There was a Russian bath over on Mississippi Street near the rail yards. I paid my dime and steamed for an hour, trying to get four years of Leavenworth stink off me.
It was about 4 when I hailed a cab and had him take me to Pinsky’s to pick up my clothes. By the time the cabbie dropped me at Izzy’s shop, it had started to rain—not hard, but steady.
I put my parcels in my room. Back in the shop, Izzy was dickering with a man trying to hock a tuba. I stepped outside to stand in the entrance and watch the rain.
I had been locked up so long I wanted lots of fresh air, even if it meant a little rain. I took out a cigarette and had just struck a match when someone bumped into me with an umbrella and knocked the smoke from my hand. “Watch where the hell you’re going, fella,” I said, bending to pick up my snipe.
“I’m sorry,” she replied. I stood up and looked into blue eyes so dark they were almost black. I checked out the rest of the package. She had a beautiful face, oval, with dimples and a sweet mouth. Blond hair peeked out from her wide-brim hat; its feather sadly drooped in the rain. Her fur coat hid her figure, but I was certain it was a swell one.
“Sure your eyes can handle it?” she asked, not smiling. She was struggling to fix her umbrella, which the wind had turned inside out.
“I’ll take a chance I won’t go blind,” I answered, giving her the once-over again. “Can I give you a hand with your umbrella?”
“I have it,” she said, closing it.
“You know,” I said, “this neighborhood isn’t exactly safe for a pretty girl like you, dressed to the nines.”
“I can take care of myself.” She glared, clutching her handbag.
“I’ll bet you can, but don’t worry, I’m not interested in your belongings. I never was a purse snatcher.”
She looked into my face. “Wait a minute. You’re Jake Kane, aren’t you?” Her voice mellowed, “I’ve come to see you.”
“I’m Kane. How do you know who I am? And how did you know I was here?”
“The whole town knows you’re here. Someone with your reputation doesn’t come into St. Paul unnoticed.” She took a copy of the
Pioneer Press
from under her arm. There was my picture plastered on the front page. The headline read,
Former T-Man Killer Freed After Four Years
. The photo wasn’t very flattering. It was the mug shot they took when I was arrested in Tampa.
I shrugged. “What do you want to see me about?”
“We can’t talk here.” She looked in the window where Izzy was still bargaining with the tuba player. She thought a second. “I have an apartment at the Commodore. Meet me in the bar in an hour, and try to look more presentable.” I guess my work clothes bothered her.
She turned on her heels, put up her collar, and opened her umbrella, which immediately turned inside out again. I heard her curse under her breath.
I watched her walk to her car. I liked the walk and I liked the car—a brand new, fire-engine-red Duesenberg convertible sedan.
Whoever this blonde was, she had dough, living at the Commodore and driving a new Duesy.
The tuba player came out, minus his horn, and I walked in.
I told Izzy about my encounter with the dame and described her to him. “Do you know her?”
“Where would an
alter kocker
like me meet such a hotsy-totsy woman like you give a picture of? Listen,” his voice shifted. “You have to be careful. Whatever this
maydel
wants could mean
tsuris.
Big trouble.”
I nodded and went in the back to change into something “more presentable.”
“You look like a
mench,
” Izzy said when I returned. “But you ain’t dressed yet.” He handed me a Luger. “It’s loaded. I’m sure you remember how to use one.”
“Thanks, Uncle.”
I took off my jacket, slipped on the shoulder holster he gave me, checked the action on the Luger, nodded, and set it in the holster.
“You ain’t going to catch a cab in this weather,” Izzy said, pointing to the rain-snow mix. “I’ve got an Overland coupe out back. It’s ten years old, but it runs.” He tossed me the keys.
The Commodore was a chic apartment hotel up on Western and Holly in the exclusive Summit neighborhood. Over the years the hotel hosted famous and infamous clientele—Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda, Al Capone, the Barker gang, and a gaggle of other celebrities.
I walked up the steps, through the courtyard, and into the lobby. The bar was to my left. It was a grand-looking place, decorated in the Moderne style. Glass mirrors and chrome sparkled throughout. A bartender in a white shirt and black bow tie stood behind the small but luxurious bar mixing a cocktail in a shaker. Off to the side a group of happy drunks were gathering around a small piano, giving out with a dirty version of the song, “If I Could Be with You One Hour Tonight.”
The place was intimate enough for me to spot the blonde at a small glass table at the back of the room. She was dressed in a blue silk dinner number, ankle length, cut high in the front and low in the back. It did nothing to hide her lush figure. I had been right when I guessed it had to be swell under her fur wrap.
I said hello and started to sit, but she pointed to the singers and said, “It’s too noisy here. Come up to my apartment in ten minutes—number 402.” She stood and left.
I stopped at the bar and ordered a scotch, my first drink since I left Leavenworth. The singers had switched to “Let’s Do It.” It was kind of nice just watching people have fun.
I finished my drink and went up to her apartment. She opened the door at my first knock. I pushed past her, Luger in hand, in case this was a setup. I checked the place over. When I was satisfied we were alone, I turned to her. “Okay, baby, spill. Start with who you are and what this is all about.”
She blinked her dark blue lamps and said, “My name is Claire Blake, Mr. Kane, and I need your help.” And tears began to flow.
I handed her my handkerchief, led her to a settee, and sat beside her. “Tell me about it.” What guy isn’t a sucker for a beautiful dame with tears in her eyes?
She wiped the tears away and looked at me. “I heard you’ve come back to town to settle a score with Tom Macintyre.”
I didn’t answer her, so she continued. “Macintyre is a dangerous man. You could get killed.”
“Why should you care what happens to me?” I asked.
“Because I know what Tommy Macintyre did to you. The whole town knows. What they don’t know is what he did to me.”
Through sobs she revealed her story.
Just a small-town girl, she had come to the big city to be a singer. Not much different than others with the same dream. She ended up working for Macintyre as a hostess in his club. When Tommy found out she could sing, he gave her a break.
“But there were strings,” she said. “I don’t love him; I don’t want to be known as Tommy’s bim. But…”
“But what? Are you telling me that Macintyre wouldn’t let you sing unless you slept with him?”
“Yes, he made it clear that it was part of the deal.” She lowered her eyes as if she were ashamed.
I raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“It’s true—I swear.”
“If you say so.”
“You don’t believe me.” More tears. “Look, Mr. Kane. I may not be a virgin, and I might be ambitious, but Tommy Macintyre owns me. I am so afraid of him. I’ve an offer for a radio contract in New York, but he won’t let me go. He told me he’d kill me if I ever left him.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Everyone knows you’re gunning for him. But he’s dangerous. I can distract him and maybe you can take care of him. It’s to both of our advantage.”
“What if he kills me first?”
“I have a friend to back the play.” The tears were gone and she was all business. “He wouldn’t dare go up against Tommy alone, but with you…”
“Who’s your friend?”
“You can meet him tonight. Come out to Tommy’s club, The Rose of Tralee, around 8. If you need money, I can pay you.” She took a roll out of her purse as big as a grapefruit.
“If this isn’t enough…”
“I don’t need to be paid for what I’m going to do,” I said, pushing the roll back at her. “Looks like Tommy’s been generous,” I added.
“Material things. A girl needs more,” she breathed softly.
“How much more, baby?”
She smiled. Next thing I knew she was in my lap, her arms around my neck, and her tongue down my throat.
I picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. She whispered,
“Fuck me,”
a phrase that you didn’t hear from nice girls, but I hadn’t been with a nice girl since Mary Agnes Murphy back in 1917 before I joined the army. I must have made some impression on Mary Agnes, because when I was in France, she became a nun.
I had known bad girls from Paris to Havana. And Claire was definitely a bad girl. She made love like an alley cat—the scratches on my back would hurt for days. It was a great ride, especially since I’d been without for four years.
We went at it a couple more times and when it was over, I said, “You were swell, baby. I like the way you move.”
“No complaints from me either, big boy.” Claire planted a honey-cooler on my lips and went into the bathroom.
She came out wearing a silk kimono, sat at her dressing table, and proceeded to fix her hair and makeup. I dressed and she walked me to the door.
“You’ll be out to the club by 8?”
“Yes.” I leaned in to kiss her.
She turned her head. “Jake, my makeup.”
“Sure,” I said, and left.
Back at Izzy’s, I cleaned up and changed into my new tux, transferred the Luger to that outfit, and grabbed my hat and coat.
Izzy had gone home, which was good. The less he knew, the less he would worry.
It was cold in the Overland as I drove out Fort Road. The heap had no heater and I had to keep the windows down so the windshield wouldn’t fog over.
The Rose of Tralee stood on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi. It was a nice-looking place, nightclub in front, illegal casino upstairs.
The valet sniffed when I handed him the key to the Overland. I gave him a fin and he put a phony smile on his face.
I checked my hat and coat with a cutie wearing a sexy little green satin number. I ran my fingers through my hair, turned, and came face-to-face with my ex-partner. No, not Tommy Macintyre, but Maurice “Mummy” Lamott. Tall, with hooded eyes and hollow cheeks. Always a menacing figure. We had parted ways early in the ’20s.
“Hello, Jake,” he said, holding out his hand.
I shook it, fighting off the urge to count my fingers.
Mummy was a hard mug and more than a little dangerous. We went back as far as Franklin Grammar School. His gang had jumped me on the playground and beat the shit out of the “sheeny bastard.” I was saved by Frank Jr. and Tommy Macintyre.
I caught up with Mummy a few days later and kicked his ass. We had sort of a truce after that—never buddies, but we got along in high school. When Frank Jr., Tommy, and I came back from France in 1919, Mummy was setting up a bootlegging operation. He needed tough guys who knew their way around a gun. Tommy and I didn’t see anything better coming our way, so we joined his gang. Frank Jr. declined. He had seen enough of war and his health was frail.
But Mummy was too free and easy with his rod; you never knew when he would start throwing lead. His antics brought down the big
machers
who ran the rackets in town. Tommy and I were able to square ourselves, but Mummy had to leave St. Paul. He went to work for the Chicago Outfit where his special talents got him in good with Capone. He’d drift in and out of town after that, on errands for the Outfit. Now here he was togged to the bricks, in a fine set of white tie and tails.
“You the doorman?” I asked.
“Always the kidder, aren’t ya, Jake? Na. Ain’t you heard? I’m Tommy’s partner now.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, since last month. He needed someone to run the casino. Now, Jake, I know you’re here to settle a score, but you gotta be careful. Tommy’s no pushover.”
“Shouldn’t you be worried about your partner?” I asked, lighting a cigarette.
“Look, Jake, we been pals since we were kids. I don’t want to see you get hurt. And to tell you the truth, Tommy ain’t the best partner a fella ever had.”
“So you’re telling me you’ll back my play?”
“If I have to.” He pulled back his tail coat and I saw his gun.
Before we could continue, Tommy came walking through the crowd, glad-handing patrons left and right. Then he spotted me.
“Hello, Jake,” he said, but didn’t offer his hand. “You here to see me?”
“We have some business to finish,” I replied, looking into his broad black Irish face.
“I suppose we do. But it will have to wait. I have a club to run and the show’s going to start. C’mon—you can sit at my table and I’ll buy you dinner. I have a torch singer here with a voice like an angel and a face and figure like a Greek goddess.”
Tommy turned to Mummy. “Mummy, before the show starts, check the casino receipts.”
“What about him?” Mummy asked, pointing at me.
“There won’t be any trouble, will there, Jake?”
“Our business waited this long. For a free meal and show, it can wait a little longer.”
Mummy nodded and I followed Tommy to his table. Tommy ordered steak dinners for each of us. This wasn’t the place for conversation, too many people watching. Small talk. He told me I looked thin, I told him he had put on weight.
Then the lights dimmed and the orchestra struck up “How Deep Is the Ocean.” A spotlight came on and there stood Claire, clad in a long red evening gown. I could see every curve of her body; the gown had no buttons. She must have shimmied into it. Claire leaned into the microphone and began to sing in a dark, throaty voice.
The crowd that had come for dinner and a show certainly got their money’s worth. Every guy in the place thought she was singing to him, especially when she let go with “The Man I Love.”
When she finished, the applause shook the place and Tommy was beaming. Had the big goon actually fallen for her?
“Want to meet her?” Tommy asked.
“We have to talk.”
“Yeah, we do.” He stood up and walked toward his office; I followed. Claire and Mummy sat at a table next to the office. She gave me a barely perceptible nod; Mummy gave a tight-lipped smile.