The Tommy gun was facing his nose and only inches from it. In his right hand was a broken soda bottle. “This is enough to drive me nuts,” he said in a rather heavy Brooklynese “Maxwell Tiberius Thermopolis Junior does not give in that easily.” It was June 1, 1927, and the sale of liquor was prohibited by a constitutional law. Maxie owned the diner and stared directly at the rather well dressed man before him. The man before him was running whiskey and beer that he would not buy, and claimed he owed the mob money. “What did you say your name was?” the man asked. Maxie looked up and said, “Maxwell Tiberius Thermopolis Junior.”
“Your name isn’t Maxwell Tillman?”
“No it ain’t.”
“You didn’t buy from Anthony Costello, did you?”
“I never heard the name before.”
“This isn’t Maxie’s Speakeasy?”
“This is Maxie’s Diner and I don’t have a speakeasy the only thing I do that’s illegal is a Friday night poker game.”
The man placed the gun at his side with the words “sorry about that.” Maxie sighed with relief and lowered the bottle. “That’s my life,” he remarked.
He watched as the man exited, dropped the gun in the rumble seat of a new Model A coupe, and started the engine. When the man drove away it was time to let his guard down. Maxie returned to the counter and removed his hat, revealing slicked and short blond locks with a part on the left. He was over six feet tall and lean. He mopped some sweat with a napkin.
He looked to see if his own Ford Model A Coupe convertible was okay and found it unharmed. It was painted brown. The car, like the diner, was a bequest from his father, who was killed one year before.
He was thankful the dinner rush was over and the crowd was low. If the man were to shoot, the situation could have been worse. He was alone in the diner.
The diner itself was a Worcester Lunch Car. It was rolled from Massachusetts to Ferry Landing, New Jersey. His father could have purchased one in New Jersey, but his customers were more important than that. The roof was barrel shaped. It could seat, as Maxie put it “about seventy persons of every persuasion.” It had a nice, dark red, enamel exterior, and beautiful mahogany interior. The yellow letters read “Maxie’s Diner” in beautiful script.
Maxie looked out the window, saw the Ford Model T panel delivery truck from Tom Puglisi’s bakery, and raced through the kitchen. He expected a few rolls, but not what was about to happen. Tom pressed on the reverse pedal and reared the truck to the loading dock.
Panicked, he raced inside the diner. “Quick, hide me!” he hollered. “Costello is after me!”
“I think he would see the truck, don’t you?”
“I sure hope not!”
Puglisi raced into the dining car and hid under the back counter. Maxie dove under the counter after noticing a black 1926 Lincoln Sport Touring Car swerve around the corner with a Thompson submachine gun out the rear window. “I don’t think he had to see the truck!” Maxie shouted before shots bore holes in the windows and doors at both ends of the diner. They leaped to their feet. Tom was average height with dark hair, and close in age to Maxie.
“Who is this Costello anyway?” Maxie asked. “What’s he doing here?”
“He’s the new sheriff.”
“The new what did you say?”
“He’s the new sheriff and runs whiskey down as far as Tennessee.”
“Doesn’t he know about prohibition?”
“He doesn’t give a lick about it.”
“Are you running anything?”
“No, it’s just that I refused to buy his brand for my rum cakes! For crying out loud I use flavoring!”
“He’s after you for not buying his brand?”
“That’s the story! He thinks I use real rum!”
“How would you afford that?”
“I don’t know where he gets his ideas from.”
Tom noticed the Lincoln return and dropped while pulling Maxie down with him. This time the passengers did not fire. “You better stop making those rum cakes,” Maxie commented. “They’re bad for my health.”
“I have to unload the truck.”
“Let me help you.”
About an hour later, Tom was still in the kitchen. “I remember when Dad and me got this diner.” Maxie told him while frying burgers for the few people who were there. “We went to Wor-ches-ter Massachusetts.”
“What was in Massachusetts?”
“The ‘Wooster’ Lunch Car Company was there.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, only there they say it funny like I just said it even though it’s spelled the same.”
They watched as a Model T patrol car passed with its siren blaring and lights flashing. In the backseat they could see boxes. “I wonder if J. Edgar Hoover knows about our sheriff,” Maxie said. “Maybe he can do something about it.”
“Can I get some Moxie or Coca-Cola?”
“Coca-Cola we have in bottles and Moxie comes out of the fountains.”
“Where’s my hash!” another customer hollered.
“Your ‘clean up the kitchen’ will be there in a minute, sir!”
The Model T patrol car rolled behind the small Victorian building that was home to Puglisi’s bakery. Deputies Andrew Fullerton and Stan Chase jumped from the front seat. Before long they started unloading the backseat. They did not hear the click of a shutter in the distance. They also did not notice the flash.
Fullerton, a tall lanky blond, opened one of the boxes and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels, not noticing a second flash. “This ought to teach that baker.” He chuckled.
Chase was smaller and rounder in physique. “Why didn’t the boss use his own brand?” he asked.
“He didn’t want the trail leading back to him.”
Maxie’s home was behind the diner. It was a simple, two-story saltbox with yellow sides and a white roof. However, since his father died he was the only resident. It was his childhood home, but he had no one to share it with. He slept in the bedroom on the right at the top of the stairs. In all of his thirty-one years, he kept trying to find love, but failing in most cases. He slept alone with photographs of boxers on his nightstand and family photographs on the dresser. He loved his family, and loved pictures of boxers. He considered renting the other rooms to boarders, but that would disturb his sleep.
A sound downstairs woke him from a sound sleep. On the spur of the moment he rose and wrapped sheets around his otherwise naked body. With a pull of a string, he lit the small tiffany lamp by his bedside. His alarm clock really told the story, it was 2:30. Maxie raced straight away down the stairs.
The unpleasant surprise happened in the kitchen. It came in the form of another Thompson submachine gun aimed at his nose. “Are you Maxwell Thermopolis Junior?” he heard a voice ask through the darkness. Who was the other person? He did not know. “You can turn on the light if you’re this diner owner called Maxie,” the voice said. Maxie reached for the light switch and the simple hanging tiffany lamp above the ancient, white table lit. The walls were all white except for a line of black at the top of the tiles along the center. The floor was wood. Doors led to the basement, dining room, and rear yard. “Another Tommy gun,” he said, “if this is some type of secret gun society I ain’t joining.” The gun was lowered.
“I’m Anthony Costello,” the gunman stated, “your new sheriff.” Sheriff Costello was a slim man of about forty-five years of age. He was only about average height.
“What do you want?” Maxie asked with a sneer.
“You really need the information on that.”
“That and how you got into my house while the door was locked.”
Costello pointed with the gun toward the broken glass. “Thanks for opening my window,” Maxie remarked, “it was a hot night.”
Maxie disliked the new sheriff. He looked to the candlestick telephone and wondered the number to dial for the Bureau of Investigation or BOI. “Calling your friend Tom Puglisi will not do,” the sheriff commented, “we know how you two spend nights in your diner.”
“Wait until I find out where you spend your nights.”
“Where does the famous baker man Puglisi get the rum for his cake?”
“It’s flavoring and that’s all I know.”
“It’s flavoring you say, but I hear it’s something else.”
“That’s exactly what I know.”
“I can run you in for those Friday night poker games, can’t I?”
“I don’t deal with the liquor market.”
“I don’t either, or, at least, not on the face of it,” Costello said. “I happen to be against liquor officially, but otherwise I think you know the rest.” Costello lit a cigarette. “I don’t like people smoking in my house,” Maxie said, “it sort of ruins the furniture.” Costello closed the lighter and took a puff. “I really don’t care,” he said. “I’m the law and you obey me.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to find out where your boyfriend Tom gets his rum, or, for that matter, when.”
“And if I don’t do that?”
“I have a little friend named Tommy myself,” Costello said while lifting the gun, “and he will do anything for me.” With that the sheriff unlocked the back door and left.
Maxie sped to the phone and dialed Tom. “You have to get out of town!” he hollered into the mouthpiece on top. “The sheriff says he’s going to kill you!”
“Or you, Mr. Thermopolis!” Costello hollered through the window.
“I need that guy Hoover and fast!”
“We don’t know where the BOI is around here!” Tom exclaimed.
“We can get them in Washington!”
Morning came to the diner and the rush was in full bloom. Maxie had only one employee and it was Misty McAllister. Misty was a young blond of average height. Her build was slim. She served, while he worked the kitchen.
A tall, dark young man walked through the southern door and stood rather nervously with his fedora in his hands. A customer hollered, “We don’t serve your kind in here, boy!” Maxie shot his eyes toward the ceiling with a sigh before turning toward the man by the door. “We serve coloreds in here,” he said, “at my counter you’re not a boy, you’re a man.”The customer rose to leave. “You better at least pay for the coffee,” Maxie said to the customer, who just abruptly left through the northern door. Maxie turned to the man “Sit down”, he said in a welcoming manner, “we just started serving breakfast.”
“Actually, sir, I came here to see if I can find a job.”
“What can you do?”
“Almost anything, sir, I worked hash houses down in Georgia, I just moved here from Atlanta.”
“Do you have a resume?”
The man removed a piece of paper from his pocket while walking to the counter. Maxie removed his reading glasses from his apron. “I see your name is Clarence Bushman,” he said, “we had a Carl Bushman working here until two years ago and he came from Georgia.”
“That’s my uncle, he told me to come and see you about employment.”
“Have you ever worked a counter?”
“I have and I’m very good at it.”
“Get ready to catch,” Maxie said before reaching under the back counter. He tossed Clarence an apron. “I’m going to be in the kitchen,” he said, “you’re working right here and don’t let nobody give you any guff and if they do I’ll eighty-six them.”
“Sure thing.”
“I don’t take guff and I try not to dish it out.”
“You aren’t one of those places that serve liquor?”
“I’m pleased to say we are not.”
Misty walked to the counter and introduced herself between pops of her gum. “Maxie will not sell anything illegal,” she said, “that’s the way his father brought him up.” She was close in age to Maxie with curly blond hair. “I worked for both of them,” she said, “and so did my aunt.”
“I think my uncle worked for his dad.”
“Then you know where the diner got its name from.”
“Max named it for his son.”
“You got it.”
No one in the diner could ignore the two black Model T sedans that rolled over the curb. Both cars parked next to each other. The passengers, eight men in black suits, entered and sat by the counter. One of them also carried a submachine gun. “All I need to see is one of those this morning,” Maxie remarked, “Tommy guns.”
“Can I help you gentlemen?” Clarence asked.
“We are here for breakfast,” one man said, “can you recommend something?”
“I hear Maxie’s Pancakes are the best in the Garden State.”
“That’s what we will all have with orange juice.”
“Eight orders of blowout patches with OJ!” Clarence called. Maxie repeated the call.
Misty leaned on the counter. “We really don’t like guns in this place,” she said. One of the men flipped his wallet to reveal a badge. “One of J. Edgar Hoover’s boys,” she said. “I know there’s someone running hooch here but I don’t know who.”
“Neither do we.”
“It’s the sheriff,” Maxie said, “that’s who.”
The leader, a tall hefty and dark haired man, apparently did not believe what he heard. “My guess is that you’re one of the criminal types,” he said, “that’s the only reason you would blame the law.” Maxie was confused about how to answer that question. “Who will you all be working with?” he asked. There was a moment of silence. “I think you know the answer to that,” the man replied, “Anthony Costello.” Maxie looked to him. “What’s your name, mister?” he asked. The man stood. “My name is Sam Harrison,” he replied, “and I’m the head of this group.”
“Well, Mr. Harrison, I’m willing to work with and let me level with you,” Maxie said. “I happen to know that he’s the one and if you guys don’t think I’m on the up and up you can ask my friend Tom Puglisi.”
“Is that who the person who is dealing it?”
“No, it ain’t.”