Saturday was the busiest day of the week in Galveston. Tourists there for the weekend swarmed the town sight-seeing and visiting the amusement piers on the beach. Stores were crowded with shoppers and traffic jams were constant on the Strand. The police were hard-pressed to control the circuslike atmosphere.
The People’s Bank & Trust, like other businesses, stayed open six days a week. A large segment of the bank’s customers were workingmen, struggling to make ends meet, and rushed in on Saturday to cash their paychecks and catch up on mortgage payments. Long lines began forming at the cashier cages soon after the noon hour.
Durant was technically the new president of the bank. Yet he asked few questions and left daily financial operations to Ira Aldridge. After his meeting with Magruder, he had explained the situation to Aldridge, and hardly to his surprise, the older man’s reaction was somewhat euphoric. Aldridge was clearly delighted with the turn of events.
“William Magruder is a scoundrel,” he’d observed with obvious relish. “He’ll try to steal the bank out from under you. He has all the ethics of a jellyfish.”
“That won’t happen,” Durant had avowed. “I’ll just have to find another buyer.”
“Earl, I’d say your chances are somewhere between slim and none. No one wants to compete with Magruder in his own backyard. He’s simply too powerful.”
Aldridge had nonetheless put together a list of banks on the mainland. From thirty years in the business, he knew the executive officers of every financial institution in southern Texas. He allowed Durant to use his name as an entrée, and agreed to stay on if the bank was sold to an outside party. He expressed the opinion that the likelihood was on the order of snowballs in hell.
Today, as he had for the past two days, Durant was working the phone. So far, he had called bankers in the towns of Hitchcock, La Marque, Santa Fe, and Texas City. The response in each instance had been a polite but very definite lack of interest, and by now, he had spoken with the presidents of seven banks. Disappointed, though undeterred, he had exhausted the list of banks along the coastline. He was calling institutions farther inland this morning.
The man on the line now was Horace Taylor, president of a bank in Dickinson. “Look, Mr. Taylor,” Durant said. “I’d be happy for you to audit the books and see for yourself. I know you’ll find it fair value for the price.”
“Not questioning value,” Taylor said on the staticky line. “I’ve known Ira Aldridge most of my life, and he’s honest as they come. If he says it’s worth it, then it’s worth it.”
“Why don’t I drive up there Monday and let’s talk about it? I’ll even bring Ira along if you like.”
“Mr. Durant, it’d be a long drive for nothing. I’m not the first banker you’ve approached, am I?”
“No, sir, you’re not.”
“And I’d venture to say they’ve all told you the same thing. Nobody wants any part of Galveston because of that sorry bastard William Magruder. Am I right?”
“Well, most of them called him a son of a bitch. But that’s been the general thought.”
“You’ve got a tough row to hoe,” Taylor said. “I suspect you’ll have a deuce of a time finding a buyer. I wouldn’t tangle with Magruder for all the tea in China.”
The conversation ended with Taylor wishing him well. Durant hung up the phone and slumped back in his chair. He stared at the list of names on the desk, all too aware that it was growing shorter by the minute. Dickinson was twenty miles north of Galveston, and apparently that wasn’t far enough. No one cared—or dared—to take on William Magruder.
The door opened. Catherine Ludlow stepped into the office carrying a cup of coffee. She was wearing a dark skirt and a white round-collared blouse, with a little blue grosgrain bow at the throat. The outfit showed off her figure without being obvious, and he thought she looked cute as hell. She placed the cup of coffee on the desk.
“Time for some java,” she said brightly. “How’s it going?”
“More of the same,” Durant admitted. “You’d think they’re all reading off the same script. Always ends with ‘thanks, but no thanks.’ ”
“You must be getting discouraged.”
“No, I’m a regular brute for punishment. I’ll find a buyer yet.”
She lowered her eyes. “I really shouldn’t say this. Mr. Aldridge wouldn’t like it… .”
“Go ahead,” Durant coaxed her. “I’m the original Silent Sam.”
“Well—” She looked at him, and he was suddenly aware of the larkspur blue of her eyes. “Mr. Aldridge truly, truly wants you to take over the bank. He says you’re your uncle all over again.” She smiled shyly. “And I think so, too.”
“I appreciate the sentiment. But it wouldn’t work out in a million years. I’m not interested in being a banker.”
“Mr. Aldridge says you’re a stuntman in moving pictures. That must be fascinating.”
“Why, do you enjoy the movies?”
“Oh, do I!” she said engagingly. “I see every picture that comes to the Bijou. That’s our movie theater.”
“I saw it when I was walking around town.”
“Do you know any of the—?”
A man appeared in the doorway. Durant’s first impression was that he would be perfect for moving pictures. He was unbearably handsome, with eyes so green they glittered like gems. Aldridge, flushed with anger, was right behind him.
“I tried to tell him he couldn’t come in here. He just barged on past me.”
Durant got to his feet. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem at all, Mr. Durant. I’m Jack Nolan and I’d like to talk with you. In private.”
“Jack Nolan, the gangster!” Aldridge shouted. “He’s the hatchet man for the mobsters that run Galveston.”
Nolan looked wounded. “Give a fella a break, old man. You might hurt my feelings.”
“Ira. Catherine.” Durant got their attention. “Would you mind stepping outside? I’ll talk to Mr. Nolan alone.”
Aldridge waited at the door until Catherine went out. He gave Durant a concerned look, clearly reluctant to leave, and then closed the door. Durant motioned to a chair.
“I’ve never met a gangster,” he said as Nolan seated himself. “Or was Mr. Aldridge mistaken?”
Nolan rocked his hand, fingers splayed. “I work at the Hollywood Club. Hottest spot in town.”
“I heard Al Jolson’s opening tonight.”
“Come on by and be my guest. I’ll save you a good table.”
“I get the feeling you’re not here to talk about show business. What can I do for you, Mr. Nolan?”
“Let’s talk about your bank,” Nolan said casually. “The people I work for, they’re friends of William Magruder. They think you ought to sell him the bank—at his price.”
“Well, that’s a twist,” Durant said, openly surprised. “Magruder in bed with the mob. One hand washes the other, is that it?”
“Don’t worry yourself about that. What’s important here is your health, follow me? You need to put Galveston behind you.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Nolan?”
“I’m delivering a message, and it’s real simple. Take the money and run.”
“And if I don’t?”
Nolan eased his suit jacket aside. The Colt revolver, nestled in the shoulder holster, spoke for itself. “Save yourself some grief, chum. Nobody wants trouble.”
“I’ll give you a choice,” Durant said with a hard stare. “Pull that gun and I’ll take it away from you. Or you can hit the road. Which is it?”
“You ought to get your hearing checked.”
“You’re the one that’s not listening. What’ll it be?”
“I’ll see you around, tough guy. Real soon.”
Nolan rose with a tight smile and walked to the door. As he moved through the bank, Aldridge and Catherine hurried into the office. Durant gave them a funny look, shook his head. A ghost of a grin touched his mouth.
“Try this on for size,” he said. “The mob’s playing fetch and carry for Magruder. I’ve been warned to sell him the bank—or else.”
“Or else what?” Aldridge demanded. “Are you saying Nolan threatened you?”
“Yeah, I think it qualified as a threat.”
“Good Lord!” Catherine said on a sudden intake of breath. “What will you do?”
“Just what I intended to do,” Durant said. “Sell the bank to somebody on the mainland.”
Aldridge frowned. “I wouldn’t take it lightly if I were you. These are dangerous men, very dangerous indeed.” He paused, his eyes dark with fear. “They might well do you harm … great harm.”
“Ira, I guess I’ll have to take my chances. I never learned how to cut and run.”
Catherine thought he was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. Then, looking closer, she saw something in the cast of his face. Something implacable and cold.
Her heart went out to him, and she wished he would run and keep on running. Yet she somehow knew he wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.
She wondered if Diamond Jack Nolan knew it as well.
The Turf Club was packed. Saturday was a big day for the sporting crowd, particularly on the opening day of football season. The horse tracks were still open as well, and several important races were scheduled around the country. The betting cages were lined with men waiting to get down a wager.
Nolan paused halfway across the room. He ignored the hubbub of conversation, and stood for a moment studying the tote board. He saw that the Chicago Bears were playing the New York Giants in the Windy City that afternoon. The Bears were favored by five points, and he idly wondered if anyone would bet against Red Grange. But then, on second thought, he knew it was a bookmaker’s dream. The suckers always took the long odds.
Joe Reed, the elevator operator, greeted him with a loopy grin. “How’s tricks, Jack? Sleep late, did you?”
“Don’t I wish,” Nolan said. “Out and about on a little business.”
“Well, business before pleasure, that’s our motto. Gotta keep the gelt rollin’ in.”
The car lurched upward. The interior walls were mirrored in an Art Deco design, and Nolan’s gaze was drawn to the older man’s reflected image. Reed was in his late forties, with a lung condition, and he’d been retired to elevator operator. In his heyday, he had been a rough customer, one of many strong-arm boys for the mob. Time and asthma had sapped his strength.
Nolan thought it spoke well of Quinn and Voight. Rather than give Reed the boot, they had pensioned him off as an elevator operator. There were seven men on the payroll in the same situation, men who now ran errands, or answered telephones, or worked the betting cages. Still, while he respected the benevolence of his bosses, he was determined never to end up as an elevator operator. There were better ways to die, and quicker.
On the third floor, Nolan walked along the hallway. Elmer Spadden, the ape who guarded the office door, would never wind up on an elevator either. Of all the men in the organization, Nolan gave Spadden and Turk McGuire a show of respect. He feared no man, but he’d seen them in action, and he knew he couldn’t whip either one in a fight. Before it came to that he would resort to a gun, and he liked them too much. They reminded him of overgrown boys with an aptitude for breaking bones.
Quinn and Voight were seated at their desks in the office. Saturday was their most hectic day, busy from morning until late at night with the action at the Turf Club and the crowds jamming the Hollywood Club. Earlier, he’d phoned and told them he planned to drop by the People’s Bank & Trust. They were expecting results.
“How’d it go?” Voight asked. “Durant ready to sign over the bank?”
Nolan took a chair. “I’d have to say he surprised me. He’s a cool one.”
“What happened?”
“Well, for openers, he doesn’t scare. I gave him the pitch and he never blinked an eye. Told me to hit the road.”
“I’ll be damned,” Voight said, amazed. “Not losing your touch, are you, Jack?”
“You be the judge,” Nolan countered. “You know how you accidentally-on-purpose show a man your gun? Just to put him in the right frame of mind?”
“Yeah, so?”
“I showed him mine and he threatened to take it away from me. How’s that for brass balls?”
Voight and Quinn were shocked. Their years on the Island had made them masters of extortion and intimidation, overlords who were never challenged. What they’d just heard mocked their authority, insulted them. Their reaction was predictable.
“Does he know who we are?” Quinn said hotly. “Does he know we run this Island?”
“Aldridge told him,” Nolan replied. “Followed me through the door and told him I’m the hatchet man for the mob. That got things off to a fast start.”
“I’m sure,” Quinn said. “You didn’t let Aldridge stick around, did you?”
“Didn’t have to lift a finger. Durant shooed him out of the office pretty as you please. Everything said was said in private.”
“So you told him we represent Magruder and it’s in his best interests to sell. Does that cover it?”
“More or less,” Nolan said. “I dropped the hint it’s not healthy for him on the Island. Told him to take the money and run.”
“And?”
“He as much as told me to stuff it.”
Quinn and Voight exchanged a look. Nolan knew what they were thinking, for he’d had the same thought himself. But it was not his place to point out the obvious, or step on their authority. He waited for them to speak.
Voight took the lead. “No way we can keep this from getting out. People are gonna hear a wise-ass nobody told us to go screw. We’ve got to turn that around.”
“And quickly,” Quinn added. “We gave our word to Bill Magruder. We have to deliver.”
“Magruder’s second on my list,” Voight said. “Durant’s made us look bad, and I won’t have it. We’ll send a message to the whole damn Island. Nobody fucks with the organization.”
Nolan was always amused by the euphemism. Everyone on the Island, and the mainland as well, referred to them as the mob. The Texas Rangers, and the occasional reformer, labeled them gangsters and racketeers. Voight and Quinn, who considered themselves businessmen, opted for a more respectable term. Impervious to the irony, they called it the organization.
“Dutch, I think you’re right,” Quinn said. “What we need here is an object lesson. One that will impress our associates.”
Voight nodded soberly. “Hoods and bootleggers understand only one thing, and that’s cracked heads. We’ll give them a little reminder not to step out of line.”
Nolan shook a cigarette from a pack of Lucky Strikes. He lit up with a gold lighter and exhaled a streamer of smoke. He looked at his bosses.
“Why go halfway?” he said, as though offering a suggestion. “Why not clip Durant and leave him dead on the street? That’ll send the message loud and clear.”
“No, I think not,” Quinn said quickly. “Magruder has a weak stomach when it comes to killing. He was very definite on the point.”
“The hell with him,” Voight growled. “We’re the ones with egg on our faces. Jack’s got the right idea.”
Quinn shook his head. “Dutch, it just won’t do. I agreed to the terms with Magruder, and that’s that.” His expression was stolid. “We have to stick with the original plan.”
Voight was reluctant to concede the point. But he would never compromise his partner’s honor, and dismissed it with a wave of his hand. His gaze settled on Nolan.
“We’ll do it Ollie’s way,” he said. “Catch Durant on the street, lots of witnesses, out in the open. Let everybody see what happens when we’re crossed.”
Nolan took a drag on his cigarette. “How bad do you want him hurt?”
“Stop just short of killing him. Use McGuire and Spadden for the job. They do good work.”
“When do you want it done?”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Quinn said, as though thinking out loud. “No need to get the preachers harping about violence on the Sabbath. Wait till Monday.”
“Monday, it is,” Nolan said. “Anything else?”
Quinn checked his watch and suddenly jumped to his feet. “Dutch, will you take it from here? Jolson starts rehearsal with the band at one o’clock. I want to be there.”
“Leave it to me and Jack.”
A moment of silence slipped past as Quinn hurried out the door. Voight fired up a cigar in a thick wad of smoke. He laughed with satiric humor.
“What a joke. Magruder wants to play dirty, but with rules, for chrissake! By all rights, we ought to ice Durant.”
“I’d second the motion, boss. Too bad we’ve got our hands tied.”
“Just make sure you bust his big brass balls. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
A picture of McGuire and Spadden at work flashed through Nolan’s mind. He thought Earl Durant would wish he was dead.
The spotlights arced through a sky bright with stars. A warm evening breeze wafted in off the Gulf, the rolling waves of high tide pounding the beach. Far out across the darkened waters a streak of lightning briefly lit the horizon.
The Hollywood Club was chaos in motion. A long line of expensive automobiles dropped off guests from as far away as Colorado and New Mexico. The ladies were clad in evening gowns, dripping with jewels, and the men wore white tie and tails. They were drawn there, in all the glitter and crush, by a once-in-a-lifetime occasion. Tonight was opening night for the man billed as “The World’s Greatest Entertainer.”
The club was sold out. Tickets were thirty dollars, an outrageous price for the time, and did not include dinner or drinks. Still, the clamor for admission kept the phones jangling and even the lounge by the casino was filled to capacity. The crowd, apart from those few who had been to New York, knew Jolson only by his radio show or his records. They were there to see him in person—to actually see him perform—to say they had attended opening night. The air was electric with excitement.
Quinn was in his element. He was the consummate showman, and never more alive than when he was staging an extravaganza. His vigor was contagious, infecting every employee of the club with pulsing enthusiasm. His charm, cranked up several notches, overwhelmed arriving guests and the raft of newsmen there to cover the event. He dispensed bottles of champagne to the favored few, constantly on the move, hopping from table to table, shaking men’s hands and beguiling their ladies. He was everywhere at once, never still.
Dutch Voight, on the other hand, watched it all from the hallway by the lounge. He was still of the very strong opinion that Jolson had picked their pockets; but he begrudged his partner none of the glamour or the accolades from customers and press alike. He and Quinn had fought their way to the top, all too often in the literal sense, and tonight was yet another affirmation that everything on the Island, legitimate or otherwise, revolved around their enterprise. As for Al Jolson, he was pragmatic, perhaps a little philosophical. He knew the casino would have a record night.
The show was to begin at eight o’clock. A few minutes before the hour, Quinn crossed the dance floor and made his way backstage. He found Ben Pollack, the bandleader, talking with some of the musicians off to the side of the bandstand. Pollack, a dandy himself, was quick to admire Quinn’s white dinner jacket, lavishly tailored from silk shantung and set off by a scarlet boutonniere. Quinn, who was usually vain to a fault about his appearance, sloughed off the compliment. His interest was fixed on the star of the show.
“Quite a crowd,” he said, moving fluidly into a non sequitur. “How’d you think Jolson sounded in rehearsal?”
Pollack laughed. “Ollie, c’mon, stop worrying. You asked me that right after rehearsal.”
“I did?” Quinn drew a blank. “What’d you say?”
“What everybody in the band says. He’s never been in better voice.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I thought. I saw him perform at the Winter Garden in June, when I was in New York. I think he sounded even better in rehearsal.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
Pollack patted him on the shoulder. “You told me the same thing, almost word for word, this afternoon. Calm down, Ollie. Everything’s fine.”
“Who’s worried? I believe I’ll have a word with Al. Wish him luck.”
“Careful, Ollie.”
“Careful of what?”
“Don’t make him as nervous as you are.”
“Who’s nervous?”
Quinn rushed off backstage. Jolson’s dressing room was along a corridor with rooms where band members and entertainers changed, and a lounge where they could relax between acts. A gold star was affixed to one of the doors, and below it, painted in gold script, the words “Al Jolson.” Quinn rapped lightly on the door.
“C’mon in, it’s open.”
The dressing room was appointed with a plush couch and an easy chair, a mirrored makeup table, and a tiled bathroom. Jolson was seated before the mirror, putting the finishing touches on his makeup. He glanced at Quinn in the mirror.
“Hey there, kiddo. How’s the crowd?”
“Full house,” Quinn said. “You packed them in, Al.”
“What the hey, I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread! I always pack ’em in.”
Jolson dabbed greasepaint on his nose. He was made up in blackface, with a kinky black wig, his mouth and eyes outlined in clown white. To complete the costume, he wore a baggy black suit, a white shirt with a floppy black bow tie, and white gloves. He’d gotten his start in minstrel shows on the burlesque circuit, and later found it drew raves on Broadway. Blackface was his signature act in the world of show business.
“Everything all right?” Quinn asked anxiously. “How are you feeling?”
“Top of the world!”
“Can I get you anything?”
“Not unless you’ve got a blonde stashed in your pocket.”
“No, sorry, Al. No blondes.”
“Whatta way to treat a star!”
Jolson was at the height of his fame. He was forty years old, charismatic and full of vigor, completely taken with himself. The fact that Quinn was a mobster, and probably had people killed on the slightest whim, impressed him not in the least. He treated it all with jocular insouciance.
“Well—” Quinn hesitated, uncertain how to make his exit. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do?”
“I’ve got my pipes tuned and I’m truckin’ along to the melody. I’ll lay ’em in the aisles.”
“Well, then, as they say in the theater, break a leg, Al.”
Jolson mugged a blackface grin. “Hang on tight, sport. We’re off and runnin’!”
Quinn gave a thumbs-up sign of victory. He went out the door, rushing across the backstage area, and waved to Pollack and the orchestra as they moved onto the bandstand. In the nightclub, he table-hopped his way through the crowd, laughing and pumping hands. His jitters on opening night were linked to a superstition begun with the first act ever to play the Hollywood Club. He always stationed himself at the rear of the room.
Maxine was waiting for him. She wore a silver lamé evening gown, with sapphires at her throat, her flaxen hair piled atop her head in a French twist. She took his arm with a dazzling smile.
“Oh, it’s just swell, boopsie. What a crowd!”
“I know,” Quinn mumbled. “We could’ve sold out twice over.”
She plumped her hair. “Do you like my dress? You haven’t said a word all night.”
“Yeah, sure, you look swell.”
“A girl likes to be told once in awhile, you know. I bought this dress especially for you.”
“Maxie, you look like a million dollars. I’m trying to concentrate on the show.”
“Oh, stop worrying, sugar. I mean, after all, you’ve got Al Jolson!”
“Cross your fingers, anyway.”
A murmur swept through the audience as the houselights dimmed. The stage was faintly lit, and as a hush settled over the room, Pollack raised his baton. The orchestra broke out in a rollicking tune.
Jolson bounded onto the stage. A brilliant spotlight followed him as he opened with Swanee. His voice was strong, trained to fill the old vaudeville halls, and he worked without a microphone. He pranced around the stage, white eyes rolling merrily behind blackface, belting out the song. His performance was charged with vitality, energized by raw emotion.
The audience roared as the last note faded. Jolson paused at center stage, framed in the spotlight, and boomed his trademark quip. “Folks, you ain’t heard nothin’ yet!”
The orchestra segued into Mammy. Jolson’s voice took on a mournful quality and his features seemed wrought with angst as he warbled the lyrics of a son lamenting for his mother. On the last stanza, he dropped to his knees on a polished ramp attached to the front of the stage. He slid down the ramp, halting in the center of the dance floor, arms spread wide, moist eyes glistening in the spotlight. His anguished voice quavered on the final line.
“My … my … mammmy!”
The crowd went mad. Women wept, men swallowed their tears, all of them on their feet, applauding wildly. Quinn whooped and shouted, grabbed Maxine in a tight hug. His face blazed with excitement.
Jolson held them enthralled for the next two hours.