Jimmy the Stick (2 page)

The big cop pushed away from the bar and yelled, “Clear out. Now.” He turned to me, his face clouded, eyes wide and crazy, and yelled even louder, “You first.”

Knocking over tables and chairs, he bulled his way to the back. He pulled something pale and fist-sized out of his coat pocket and smacked me with it twice. I learned later that it was a sap made from the foot of a silk stocking filled with sand. He kept it in a knotted white sock. Hurt like hell, and he could slug you a lot harder with that thing than he could with a regular spring steel sap. Hit a guy that hard with a steel sap and you'll kill him, punch a hole in his skull. This way he got me across each temple. Two more blows to the back of the head laid me facedown into the newspapers. My cane clattered to the floor and he went to work on my ribs and kidneys. He wanted to hurt me bad and he didn't want it to show. The place cleared out pretty quick after that.

Frenchy reached for the hog leg under the bar but thought better of it, and stepped back without touching it. You don't shoot cops, not even crazy cops.

By the time the guy was finished, I was barely conscious and everything looked foggy. My good leg was weak, and the bad one had become useless. He grabbed me by the belt, hauled me out the door and up the steps to the street, and threw me into the backseat of his car. He tried to book me at the Forty-Seventh Street station, and even though I was still half screwy from the beating, I knew we were in the wrong precinct. So did the desk sergeant. He frequented my place, but he wasn't going to argue with the angry detective. While the big guy wrote up the arrest report, they took me to the back for fingerprints and pictures. The mug shot showed black hair, dark eyes, a thin crooked nose, and a necktie skewed to one side. I saw it later. Like most mug shots, it made me look sullen and stupid. I was neither, but a good beating can do that to a guy. They took their time, and when we were finished, the big detective had disappeared without another word to anyone. The cops who knew me were apologetic.

The desk sergeant held the messy arrest report between a finger and a thumb like he didn't want to touch the paper, and said it was too late to do anything about it. “I called the guys at Thirtieth Street, where you shoulda been brought if this was a serious beef, which I don't think it is. They don't know nothing either. Thing to do,” he said, “is just wait here, if that's OK with you, Jimmy. I guess we gotta hold you for a while. Anybody you want to call?”

“Nah, Frenchy'll call my mouthpiece, Jacobson. He'll call the station house and work it out. I'll wait for them. Who the hell was that guy?”

“Never seen him before and I can't even read his goddamn name. Did things get out of hand at your place tonight?”

“No. One minute it's a quiet Tuesday night, the next that big son of a bitch is flashing a badge and cracking my head.” Fatigue rolled over me and I couldn't think.

The sergeant shook his head. “Go figure. Look, you want a holding cell or the interrogation room? Personally, I use the interrogation room to catch my winks. It's got a bench you can sleep on and nobody'll bother you there. You want something to eat?”

The windowless room also had a wooden table, an ashtray, a goose-necked lamp, and three straight-backed chairs. The desk sergeant brought me a dry baloney sandwich and a cup of coffee. He said not to worry, they were taking care of things. I thanked him for the coffee and the sandwich and worried. None of it made any damn sense at all. But the room was warm and dark and it didn't smell too bad. So I folded my suit coat into a pillow and paid no attention to the muted buzz of activity out in the hall. As I sank into sleep, I saw the ghost of Mother Moon floating up in a sweet coil of opium fumes, and heard her sharp witch's laugh of a voice saying, “It's a crazy world, Jimmy my boy, and there's nothing to be done for it.”

Hours later another cop, a younger guy I didn't know, brought me a second dry baloney sandwich and cold coffee. If I had been firing on all cylinders, I'd have noticed how preoccupied the kid was. I guess I ate the sandwich and went right back to sleep, because I don't remember anything else, and I never sleep that long at a stretch. The young cop woke me again at seven thirty Wednesday evening and said that I'd been sprung. My lawyer was waiting out front.

Trying to make myself presentable, I straightened my tie and buttoned my wrinkled double-breasted before I gimped through the busy station and down the steps to the cold, rainy street.

Outside, I expected to find my mouthpiece Ira Jacobson, but he wasn't there. Instead, Dixie Davis was standing on the sidewalk next to his car, an idling Packard with a driver at the wheel. That's when I got the first glimmer that I was involved in something bigger than a crazy cop locking down a righteous speak.

Befitting the best mob lawyer in the city, or at least the most expensive, Dixie was decked out in a gray overcoat with a white silk muffler neatly crossed beneath the velvet collar. He wore a homburg and leather gloves.

He didn't smile, but he sounded friendly enough. “Good to see you, Jimmy, given the circumstances.”

Dixie showed up at my place every now and again. He and Schultz and his other clients were usually seen at flashier joints, but if he just wanted a drink of good whiskey, straight off the boat, and a place to talk in private, he came to Jimmy Quinn's.

“When Jacobson told me you'd been shut down, I called the Thirtieth Street station and they said you'd been brought here. They didn't know anything about a raid. It took most of the day to chase down the paperwork. All of the pertinent information on your arrest report was incorrect, but don't worry, it's being taken care of.”

“What's his name, the cop who brought me in?”

“The signature on the report was illegible.”

“This is nuts. I think he's from the Bronx. At least I'm pretty sure he was in my place before with some of the guys from the Bronx.”

Dixie was unconcerned. “We'll figure it out. Don't worry.”

Seemed like everybody was telling me that, not to worry.

Dixie went on. “In light of everything else that happened last night, it wasn't too difficult to get all of the charges swept under the rug. Still, might be a good idea to lay low for a day or so. Make sure there's nothing else going on before you open up again.”

“Wait a minute, what do you mean ‘everything else that happened last night'? You mean something besides the bust-up at my place? And what are
you
doing here, Dixie? Where's Jacobson?”

“I think your driver will explain everything. . . .”

Driver? What driver?

“Walter Spencer hired me. He's been looking for you. He called Jacobson and when he learned that your place had been shut down and Jacobson couldn't contact you, he came to me.”

“Spence is behind this?”

Dixie nodded and took a cigarette out of a silver case. “He wanted to find you as soon as he could.”

A long, dark Duesenberg J pulled to a stop and double-parked beside Dixie's Packard. The chauffeur got out, carrying an overcoat and a cane. When he walked in front of the headlights, I saw that he was dressed in a black uniform with two rows of buttons on the jacket, polished boots, black cap, the whole megillah.

He stepped up onto the sidewalk and smiled. “Hiya, Jimmy, long time no see. Whassamatta, dontcha recognize me in this damn monkey suit?”

I looked more closely at the face under the cap. “Oh Boy? What the hell?” We shook hands. I'd grown up with Oh Boy Oliver, but it had been more than three years since I'd seen him. Since before Spence's wedding.

“Here.” Oh Boy handed over my overcoat and stick. “Walter told me to go to the Chelsea and get your things. He needs you to come to his house.”

“What the hell is going on? This doesn't make any . . .” I stammered, more confused than ever. “Why does Spence need to see me?”

Oh Boy sighed and said, “Oh boy, oh boy, because the Lindbergh baby has got snatched.”

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 2, 1932

NEW YORK CITY

“You're pulling my leg. Sure, I got my brains scrambled, but I'm not falling for this crazy story.”

“It's the truth, Jimmy.” Dixie pulled a copy of the
Times
from under his arm and handed it to me.

It was just like in the movies, with headlines spinning around like they were going to fly right off the screen into your lap. That's what happened to me when I opened the paper.

LINDBERGH BABY KIDNAPPED FROM HOME

OF PARENTS ON FARM NEAR PRINCETON;

TAKEN FROM CRIB, WIDE SEARCH ON

As I read, it felt like the ground was shifting under my feet. I gripped the familiar handle of the cane and leaned on it. In that moment, everything changed. Later, people would be able to tell you exactly where they were and what they were doing when they learned about the kidnapping. I remember it fine, but for other reasons.

Not that I knew what was coming. First there was the impossibility of it. Lindbergh was the most famous man in the world. Something like this simply couldn't happen to him. He was too different from everybody else, too important.

I remembered when they held the big parade after he returned from flying solo to France, how the crowds filled the sidewalks, how all of swanky Fifth Avenue was closed off with all the confetti and ticker tape falling like snow. I also remembered how foully I cursed him then. I was supposed to make deliveries for Rothstein that day—payoffs to two important guys in the mayor's office and at police headquarters. I had four good routes I could use when I carried cash to those addresses, and none of them would work with the huge crowds. That meant using the subway or the El, both confining and a lot riskier. And when I finally did make it to my delivery points, nobody was there. Because the whole town was watching the damn show on the street. I called Lindbergh every name I could think of, and it was well after dark when I made my last payoff.

But still, how could you not feel a little admiration for the son of a bitch for what he'd done? And then he married that beautiful, classy dame. The guy was made of gold. Kidnapping was something guys like Vinnie Coll did when they needed quick cash. It just didn't happen to Charles Lindbergh. And nobody kidnapped children. The world, as I knew it, didn't work that way.

I stared at the headlines, still unbelieving, until a loud car horn sounded in the street. Some guy in a Ford was pissed about the way Oh Boy was blocking traffic with the Duesy.

Dixie's driver stormed out of the Packard and had a quick talk with the guy in the Ford. Gears gnashed as the man shoved into reverse and backed down the street.

Dixie ground out his cigarette. “Look, Jimmy, I don't know why Walter wants to see you. That's his business. You want me to find out about this Bronx cop, I'll ask around. Dutch is thick with guys at the Morrisania station. Maybe they know something. Call me in a day or so.”

Dixie got in the backseat of the Packard and it nosed smoothly past the Duesy and into the street.

Like the trained chauffeur he had become, Oh Boy went to the rear door and held it open for me.

I said, “Who the hell do you think I am?” and got in the front seat.

Oh Boy pointed the big car south and then west, making his way carefully to the tunnel. I thought it probably was some time since he had been in that part of town and so now the narrow streets bothered him. Why not? The Duesenberg was a one-car parade. Or maybe he was worried that some guy would chuck a rotten apple or a brick at us on general principle. After all, the car cost more than an ordinary Joe could expect to earn in a lifetime, even if he could find a job.

Oh Boy turned and stopped at the brightly lit tunnel plaza at Broome Street, and it was crazy, like nothing I'd never seen. Cops with flashlights and pistols were stationed at all eight tollbooths. More cops strode suspiciously through the clogged traffic, opening doors and trunks and rousting some people out of their cars. Oh Boy said, “You see. They're checking for the kid.”

We eased forward. When we reached the gate, a plump patrolman held up a hand. I rolled down the window and said, “Top of the evening, Officer Lonergan.”

He shined a flashlight at us. “Jimmy Quinn, how the hell are you? Heard there was some trouble at your place last night. Nothing serious, I hope.”

“We're taking care of it. Come by this weekend.”

His partner shined his flash into the deep backseat. Lonergan waved us on through and said, “No need to look in the trunk. See you soon, Jimmy.”

Oh Boy rolled forward, paid his fifty cents, and accelerated quickly down into the tunnel. He relaxed once we were inside. The set of his shoulders softened and he eased back in the seat. “They really gave me a going-over on the Jersey side when I came in. Opened the trunk and everything. That's what they're really working on, all the people coming into the city.”

“What do they know about this kidnapping? Gimme the whats and whens and wheres.”

Oh Boy concentrated on the road and didn't turn his head as he spoke. “Happened last night at this place they built down south. I don't recall the name of the town. They weren't in the Englewood house. Just Lindbergh and his wife and kid and a couple of people who work for 'em. Maid goes upstairs to look in on the kid, and he's gone. They found a ladder and some tracks in the dirt around the house. They say there's a ransom note, but the cops deny it. Crazy, isn't it, something like that happening.”

“So why does Spence want to see me?”

“I dunno. Flora, Mrs. Spencer, got the screaming meemies when she heard about the Lindberghs. She thinks that the same guys are gonna come after her kid. Or somebody else will do something, oh boy, I don't know.”

“Spence has a kid?”

“Yeah.” Oh Boy smiled. “Little Ethan, and that's why Flora is so upset. You listen to her for five seconds, you'd think that her and Anne Lindbergh were goddamn sisters.” He affected a woman's high-pitched tone, “We went to the same school. She and Charles danced at our wedding . . . and that kinda stuff. Personally, I never saw no Lindberghs at the wedding, but what the hell do I know.