Flappers, Flasks and Foul Play, page 18
part #1 of Jazz Age Mystery Series
“It was that simple?” I figured he had opened up a Pandora’s box of trouble.
“We’ll see how long it lasts. Now I need to talk to Johnny Jack, see what he knows, find out if the Downtown Gang is involved.”
“Good luck.” I chewed on my nails. “What about our photos? Can we get them back?”
“Quinn claims they’re still wet—but I think he’s the one who’s all wet.” Burton smiled at his own joke. “He says I’ll get the pictures back if I behave like a good sport.” His face flushed with fury. “Cooperation, he called it. Quinn even tried to hand me an envelope filled with bills, like I’m some kind of pushover. He thinks he can buy me off with a bribe and some fancy Champagne?”
“Boy, he has some nerve!” I had new respect for Burton, turning down such a blatant bribe. “Can’t you report him to the Treasury Department?”
“Why bother? It’s my word against his. And his pals will back him up.”
“You’re new in town. Maybe they’re trying to rile you up, see if you pass the test.”
“They must take me for a rookie.”
“I’ll bet half the cops in Galveston are on their payroll,” I said with disgust. I’d heard rumors from the reporters about crooked cops who worked with both gangs, as long as they paid up.
“I may be new, but I’m not naïve. And I’m not for sale.” He worked his jaw. “The gangs are getting too cocky, too violent. They think they can get away with murder.”
I was impressed by his resolve, but wondered if a Prohibition agent had any clout in a murder case? Truth be told, most gangland crimes went unresolved and unreported. Gangsters weren’t known to be chatty, especially when it came to protecting their own.
As we strolled along the Seawall, Burton grew silent. Was he feeling shy? Couples passed us, arm in arm, and Burton touched my hand once or twice, but I pretended not to notice. The breeze felt warm on my bare arms and legs, but it wreaked havoc on my curly hair. In the distance, the Crystal Palace pavilion rose like a giant wedding cake. I’d been there lots of times with friends, swimming in their huge indoor pool, surrounded by onlookers watching on balconies. On the beach, couples in bathing suits played in the waves, screaming like children.
Bright stars glittered like rhinestones in the dark sky. If I was with a beau, I’d think they were diamonds. Foamy white waves lapped the pale sand. The night might be romantic, if only I was with a real date. Considering the starry backdrop, I wondered: What if Burton and I had met under different circumstances?
All night I’d been trying to work up the nerve to ask Burton about the ice man. Finally I tapped his arm. “You still haven’t told me much about Harvey, the victim. How did you know him?”
“I met him at a diner in town,” he said. “A customer was grabbing a waitress there and Harvey tried to defend her. The guy beat him up pretty badly so I took him to the hospital. Poor lovesick fool. He changed jobs later, went to work for the ice company, and we kept in touch.”
“That was nice of you.” I eyed him. “So why’d you ask Harvey to stop delivering ice to the Oasis?”
“This is all off the record, OK? We’re just talking as friends.” He ran his fingers through his thick blond hair. “It all started with your pal, Horace Andrews. I heard he’d passed out at the Oasis and was taken to the hospital. We both know what happened next.”
My stomach lurched, recalling that night. “Who told you?”
“I work with cops, remember? Dirty or not, they talk. Plus I’ve got a few well-placed friends around town. They give me information here and there, no questions asked.”
“You mean informants? Snitches?” In school, we considered them tattle-tales.
“Whatever you want to call them. They do me favors, and I do the same for them. Like it or not, that’s how this business works—friends helping friends.”
“That’s one way to get your friends killed. What about Horace?”
“I’d heard there was a bad batch of liquor in town, so I started raiding all the bars on Market Street, trying to find the source,” Burton explained. “That’s when we met.”
“How can I forget? Was that a real raid or a dress rehearsal?”
He ignored my jab. “As you know, the raids weren’t working so I asked Harvey to help me out, to keep his eyes and ears open. Since he made daily deliveries anyway, no one suspected that the ice man worked for me. Or so I thought. I figured he’d hear something eventually since he was hitting all the bars in the area.”
Burton looked out at the waves, eyes clouding. “I’m sorry I ever got him involved. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Why put the squeeze on Sammy?” I studied his face for clues.
“I tried to pressure him, get him to reveal his suppliers, his sources. I assumed he also wanted to stop the flow of wood alcohol.” He shrugged. “But he refused to cooperate.”
“What did you expect? Want him to wind up dead, like Harvey?”
“Don’t insult me.” His mood turned stormy. “I didn’t expect Sammy to end up in jail. And I never thought Harvey would get whacked. All I wanted was a small favor.”
“A small favor? If the gangs even suspected he was a snitch—that’s like asking him to commit suicide!” Angry, I turned away, but he grabbed my wrist.
“I’m sorry, Jazz. I’m trying to find out who—or what—killed Andrews and the other victims, so I can stop the bootleggers before they hurt anyone else. Don’t you understand?”
“Yes, but how do you know he got poisoned at the Oasis? I’ll bet he went to a few other bars earlier that night.”
“I don’t know anything for sure—no one wants to talk.” His shoulders sagged. “My so-called sources make up false leads to throw me off track. I’m back to square one.”
I considered sharing what little I knew—about the methanol in Andrews’ flask, Mack’s poisoning, the turf wars—but changed my mind. Sure, he seemed sincere, but could I trust him?
Burton darted ahead of me, head down, walking so fast he bumped into a wino stumbling along the Seawall. When he stopped to help him, I caught up. “Watch where you’re going, sir,” Burton said. “You could fall off the Seawall onto the rocks.”
“Rocks? I can’t see in this fog.” The drunk rubbed his eyes. “It’s so thick.”
“There’s no fog tonight, mister,” I told him, trading worried looks with Burton.
“How much have you been drinking?” He frowned.
“I’d say a whole barrel full.” The rummy started chuckling. “I’ve been drinking since last night. Got good and zozzled!” Talk about digging your own grave.
“Where did you go?” Burton asked. “Do you remember?”
“I went up and down the Seawall.” The man slurred his words, swaying with the wind. “Ended up at Murdoch’s.” His weather-beaten face was as crinkled as an old map. “Why—you a cop?”
Burton took his arm. “I think you need help, mister. Let me find someone who can take you to the hospital.” He turned to me, urgency creeping into his voice. “Jazz, go find a cop who can take care of this man. And hurry!”
“Why don’t we drive him? It’s not far,” I suggested, recalling Andrews’ sudden collapse.
“Trust me, we don’t want to get involved.” He brushed me off. “Just go—now!”
I raced down the Seawall, hard to do in heels, and found a uniformed cop patrolling the area by Murdoch’s. After I told him about the wino, he blew a whistle and signaled for a second cop. They both raced toward the drunkard, and Burton identified himself as a Treasury agent.
“Take this man to Sealy Hospital. Immediately.” He sounded upset. “Tell them it’s an emergency. I’m no doctor, but I think this man is going blind—from wood alcohol poisoning.”
“Poor old sot. I hope he’ll be OK,” I said, touched by Burton’s concern. I watched the cops help the drunk into their squad car. He may have broken the law but their expressions showed only sympathy, or was it pity? “I’ve never seen anyone go blind from drinking. Have you?”
Burton watched the police car traveling down Seawall Boulevard toward the hospital until the lights faded. “I have, unfortunately, and it’s not a pretty sight.”
“What happened?” I thought of Andrews, wondering if he also had gone blind, before he passed away. In contrast, Mack was a tough old bird, recovering from his ordeal unharmed.
“Sad story. Never mind.” Burton cut me off. “Want to get some ice cream or snow cones?”
“Sure.” Frankly, I was puzzled by his curt reply. Sooner or later, I thought all cops got used to the seamy side of their jobs. Despite his show of bravado, maybe he was still wet behind the ears.
As we walked down the Seawall, I watched the jovial crowd milling about, dressed in everything from bathing suits to the finest frocks. A few couples waded in the Gulf between the tall pilings under Murdoch’s. I had so many questions, but I asked him a question that seemed safe: “How did you end up becoming a Prohibition agent?”
“My father was a cop.” His mood darkened. “That’s all he talked about while I was growing up. Violence, crime, murder. He was a barrel of laughs.”
“Why work as a Treasury agent? Isn’t it more dangerous?”
Burton stopped and stared at me, wild-eyed, gesturing toward the hospital. “You want to know why I put myself in this shit job? To help people like that half-blind sucker. To stop the criminals who sell poison and call it pure liquor. To stop the idiots from ruining their lives with every damn drink they take.”
His emotional outburst surprised me. Seems I’d touched a nerve beneath his cool, calm demeanor. “Thanks for being honest. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“And I didn’t mean to get on my soapbox.” He looked away. “Sorry I got so riled up.”
“That’s OK. I’ve got more questions, if you don’t mind.” Even if he did mind, I wanted to ask anyway. “I read a few articles that have me worried. Is it true that our government legally forces suppliers to add poison to industrial alcohol? Isn’t that why so many people are going blind and dying—because our government is trying to enforce a law that’s a losing battle?”
Who better to ask than a Prohibition agent?
Burton stared at me in amazement. “How’d you find out? Congress tried real hard to cover that up, so the public wouldn’t put two and two together.”
“I found a few obscure articles in the paper. Sad to say, their underhanded scheme is working. And it’s killing lots of innocent people.” I faced him. “Tell me, what’s your honest opinion? Is it right to purposely poison people to uphold a senseless law?”
“Of course not.” He scowled, clearly upset. “You want to know the real reason I became a Prohibition agent? Because the Eighteenth Amendment is a farce. A deadly game of Russian roulette.”
******
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“My thoughts exactly. Prohibition is only helping gangsters get rich, and punishing the public.” In one night, my opinion of Burton had changed. He didn’t seem opposed to social drinking—he wanted to prevent senseless deaths from alcohol poisoning. All of a sudden, his actions began to make sense: Maybe that’s why he hadn’t shut down the Oasis despite his threats, why he was so hell-bent on finding the bootleggers passing off poison as pure liquor.
“So how about that ice cream?” he asked, not-so-subtly changing the subject.
“Sounds good.” A fitting diversion from all this talk of gloom and doom. Some people craved liquor, but my real downfall was my sweet tooth.
Silent, we walked over to a vendor across from Murdoch’s, and each ordered chocolate ice cream. I bent over my cone, trying not to drip on my silk dress, making a mess on the Seawall. Burton laughed as he watched me try to lick the ice cream before it melted—impossible in this heat. The ice cream seemed to soothe him, both of us. For once, I felt like we were simply two kids having fun.
Burton reached over with a napkin, and I blushed while he carefully wiped my cheek. Reluctantly, I checked my watch: 11:40.
“It’s getting late. We’d better go back.” I had to admit, I was enjoying his company.
“I hoped you wouldn’t notice.” He grinned and led me toward his car. “Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight?”
“Eva will have a fit. She waits up for me when I’m out at night.”
“So you’re a night owl? No wonder she has so many gray hairs. What do you do during all those late nights?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yes, I would.” He tried to grab my arm, but I slid out of reach. “Tell me why a sweet society reporter spends so much time in speakeasies—when she hardly drinks a drop. And why is a nice girl like you so interested in gangs and the criminal side of Galveston?”
Was he gunning for my job? “Why the third-degree?” I asked, since I didn’t quite know how to reply.
Perhaps it was my sheltered upbringing, my rebellious side, the hypocrisy I saw in high society that piqued my interest in journalism. Did I think working at the Gazette might really make a difference?
“Just curious. Why are you so intent on helping Sammy?”
I met his gaze, his hat silhouetted against the tall Victorian street lights. “Because he’s innocent. Can you help get him out of jail?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But I’ll do my best.”
Like a gentleman, Burton helped me into his Roadster. I rolled down the window and took a last look at the soapy waves crashing against the shore. Was he as balled up as I was now? Were we crossing a line? Had I said too much, or not enough? My head felt so muddled, I needed some distance, and time, to absorb everything.
When we arrived at the boarding house, Burton walked me to the door and stood there, shuffling his feet. He was so tall, the porch light shone on his honey-blond hair. I couldn’t help but smile, he looked so uncomfortable. James Burton—flustered?
Finally he said, “If I wasn’t a gentleman, I’d try to kiss you.” Then he turned and rushed down the brick walkway to his car.
Kiss me? Now I was really confused.
Luckily, he’d escaped just in time—Eva peered out the curtains, then opened the front door wide. “Where’s Agent Burton?” Her face fell. “I was going to invite him in for lemonade.” Following me inside, she asked: “Did you two have fun? Will you go out with him again? He seems too dashing to be a cop.”
I yawned and stretched. “It wasn’t a date. We’re only friends.”
“I don’t get that dolled up for my friends,” she teased. “Too bad he left so soon.”
So soon? She didn’t even scold me for staying out past midnight. Maybe Eva had a crush on Agent Burton? I knew she wanted to chat, but I begged off. “I’m so tired. Can we talk tomorrow?”
I hugged her good-night, then tiptoed upstairs to my bedroom. Amanda flung my door open, and rushed in, like a melodramatic opera singer. “I heard all about it—that murder! How they arrested Sammy in the middle of Market Street! What happened?”
“Be glad you weren’t there. Sammy felt so humiliated, getting arrested in front of everyone. He claims the gangs framed him.”
“I’ll bet. Good-for-nothing gangsters!” She knotted her fists. “What did Sammy ever do to them?”
“Burton thinks it may work to our advantage, that with Sammy in jail, the killer may get careless and start bragging about getting away with murder.” I didn’t mention that Burton was partly to blame, that he’d hired Harvey to snoop on Sammy. She always saw the glass as half-full, and I didn’t want her to get sore.
“Don’t worry, Burton will get Sammy out soon,” Amanda tried to reassure me. I sure hoped she was right.
Her sunny disposition never failed to cheer me up. When I was despondent after my star-struck beau, who shall remain nameless, left town, she lifted my spirits, boosted my ego, telling me that I could focus on my career. True, but snuggling up to a job wasn’t much fun.
“Now I wanna hear all about your hot date with the handsome copper. What happened?”
“We went to the Surf Club and danced the Charleston and he tried to teach me to tango. You won’t believe this: Ollie Quinn had a bottle of Champagne delivered to our table!”
“With Burton sitting there? Of all the nerve! What did you do?”
“I took a few sips, what else?” I grinned, enjoying her shocked expression. “I enjoyed it, too.”
“Get to the good part: Did he kiss you?”
“He’d better not try. If he ever made a move, I’d slap him.” Or would I? “Honestly, I think he’s only using me to get to Sammy.”
“You’re daffy! Even if that was true, aren’t you doing the same thing—going out with Burton to help Sammy?”
She was right. “So what? Like he said, we’re friends helping friends.” I couldn’t believe I was quoting Burton, after only one “date.” As I recounted the evening’s events—my exchange with Candy, the walk on the Seawall, the old rummy—her eyes widened.
“Jeepers, you’ve had some day. I wish mine was half as exciting. All I did was work at the diner.”
I gave her a sympathetic smile. “That’s not all. I went to visit Alice Andrews today and she gave me a few of Horace’s things. She’d just had a break-in and I think she wanted to hide them.”
“She must trust you,” Amanda said. “Or else she’s trying to get them out of her house to protect herself and her family.” She flung out her arms like a Ziegfeld Follies showgirl. “Maybe she poisoned her husband and wants to get rid of the evidence!?”
“You’re nuts! She’s not the type.” Or was she?
I’d never even considered the possibility that Alice Andrews could be involved. “You think she was putting on a big act, trying to cover her tracks? Applesauce!”
Amanda sat up, twisting her hands. “Suppose she only wanted to teach him a lesson, and never intended to kill him?”
I mulled it over. “What if you’re right? Say, she was angry about his drinking and his so-called affair with Rose and tainted his booze as revenge? Who had better access to his flask?”
