Chapter Eleven

May 1933

 

A large bonfire lit a square in front of Berlin University last night.

The flames were not fed by logs or kerosene. Books were burned - books the Nazis have decided are “un-German”. And in Munich yesterday, thousands of school children watched as books described as were burned. “As you watch the fire burn these un-German books,” the children were told, “let it also burn into your hearts love of the Fatherland.”

 

Bill sighed as he closed the paper. He loved books. More than anything else it was what had kept him sane during his prison stretches, and the thoughts of burning books - any kinds of books - filled him with dismay.

He dropped the paper onto the floor and lay back on the sofa, his feet up on the armrest, and drew heavily on a cigarette. He coughed, and his chest hurt from the dryness of the cough. A metal ashtray lay on the floor, brimming with cigarette butts, spent matches and ash. Usually meticulous and tidy, Bill had recently been careless about his domestic standards. His heart was sinking rapidly and he couldn’t seem to do anything to block the fall into deep depression and apathy. He was desperately lonely. He longed to pick up the phone and call Louise, but knew it would be foolish. The police probably had the phone tapped.

Feeling the heat from the tip of the cigarette burning his fingers, he sat up quickly and ground it into the ashtray. He stared into space for several minutes, then recognized that he needed to drag himself out of this rut. He knew he couldn’t just sit around the apartment for the rest of the day. During the last two months he’d barely been out, except to pick up groceries and newspapers, and had spent most of his time reading or listening to the radio.

His apartment was on the third floor on East 97th, a district that tipped over into El Barrio, but at the same time was comfortably close to the more opulent streets below East 96th. It was a small but comfortable apartment and he’d been lucky in renting it, as few questions were asked once the landlord saw the color of his money. He’d lived here for more than three months now, and had rented it on the proceeds of three burglaries which netted him $3,000 dollars, once he’d paid Doyle what he owed. He now had only $2,000 dollars left, a substantial enough sum, but it wouldn’t last indefinitely and he needed to reconnoiter a few banks and start making plans. But he’d need some accomplices, and he knew that most of the joints where the criminal fraternity hung out was where he was most vulnerable and risked being caught.

He looked over at the window. A beam of sunlight streamed in, throwing a bright pool of warm yellow onto the drab carpet. After months of depressing rain and drizzle, sunshine was the tonic he needed. Suddenly, he snapped out of his ennui, and made up his mind that he was going to go out somewhere. Anywhere. He felt the need to walk in the long-awaited warm weather. But he had become so sedentary in recent months, that when he rose from the sofa, his body ached with the effort. He went over to a wall mirror and studied his reflection, smoothing his newly grown moustache with an index finger. The face that stared back at him was nothing like the police photograph on the wanted posters, and he seriously thought he could go to any police precinct and stand under one and nobody would recognize him.

He changed into a black, chalk stripe, double breasted suit, checked his appearance in the mirror before leaving, grabbed his hat, and made for the door. But there was something on his mind, something that made him stop and coincidentally stare at the copy of the New York Times that lay on the floor by the sofa. It was as if it was trying to tell him something. What was it? He looked at the date. 11th May, 1933. There was something about it that was. . .

Suddenly it came to him and he smacked the heel of his palm onto his forehead. Of course, it was Jenny’s birthday. His beautiful baby daughter was two years old today. How could he have forgotten such an important date? He should have sent her a gift. Or a card, at least. He remonstrated with himself for forgetting and wondered how he could rectify the oversight. Western Union. That was it. He’d send her a telegram. He realized that a telegram would be meaningless to a two year old. But he felt the need to send it anyway. Maybe in years to come, his lovely little girl might appreciate the telegram she’d received from her daddy on her birthday.

 

Bill had intended taking a long walk in the sunshine, maybe through Central Park, but after he’d sent Jenny the birthday telegram, he felt desperately lonely. So much so, that it seemed to hurt him physically, a pain that stretched across his chest. Or maybe that was the tobacco. Perhaps he was smoking too much. He made up his mind that he’d try and cut down on. As soon as he’d made this resolution, he couldn’t help but notice a neon sign for Lucky Strike cigarettes, saying: It’s toasted. Immediately he wanted to light up but resisted the urge.

Wearing his loneliness in the way he slouched along, shoulders hunched, hands embedded deeply in his pants’ pockets, he passed the Roseland Dancehall, where any man could get dance with a dime-a-dance hostess provided he had ten cents to spare. Although he hadn’t been on a dance floor for many years, Bill considered himself a reasonably able dancer, and he felt in need of some female company, even if it meant paying for the privilege. He realized it was still quite early, and things might not be in full swing yet. But inside the dancehall it was surprisingly busy, with dozens of men like him, desperate for some female company. But, he reminded himself, most were good honest men, maybe unemployed, waiting and hoping for Roosevelt’s New Deal to have some significant effect. Not living off the fruits of armed robbery like himself. These poor honest Joe’s had to cherish each dance and make each ten cents count. Onstage a band played ‘Stormy Weather,’ and a crooner sang smoothly into a closely held microphone. . . . “since my gal and I ain’t together, I’m weary all the time. . . “

Which echoed his feelings: weary all the time. He needed to put some action back into his life. The only times he felt truly alive was at high risk time when he was relieving a bank of its money, or when he was in the arms of a beautiful woman.

He purchased two dollars’ worth of tickets and looked around at the dancing couples. Right away he spotted a truly attractive girl, maybe in her mid-twenties, her brunette hair bobbed and shiny, with a cute little button nose and full lips. She was dancing with a tall, lanky guy, who stared down at her and grinned, moving zombie-like, as if he’d never danced with a real girl before and couldn’t believe his luck. When the number petered out the man looked awkward and lost, his smile fading as he backed away from her, nodding his thanks. Bill watched him carefully. He felt sorry for the guy. Shy and out of money. Using a dime to buy a fantasy that the attractive girl who danced with him was going to become his lover. Like most of the men at Roseland, hope was the one luxury he could afford.

As soon as the man had shuffled off, Bill went over to the girl, and handed her a ticket. ‘Care to dance?’ he said.

‘It’s why I’m here,’ she replied, slipping the ticket into a small purse strapped diagonally across one shoulder.

The band started playing a more up tempo number and she slid a hand into his, while he slid his other hand around her waist. She smelled vaguely of powder and roses and the linen of her dress felt cool to his touch, in spite of it being hot in the dance hall.

They danced a foxtrot, weaving in and out of other couples on the crowded dance floor, and only occasionally bumped against other dancers. Every time they did, his partner giggled.

‘How long is it since you danced?’ she asked him.

‘It’s been a while,’ he admitted. ‘But at least I haven’t stepped on your feet,’

Her eyes flashed teasingly as she looked into his. ‘Don’t count your chickens. ‘

Her attractiveness and easy manner were so disarming that he lost concentration and stepped on her toes.

‘See what I mean,’

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, and he felt a slight pressure on his hand as she squeezed it reassuringly. From then on he concentrated on the foxtrot, avoided looking into her eyes, and managed to dance with reasonable agility. As soon as the dance ended he took another ticket from his pocket and offered it to her.

‘My name’s Bill,’ he said.

‘Jean. Jean Courtney. ‘

The next number was ‘Love Letters in The Sand’, and Bill was relieved that it was slower. As they shuffled around the dance floor, Bill gazed into her eyes, making it obvious that he found her attractive.

‘So, Jean, where are you from?’

‘Pennsylvania. ‘

‘And what brings you to New York City?’

‘I want to pursue an acting career. ‘

You and hundreds of other girls, thought Bill. It must have shown on his face, because she asked him:

‘Is there something wrong with that?’

Feeling guilty for the negative thought, he said, ‘Of course not. I think that’s a great career to have. ‘

‘Then why did you frown?’

‘I wasn’t aware that I did. ‘

‘It was only a tiny frown, but a frown all the same. ‘

Her eyes twinkled as she spoke, and he was aware that he was being teased.

‘Please accept my apologies for the frown. I’ll try not to let it happen again. ‘

‘It’s your dance. You paid for it. You can frown all you want. ‘

He laughed.

‘And what do you do for a living, Bill?’

‘I sell insurance. ‘

‘You work for a particular company?’

‘Freelance. ‘

‘You must be pretty good at it. ‘

She ran his jacket lapel between her finger and thumb, and he realized she was referring to his expensive suit.

‘I get by. ‘

‘These are hard times. You don’t look as if you suffer much hardship. ‘

‘Well,’ he muttered, averting his gaze from hers, ‘I work hard, I guess. ‘

They danced in silence for a while. Just as the band were coming to the end of the number, Bill asked her if she’d like to have dinner with him some time. She seemed both amused and flattered by the offer.

‘Let me think about that,’ she said.

Bill, his confidence growing, smiled at her. ‘Meanwhile, can I buy you a soda?’

He could see her deliberating, assessing his interest in her, and he thought she was about to acquiesce when they were interrupted by a man in a striped blazer. He looked hale and hearty, an out-of-towner putting on a show of enjoying himself.

‘Great band,’ he announced. ‘Mind if I ask the little lady for a dance?’

‘Sure. Go ahead,’ said Bill, trying not to sound too miffed.

The man handed over his ticket. ‘May I have the next dance, Miss?’

The band struck up with ‘I Got Rhythm’, and Bill watched Jean and her partner for a bit. The man was a much better dancer than him, and Bill felt disappointed. If it was a case of prowess on the dance floor, he hadn’t been much of a catch. He decided he needed more practice and asked another girl to dance. This time he concentrated hard on dancing, paying little attention to his partner, and his co-ordination and rhythm seemed to improve. He had three more dances after that, each time with different girls, so that he could adapt to a variety of styles and movement. Then he decided he’d ask Jean for another dance. He cast his eyes round, focusing on all the hostesses in turn. He couldn’t seem to single her out at all. Then he spotted her at a corner of the dance hall, talking to a man with dark, slick-backed hair. There was something familiar about him. Bill stared for some time before he placed him, and watched while the man smiled and charmed Jean, waving his hands about and telling his usual lies. Weaving between dancing couples, Bill hurried over to rescue her. As he arrived, the man was taking out a pencil and small notepad and was about to get her telephone number or address. Bill tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Hello, Frankie. ‘

The man turned to look at Bill, and seemed not to recognise him.

‘Who are you?’ he said. Any congeniality that had been put on for Jean’s benefit, had vanished.

‘This here’s my cousin Jean, Frankie. ‘ said Bill. Then turning to Jean, he told her, ‘This is Frankie Marshall. Frankie acquires women to work in one of his, shall we say, houses of ill repute. ‘

Jean’s mouth fell open. ‘He told me he was a theatre producer. ‘

Bill laughed humorlessly. ‘It’s his opening gambit. The only thing Frankie produces is women for clients. ‘

The pimp regarded Bill with loathing, and squinted as he tried to place him. ‘If I knew who you were, I’d tell you to mind your own business,’

Unruffled, Bill told him, ‘I worked for the Dutchman a few years back. I remember you provided girls for him. These were some of the classier types. Not your usual three dollar hookers. And don’t tell me to mind my own business, Frankie. Jean’s my cousin. And it is my business. ‘

Perhaps it was the mention of working for Dutch Schultz that did it, but the pimp shrugged hugely, and said, ‘Okay. No offence, pal. No offence. ‘

He patted Bill on the shoulder, as if they were the best of friends, then vanished into the throng that were milling about waiting for the next dance.

Jean stared at Bill for a long time before speaking, and he could tell there were dozens of thoughts flitting through her mind connected with the incident.

‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘for rescuing me. That man I take it was a pimp. ‘

Bill nodded. ‘One of the lowest of maggots in this big apple. ‘

‘And what about you, Bill?’

He raised his eyebrows quizzically, and waited for what he knew was coming.

‘How is it you seemed to know him so well? Did you sell him some life insurance?’

Bill grinned at her. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘Why don’t I tell you about it over dinner. ‘