I’ve never considered myself a political animal, and I wasn’t an economist. But I was more than a simple gumshoe. Reading the theories of Keynes often gave me a headache. But I read enough to know that, when the government got (gets) involved in something, it can go to hell in a hurry.
For example, everyone’s aware the stock market crashed in October of ’29. Eight weeks later, unemployment peaked at nine percent. Over the next several months, joblessness ebbed at an irregular pace, down to 6.3 percent by the middle of 1930. So eight months after the crash, the country’s unemployment crisis had still not hit double digits. That June marked the initial massive government intervention into the emergency. Under President Hoover, the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act was passed. It was intended to lower the jobless rate. Within five months of the bill’s enactment, the country had a measure of those out of work of ten percent or more for the first time. From then to the writing of this story, it has never fallen below double digits. Not even for a single month.
So, if you ever wonder about my position on government involvement in anything, please re-read the paragraph above.
This tale took place during another prime illustration of the government’s mishandling of a situation–Prohibition–and just prior to the case in point previously mentioned.
* * *
Like many of my fellow citizens, I had to confess to the occasional desire for something stronger than lemonade to quench my thirst. My poison of choice was (and is) Jack Daniels. Unfortunately, thanks to the Federal effort to cause my death by dehydration, the commodity was scarce in my hometown in the late Fall of 1926. As it happened, an old chum passed through town around that time.
My poison of choice was (and is) Jack Daniels.
* * *
I was sitting on my preferred barstool in my favorite watering hole, Harry’s Paradise Tavern, focused on Harry Bittle’s “special coffee” in my mug. Just then, “Society” Sam Schuldt strolled into the joint, ankled across the floor, and plopped on the seat next to me.
Before I could put the double O on my new neighbor, he nudged me with an elbow. “Whaddya say, Snooper?”
I turned and busted out laughing at the sight of him. Sam always meant a good time was in the offing. We hadn’t seen each other in around eight months. I slapped him on the shoulder and called out, “Harry! Look what the cat’s dragged in!”
“Yeah, I see ‘em,” the barkeep managed unhappily. “You want something to drink, Sam? And are you gonna pay this time?”
Schuldt’s mouth dropped open. “Are you still pissed about that?”
“I ain’t no charity, bub! You drink, you pay! Period!”
“I got waylaid by the coppers when I went out to my heap for my billfold, I tell ya!”
“Yeah, sure.” Harry was not one to accept excuses: legit, lame, or otherwise.
“Hey, look, Harry, just to show you I can be a right gee, hang on a minute.” With that, the hatchet-faced fella bounded off the stool and disappeared out through the front door.
“Well,” Bittles chuckled, “at least I cut that bum off from stiffing me for drinks a second time. He ain’t foolin’ me none. Won’t see him again,” he scoffed.
The proprietor turned away and continued drying the mugs he served his special “joe” in. After a few minutes, Sam came back in carrying a cardboard box, which he gently sat on the counter. “Harry,” he whispered, looking over the saloon, “could you use this ‘imported’ whiskey, … ahem, …coffee?”
“What?” the barman exclaimed. He walked to the container and tried to look inside, but his short, portly stature prevented it. Meanwhile, Schuldt unloaded a dozen bottles of smuggled, first-rate booze onto the bar, using the box to shield the haul from the street. Harry was stunned.
“My guess, Gil, is you’re still partial to our buddy Jack Daniels,” he grinned, pulling two bottles of my favorite tonic from the box and sliding them to me.
It was my turn to be speechless. I then eased them across the counter to Bittles to stow with his windfall for my later use.
Harry responded to the man’s gesture first. “What gives, Sam?”
“I’m traveling from Detroit with a load of hooch intended for those parched souls further south. Thought I’d stop in and say hello to a few old pals. I parked my bucket in the alley.”
* * *
Allow me to back up for a minute and explain something. “Society” Schuldt didn’t derive his nickname owing to his place in our social structure. He’d come by it through his constant ability in the last five or six years to satisfy the wants of our city’s swells for the very best the bootleggers had to offer. He could often be found in the swankiest joints and at highbrow soirées doling out the quality giggle juice. And the dapper Sam always dressed the part. According to him, he was doing what Al Capone famously asserted was his mission: supplying a demand.
“Society” Schuldt didn’t derive his nickname owing to his place in our social structure.
* * *
While Harry stashed the liquor, Schuldt re-claimed his seat. Then, he explained he had a solid contact in the Detroit area who could connect him with a few lugs bringing the stuff in from Canada on a semi-regular basis. The outfit was slick enough that he’d encountered no problems with the Feds. And, according to his connection, a number of local cops were in the pockets of the rumrunners. He told us that’s what he’d been doing since we’d last seen him.
His story got me to thinking. I was flush at the moment, saving as I had been to buy another automobile. My ’23 Durant Runabout, which I’d bought second-hand, was nickel-and-diming me to death. I was ready for something new. Besides, a private investigator needed a boiler that was dependable.
A few customers wandered in and Harry moved to see to their needs. So I broached an idea with Schuldt.
“Say, Sam,” I began quietly, “what’s the likelihood I could get hold of a haul of that stuff from your contact in Detroit? I mean, me drive up and take a load right off the boat.”
“I dunno. There’s always risk involved. I’ve been damned lucky. You sure you want to try that, Gil?” I nodded firmly. “Well, I can ask. Let me warn you that the Detroit boys don’t care to deal with amateurs running booze.” He hitched a shoulder. “Anyway, the worse they can say is ‘no.’” After a second, he added, “I usually make my runs before the Detroit River freezes over.”
“I don’t imagine a frozen river slows commerce any,” I laughed.
“Oh, hell no. When it freezes, you may see anything from a single ice-skater towing a sled of eel juice to a loaded caravan of seventy-five cars making the short trek. Most are successful, some aren’t.” He sipped the “java” Harry had served him. Complementary java, I might add. “But if you’re going up this late in the year, be prepared for rough weather. Snow and plenty of it.” After a pause, he finished, “Let me think over how to approach them on the idea.”
While “Society” requested another round, I, too, pondered the notion. The thought of traveling a little out of the way to see my brother, Marty, who had played football for the Dayton Triangles since leaving the Coast Guard, occurred to me. It would have been an appealing plus. But then I recalled they’d finished their season late last month. This year ended with a losing record but was an improvement over the previous one’s winless campaign. I realized Marty was on his off-season job in Cleveland by this time.
Sam swung on his seat toward me. “Okay. Let me make a call for you, Gil.”
“I want to pick up a hoard of Jack but also get a load of whatever else they can sell me. I can use the cash from re-selling it here if I’m not stepping on your toes.”
He chuckled. “Hey, you’re not moving in on my territory. I’m headed south for now. It’s the local hard numbers you need to be wary of.”
“Yeah. I’ll worry about them if the issue arises.” Between our city’s north side Italian mob and the gang on the south end called The League, there was plenty to concern me. But, with several years of PI work under my belt, I was full of piss and vinegar in 1926.
“Okay. What name do you want to go by up there?”
“Come again?”
“I strongly recommend you use a fake moniker when dealing with these gorillas. They know me as Tom Leitzsey.” I chuckled because Thomas Leitzsey had been our math teacher one year. He was a funny character in his own right. “These gangsters play very rough if things go wrong. Even Capone struck a deal with their mob rather than fight them. Believe me, you want them to know as little as possible about you, including your hometown.”
“These gangsters play very rough if things go wrong.”
I nodded my understanding. “Okay. Give them the name Hal Daly.” It was a combination of two aliases I used when working a case.
My pal waggled his head and left to find a telephone booth where he could make a long-distance connection in private.
* * *
Less than an hour later, Schuldt swaggered into the joint, grinning broadly. He took his seat beside me and quietly said, “It’s done. You’re in, my friend.”
“That’s swell, Sam. I owe you.”
“That I’ll agree with, if you get back here with the merchandise and in one piece,” he breathed as he slid a slip of paper to me.
I turned it where I could read the thing. It contained a name, an address, and a telephone number written in Sam’s scrawl.
He tapped the paper with a manicured forefinger. “This Mannie’s the hood you’re gonna meet to get the product. The mug I called to set it up is named Johnny Reid. He’s what you might call a ‘liquor agent’ for the Purple Gang. Mannie’s a go-between for Johnny. You’ll only get together with Reid for the payoff. But be damned careful around them. They don’t trust anybody they don’t know intimately, and they’d just as soon chill you as look at you. Especially Mannie.
“But Reid’s nobody to mess with either. The story is he’d been a member of the Egan’s Rats mob in St. Louis before he moved to Detroit. Prior to him leaving St. Lou, he and his Rat friends got into a shooting war with a Sicilian gangster named Mike Dipisa. Dipisa was defeated, but he swore revenge. You don’t want to get caught in the middle of a shootout.”
I shook off the potential danger. Odds were against that happening. “What’s this address? Is this where I pick up the booze?”
“No. You’ll likely receive the hooch at the foot of Riopelle Street on the river. That address is for an apartment building called the El Moore. It’s a pretty ritzy joint. Mannie lives there. It’s a few blocks off Woodward Avenue. You’ve heard of Woodward Avenue, right?”
“Yeah,” I laughed aloud.
“What’s so funny, Gil?”
“Oh, I once knew a mug named Woodward. What a piece of work that egg was.”
Sam quickly returned to the subject at hand. “Anyway, depending on the date of your arrival and the timing of the delivery, you may have to hole up there with Mannie. He has a room set aside for just such situations. I’ve stayed there myself occasionally.” He made a vague gesture and, with a wry smile, added, “It’s okay for a short-term stay.
“Johnny said to plan on getting to Detroit on the twenty-third of this month. That’ll give him time to arrange for your Jack Daniels and the rest of the load. He said to tell you that the latter part of your haul will be whatever he can lay his hands on. But it’ll be good stuff.” The timing likely meant spending Christmas on the road, but it was fine with me. As the last piece of information, my friend gave me an estimate of the cash I’d need for the transaction. It was a stretch, but I figured I had a way to make it happen.
Then, Sam put a hand on my arm resting on the bar. His tone became very somber. “Gil, always remember to use the name Hal Daly. And never mention or even hint at where you’re from. I’d suggest carrying nothing on you that might reveal your true identity or hometown. One slipup could well mean curtains for you.” He sighed audibly. “Listen, we’ve been close pals for a long time. I don’t want to be the reason you end up behind the eight ball.” I nodded gratefully.
“Gil, always remember to use the name Hal Daly. And never mention or even hint at where you’re from.”
After a few more rounds of “coffee,” “Society” Sam moseyed out the door, headed for points south.
* * *
I spent the next several days making arrangements for the journey. The first item on my “to-do” list was a business conference with the proprietor of Harry’s Paradise Tavern. It took a powerful argument to convince my friend the operation was doable. After that, we worked a deal where, in exchange for his advance of part of the capital necessary to complete the transaction, he could have dibs on what alcohol I brought back. No doubt, he’d be reasonable in the quantity he might claim.
I had to let Harry know I was going to be absent for a few days, anyway. Bittles often joked that if I didn’t poke my head in the door several times a week for his refreshments, he checked the morgue for my remains.
My next order of business was locating a vehicle suitable for hauling what I hoped could be a substantial cache of liquor. My Durant was neither dependable enough nor of sufficient cargo space to make the trip I intended. Fortunately, my first stop resolved that problem.
Max Eberhardt, my German-born mechanic buddy, who spent much of his time and a lot of my money repairing my runabout, had a Liberty Truck he was willing to lend me for a short period. Luckily, it came with chains for the rear wheels, something I expected needing before my excursion to Michigan was finished. From the looks of the thing, it had seen its share of action in the AEF. But, not surprisingly because of Max’s know-how with heaps, it ran like a champ and would do just great for my purposes. We agreed I’d pick it up before I planned to leave for Detroit.
With that issue resolved, I dropped by my parents’ home to let my mother know of my absence. We talked and / or visited frequently, so I needed to tell her my plans. Okay, I didn’t reveal every detail of my trip–she wouldn’t have approved–, just that I’d be out of town for a short time. My alcoholic old man was somewhere around the place, but we rarely spoke. His health had deteriorated recently. After years of abuse during his drunken rages, sympathy for him was not in my heart. I left mom standing at the kitchen sink, softly singing along with George Olsen’s instrumental rendition of Always playing on her Victrola. She was musically inclined and had a beautiful voice, though her husband gave her little to sing about.
The next day, I had lunch with my copper pal, Rob Waddell. Rob was the guy who suggested that I try my hand at private investigation work. It was a brilliant notion, and I’d found a measure of success in the occupation. I never left the city without telling him. Don’t ask me why; it had just become my practice. As with my mother, I didn’t come close to filling him in on the true purpose of my sortie.
* * *
The day before I was to depart for Detroit, I flagged down a hack outside my apartment building and traveled to Max’s garage to get my ride. He’d already put the snow chains on the rear wheels in case I hit bad weather. From there I drove to a produce market where I purchased enough crates of fruit to fill what I figured could later be the back row of the vehicle’s bed. I intended for them to shield my cargo of booze from any prying eyes I might encounter on the return trip. Faint names of orchards and renderings of fruits were painted on ends of the wooden boxes. For the time being, they were loaded somewhat haphazardly.
I guessed that, even with minimal heavy weather and with the rattletrap’s top speed of fifteen miles per hour, it should take slightly over two full days of driving.
Early the next morning, I hit the highway for Michigan. Becoming familiar with the nuances of the unwieldy bucket took a little time. The speed was not what I wanted under the circumstances of this expedition. There would be no burning the road on this trip.
I stopped for the night at a point I estimated to be around one half the distance to Detroit. The accommodations were spartan, but suitable.
* * *
I pulled into the city limits of Detroit early the next evening. Though the weather was cold, with a blustery wind, there was not nearly the amount of snow I’d expected. Stopping to gas up, I used the pay station there and dialed the number Schuldt had given me.
A dame answered. “Yeah? Whaddya want?” she demanded with all the sweetness and delicacy of a Mark V tank.
“I’m trying to reach Mannie Lebowitz. He–”
“Yeah? Well, you reached the right flop, but he ain’t here now. Who is this?” she pressed.
“My name is Hal Daly. Mannie is expecting me. He–”
“Oh sure! He told me you might show up!” Like a ringmaster introducing the next act, her voice never dropped below a dull roar. I was surprised she even needed the blower. “Where are you?”
“I’m not sure. Not familiar with your city. Hang on.”
As I released the receiver to step out of the booth, I heard the broad screech, “Oh, swell, another rube!”
Ignoring her, I got the names of the streets intersecting my location from the boy pumping gasoline and passed them on to the twist on the other end of the wire. She gave me directions to their place, after which I gratefully disconnected.
After several starts and stops on the darkened roadways, I located the imposing El Moore at the corner of Second Avenue and West Alexandrine Street. I parked on Second, which appeared to be a side street when compared to Alexandrine. I crawled out and stretched my weary body, then grabbed the satchel which contained the cash for the booze.
I located the imposing El Moore at the corner of Second Avenue and West Alexandrine Street.
At Mannie’s apartment on the third floor, I pressed the doorbell button. Several times. Finally, the door was jerked open by a woman in a pink chiffon dressing gown with feather-boa trimming. “You Daly?” she asked abruptly.
“Yeah.”
“Mannie’s still not here,” the attractive frill huffed, “but you might as well come on in.” She stepped back and pulled the door open further. As I entered, she jutted her chin at a cellarette on the far wall. “Help yourself to a drink.”
“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.” I tossed the carryall full of dough on a divan and found a bottle of Jack Daniels. Pouring myself a serving, I asked, “Can I ladle you something?”
The hint of a smile played across her lovely Cupid’s-bow mouth. “Sure… I ain’t used to a handsome gentleman’s attention.” Her tone had decidedly softened. “I’ll have what you’re havin’.” I filled her order and handed it to her. It was followed with the offer of a Chesterfield. She accepted. I lit hers and one for myself. “I’m Marguerite,” she purred.
Now understand that, while I am nowhere close to Quasimodo in appearance, I’m no matinee idol either. Any time a broad complimented me with words such as “handsome,” it raised red flags for ulterior motives.
Nonetheless, I played along to get along. “I’m Hal Daly, but then, you already know that.”
“Make yourself comfortable. Kick your shoes off, Hal. No tellin’ when Mannie will be back. He may be gone all night. Is that your luggage?” she asked, indicating the satchel. I shook my head but made no reply. She didn’t need to know what the bag held. I took a seat on a large davenport next to my bundle of cash. Meanwhile, the looker walked back and forth across the room, her cigarette poised in the air like a high-toned movie actress might do. She gave me the impression of nervously trying to decide something. However, I was too damned tired to be concerned.
Marguerite stopped pacing suddenly and moved to the door, which she double locked. Then she glided to where I sat. With one arm folded across her waist and the other elbow resting on it, she sultrily held the fag up close to her lips. “I was just getting ready to get in the bath when you showed.” My hostess coyly brushed a lock of wavy brown hair off her small oval face. “Do you mind?”
“No. By all means, go on with your business.”
She peeked at me over her shoulder as she moved. The doll smoothly sashayed into another room and only partially closed the door. Lacking something better to fill my time, I grabbed a Photoplay magazine from the coffee table. Its cover featured a likeness of the moving picture actress Aileen Pringle. As reported by the dailies, beauty had filed for divorce from the Jamaica-landowner husband earlier in the year. The newshounds had also spread the rumor she was in line to be Mrs. H. L. Mencken, he of The Baltimore Sun fame. Yeah, I’ve always been something of a movie fan. I enjoy reading the story behind the story. I absentmindedly flipped through its pages and tried to relax until Mannie returned. After a prolonged period of relative quiet, the Ben Bernie tune Sleepy Time Gal came from the darkened space into which Marguerite had disappeared.
Following another fifteen minutes, Marguerite burst into the living room. Only panties and a brassiere covered her shapely figure, her hair wrapped in a towel. The dark outline of her sex was plainly visible. A trace of white powder clung to her nostrils. To say the least, I was stunned.
Only panties and a brassiere covered her shapely figure…
Arms akimbo, she slammed to a stop in front of me and yelled. “Whaddya lookin’ at, mister? Somethin’ ya like? Huh? Well, take a picture! It’ll last longer!” With that, she stormed back into the other room, slamming the door behind her.
While I worked my way through trying to understand what had just occurred, someone frantically rattled the doorknob, attempting to come into the apartment. When the person wasn’t successful, he began pounding on the entrance and yelling.
Marguerite didn’t respond to the commotion, so I got up, stuffed my satchel behind the couch, and unlocked the door. I cracked it open with my foot firmly planted against it, not knowing what to expect.
A stocky, muscular man crashed through the opening and me at the same time. He threw me around against the wall next to the portal. “Who the hell are you?” he screamed, his nostrils flaring in anger. His rank breath blew hot on my face. Though I was carrying my automatic, he had me pinned to where there was nothing I could do at that moment. The .45 he had forcibly jammed under my chin helped me come to that conclusion.
“I’m… um… I’m Hal Daly. You were expecting me, Mannie. Here to buy booze. Remember?” I croaked.
There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “Oh, yeah.” With that, he released his grip on my neck and stepped back. “Sorry,” he apologized half-heartedly, as he re-holstered his rod and closed the door. “I was scared somethin’ might have happened to my wife when I found the entrance locked.” He surveyed the apartment. “Is she here? You seen her?”
“Sure. You are Mannie Lebowitz, right?” He waggled his head. “Yeah, your wife let me in.” I adjusted my clothes and nodded toward the room she’d retreated to. “She’s in there.”
While he made a beeline for his woman, I returned to the sofa and waited. Slightly raised voices emanated from behind the closed door. After a few minutes, Mannie came out.
“Everything’s copacetic,” he offered sheepishly. “Marguerite’s goin’ to bed.” He walked over to the sideboard holding the liquor and filled a glass with whiskey. He shot me sideways glances laced with suspicion. “You want somethin’ to drink?”
“No thanks. I’ve had a long day behind the wheel, and I’m ready for bed myself. Is there somewhere I can crash for the night? I figure tomorrow’s going to be a busy one, unloading the hooch from the suppliers and loading it into my truck.” My comment was as much a statement of supposition as it was intended to solicit an idea of the status of my cargo.
“Oh, yeah, about that.” After a brief pause, he delivered the bad news. “Your shipment won’t be here until the twenty-fifth.” He turned and pointed to another door leading off the living room. “You can stay in the spare bedroom. Where’s your suitcase?” he asked, making a quick scan of the place.
“Your shipment won’t be here until the twenty-fifth.”
Instantaneously, I reconciled myself to spending two, maybe three nights in this loony bin. “It’s downstairs in my chariot. I’ll go get it.”
“Where’s your ‘chariot,’ anyway?”
“I parked it around the corner on Second Avenue. I thought it’d be sort of out of the way.”
Mannie walked to a window, pulled the curtain aside, and looked at the dark, deserted road below. “Good. That’ll keep.”
“Swell! Then, I’m going for my travel bag. I’ll be right back. Then I have a couple of questions regarding this process, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, kid.”
When I returned with my suitcase, we spent the next half hour discussing how things worked regarding getting the liquor and paying for it. It turned out that Mannie was to accompany me throughout the entire procedure, from delivery to the payment to Johnny Reid. Normally, they demanded the money up front, he explained. However, because Sam Schuldt had vouched for me, I’d pay Reid in person afterward.
“I don’t like it,” Lebowitz groused, referring to the timing of my payment, “but Johnny calls the shots. Just know that I’ll be on you like ugly on an ape.” With a sinister smirk, he patted his gat and cautioned me against getting any crazy notions of trying to stiff them. “Purples don’t play,” he vowed.
“Just know that I’ll be on you like ugly on an ape.”
After he joined his wife in their boudoir, I retrieved my duffel of cash and settled in the adjacent bedroom. Through the wall, I heard them talking quietly. Then the bedsprings creaked rhythmically under the weight of their bodies. My night’s sleep was fitful.
* * *
When I awoke the next morning and staggered out to the front room, I found Marguerite slurping coffee at the kitchen table, wearing a broad grin and damned little else. She advised me Mannie had already left to take care of business. That was unwelcomed news.
The darb offered me a free run of the kitchen to fix my breakfast. I took her up on the idea, scrambling a few eggs and making toast. The meal didn’t go down easy, what with the dame across the table eyeing me as if I were a porterhouse steak cooked to perfection.
Unfortunately, I knew no one in Detroit and had nowhere to go. To say the least, I spent the next thirty hours playing “musical rooms” to keep away from the gal. Finally, at around noon the following day, I gave up and called a taxi. I was determined not to screw this deal up, either figuratively or literally.
I had the cabby take me, satchel in hand, to the nearest moving picture house. There, I saw the matinee showing of Beau Geste. It was Ronald Colman and Alice Joyce at their best.
* * *
Mannie was waiting impatiently when I returned to the El Moore. “Where the hell have you been, Daly?”
“I took in a flicker to pass the time. I…um…had to get out for a while.”
At my words, a snarl crossed his mug. The beefy gangster snapped his head in the direction of Marguerite, who sat on a stuffed chair, with that pink chiffon thing draped around her and nursing a cocktail. From his profile, I saw his suspicious expression. With disapproval in his voice, he demanded, “Go get dressed, Maggie!” Returning to me, he exclaimed, “Your shipment is scheduled to arrive at any time! We’ve got to haul our asses to the river. Pronto!”
We hustled out the front of the building, where Mannie stopped suddenly and laughed. “If I’d known you were drivin’ that hunk of junk, I’d’ve never worried about you taking it on the lam.” He punched my shoulder playfully. “What’s top speed in that thing? Ten or twelve miles an hour?”
“Yeah. Something like that.” Regardless, I couldn’t wait to be back in it on the road headed home and away from the screwballs I had already encountered.
* * *
With me following Lebowitz in his new Packard, we reached the Detroit River at the base of Riopelle Street, where a group of men had just finished unloading a shipment in the fading light. I turned the truck over to a guy who backed it up to the right spot for the operation to start.
As I pulled the fruit containers out of the bed so the work could begin, Mannie strolled up beside me. He tossed me a hard glare. “Say, Hal, I’m sorry for the reception I gave you the other night. You married?” I shook my head. “Well, let me tell you, it’s rough bein’ wed to a beautiful woman. Oh, I know she loves me and the life I provide for her, but it’s tough.”
The man who’d parked my clunker joined us. He stomped his feet against the cold. He was a spindly fella with strong shoulders and sporting rimless glasses.
“Hal, this is Mel Cohen. Mel, Hal Daly. Mel’s in charge of this crew. They’ll load you as quick as they can. Then we’ll go to Johnny’s place for the payoff. Cohen, I’m going to the lookout car. Get goin’ and snap it up! I’ll be back.” He turned and started toward a distant automobile. “Buchalter!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Give the signal. And keep your eyes open.”
A man standing at the riverbank and holding a long gun acknowledged his orders and shifted his attention across the waterway. Within minutes, the gang of acolytes was stacking the cases of alcohol in the back of the dilapidated Liberty. I watched with eagerness as the containers of Jack Daniels and the other distillations passed me to the truck’s bed.
Within minutes, the gang of acolytes was stacking the cases of alcohol in the back of the dilapidated Liberty.
While I stood at the rear of my vehicle, Mel approached with a case of Scotch whiskey. “We’re almost done, Hal. I see ya don’t have a state tag on your jalopy. Ya got far to go?”
Random questions such as that brought Schuldt’s warnings to mind. “Not too far.”
“Where ya been stayin’ while you’re here?”
“I stayed at Mannie’s place. I–”
“Oh, yeah? You meet his wife?”
“Yeah.” The tone of my response may have said more than I wanted.
Mel grunted and looked around. Under his breath, he said, “Be careful. No man wants to admit what Lebowitz has to live with. He just don’t trust Maggie. And with good reason. She can be pretty wild at times. The truth is, Mannie married a nymphomaniac. Nowadays,” he snickered, “the nympho shows up for him way less than the maniac.”
A few things concerning Lebowitz’s setup now fell in place. I recalled Marguerite playing Sleepy Time Gal that first night. It occurred to me it was appropriate for a twist who might have been a sleepy-time girl at one point. I’d seen (and heard through the wall) both aspects of Maggie’s personality.
In short order, the job was done. With Mel’s help, I re-loaded the fruit-filled crates across the rear of the bed and lowered and secured the canvas flap. The gang moved on.
Mannie appeared next to me. “Got the cash?”
I nodded. “Of course!”
“Good! Let’s roll to Johnny’s” he ordered, slapping the side of the Liberty, “and try to keep up with me.”
* * *
Again, with Lebowitz leading the way, we made the drive toward Reid’s residence. It turned out to be further from the river than his place. By this time, we were in full darkness. Lebowitz parked on the street, and I pulled in behind him. I grabbed my money and climbed out. We met at the rear of his Packard. It had grown colder. The man was flapping his arms against his sides to warm himself. In the dim light from the surrounding houses, I saw his eyes cut to the satchel.
“This is where Johnny has an apartment. He said we’d meet him behind the building. C’mon.”
“Society” Sam’s admonitions raced through my brain again. A chill ran up my spine. Why did he want to meet in his backyard on a dark night? I touched the .40 automatic holstered under my left arm. It provided little solace.
Lit by the glow cast from their windows, we began walking along the opening between the houses toward the rear of the building. Suddenly, there was a blast and muzzle flash in front of us.
When the split-second shock wore off, my companion spun in my direction and growled. “Why you double-crossin’ son of a bitch!” He immediately slugged me with a very hard, practiced straight right. Considering the tepid light, it was remarkably well-placed. The blow caught me by surprise. The money bag flew from my grasp. My head snapped back. I collapsed backward, slammed against the brick exterior of a house, and fell to the ground. I felt warm blood dripping from my mouth.
“Why you double-crossin’ son of a bitch!”
Mannie’s eyes flicked around as he pulled his roscoe. “You set us up, you dirty bastard!” It seemed he somehow held me responsible for the developing situation. As he drew a bead on me, a goon carrying a sawed-off shotgun ran through the semidarkness in our direction. My would-be killer hesitated, momentarily distracted by the onrushing figure. When the third fellow reached us, he slammed the stock of the shotgun to the head of Lebowitz, who dropped like a tree. The stranger then produced a handgun and fired twice at the fallen man. Apparently, he never saw my form in the shadows on the other side of the alley, because he continued his escape to a waiting machine. Sometimes it pays to go unnoticed.
Windows began to open and people shouted. It was time for my timely departure. Fear adrenaline was scorching my nerves. I gathered my senses as best I could. After scrambling on all fours to locate my satchel, I groggily scurried toward my truck. A crack rang out as I moved. Glimpsing over my shoulder, I saw Mannie had stood and was taking potshots at me as he slowly stumbled toward me. By his movements, he appeared seriously wounded. Another round zipped past my noggin. My speed increased.
I anxiously hand-cranked my bucket to a start as my nemeses came ever closer, continuing to send lead in my direction. At least two rounds struck my vehicle. I pulled away from the curb and passed Mannie’s Packard as he reached it and fired his final shots at me. The last round tore through the cab’s canvas top.
Fortunately, I intercepted Woodward Avenue and located the way out of town I was seeking. For the next three hours, I got as much speed from the heap’s 52-horsepower motor as she could give me. Finally, when the epinephrine wore off, I pulled into a country side road and tried to sleep. I spent a white night in my vehicle.
* * *
Early the following morning found me easing my wheels into the parking area of a roadside diner. At the counter inside, I sucked down a half dozen cups of joe while I waited for my breakfast order. A couple of long-haul truckers sat several stools away from me, discussing a news report out of Detroit. The latest headline detailed the shotgun death of a reputed Purple Gang member named Johnny Reid. He’d been gunned down in the yard behind his residence. The coppers had no suspects in the killing.
The latest headline detailed the shotgun death of a reputed Purple Gang member named Johnny Reid.
They said another man, as yet unidentified, had been discovered shot to death in his new Packard, which had crashed through a residence’s wooden fence less than a mile from Reid’s murder scene. According to what the teamsters knew, the police had nothing to tie the two killings together.
Although a few things might connect me with the murders I left in my wake, the law had a long winter ahead searching for Hal Daly. Schuldt’s advice regarding not giving my real name had proven invaluable.
Lebowitz, the only mug I thought could have positively identified me, was brown bread. I figured, even if Mel got a good enough look to recognize me, he wouldn’t step forward and assist the bulls with their investigations. As for Marguerite, her proclivity to use snow hurt her credibility if she offered help to the coppers. Besides, to satisfy her lifestyle needs, she’d probably moved on from Mannie before his corpse was room temperature. Her physical desires might be a different issue. Any lug carrying a gold watch and wearing a pair of trousers would do.
It was a very interesting outcome. The way it stacked up, I had escaped the Motor City with the load of booze I’d been after and still had the cash I set out to buy it with. As a result, I was in a position to repay Harry the money he had advanced me and divvy some premium hooch his way. What he didn’t take, I’d sell to whoever might be in the market. At this stage of enforcement of the Volstead Act, my cargo should bring a swell price. Hey, I wasn’t proud of how the circumstances had evolved, but I sure as hell wasn’t going back to Detroit to try to square things with the Purple Gang.
I was in a position to repay Harry the money he had advanced me and divvy some premium hooch his way.
I still needed to hightail it to the security of my hometown. Back on the road, the events of the past several days replayed in my head. On more than one occasion, I’d thought my number was up. I had expected to be shaking hands with the angels any second. At least I hoped they would have been angels!
Regardless, my stretch in the profession of rumrunning was over. From here on, I’d stick strictly to the private investigation racket. ©
