Gangster (15 page)

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THE JAZZ QUARTET was winding down a slow rendition of Alexander's Ragtime Band, the large dance floor below them crammed with the young and high-heeled. Angelo held Isabella's hand as they both watched the dancers sway and shimmy to the beat. He caught the glow in her eyes, allowing her to be swallowed by the glitter and romance of a world that whirled along on fast forward.

    What do you think? Angelo asked, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

    Isabella answered his question with one of her own. Do you spend much of your time here?

    Mostly for business, he said. The man I work for owns the club.

    Isabella took a sip from a glass of cold water and smiled at him from above the rim. Is tonight business?

    No, Angelo said, shaking his head.

    Then you must have something important to ask me. Or else why bring me here?

    Angelo looked over at the crowded Cotton Club dance floor. He studied the faces of the soft-skinned men in their smart-tailored suits and the young women whose eyes gleamed in their presence. Old money mixing easily with the newfound wealth of the illicit. All of them with too much free tune and excess amounts of cash. These were the people Angelo would feed off of as he continued his rise through the ranks of the mob. They would buy his whiskey, frequent his clubs and invest in his illegal pursuits. Next to them, Isabella was a vision of freshness and love, a bright light casting a sharp glow across a decadent room. He turned to look back at her, her open face trusting in him only, ignoring all other movements around them.

    I've wanted to ask you for six months, Angelo told her. I just haven't been able to put the right words together. It's not what I do well.

    And I've been waiting six months for you to ask. Right words or not, my answer will still be the same.

    Is that answer a yes? Angelo said, staring at Isabella above the glare of the candle in the center of the table.

    Is it so impossible to ask the question? Her fingers gently stroked the top of Angelo's hand.

    Be my wife, Isabella, Angelo said. I have been in love with you from the second I handed you that peach.

    That very expensive peach, she laughed.

    I wish to make you happy, Isabella. It is all that matters to me.

    Have you talked to my father yet? Isabella asked.

    Last Christmas. He's been waiting as long as you have for me to ask you.

    He probably has the wedding all planned out already. She took another sip of water and glanced over her shoulder at the dance floor, dozens of couples dancing to a clarinet-led blues medley. Do you like to dance?

    I never have, he said in a shy whisper.

    I never have either, Isabella said. My father always told me that my first dance would have to be with the man I love and expect to spend the rest of my life with.

    Angelo stood and stepped over to Isabella and reached out his hand. Would you dance with me? he asked.

    Yes, she said, lifting her head and smiling up at him. She took Angelo's hand and followed him to the dance floor.

    They held one another close, finding comfort in each other's grasp, heads at rest on shoulders, feet sliding across the waxed wood floor. The music washed over them like sun-splattered waves, as they both kept their eyes closed and their minds filled with the youthful dreams of a couple enjoying the first taste of love.

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JAMES GARRETT WAS a New York City first-grade detective. He was tall, reed thin and had a rich crop of carrot-red hair. He had been a cop for twelve years and was married to an overweight Catholic schoolteacher who was far too religious for his taste. They had an eight-year-old son who lost the sight in his right eye after a playground accident. Around the station houses he worked Garrett was considered a solid badge. He did his job, cleared his desk of unsolved cases and always found the time to lend a hand to a nervous rookie or an overworked veteran. Garrett liked being a detective, deriving pleasure from the power he wielded with a flashed badge.

    With that power came access and it allowed James Garrett, the forty-one-year-old son of a merchant seaman, a free pass to the good life he could not otherwise afford on a detective's salary. Front-row tables at choice restaurants, prime seats at boxing matches and baseball games, easy entree to opening night on Broadway and the best medical care available for his ailing son were there for the taking, so Garrett grabbed it all with a fierce hunger. He was much more than a good cop with an impressive arrest record. He was also a dirty cop with a monthly on-the-pad income that tripled his detective's salary.

    He was politically savvy and navigated the silent sanctum of the corrupt wing of the New York City Police Department with a politician's discretion. He made it his business to be known and to be in the know, playing his game in the warmth of the murky shadows. He was shaded in safety by captains and deputy police commissioners, ward supervisors and district bosses, all of whom relied on him for their weekly envelopes.

    To the average citizen, James Garrett was the very portrait of the cop who cared, his choirboy looks, Boy Scout smile and diligent work habits all the evidence they needed to back up that belief. They could count on him to be there to protect their lives and defend them against the rampant crime taking hold of their streets.

    The underworld held a different portrait of James Garrett. To them, he was a bought badge, paid to protect and serve the best interests of Jack Wells.

    In addition to his regular payoffs, Garrett had been put in charge of Wells's citywide payroll. This gave him complete access to the black books containing all the names and sums received by the corrupt elite. Most other gangsters would have been leery to give any one cop such enormous clout. They would fear exposing themselves to potential extortion and betrayal. But Jack Wells was never one to worry. He took pride in his chosen role of the rebel gangster and felt that with fear and intimidation he could hold sway over anyone, especially a cop with a stained badge.

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GARRETT STOOD IN the dark entryway, across from the lights and steady traffic stream outside the Cotton Club. He stamped his feet against the cold, hard concrete step. He lit a cigarette, the glow from the match highlighting a run of freckles dotting the sides of his cheeks and neck. He tossed the match aside, took a deep drag from the unfiltered Camel and stepped out of the darkness. He walked with confidence and ease toward the Cotton Club entrance. He smiled when he saw Angelo step out of the club, crunch a tip into the doorman's palm, exchange a few words and then turn right. He was heading downtown, his arm wrapped around Isabella's shoulders.

    Garrett picked up his step and eased in behind them. He watched them walk, content for the moment just to follow, listening as the low murmurs of their voices echoed down the empty street.

    Where are the dago lovers off to now? Garrett asked. He was close enough to Angelo and Isabella to be partially hidden by their shadows.

    Angelo gripped Isabella's shoulder tighter and stopped walking. He looked straight ahead, waiting to see the face behind the voice. Garrett walked around them, one hand in his jacket pocket, the cigarette still dangling from his mouth. How can you stand being in a place like that? he said, nodding his head back toward the Cotton Club. You should have a little more respect for your lady than to bring her to a jig bar.

    Angelo stared at Garrett, did a quick check on his clothes and demeanor. He was looking not to put a name to the face but to determine motive. He knew the man blocking his path wasn't a gangster and this wasn't going to be a hit. A shooter never takes the time to talk or risk being seen by any potential witness. That meant the man tossing the cigarette to the ground was nothing more than a messenger, paid to act tough, but not a real threat. He looked too old to be new at verbal shakedowns and too young to be used as a sacrificial setup, a dupe for the actual hitter lurking in the dark street beyond. Angelo looked over at Isabella and noted how calm she appeared and how defiant her eyes were in the face of danger.

    They tell me you ain't much on talk, Garrett said, leering over at Isabella. That doesn't matter to me. It's your ears I want.

    Garrett reached into the side pocket of his coat and pulled out a slice of chewing gum. He unwrapped it and shoved it slowly into his mouth. He inched a couple of steps closer to Isabella.

    I have to give you dagos credit, Garrett said, smiling at Isabella. You know how to pick the kind of woman a man doesn't mind waking up next to. He turned back to Angelo. You know the kind I mean, don't you?

    Angelo didn't answer. He kept his temper lever at idle, his anger shoved down deep, well below any visible level. He watched as Garrett stroked Isabella's arm and felt her recoil at his touch. He stayed distant and impassive as Garrett's fingers ran the length of Isabella's face and neck.

    Do yourself a big favor, dago, Garrett said to Angelo, his hungry eyes never leaving Isabella's face. Make your deal with Wells. Let him make you a rich man. A beauty like you got needs a man around her with deep pockets. She doesn't get that, then before you know it, she goes looking for somebody else. Maybe even a somebody like me.

    Garrett held Isabella's look, then brought his hand back down to his side. He lifted the collar on his jacket and stood square in Angelo's face. You and your partner got till next week to make the smart call. After that, Wells takes it out of your hands and puts it in mine. Which means, next time we meet, it won't be as friends. He tipped the brim of his fedora at Isabella and winked at Angelo. Enjoy what's left of your night, he said, walking past them and reaching for another cigarette.

     *     *     *

ANGELO HELD ISABELLA'S face in his hands, wiping loose strands of hair from her eyes. Are you all right? he asked her softly.

    Yes, she said, nodding her head. I just didn't like him touching me.

    It's the last time that cop will ever touch you, Angelo said. I promise that.

    How do you know he was a cop? she asked, curious.

    He had the look and the smell. Angelo's voice had a trace of disdain. Just because a man is given a badge and swears to follow the law, it doesn't make him honest.

    What are you going to do? They were walking slowly now, her arm held tightly under his. About what he said to you?

    For now, nothing. Angelo stared straight ahead into the dark street. He gave me a week to decide.

    And what then? she asked, her eyes searching his face for any sign of concern. When the week is up?

    Then, I'll find out if the cop's actions are as strong as his words, Angelo said.

    And what if they are? She stopped walking and stood in front of Angelo, her hands gripped around his arms. What if that cop is all that he says he is?

    Then one of us will be found dead, Angelo said.

8

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Summer, 1926

FRANCIS THE PIMP looked across the table at the nervous young prostitute. He reached a hand into the rear pocket of his tan slacks and pulled out a thick roll of tens, bound together by a rubber band. He unfurled the roll, counted out six bills and dropped them on the wooden table. He leaned forward and slid them toward the girl. She was smoking a cigarette with her left hand and curling the strands of her dark brown hair with her right, the nails on both chewed down to the nub.

    You understand what it is you're supposed to do? Francis asked.

    Believe me, it don't take much to get Pudge Nichols into bed, the girl said. She spoke with a thick, nasal accent, filled with the flat sounds of her Columbus, Ohio, childhood. At least not for me.

    Once you get him in bed, make sure he stays there, Francis said.

    For how long? the girl asked.

    Do whatever it takes for as long as it takes, Francis said.

    There's just so much I can do. I mean, Pudge Nichols wants to go, he goes. There's no way to stop him.

    Listen to me, Shirley! Francis shouted. He slammed his hand down on the table, knocking over an empty whiskey glass. I don't give a good damn where he's gotta go or what you gotta do to keep him from going. All I know is if you want to keep yourself alive, you put Pudge Nichols in your damn bed and you keep him there.

    I don't like any of this, Shirley said in a little girl voice. What did you go and get yourself into? Whatever it is, if it means messing with a lit fuse like Pudge, it's going to end up bad.

    Francis sat back in his chair, the wood end of a match shoved into a corner of his thin lips. Pudge Nichols is who they're coming to get, he said. Not me and not you.

    What if I say no? Shirley asked, looking down at the sixty dollars. You're not exactly settin' me up for life, you know.

    Francis the Pimp's eyes narrowed and a smile slithered over his unshaven face. There's more money to be had, he said. Maybe a lot more. How much is really up to you.

    Shirley grabbed the bills from the table and jammed them under the shoulder strap of her dress. How much more? she asked. Enough so I don't have to turn over any more Johns?

    Francis the Pimp handed Shirley a hand-rolled cigarette and waited while she put it to her lips. He lit a match, cupped a palm around it, leaned over and placed it against the raw end. He watched as she blew a thin line of smoke at his face.

    After this job, you want somebody to take a taste, you can do it for free, Francis said. All it takes is a little courage.

    What do I have to do? Shirley asked. For the extra money?

    Will it bother you if Pudge gets killed?

    I like the guy, she said, but I'm not in love with him or nothin' like that.

    Francis the Pimp leaned his arms and chest over the table and brought his voice down to a raspy whisper. The tiny first-floor room was filled with clouds of smoke, the only window locked tight and shaded. In a dusty corner, a large roach crawled along the baseboard in search of the nearest crumb.