pleased with the results. Upstairs, he proceeded along the hallway and found Spadden, ever the faithful watchdog, posted outside the office door. Spadden greeted him with what passed for a smile.
In the office, Voight was seated behind his desk. The phone rang as Nolan came through the door. Voight caught it on the second ring. “Yeah?”
“How ya doing?” a voice said. “This is Jim Torrence, over in Texas City.”
“I remember you, Jim. You run the Dixieland Club, right?”
“That’s me.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, Dutch, I think it’s the other way ’round. I called to warn you about a problem you’re gonna have.”
“Uh-huh,” Voight said, lighting the stub of a cigar. “What problem is that?”
“Joey Adonis,” Torrence replied. “Him and his gunsels are headed your way.”
“Adonis knows better than to set foot in Galveston.”
“Not today, he don’t.”
Joey Adonis was an Italian mobster from Texas City. He operated nightclubs, gambling dives, and a large bootlegging network. He was Torrence’s long-standing rival on the mainland.
“I’m listening,” Voight said. “Why’s he headed over here?”
“You’ve got another visitor,” Torrence said. “Art Scarett, your pal, the prohibition agent? He’s staying at the Beach Hotel.”
“So?”
“Adonis plans to bump him off.”
Voight straightened in his chair. “How’d you get wind of this?”
“I’ve got a pigeon in Joey’s outfit. Pays to keep tabs on the competition.”
“And your pigeon tells you what?”
“Adonis is one clever fucker. He’ll blast Scarett in Galveston and the Feds will think it was your work. All the blame will come down on your head.”
Voight munched his cigar. “You know this for a fact?”
“Think about it,” Torrence said. “Suppose the Feds get pissed about Scarett and put you out of business. Who d’you think will take over Galveston and the rumrunning—your whole operation?”
“Sounds like Joey Adonis.”
“Kee-recto!”
“Thanks for the tip, Jim. I owe you one and I always look after my friends.”
“Hell, just take out Adonis and we’ll call it even. I’ll have the mainland to myself.”
“I’ll let you know how it works out.”
Voight hung up. He stared at the phone a moment, then quickly related the gist of the conversation to Nolan. There was an instant of weighing and deliberation before Nolan spoke.
“You think Torrence is on the level?”
“One way to find out,” Voight said. “Call the hotel and see if Scarett is registered. Don’t let on who you are.”
Nolan placed the call and spoke with the hotel operator. When he hung up, his features were solemn. “Scarett’s registered, him and his family. You’d think he would’ve told me.”
Voight grunted. “Probably didn’t want to be seen with you. We’ve got to stop this thing in its tracks. We don’t need heat from the Feds.”
“How do you want it handled?”
“Take all the boys you need and put a round-the-clock tail on Scarett. We’ll find Adonis by keeping a watch on his target.”
“What then?” Nolan asked. “You want me to whack Adonis when I find him?”
Voight wedged the cigar into the corner of his mouth. He puffed thoughtfully, considering alternatives. “Try to take the guinea son of a bitch alive. We don’t need any shooting wars.” He paused, a cold smile behind the cigar. “I’d like a word with the cocksucker, anyway.”
“But if I can’t take him alive?”
“Why, hell, Jack, give him one with my compliments.”
“Got you, boss.” Nolan started out, then turned back. “What about our friend, Durant?”
“Yeah, Durant,” Voight said, reminded of unfinished business. “Anything new?”
“Same old story. We’ve trailed him three days now, and he never goes anywhere but the bank and his hotel. You didn’t want him hit anywhere too public.”
“Let’s put him on the back burner till you collar Adonis. Our first job’s to make damn sure Art Scarett gets out of town in one piece.”
“I wonder why Adonis decided to put the move on us. We haven’t had any trouble in five years, maybe more.”
“Who knows how a guinea thinks? You’d have to be a mind reader. Just get him before he gets Scarett.”
“I’m on it.”
Nolan hurried out the door. Voight leaned back in his chair, took a puff on his cigar. He blew a perfect smoke ring, watched it float lazily toward the ceiling. His mouth razored in a hard smile.
He definitely wanted Adonis taken alive.
Durant left the bank early. His head hurt from all he’d tried to absorb about the world of finance. Three days under Aldridge’s tutelage only made him feel like a dullard. He thought he wasn’t cut out to be a banker.
On the street, he saw the man for the second time. Over the last three days he’d had some visceral sense that he was being watched. The only one he had spotted was the short, wiry man with red hair and a pug nose. But something told him there were others.
The feeling made the hair prickle on his neck. All the more so because Aldridge was hollow-eyed with worry for his safety. Hardly a day passed that the older man didn’t comment on the need for caution. He was troubled that Durant hadn’t seen the last of the mob.
To himself, Durant admitted he’d been foolhardy to threaten Magruder. He had let anger override reason, and Aldridge’s concern halfway had him convinced that he was in danger. Today that belief was reinforced when he again spotted the red-haired man across the street. Twice in three days seemed something more than coincidence.
Durant stepped into a drugstore. His eye was still ringed a purplish-black and the stitches on his brow had begun to itch. He bought a tube of Vaseline ointment, and while the clerk was making change, he glanced out the window. His shadow was still across the street, three stores down, pretending interest in a window display. There was no question he was being followed.
The drugstore was on a corner, with a side exit on Eighteenth Street. He wandered through the store, as if browsing, and slipped out the side door. At the corner, he peeked around the side of the building and saw the man still feigning interest in the window display. A group of pedestrians waited for a car to pass by, and he fell in beside them as they crossed the intersection. He left his shadow watching the front of the drugstore.
Two blocks down, he entered Brandt’s Gun Store. On his walks around town, he had seen the shop and never given it much thought. But now, with a man tailing him and fresh memories of the beating he’d taken, he felt prudence was in order. Perhaps it was all imagined, or Aldridge’s constant harping on the mob, and perhaps it wasn’t. Better safe than sorry.
Durant found himself in a small ordnance depot. The walls were lined with rows of rifles and shotguns, and a double-shelved showcase was filled with pistols. At the rear of the store, he saw a portly man at a gunsmith’s bench, tinkering with the extractor on a hunting rifle. The man rose from the bench, wiping his hands on a rag, and pushed his spectacles up on top of his head. He walked forward as Durant stopped in front of the showcase.
“Good day,” he said. “May I help you?”
“I see you’re a gunsmith.”
“Yes, I’m Willie Brandt, the owner. I do all my own repairs and guarantee every gun in the shop. Are you interested in a pistol?”
Durant nodded. “Something for personal protection.”
“Of course.” Brandt studied his battered features, but made no comment. “Any particular pistol?”
On the showcase shelves were a wide array of revolvers and semiautomatic pistols. Durant wanted something more serious than a .38 but nothing as cumbersome as a .45. He pointed to a German Luger.
“Is the Luger in good condition?”
“Yes, quite good,” Brandt said, taking it from the top shelf. “Some of these came back from France, trophies of war. Good German engineering.”
Durant hefted the Luger. A semiautomatic, it was chambered for 9mm, somewhat hotter than the American .38 caliber. He pulled the toggle-bar action to the rear and locked it open. With his thumbnail in the breech, catching light reflection, he looked down the bore and checked the barrel. There was slight pitting in the lands and grooves, but nothing that would affect accuracy. He worked the action several times, then tested the trigger. He nodded to Brandt.
“I’ll take it,” he said. “How much?”
“Twenty dollars with a box of cartridges.”
“Sold.”
Durant loaded the magazine with seven rounds. He chambered a round, flipped on the safety, and stuck the Luger inside his waistband, hidden by his suit jacket. He stuffed the box of cartridges in his hip pocket, and placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. Willie Brandt looked at him with a curious expression.
“You seem to be a man who knows weapons.”
“I was in France,” Durant said evenly. “I took one of these off a German and used it most of the war. It does the job.”
Brandt squinted. “I hope you don’t have to use that one.”
“That makes two of us.”
Outside the shop, Durant turned west on the Strand. As he walked back toward the drugstore, his eyes searched both sides of the street. He saw nothing of the red-haired man, or anyone else who appeared to be watching him. But he didn’t relax, for he knew he was easy to find. There was no place to hide in Galveston.
Up ahead, he saw Catherine come out of the bank. She started toward the streetcar stop at the corner, and he suddenly increased his pace. On the spur of the moment, he decided to ignore the fact that no self-respecting banker would socialize with an employee. He’d eaten too many meals alone in the last ten days, and he needed someone to talk to. Someone so attractive made it all the better.
“Hi there,” he said when he stopped her at the corner. “I don’t want you to think I’m forward—and I know this is awful sudden—but would you have dinner with me tonight?”
“Dinner?” She looked startled. “Oh, I don’t think I could.”
“Say yes to a lonely man.” Durant raised his hand, palm outward. “No passes, I promise. Scout’s honor.”
“Oh, it’s not that, really it isn’t. It’s just my mother’s waiting dinner for me at home.”
“I’ll bet she’d understand if you gave her a call. Try it and see.”
“Well—” Catherine hesitated with a winsome smile. “All right, I will call her. Let’s find a phone.”
Durant took her to Guido’s Restaurant on Water Street. The place was cozy, with candlelit tables that overlooked the bay. A waiter took their orders and there was a moment of awkward silence. The Luger in his waistband reminded him there were problems he wanted to forget. At least for the night.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said, trying to put her at ease. “Have you always lived in Galveston?”
“Always.” She laughed softly. “I’ve only been off the Island twice in my life—both times to Houston.”
“So your family’s old-line Galveston?”
“No, not in the way you mean. My parents moved here when they were married.”
“What does your father do?”
“Why … he was in the Coast Guard.”
“Was?”
Her smile slipped. “Yes, he was killed in the Hurricane.”
Durant knew all about the Hurricane. Early in September of 1900, a storm developed off the western coast of Africa. In the days that followed, it swept north of Cuba, passed by the tip of Florida, and then roared into the Gulf of Mexico. On September 7, by now a full-blown hurricane, it struck Galveston with winds in excess of 120 miles an hour. The Island’s highest point was not quite nine feet above sea level, and by nightfall, the Gulf and the bay had converged. Galveston was under water.
The center of the hurricane passed over the Island late that evening. The tide off the Gulf was at least fifteen feet and breakers twenty-five feet and higher battered the shoreline. By midnight the storm had petered out, but the following morning brought a scene straight out of hell. A third of Galveston was leveled to the ground, with 4,000 houses and hundreds of buildings simply washed away. The most devastating hurricane in American history had killed 6,000 Islanders.
Everyone in Texas remembered the Hurricane of 1900. Durant was a boy at the time, but his recollection of it was still vivid. He looked at Catherine now.
“Those were hard times,” he said quietly. “Losing your father like that must have been rough.”
She smiled wanly. “Actually, I never knew him. I wasn’t quite a year old when it happened.”
“So it’s been you and your mother since then?”
“Yes, she worked in a laundry to put me through high school. She’s quite a lady.”
“Sure sounds like it.”
“Now it’s your turn,” Catherine said, her eyes bright with interest. “I’ve always been fascinated by motion pictures. How did you ever become a stuntman?”
“I was working as an extra,” Durant said with an offhanded gesture. “In this one scene, the stuntman was on top of a train that was about to crash. He had to leap up and grab a rope stretched between a tree and a telegraph pole. He missed.”
“Was he killed?”
“No, but he was banged up pretty good.”
“And you took his place,” she said excitedly. “You did, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I did,” Durant admitted. “I went to the director and told him I could do the stunt. So he gave me a shot and I pulled it off. That’s where it started.”
“Which stars have you done stunt work for?”
“Well, I do all of Tom Mix’s pictures. I doubled for Lon Chaney in The Hunchback of Notre Dame and The Phantom of the Opera. And some for Doug Fairbanks, like The Thief of Bagdad.”
“Omigosh!” she yelped. “Do you know Mary Pickford?”
Mary Pickford was a spirited young actress known as “America’s Sweetheart.” Douglas Fairbanks, her husband, was a dashing hero of the silver screen. They were idolized by fans and courted by every filmmaker in the industry. Their lavish estate, Pickfair, was the focal point of Hollywood society.
Over dinner, Durant held Catherine spellbound with stories of Hollywood royalty and their escapades. He went on to tell her that his ambition was to become a movie director, and his greatest supporter was Tom Mix. But even as he talked, he was reminded that Mix’s next picture started in two days. He would have to make a call tonight.
Hollywood, for now, took a back seat to Galveston. His only other choice was to cave in and sell out. Which was no choice at all.
He refused to run.
The Funland Pier was ablaze with lights. There was a roller coaster, a Ferris wheel, a merry-go-round with painted ponies, and barkers hawking games of chance. Friday night was carnival time in Galveston.
Arthur Scarett and his wife stood in a crowd beside the merry-go-round. Their boys, astride painted wooden ponies, whooped and laughed as they rode round and round. Scarett was pink from an afternoon on the beach, stuffed with hot dogs and orange soda pop. He debated whether his stomach would tolerate the roller coaster.
Joey Adonis waited near the Ferris wheel. He was short and stout, attired in a pin-striped suit and a gray fedora. With him were two shooters, impassive cold-eyed men whose one talent was efficient, indolent murder. Their eyes flicked back and forth between the merry-go-round and Arthur Scarett. They’d had him under surveillance since he checked into the Beach Hotel.
The problem, as Adonis saw it, was how to separate the prohibition agent from his family. Everywhere Scarett went, the wife and kids went, and Adonis, being a religious man, wasn’t about to pop mom and her bambinos. He had all weekend to catch Scarett alone, but he wanted to get back to Texas City and business. He was mulling the problem when he felt the snout of a pistol pressed to his backbone.
“No cute moves, Joey, or you’re a dead man.”
Nolan was directly behind him. Four of Nolan’s boys were crowded close around the two shooters, snub-nosed revolvers tented in their suit pockets. Adonis realized he had been so intent on Scarett that he’d gotten sloppy, and now Diamond Jack himself was breathing down his neck. Nolan nudged him with the gun. “Here’s the drill,” he said with amiable menace. “We’ll walk out of here like old pals, no fuss, no bother. Try anything sporty and you’re cold meat.”
Adonis snorted. “You’re gonna give it to me anyway. Why should I play along?”
“No, Joey, you’ve got it all wrong. Mr. Voight and Mr. Quinn just want to have a talk with you, that’s all. Use your beaner and you’ll live to a ripe old age.”
“Are you on the square with me, Jack?”
“Joey, c’mon, would I lie to you?”
Adonis thought it was highly likely. But the odds dictated that he play for time and hope the Virgin Mary was watching over him. Two cars, motors running and drivers at the wheel, were waiting outside the Funland Pier. Nolan and one of his men got into the lead car with Adonis, and the other men, after disarming the shooters, got into the second car. No one spoke as they pulled away from the curb.
Five minutes later the caravan approached the front of the Hollywood Club. The cars turned right and slowed to a stop outside the rear entrance to the kitchen. The cooks and dishwashers pretended temporary blindness as the men filed through the rear door. Nolan followed a service hallway which led to the employees’ lounge at the end of the T-head pier. The croupiers and stickmen in the lounge, like the kitchen help, went momentarily blind.
The casino didn’t open until eight o’clock, and it was now seven thirty-one. Nolan, with his men trailing behind, led Adonis and the shooters from the lounge to the office. Voight was seated at the desk and Quinn stood at the picture window overlooking the dark waters of the Gulf. The door closed, and Adonis, with Nolan at his side, halted before the desk. Cuddles, the parrot, cocked his head and croaked “Oh, boy! Oh, boy!”
Adonis straightened his tie. “What the hell’s the idea, Dutch? Why’d you have us rousted?”
“I’ll get to you,” Voight said, then glanced at Nolan. “Where’d you find them?”
“Funland Pier,” Nolan replied. “What with the crowd and the noise, I figured it was time to make our move. They were on Scarett and his family like mustard plaster.”
“That’s bullshit!” Adonis flared. “Me and the boys was just down here seein’ the sights.”
“Save your breath,” Voight said. “Jack and his boys were on you all day while you tailed Scarett. We’re not saps, Joey.”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about. I got no business with Scarett.”
“No, you just planned to snuff him and put the Feds on us. After the dust settled, then you’d make your move on the Island. We know all about it.”
“Like hell,” Adonis snapped. “Whoever told you that’s a Goddamn liar.”
“Liar! Liar!” Cuddles squawked. “Pants on fire?”
Adonis scowled. “What’s with the bird?”
“He’s a psychic,” Voight said with a mirthless laugh. “You’re lying, Joey. Caught out by a parrot.”
“Dutch, I’m tellin’ you the truth. I swear it on the Holy Mother’s head.”
“Careful lightning doesn’t strike you.”
“I’m on the square here! I wasn’t out to ace Scarett.”
Voight snorted. “Ollie, what do you think? Is he a snarf or not?”
Quinn turned from the window. “I believe you’re right, Dutch.”
“Wait a minute,” Adonis said, looking from one to the other. “What the hell’s a snarf?”
“That’s you, Joey,” Voight said with open mockery. “A guy who bites the bubbles when he farts in the bathtub. Fits you to a T.”
Nolan and his men chuckled out loud. Adonis glared at Voight. “You got a lotta nerve callin’ me names. Come down to it, you’re no better’n me, maybe worse. You’ve whacked a few guys in your day.”
“Yeah, but my day’s not over, Joey. Yours is.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Voight nodded to Nolan. “Jack, we’re through talking here. Take him for a swim.”
“Bye-bye!” Cuddles piped in. “Byebyebye!”
Adonis paled. His expression was that of a man who has just heard death whisper a terrible revelation in his ear. He appealed to Quinn.
“Ollie, for Chrissake, you and me go back a long ways. You gotta stop this! I’m askin’ you.”
“Too late,” Quinn said in a flat voice. “You should’ve stayed clear of the Island. Let’s get it done, Jack.”
Nolan and his men pulled their pistols. Whizzer Duncan, his wiry lieutenant, moved to the far corner of the room. He rolled back the carpet, then opened a trapdoor built into the floor, revealing a narrow flight of wooden steps. The sound of water slapping against timbers echoed from below.
Duncan went down first. Nolan and the others then herded Adonis and his two shooters down the steps. A wide landing was bolted between stout pylons that supported the T-head of the casino. Nolan’s powerful speedboat, the Cherokee was lashed to the landing, bobbing gently in the surf. The prisoners were forced into the boat at gunpoint.
Twenty minutes later Nolan cut the throttles. They were ten miles or so off the coast, the Cherokee wallowing in swells from the southern Gulf. On the ride out, Adonis and his cohorts had been bound hand and foot, and then wrapped in heavy logging chains. At Nolan’s order, the men got them on their feet, near the stern of the boat. Duncan held Adonis upright.
The two shooters were wild-eyed with terror. For all the men they’d killed, one broke into sobs, mewling pitifully for his life, and the other seemed paralyzed. One at a time, they were hoisted into the air and thrown overboard, sinking beneath the choppy surf the moment they hit the water. Adonis watched them vanish with a look of stricken dread.
“Mother of Christ,” he muttered, craning his neck to look at Nolan. “Jack, I’m begging you, shoot me first. Don’t drown me like that. I’m begging you … have a heart.”
“No can do, Joey,” Nolan said with a steady gaze. “Nothing personal, I’m just following orders. Business is business.”
Duncan and the other men lifted Adonis off his feet. As they tossed him overboard, his mouth opened in a shrieking curse: “You bastards, I’ll see you in hell!” He hit with a splash, taken deep by the roiling waters.
Nolan engaged the throttles. He brought the Cherokee around and headed back to shore. Duncan stared at their wake a moment, then turned forward. He chortled sourly.
“Think Joey found his hell at the bottom?”
“No,” Nolan allowed. “I’d say long before then.”
“Yeah, long before then when?”
“On his way down.”
Duncan thought that was rich. He got a mental picture of Adonis trying to swim in chains. Holding his breath. All the way down.