Authors: Michael Mayo
“Anyway, Walter'll tell you all about it. But you gotta understand, Jimmy, that she's got him by the balls. Whatever Flora wants, Flora gets.”
Nothing too strange about that, I thought, and said, “What've you got to drink in this jalopy?”
“Jalopy, my ass.” Oh Boy sniffed. “If you sat in the back like you're supposed to, there's a full bar back there, crystal, ginger ale, cracked ice, the works.” Oh Boy always had a strong sense of the proper order of things.
“Then give me some of the Jameson you've got in your flask.”
I could see Oh Boy's hint of a smile in the light reflected off the white tiles. He pulled a pewter flask from under his coat.
I had a long, warm sip. Moments later, we emerged at the plaza on the Jersey side of the river.
To one side, I could see construction work. I thought at first it was another tall office building like the ones going up in Manhattan. But then I realized I was seeing huge square concrete columns supporting a cantilevered span of steel girders looming more than a hundred feet tall. Welders' torches sparked high above us. “What the hell?” I leaned forward to see as much as I could. The structure stretched on into the night ahead of us. “What is it? An El?”
Oh Boy paid no attention. “More like a bridge, but for cars and trucks. When it's done, you'll be able to come out of the tunnel and go straight to Newark without stopping. Not like it used to be.”
He reached for the flask, drank, and passed it back. “Remember that night?”
I took another slow sip. No need to answer.
There had been ten of us in three cars. Spence, Oh Boy, and me in the lead. Meyer Lansky, Siegel, and Charlie behind us. Frank Costello, Vinnie Coll, Sammy Spats Spatola, and a guy I didn't know in the third. We'd left Lansky's garage as soon as it was dark, heading for Egg Harbor, New Jersey. Spence and Oh Boy had shotguns for the close work. I was the best pistol shot so I had a Detective Special and a pocketful of bullets. Damn, that was a hell of a night. I was full of piss and fire, and felt like I was completely alive for the first time in my life, like I could do any damn thing I wanted. And that night I did. I was twelve years old.
I looked up at the strange new steel structure, thinking about how long it had been since I'd been out this way. It was a long time since I'd been out of the city at all. Spent all my spare time with Connie. Connie! Hell, that was the first time I'd thought about her since that business with the big cop. Marie Therese must have explained what happened. I told myself she'd understand, but I didn't really believe it.
And that was when I first realized how much I missed Connie. I missed being in bed with her, sure. But just as much I simply missed her, and wanted to talk to her, not on the phone but in person, to tell her about the cop in the ugly suit, and this madness with the Lindbergh kid, and find out what she was going to do the next day. The sudden strength of feeling surprised me. Troubled me. I'd never experienced it before.
I took another slow slug of whiskey and said, “How long till we get there? I gotta make a call.”
Oh Boy gave the car some more gas, speeding smoothly along the wide road to Newark. “Little more than an hour, probably, depending on traffic. We've got paved roads for this sweetheart all the way.”
Past Newark the streetlights thinned out but the road was still familiar. I'd been there before plenty of times, delivering booze with Spence for Longy Zwillman after he partnered up with Meyer and Charlie. Longy ran things in that part of Jersey. As often as not when we were working for him, we had a police escort. Longy didn't want anything to gum up the works when we were supplying the swells' parties in Morris and Somerset Counties.
Oh Boy drove through little towns with the occasional restaurant or gas station still open, and I saw a police car at most of them. Oh Boy kept his speed at the limit, neither fast nor slow enough to attract attention. The cops noticed us but didn't approach the expensive car. I guess they figured no kidnapper would be driving a Duesenberg J. We were almost to Morristown when we turned at a white metal sign that read:
VALLEY GREEN BOROUGH 2 MILES
. Oh, yes, I thought, Valley Green.
The big headlights revealed woods on both sides, white rail fences, and finally a stone wall. Yeah, I remembered that. The road curved, and the tall overhanging trees seemed to merge with the black asphalt to suck up the light. I guess that's what they meant in fairy tales about the forest being a dark and scary place.
Oh Boy turned at a stone gate and followed a gravel drive between rows of tall narrow trees. When lights appeared I could feel my neck stiffen. What the hell? Why was I getting all wound up about seeing Spence again? Walter Spencer was my friend, a pal who had invited me to join him at this very place years ago. If I'd said yes then, everything would have been different. But I didn't.
A large Tudor house loomed up ahead, though I've got to admit I didn't know the term “Tudor” at the time. It had steeply peaked roofs, dark timbers, light-colored stucco, and lots of chimneys. I thought the place looked like something in a movie where people get bumped off one at a time by a phantom killer.
Oh Boy pulled up at the front doors, where a white ambulance was parked. Spence and two other men stood beside it. They were in the middle of an intense conversation, maybe an argument. One guy was a tall, lean number with short blond hair and eyebrows, hollowed cheeks, and the thickest pair of glasses I'd ever seen. Beneath his overcoat, he wore a white medical smock with a stiff collar. The second guy was shorter and rounder and, to judge by his wide smile, happier. He was dressed in a dirty canvas coat and muddy rubber boots, and carried a single-shot .22 rifle snugged in the crook of his arm. A battered fedora was pushed back on his head, and he was smoking a curved briar. He had a bushy forked black beard, merry eyes, and apple cheeks.
When Oh Boy saw them, he muttered “Oh boy,” in that worried way of his.
Spence hadn't changed much. He was still every inch the heroâtall, broad-shouldered, alert blue eyes, all of him brimming with confidence and strength. As long as I'd known him, he looked like Gary Cooper, even kept his hair combed the same way. He wore wingtips, a nubby tweed suit, light blue shirt with a white collar, maroon tie. Gary Cooper playing the country squire.
He recognized his Duesenberg and hurried over to pull me out. “Goddammit, you crazy Black Irish bastard, it's good to see you.”
I was engulfed in a massive bear hug and then held up for inspection. He was about twice as big as me. Always had been. Embarrassed, I pulled loose and settled on my stick.
The goggle-eyed geek came closer, peering down at me like I was a mildly interesting insect pinned to a board. I had a sudden desire to belt him but Spence turned back to the guy. “I'll contact you as soon as I return. If we run into complications, I'll call.” The man in the medical whites nodded and rubbed his pale, bony hands together as he got into the ambulance. When the car turned around in the driveway, I saw the medical snake symbol and the words “The Cloninger Sanatorium” on the door. The wild-looking little guy with the rifle had disappeared.
Spence wrapped a thick arm around my shoulder and guided me to the front doors. “Come on inside, Jimmy. Oliver, take his things to the guest room upstairs, the good one. Goddamn, it's good to see you.”
So Spence called him “Oliver,” not “Oh Boy” or even “Mr. Oliver.” I guess that explained the monkey suit.
Inside, Spence led me across a wide L-shaped room with dark wood paneling and broad stairs at the back. Dark red and brown Persian rugs with complex patterns covered the floor. A couple of ornate black chairs and a matching table against one wall looked like they might have come from an old church or castle. An open balcony ran along three walls on the second floor, with a round wrought-iron chandelier hanging from the tall, arched ceiling. There was a massive fireplace, cold and dark, built into one wall. Across the room, in front of two closed doors, stood an older, stoop-shouldered guy with a walrus mustache. His watery eyes blinking rapidly, he clutched a Purdey shotgun by the barrels and stood straighter as we approached.
Spence took the gun and said, “That'll be all, Mears. Make sure that Mrs. Conway has prepared the room upstairs. My friend will be staying with us.”
Mears nodded, then shuffled away. Spence slid open the doors and ushered me into the library. There were more intricate blood-red carpets, walnut paneling, walls lined with sets of books that looked like they'd never been touched, a fireplace banked down with a couple of logs, brown leather club chairs facing the fire. And a kid sleeping in a crib next to the desk. He was tightly tucked in, with the taut covers moving when he kicked and punched fitfully. Spence said, “Don't worry, he's out for the night. Dr. Cloninger gave him something.” He leaned the shotgun against a wall and went straight to a cabinet that opened to reveal a fancy bar. He dumped chipped ice and whiskey into two crystal tumblers, giving each a splash from the soda siphon.
I took a sip. Canadian rye. The best. You never could fault Spence on his whiskey. I put the drink down on the desk beside the sleeping child and took the shells out of the shotgun. I've never been comfortable with loaded weapons around little kids. Even when the kids are doped up.
Spence was studying me. “I guess you're wondering what this is all about.”
“You're about to tell me.”
He started to say something but stopped. Then he said, “Where have you been, Jimmy? Why don't you come out here? I asked you more than once. Before the wedding and after. Don't blame your leg. I know it's not that.”
He had me there. “I don't know, somehow it just didn't seem right. You left. You found what you wanted, and then there was this.” I slapped my useless knee. “And then I had my place to run.” I shrugged. “Whenever I thought about coming here, I thought about something else.”
“For three years you thought about something else?” Spence tried to sound wounded, but it didn't wash.
“Has it been that long? And now you're completely legit and legal?”
Spence nodded. “Everything I saved when we were working for Meyer and Charlie and Longy is invested in Pennyweight Petroleum. I only see Longy when Flora decides to throw a party and we need extra liquor, but lately I haven't even seen him then. He's got a place near here but he's busy. Did you hear about that actress of his, the blonde? Jean Harlow? Yeah, Longy's putting the spurs to her.”
“Yeah, I know. They've been in my place.” I could tell that surprised him. “She's not bad, but to tell you the truth, she looks better in the movies. You and Longy always did have a way with the ladies. Both done pretty well for yourselves too.”
Spence poured more whiskey and we sat in the chairs facing the fire. He said, “You remember the first day we came out here?”
Of course I remembered. That was the day everything changed. We'd taken one of the smaller trucks from the Newark warehouse around noon on a spring Saturday, 1928. Longy told us that they always wanted the best. We had to make sure that everything went smoothly, and we had to get payment in full before anything came off the truck because Mrs. Pennyweight was notoriously slow to settle up.
It was a hot day, and we both took off our suit jackets to keep them from getting wrinkled and sweaty. Whenever we were dealing with important customers, we tried to look like we belonged wherever we were going. No overalls, no loud colors or flashy suits, just businessmen's clothes. Made everybody more comfortable.
We drove out to Valley Green and turned at the long driveway. But well before we got to the house, we saw a sign that said
DELIVERIES
, directing us to a narrow road that brought us to the back of the place. The house was at the top of a slope leading down to a lake and the woods. There was a two-story boathouse at the water's edge, and the lawn between the two was filled with canopies, tables, and umbrellas. A bandstand and dance floor had been set up near the boathouse. It was a hell of a nice spread, maybe not as grand as some of the joints we supplied out in Great Neck, but not bad.
A harried woman seemed to be in charge. She told me to unload the liquor behind the table at the big white canopy, but was unsure about who would be paying. I told her we had to take care of money before anything else. While she was dealing with me, half a dozen other people were wanting decisions about this and that. Sometime in there Spence wandered off and I waited thirty minutes before Mrs. Pennyweight herself showed up and took over. She was clearly a woman used to being obeyed, standing taller than she actually was in a light pleated dress, a wide hat, and sunglasses.
She held out an envelope of cash but demanded to see the invoice, checking off each case against it and opening the cases to make sure there were no broken or missing bottles inside. She kept me busy for the better part of two hours, more than enough time for Spence to wander up to the big house and meet her husband, Ethan Pennyweight.
The master of the house didn't hold with the damn fool parties his wife threw, so he and Spence hit it off right away. They were both war veterans, Spence of O'Ryan's Roughnecks and Pennyweight of Roosevelt's Rough Riders, and they both liked to drink.
Spence said to me now, reminiscing, “While she played hostess, we got drunk as lords in this very library. Ethan told me he'd never read any of these goddamn books. He didn't need no library when he had mineral rights. God, did we ever get plastered.”
“I know. I was the one who tried to wake you up.” And when I finally gave up and left him and drove the truck back to Longy's warehouse, I was about as pissed off as I'd ever been.
Spence said, “I stayed the night. The next day I met Ethan's daughter, and even as hungover as I was, I still fell for Flora. Fell hard.”