Flappers, Flasks and Foul Play, page 1
part #1 of Jazz Age Mystery Series
Flappers, Flasks and Foul Play (A Jazz Age Mystery #1)
By Ellen Mansoor Collier
Copyright 2012 Ellen Mansoor Collier
Fourth Edition
Published by DecoDame Press at Smashwords
ISBN 978-1-4763659-5-4
Discover the next three mysteries in the Jazz Age series by Ellen Mansoor Collier:
Bathing Beauties, Booze And Bullets (Jazz Age Mystery #2)
Gold Diggers, Gamblers and Guns (Jazz Age Mystery #3)
Vamps, Villains and Vaudeville (Jazz Age Mystery #4)
Third Edition, License Notes: This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to third parties without the express written consent of the author. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover Design: Ghadir Al Jaro (2015) and Jeff J. Mansoor (original 2012)
Vintage Photo and Postcard (c 1920) Photo Colorized by Ghadir Al Jaro
Alternate Cover/Illustration by: George Barbier “Shawls”(1923)
*****
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE
FLAPPERS, FLASKS and FOUL PLAY CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY
1920’s JAZZ AGE SLANG
BIO/ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
*****
PREFACE
FLAPPERS, FLASKS and FOUL PLAY
By: Ellen Mansoor Collier
Before Las Vegas, Galveston, Texas reigned as the “Sin City of the Southwest”—a magnet for gold-diggers, gamblers and gangsters. Inspired by real people and places, FLAPPERS, FLASKS AND FOUL PLAY is set in 1927 Galveston, where businessmen rubbed elbows with bootleggers and real-life rival gangs ruled the Island with greed and graft.
During Prohibition, the Beach Gang and Downtown Gang fought constant turf wars for control over booze, gambling, slot machines, clubs and prostitution. To keep the peace, the gangs tried to compromise by dividing the Island into two halves: Bootleggers Ollie Quinn and Dutch Voight headed the Beach Gang, south of Broadway and on the Seawall. The infamous but long-gone swanky Hollywood Dinner Club on 61st Street and the Turf Club on 23rd Street (which became the gang’s headquarters, renamed the Surf Club in the novel) were located in the Beach Gang’s territory.
Colorful crime boss Johnny Jack Nounes and hard-boiled thug George Musey ran the Downtown Gang, the area north of Broadway. Nounes once partnered with Frank Nitti, Al Capone’s legendary enforcer, who tried but failed to muscle in on the local turf.
Like many port cities, Galveston greatly profited from Prohibition—bar owners, businessmen and bootleggers alike—until it was nationally repealed in 1933. Enacted in January, 1920, the Volstead Act prohibited “the manufacture, sale, transport and possession of intoxicating liquor or distilled spirits containing more than 0.5% alcohol for beverage purposes.” The Treasury Department employed hundreds of Prohibition agents to enforce the new law, but that proved futile as most local police and the public refused to follow the not-so “Noble Experiment.”
The Maceo brothers, Rosario and Sam (Papa Rose and Big Sam), were Sicilian immigrants who eventually took control of the Island, known as the “Free State of Galveston” for its vice and laissez-faire attitude, for roughly 25 years, from 1926 on, until the Maceos’ deaths. Sam Maceo died in 1951 of cancer, and Rose Maceo passed on in 1954 due to heart failure. FLAPPERS, FLASKS AND FOUL PLAY is loosely based on actual and fabricated events, leading to the Maceos’ gradual take-over in the late 1920s and early 1930s.
The Galveston Gazette is a fictitious newspaper, but the headlines in the novel are created from actual stories that appeared in The Galveston Daily News, the first and oldest newspaper in Texas, founded in 1842 and still in publication. Since many of the gangland crimes and activities went largely unreported and/or under-reported, the main characters and circumstances in the novel are fictitious and not intended to malign or distort actual persons or cases, but are purely the author’s imagined version of possible events.
For more information on “Jazz Age” slang, please visit these sites:
http://home.earthlink.net/~dlarkins/slang-pg.htm
http://local.aaca.org/bntc/slang/slang.htm
*****
FLAPPERS, FLASKS AND FOUL PLAY
CHAPTER ONE
Everyone always warned me about Market Street after dark. Loud jazz played as I knocked three times on the unmarked wooden door. A muggy Gulf breeze shook the palm trees, plastering my silk frock to my body like a mummy’s skin. Amanda and I jumped when a drunk flung a bottle out of a Model T.
“What’s the hold up?” I tugged at the heavy door, peering into the tiny slot. It wasn’t like Sammy or Dino to keep us waiting outside the Oasis at night. I knew it was risky to come, but I wanted, needed, to see Sammy, to keep a promise I’d made to my dad before he died.
Two winos wolf-whistled and made a beeline for us, leaning like twin towers of Pisa. “Get lost!” we shouted, trading anxious looks, relieved when they changed course.
“I’ve got the heebie-jeebies.” Amanda shivered. “What if the cops show up?”
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “Sammy has friends on the force.”
Still, how would it look if the Galveston Gazette’s society reporter was thrown in jail after a raid? I’d rather write the news stories than be a headline. Besides, I couldn’t afford to lose my job, even if it was just a fancy title for “stenographer and slave.” But I kept coming back to Market Street, craving the thrill lacking in my daily grind.
Finally the door panel slid open and cocoa eyes glowered at us. “Who sent you?”
“Sammy. Sammy Cook.”
“What’s the word?” A deep, familiar voice.
“Dino? It’s me, Jazz. Jasmine Cross.”
“The password?” His voice like a dare.
On cue, I recited: “Babe Ruth hits homers out of the ball park.” The door groaned open and Dino’s bulk filled the entrance, big as a baby grand. His round, fleshy face reminded me of a hand-tossed pizza. He yanked us inside, scowling, irritated that I’d passed the test.
“Say, why’d you give us the third-degree?” I snapped, hands on hips, my floral mesh bag swinging on my arm.
“Gotta be careful. Never know what can happen in a bar full of hooch hounds.”
Amanda’s baby blues widened. “A raid?”
Dino wagged a sausage finger at us, blocking our path.
“All I know is a gin joint’s no place for ladies without escorts.”
“Since when do we need escorts?” I pushed away his beefy arm, tattooed “Rosa” over a blood-red rose.
“Jazz, how do you always know the secret password?” Amanda sounded impressed.
If I told her the truth, could she keep a secret?
“I’ve got friends in high places.”
“You mean in low places,” she joked as we rushed downstairs.
The Oasis hid in the basement of a brick Victorian building, a haven for sailors, oilmen, flappers and winos. As a front, it operated as a Mediterranean restaurant, serving food around the clock, day and night. Twice, undercover cops had stopped in for “a bite to eat” and almost shut it down. If Sammy heard rumors of a raid, he stashed the booze and served Coca-Cola in china teacups.
A hazy gray fog of cigarette smoke stung my eyes, scratched my throat. Brass ceiling fans did little to relieve the heat or sweet smell of gardenia perfume. Folks of all ages packed the room shoulder to shoulder, united in one quest: getting blotto. Busy night.
Doria, a beautiful life-sized figurehead Sammy rescued from a wayward ship, hung above the bar. Hands across her chest, she watched over us like a guardian angel.
“Doria is my true love,” Sammy often joked. “When she comes alive, I’ll get married. Knock on wood.” That was Sammy—always a dreamer, chasing rainbows and mermaids.
A dandy in a top hat played “Ain’t We Got Fun?” on the old grand piano, laughing with a few chorus girls dancing the Charleston. In their glittering beaded gowns, they resembled brilliant butterflies. Even in my floral silk frock, I felt more like a moth.
Amanda disappeared to powder her nose, but I knew she wanted to survey the scenery—meaning the men. With her big blue eyes and long golden curls she refused to cut or bob, she reminded me of a Renaissance angel. Appearances can be deceiving.
I elbowed my way to the bar where Frank waited on customers behind the long oak counter. A beveled mirror reflected rows of liquor bottles lined up like soldiers. Model ships and schooners sat on the shelves, next to tinted photos of Sammy, the owner, surrounded by voluptuous vamps, hair bobbed, faces perfectly powdered and rouged. Women swooned over his dark hair, hazel eyes and olive skin, calling him a “dead ringer” for the late Rudolph Valentino. Excuse the pun.
Frank looked spiffy in a red bow tie and suspenders.
“Hey, Frank. Is Sammy here?”
He shook his head, mixing a cocktail. “You just missed him, Jazz. He got a call and ran out in a hurry.”
“What’s so urgent?” Sammy rarely left the Oasis on weekends, especially with a full house.
Monkey business, no doubt. Maybe Sammy was out with a dame or meeting a rum-runner on the docks or beach. Bootleggers often made deliveries on weekend nights—when the cops and clubs were hopping. Buzz, a freckle-faced orphan, helped out behind the bar. He was a bit slow upstairs, but did OK in a pinch.
“Hiya, Jazz! Can I getcha a soda?”
“How about a Dr. Pepper?” I tousled his sandy hair.
“A whiskey, on the rocks.” A good-looking gent pulled up a barstool by me with a smile. “Say, sport, have you seen Sammy?”
Buzz shyly shook his head ‘no.’
“I’m looking for Sammy, too,” I told the stranger.
“Join the crowd, little lady.” He loosened his collar and tie. “Is he your beau?”
What beau? Sure, I’d had my dance cards filled a few times, but I’d almost given up on men since my last steady skipped town and headed for Hollywood. So far, no cigar—or movie star.
“We’re just friends,” I fibbed. “Don’t worry, Sammy will show up soon. He’s usually here on weekends.”
Buzz served our drinks and the man handed him two bucks. “Let me get that, doll. Keep the change, sport.” Buzz grinned and stashed a bill in his Levi’s.
“Thanks, sir.” I studied his fine features, pricey gray suit and navy silk tie. He seemed out of place here, like a shiny new Cadillac in a crowd full of jalopies. Where had I seen him before? Probably in the society pages—he was the bold-faced type.
“Call me Horace.” His handshake was firm. “Any pal of Sammy’s is a pal of mine.”
“I’m Jazz,” I said, wondering what they possibly had in common. No secret that Sammy’s pals tended to have a lot more sass than class. “So how do you know Sammy?”
“Let’s just say we go way back.” He took a swill of his drink, his hands shaky. “Have we met before, Jazz? Do you come here often?”
Did he really think that corny line would work? As I started to turn away, he tapped my hand. “Say, if you see Sammy before I do, tell him I was here.” I noticed his red-rimmed eyes and pale, sweaty face, the whiskey on his breath. “Tell him it’s urgent. Life or death!”
Life or death? Was he serious or was the booze talking? Sammy always stopped serving liquor before his customers got too sloshed, but Frank didn’t seem to notice or even care.
“Will do, Horace. Thanks for the soda.” I could have dismissed him as just another drunk, but something about his tone, his high-class manners, set him apart from the regulars.
I excused myself and looked for Amanda, who stood out in the crowd, her blonde hair bright as a beacon. She was flirting with an Italian sailor who twirled her long ringlets as she spoke. I doubt he understood a word she said, but he got the message all the same.
“Ciao, bella.” He flashed a liquid smile. What a lounge lizard.
“Ciao.” I smiled, pulling Amanda away. “Arrivederci.”
The sailor’s face fell, but lit up when Amanda blew him a kiss. “Aw, don’t be a killjoy, Jazz,” she pouted. “I was just having fun.”
“That kind of fun can end in heartbreak,” I warned. “Come on, let’s get cocktails.”
Who was I to give advice on men with my lousy track record? Amanda had so many suitors I needed a scorecard. I admit, I often acted more like her chaperone than friend. We roomed at my aunt’s boarding house, and felt as close as sisters. A study in contrasts, she was tall and fair, while I was petite, with dark hair and blue eyes.
Circling the bar, we found a tiny table by the dance floor, and a bleached blonde strutted over to take our order.
“What d’ya want?” she drawled, sucking on a lollipop.
“A sidecar, please,” we said in unison.
The pianist broke into a fast ragtime number, and I watched with envy as a sleek young couple danced the foxtrot. If only I could be so light on my feet, with a snappy partner to lead the way.
Miss Peroxide returned, slamming down our drinks while we dug in our bags for change. “Sure you can handle this firewater?”
I faked a smile, ignoring her crack. “Say, have you seen Sammy?”
“What’s it to you? I’m his gal, not his babysitter.”
“Says who?” Amanda bristled, revealing her not-so-secret crush.
“Ask him yourself. Tell him Candy sent you.” She gave us the once-over before she scurried off.
“What a floozy!” Amanda huffed. “I think Candy needs a good dose of charm school.”
“And how,” I agreed to pacify her, nodding to a few flappers singing “Dinah” and “Always” by the piano. Some hangers-on sang along, swaying back and forth, a far cry from the church choir.
Across the room, a dashing man caught my eye, lifting his glass in a toast. Who, me? He edged closer, tilting his head toward the dance floor. Sure, I smiled back, eager to cut a rug. What a sheik! But I turned around when male voices amplified, drowning out the jazz.
By the bar, I saw two “Mutt and Jeff” look-alikes having a row. A tall, wiry guy raised his arm to strike—blocked by a short, pudgy fella in a sailor’s cap. Bar brawls were old hat: Beach and Downtown gangsters often faced off in public places to protect their turf.
The piano-playing stopped, the scuffle expanded until all I saw were fists flailing, men shoving and fighting. Loud voices cursed: “Palooka!” “Clodhopper!” “Bohunk!” and more choice insults.
Dino thundered downstairs, and pushed the men apart like a referee. “Knock it off! What do you think this is? A boxing ring?”
“I wonder what’s wrong?” I tensed up, craning my neck to see the commotion. Tall, Dark and Handsome had disappeared. Just my luck. As the crowd fanned out, I heard a gal scream: “Help!”
Amanda and I squeezed through the crowd, and I froze in place when I saw Horace, the dapper gent I’d met at the bar.
He was lying on the floor, motionless, passed out cold.
******
CHAPTER TWO
“Is he dead?” Amanda whispered.
“I hope not,” I replied, my stomach tight, looking around.
Where was Sammy when we needed him?
A hush fell over the Oasis, and a small group formed a half-circle around Horace, staring at his prone body as if expecting him to levitate. Dino bent down by his side and tried shaking him, to no avail. I hated to be a Nosy Nellie, but my reporter’s instincts kicked in and I tried to observe everything.
“What happened?” I asked Frank. “Was that man involved in the fight?”
“Beats me.” He fingered his suspenders. “One minute he’s sitting at the bar, the next he’s on the floor, out like a light.”
Dino glared at the crowd. “Which one of you chumps knocked him out?”
The room was silent save for the creaking brass fans. “Don’t look at me,” snapped Mutt.
“I ain’t touched a hair on his head,” said Jeff, hands held high like a stick-up.
A few murmurs filled the air. Then Mutt and Jeff started pushing each other, yelling, “What’d ya do to him, huh? What made him keel over like that?”
“Lay off! The lush had a heart attack, plain and simple.”
“So he got stinko,” snickered a man. “He just needs to dry out.”
How could they be so cavalier? My heart went out to him, this stranger, in such obvious distress.
Dino raised his voice for the crowd’s benefit. “Looks like the poor sot couldn’t handle his liquor. Got good and shellacked. We know how hard it is to find the real stuff.” No one laughed at his lame attempt at a joke, but I knew he was only trying to help Sammy in his own bumbling way. “Go back to your seats, folks. This ain’t no floor show.”
“Fooled me,” Candy drawled. If this was her idea of fun, maybe she thought visiting the old cemetery on Broadway was a good time.
I grabbed Dino’s arm, trying not to panic. “Aren’t you in charge? Do something!”
