Quinn and Voight arrived at Magruder’s office shortly before one o’clock. The moment they came through the door, they knew there was trouble in the works. The air was all but frosty.
Magruder was enthroned behind his desk. George Seagrave was seated in a wingback chair, and Sherm was in his usual spot on the couch. They looked like barnyard owls, their features solemn.
“Have a chair,” Magruder said without preamble. “I’ve called you here on a matter of the utmost urgency.”
Quinn and Voight seated themselves. Seagrave gave them a perfunctory nod, then averted his gaze. There was a moment of terse silence while Magruder seemed to collect himself. His color was high.
“We have an untenable situation,” he said in an orotund voice. “Last night one of your homicidal maniacs killed a man in cold blood. What do you have to say for yourselves?”
Voight glowered at him. “Who the hell are you to call us on the carpet? I don’t like your Goddamn attitude.”
“Nor I yours,” Magruder said sullenly. “The reformers are out bleating their usual denouncements of George and myself, and the political structure of Galveston County. They threatened the mayor with everything short of crucifixion.”
“Pryor scares too easy,” Voight retorted. “So do you and George, if you want my opinion. These reformers are all hot air. Always have been.”
“No, you’re wrong,” Seagrave said sharply. “The murder of an innocent man gives them the underpinnings of a moral crusade. They could bring us all down.”
Quinn shifted in his chair. “We’ve beaten back the reformers any number of times over the years. All this will blow over in a few days.”
“You miss the point entirely,” Magruder informed him. “George and I provide immunity for your activities on the Island. If they bring us down, they bring you down.” He paused, staring across the desk. “We must find a solution—quickly.”
“Quickly, as in today,” Seagrave added. “We have to defuse these reformers before they get started. By tomorrow, they’ll be pounding their drum all over town.”
Voight laughed sourly. “You want ’em defused? Hell, we’ll just kill Lera and dump his body outside City Hall. How’s that for a solution?”
Magruder and Seagrave appeared startled. They exchanged a wary glance, weighing the repercussions of so final a solution. Magruder finally shook his head.
“However fitting, it simply won’t do,” he said. “We can’t afford another dead man, even a murderer. More violence would add fuel to the fire.”
“So what’s the answer?” Quinn asked. “You don’t like our solution—what’s yours?”
Magruder steepled his fingers. “George and I have talked it over, and we feel there’s only one prudent measure. Your man Lera must stand trial for murder.”
“You’re nuts!” Voight woofed. “You expect Lera to strap himself into the electric chair? That’ll be the day!”
“What we expect,” Seagrave said firmly, “is for you and Ollie to convince him to surrender. Only a jury trial will take the wind out of the reformers’ sails. We need a public display of justice.”
Quinn and Voight looked at each other. They suddenly realized that the matter had been discussed, and settled, long before they arrived. Magruder and Seagrave were playing them like violins. Cleverly, a step at a time, they were being manipulated.
“You boys are dreaming,” Voight said. “You want us to convince Lera to commit suicide. Why not ask pigs to fly?”
“There is no other way,” Magruder said with conviction. “The community must have its spectacle—a catharsis—see him tried and convicted in a court of law. Only then will we squelch the reformers.”
Voight snorted. “How the Christ are we supposed to pull that off? Lera’s on the lam and we don’t have a clue where he’s at. He could be in China by now.”
“Yes, but you’re looking for him,” Seagrave said with a studious gaze. “He broke your rule—your law against violence—and you intend to kill him. Isn’t that true?”
“So what?” Voight said gruffly. “We take care of our own in our own way. Nobody’s complained so far.”
“But we must have him alive!” Magruder trumpeted. “How can I make you understand the salient point in all this? We cannot allow the reformers to mount a crusade in the name of God and church.”
“Dutch—” Quinn waited until he had Voight’s attention. “I’ve been sitting here thinking about it, and they’re right. A murder gives the reformers all they need to preach hellfire and damnation. They could bust our balloon.”
“And?” Voight stared at him. “What’s the rest of it? What are you saying?”
“I think we should listen to what they’re saying about Lera.”
“Even if we found him, so what? You think he’s gonna roll over and agree to stand trial?”
“I think we could make him agree.”
Something unspoken passed between them, and Voight finally nodded. “All right,” he said, looking from Seagrave to Magruder. “No promises, but we’ll give it a try. Our boys are already looking for him, anyway.”
“I couldn’t be more pleased,” Seagrave said with a sigh of relief. “We knew we could count on you and Ollie.”
The meeting concluded with a sense of harmony restored. Magruder mentioned that he would like to have a word with Quinn and Voight, on a matter of personal business. Seagrave, as usual, preferred not to know what such business entailed. He left after an exchange of handshakes.
When the door closed, Magruder sank back in his chair. “I am reminded of the line from Macbeth. ‘Double, double, toil and trouble.’ ”
Voight gave him a blank look. Quinn, who had some passing knowledge of Shakespeare, suddenly became alert. “Don’t tell me there are more problems?”
“I’m afraid so,” Magruder said, his eyes glum. “I’ve learned that Earl Durant has joined forces with the reformers.”
Voight frowned. “How’d you find that out?”
“Like you, Dutch, I have my sources. I received a call just before lunch.”
“Talk about odd company,” Quinn said speculatively. “I wouldn’t think Durant has much in common with preachers. Not after the way he shot it out with our boys.”
“Be that as it may,” Magruder said. “So long as he is involved with the reformers, you cannot harm him. That would merely galvanize Adair and Baldwin to greater action.”
“How long do we wait?” Voight said, his eyes cold. “Maybe it slipped your mind, he killed one of our men.”
“You wait until I say otherwise. I must insist you follow my wishes in this matter.”
“You’re hurting yourself, you know,” Quinn smoothly intervened. “You’ll never get that bank till we get Durant.”
Magruder waved him off. “We have more pressing problems at the moment. Specifically, this fellow Lera.”
“And after we deliver him?” Voight persisted. “How about we tend to Durant?”
“All in good time, Dutch. All in good time.”
Magruder was struck by a wayward thought. He told himself he had much in common with Daniel Webster. So much so the irony was difficult to escape.
He too had sold his soul to the Devil.
A brilliant orange sunset shimmered off the waters of the bay. Guido’s was slowly filling with the early evening dinner trade. Waiters scurried back and forth through the restaurant.
Durant and Catherine were seated at a window table. Tonight was the first time he’d asked her out since the shooting incident. He had waited, concerned for her safety, certain the mob would try to exact revenge. But his alliance with the reformers, by now public knowledge, had altered the scheme of things. He thought he’d bought himself some insurance.
Catherine was confused. She was immensely attracted to him, and after their date Saturday night, she believed it was mutual. Then four days had passed with hardly a word or a smile, his manner somehow distant, strangely impersonal. She had accepted his invitation tonight, hoping she’d imagined his odd behavior. She tried to put a bright face on things.
“You’re the talk of the office,” she said, after the waiter had taken their orders. “Two pastors and Herbert Cornwall calling on you! Everyone’s dying of curiosity.”
Durant chuckled. “Believe it or not, I’ve been enlisted into the reform movement. Just about the last thing I ever expected.”
“What are they reforming against?”
“You heard about the shooting last night?”
“Yes, it was dreadful,” she said with a little shudder. “No one’s safe from these gangsters.”
“That’s the whole idea,” Durant said. “The preachers and Cornwall intend to use the murder as a political springboard. They want to run the mob out of town.”
“Oh, they’ve been trying to do that for years. I’m not surprised a murder has set them off again. But why would they come to you?”
“Couple reasons, the first being Magruder. They know I’m at odds with him because of the bank, and they say he’s involved in dirty politics. They figured I’d be a natural to hop on the bandwagon.”
“Magruder’s certainly dirty,” she agreed. “You said there was another reason?”
“The mob,” Durant replied. “They knew I’d gotten beat up by Nolan and his thugs. Cornwall was especially interested about why I’m on the outs with the mob.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing even close to the truth. Fact is, I pretty much lied.”
Durant thought he was lying to her as well. A lie of omission, however justified, was nonetheless a lie. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to tell her he’d killed one of Nolan’s men in the shootout Saturday night. He didn’t want her to see him in that light, to think of him in that way. A killer.
“Listening to you—” she hesitated, her features set in a musing expression. “Well, I was wondering if this wouldn’t anger those gangsters even more. You joining with the reformers, I mean.”
“Ira asked me the same thing. I’m betting they’ll think twice now. Wouldn’t look good to jump a man associated with preachers.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“That makes two of us.”
The waiter brought their plates. He served Catherine veal cutlets with carrots and peas, and Durant a T-bone steak with a baked potato. As Durant cut into his steak, he told himself he’d let the conversation drift off course. A pretty girl deserved to be entertained, not frightened. He tried for a lighter note.
“You remember you told me how crazy you are about motion pictures?”
“Yes, I did, didn’t I? What made you think of that?”
“I got to wondering—” Durant paused, a hunk of beefsteak speared on his fork. “What’s your favorite movie of all time?”
“Oh, there’s no question!” her eyes shone with excitement. “It would definitely have to be Don’t Change Your Husband.”
“What was it you liked about it?”
“The laughs and humor—you’ll think I’m terrible … and the marvelous naughtiness.”
Cecil B. DeMille, the director, was ever aware of the box office. Cynicism was an outgrowth of the World War, and he sensed that audiences were bored with traditional heroes and histrionic villains. The Victorian Age was falling before the Jazz Age, rapidly being replaced by a new morality. Sex and sex appeal were in.
DeMille introduced avarice and lust, human frailty and fallibility in Don’t Change Your Husband. In the end, virtue triumphed over infidelity, but not until the audience had a full serving of vice. DeMille’s star in the movie, and a sequel, Why Change Your Wife?, was Gloria Swanson. She projected the glamour of a Roaring Twenties emancipated woman.
“I just adore Gloria Swanson,” Catherine said gaily. “She’s so beautiful, and all those furs and jewels. Have you ever met her?”
“Only in passing,” Durant said with a crooked smile. “She’s a real card, though. Regular prima donna.”
“Oh, I love Hollywood gossip. Tell me!”
“Well, they play music on some of the sets. Directors like to put their actors in the mood.”
Catherine forgot her veal cutlets as he went on to explain. The cranking grind of cameras often intruded on the concentration of actors. The noise of nearby sets being constructed or dismantled unsettled the mood as well. The sets were built next to one another, and sometimes, three or four films might be shooting at once. Every studio kept several small orchestras on hand to work different sets.
“So this one day,” Durant elaborated, “Pola Negri was shooting on one set and Gloria Swanson was on the set beside her. Keep in mind, they hate each other. Couple of real cutthroats.”
“I can’t stand it!” Her eyes sparkled with merriment. “Don’t stop, go on!”
“You have to remember movie actors take themselves pretty seriously. Especially when they’re into emoting hearts and flowers.”
Pola Negri, he went on, was faced with a particularly difficult emotional scene. She insisted on the soft, woeful strains of a single violin to establish the mood. She insisted as well that musicians on other sets stand down until her scene was completed. Gloria Swanson, who was piqued by the demands, quickly recruited a brass band and played a rousing military march at the critical moment. Pola Negri threw a fit, and a Hollywood feud was born.
“I love it!” Catherine said with a mischievous laugh. “I can just see it now. Gloria Swanson at the head of a brass band!”
Durant grinned. “Yeah, it blew the lid off things. Turned into a real catfight.”
Her expression was still animated with laughter. “You’re better than a movie magazine,” she said, picking at her veal. “Do you know Greta Garbo, too?”
“I’ve seen her around the studios.”
“Is it true what they say about her and John Gilbert?”
John Gilbert was a handsome matinee idol of the day. Greta Garbo was an exotic Swedish actress, recently imported to Hollywood. Their torrid love affair was the talk of fans everywhere.
“You haven’t heard the half of it,” Durant said. “Movie magazines leave out all the good stuff.”
“Nooo,” she breathed. “You mean there’s more?”
“Lots more.”
“Oh, I can’t wait. Tell me!”
Durant told her all the racy details.
Bubba’s Roadhouse was located on the outskirts of Texas City. The ramshackle structure was a dive that catered to the rougher crowd. Gambling, prostitution, and bootleg hooch were housed under one roof.
The dimly lighted parking lot was full. A black four-door Buick was positioned with a view of the main entrance to the roadhouse. Nolan was in the passenger seat, with Whizzer Duncan at the steering wheel, and Turk McGuire in the backseat. They waited in stony silence.
Two days had passed in their search for Lou Lera. Since Tuesday night, when he’d killed the man in Galveston, they had put out feelers to all their contacts on the mainland. Tonight, not an hour before, Nolan had received a call from a bootlegger in Texas City. Lera was bedded down with a whore at Bubba’s.
Not long after ten o’clock, Lera emerged from the roadhouse. He was still dressed in the dark suit, black shirt, and white tie he’d worn the night of the shooting. As though he hadn’t a care in the world, he walked toward his car, shoulders squared in a cocky manner. Nolan and his men stepped out of the Buick.
“Hello there, Lou,” Nolan said in a breezy voice. “Don’t try to run or I’ll have Turk break your legs.”
Lera’s face went chalky. McGuire boxed him in from one side and Duncan the other. His mouth ticced in a weak smile, his teeth as yellow as old dice. “How’d you find me?”
Nolan shrugged. “Got a tip you were here.”
“Not a smart move,” Duncan said, relieving him of his pistol. “Pussy’s put more’n one man in his grave. You shoulda stayed hid out.”
Lera flinched. “You boys gonna kill me?”
“Depends,” Nolan said cryptically. “Let’s go for a ride.”
“Where you takin’ me?”
“Lou, the pleasure of your company has been requested. Leave it at that.”
The ride back to Galveston passed in terse silence. A half hour later the Buick rolled to a stop at the side of the Hollywood Club. Nolan led the way through the kitchen entrance, with Lera sandwiched between Duncan and McGuire. The foursome followed the hall to the employees’ lounge, where Duncan and McGuire stayed behind. Nolan escorted Lera next door into the office.
Quinn was seated at the desk. Voight stood by the window, a cigar jutting from his mouth. There was a cold stagnancy in his eyes as he turned, waiting for Nolan to close the door. He crossed the room, puffing his cigar, and slugged Lera with a straight shot to the jaw. Cuddles, the parrot, screeched, hiding his eyes behind a wing. Lera hit the floor on the seat of his pants.
“You stupid sonovbitch,” Voight raged. “Why’d you kill that guy?”
Lera got to his knees. “Dutch, he coldcocked me, just like you done. What was I supposed to do?”
“You weren’t supposed to kill him. Why didn’t you stand up and fight him like a man?”
“Honest to Christ, you should’ve seen the fucker. He was built like a barn.”
Voight walked away in a cloud of smoke. Lera slowly levered himself off the floor and got to his feet. Quinn stared at him across the desk.
“You know the rule, Lou. We never harm civilians and we never ever kill them. Where was your brain?”
“Ollie, it happened too fast.” Lera massaged his jaw, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. “The cocksucker popped me, all because of that bitch Mae Hager. I just reacted, that’s all.”
“You just reacted,” Voight mocked him. “That’s the lamest excuse I ever heard. You went dumb in the clutch, admit it.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” Lera said. “I know I didn’t handle it right. I got hot and lost my head.”
“Too late for hindsight,” Quinn said sternly. “You’ve put the organization in a bad light, and brought the reformers out of their holes. There’s hell to pay.”
“I’ll do anything you say, Ollie. I swear to God I will. How do I make it right?”
“I’m glad you asked,” Quinn said. “We want you to stand trial for murder.”
Lera blanched. “How’s that again?”
Voight’s laugh was thick with anger. “Get the wax out of your ears and pay attention. You’re going to stand trial and no two ways about it. Understand?”
“Gimme a break, Dutch.” Lera’s mouth tightened in a ghastly grimace. “They’ll jam my ass in the electric chair. I’m not gonna ride Old Sparky.”
“Well, you’ve got a choice,” Voight said. “Go to trial and take your chances with a jury. Or we’ll let Jack take you for a swim—right Goddamn now.”
“Ohboyohboy!” Cuddles squawked. “Take him for a swim!”
Everyone looked at the parrot. Cuddles held their gazes a moment, then cocked his head and pretended interest in the ceiling. Quinn shifted in his chair.
“Lou, it’s not as bad as it sounds,” he said. “We’ll hire the top defense attorney in Texas, whatever it costs. You’ll probably walk out of court a free man.”
Lera broke out in a frosty sweat. “Ollie, there’s witnesses. Mae Hager’ll put me in the hot seat! They’ll fry my ass.”
“Not to worry,” Quinn assured him. “We’ll send Jack around to have a talk with Mae. Depend on it, she’ll have a loss of memory. Won’t she, Jack?”
Nolan nodded. “She won’t remember her own name. Guaranteed.”
“I dunno,” Lera said hesitantly. “There must’ve been ten or twelve people in the joint that night. How you gonna shut ’em all up?”
“Leave it to me,” Nolan said confidently. “The whole bunch will turn dummy. Nothing to it.”
“Yeah, but they already identified me to the cops. How you gonna get around that?”
“Quit weaseling!” Voight roared. “You’ve only got one choice here. Stand trial or go for a swim. Take your pick.”
Lera ducked his head. “I’ll stand trial.”
“Good thinking,” Quinn counseled. “Just make sure you keep your mouth shut about the organization. Anybody asks, you just stopped off in Mae’s for a drink.”
“I got it, Ollie.”
“Damn sure better,” Voight warned him. “You rat us out and you’re a dead man. We’ll get to you in jail or anywhere else.”
“Hey, I’m no squealer,” Lera protested. “I never met you guys in my life. Don’t even know your names. How’s that?”
“Keep it that way,” Voight said. “You walk over to the police station and turn yourself in. Tell ’em you’re surrendering voluntarily.”
“I won’t let you down.”
“Jack will be right behind you. Change your mind between here and there, and guess what?”
Lera swallowed hard. “I’m dead.”
“You finally got smart,” Voight said with a mirthless laugh. “Trot on over to the cops and keep your lip buttoned. We’ll have a lawyer there first thing in the morning.”
Lera obediently bobbed his head. Nolan ushered him out of the office, and Quinn waited until the door closed. He looked at Voight.
“Think he’ll stay mum?”
“Sure he will,” Voight said with cold conviction. “Dumb as he is, he knows we mean business.”
Quinn took the receiver off the phone. He jiggled the hook. “Operator, get me 8414.”
There was a tinny ring on the line and William Magruder answered. “Hello.”
“Bill, Ollie Quinn here.”
“Why are you calling me at home? Don’t you know what time it is?”
“I thought you’d want to hear the latest. Louis Lera is on his way to the police station. He’s turning himself in.”
“Well now, that is good news. Excellent work, Ollie. Excellent.”
“All’s well that ends well, Bill. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Quinn replaced the receiver on the hook. He smiled humorously at Voight. “Dutch, we’ve saved Galveston again. We deserve a medal.”
“Forget the medal,” Voight said gruffly. “I want Durant.”
“And you’ll have him. Once the reformers lose steam, he’s all yours.”
“We’ll see if the bastard can walk on water.”
“Waterwater!” Cuddles echoed. “Take him for a swim!”
Voight grunted. “Goddamn bird’s too smart for his own good.”
Cuddles wisely said no more.