The Yankee Club (24 page)

I hated keeping information from Gino. I kept a secret from Laura and look where it got me. I couldn’t lie to him, so I kept my mouth shut.

“I’m sorry, too.” Danny downed another shot of scotch. “I shouldn’t a roughed you up that way.”

I’d grown accustomed to getting roughed up and worse since my return to New York.
Hours earlier, I’d crashed through a glass cooler at The Happy Florist with barely a scratch, but I felt certain the future would hold even greater danger. The toughest challenge might be setting things straight with Laura. “Frankie, the keys.”

“Sure.” He fished around in his pocket.

“Danny’s right about the cops. They’re doing nothing.” Gino let out a long puff. “I’m also afraid he’s right about you. You’ve been looking into the hit on Mickey since you got out of the hospital. All you’ve found out is the driver’s a member of the Blackshirts.”

Frankie slapped the car keys into my hand. “Blackshirts? That gang that hangs out at Al’s Pool Hall?”

Gino jumped to his feet. “That’s Lorenzo’s place!”

I had no idea who Lorenzo was or how Frankie knew the location of the Blackshirt headquarters. “Let the cops handle Paul Cummings.”

“How’s that working out, huh?” Gino studied my face. “You knew about Al’s Pool Hall, didn’t you?”

I couldn’t look him in the eye.

“When did you stop being straight with me?” Gino shook his head. “Come on, Danny. Let’s do this.”

“Do what?” I stuffed the keys in my pocket and picked up my cane.

“Snatch this Paul Cummings guy from the pool hall, make him talk, and find out who killed Mickey, which was something I thought might be of interest to you.”

I had to stop this talk before things got out of hand. “This is crazy. You want to go into the Blackshirt headquarters with only the four of us?”

“Four of us? Me and Danny make two. Why don’t you go fix things with Laura? Danny and me’ll go find out who shot Mickey.” He pointed to Mickey’s photo on the wall. “He deserves as much.”

Frankie struggled to his feet. “I’m in.”

“Okay, at least three of us got balls.” Gino grabbed his hat. “Lorenzo’s a bum. I’d love to find Cummings and take care of Lorenzo once and for all. Two birds with one stone, you know?”

I made one last attempt to stop Gino. “I have it covered. I have someone keeping an eye on the place. If Cummings shows his face, he’ll get picked up, and we can work him over and get him to talk.”

“You coming with us or not?” Gino stared at me.

Before I could answer, his mother stepped from the kitchen with a towel draped over one shoulder. She uncovered the mirror, restarted the clock, and headed to the nearly empty table of food.

“Hey, Ma,” Gino set his hat on his head. “Leave that stuff. I’ll clean up when I get back.”

“You?” she chuckled. “Where are you going? It’s after midnight.”

Gino’s face flushed. “I’m thirty-four. I don’t have to tell you where I go at night.”

“Since when?” She wiped the food table with a towel.

Gino let out a sigh. “We’re going to shoot pool.”

“See, now was that so hard?” She patted his face and began to stack empty plates on the table.

“Don’t wait up.” Gino led Danny and Frankie toward the door.

I hurried after them. “I’ll drive.”

With Gino beside me and Frankie and Danny in the backseat, I slowed as we approached the pool hall and Blackshirt headquarters. The place was an aging two-story wooden building with paint faded and curled from weather, time, and neglect. The street level featured a large glass window smoked gray with dirt and grime. White script identified the place as Al’s Pool Hall. I drove past with a quick check of the second-floor offices. I turned the corner and glanced down the alley. Beneath a light, a man in a black shirt sat on a stool beside the back door cleaning his nails with a knife.

I drove slowly around the block. “What do you think?”

Gino scratched the stubble of his chin. “The Blackshirt headquarters is upstairs, but Paul Cummings could be downstairs shooting pool like a regular customer.”

I parked a half block from the building and focused on keeping my friends safe. “If I can get past the guard in the alley, I’ll search upstairs.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” Gino rolled up his pant leg and pulled a snub-nose pistol from an ankle holster. After checking to make sure the gun was loaded, he stuffed it in the holster. “Haven’t used this since the rat infestation of ’29. You and Frankie wait here. Me and Danny will head inside the pool hall and look for more rats. If we spot Cummings, I’ll send Danny out for a smoke. You and Frankie can come in, and we’ll figure a way to separate Cummings from the herd. If Danny don’t come out in five minutes, means our target ain’t in the pool hall, and you and Frankie can go in the back way and sneak upstairs.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

Gino grinned. “I have my moments.”

Danny leaned forward from the backseat. “What’s Cummings look like?”

“He’s Jamaican,” I said.

“I’m guessing he’s the only Jamaican in an Italian pool hall. Shouldn’t be that tough to spot.” Gino lit a cigarette. “Come on, Danny. Let’s do this.”

Danny and Gino crossed the street and went inside the pool hall. I hoped they knew what they were doing. I checked my watch. After five minutes, I realized Cummings wasn’t shooting
pool. Worried for my friends’ safety as well as my own, I climbed from the car and led Frankie toward the alley. I stopped and peered around the corner of the building. “Think you can act drunk?”

“I’ve never seen me drunk, but I’ve been told it’s quite a sight.”

“Stagger down the alley past the door. Make sure you get the guard’s attention, and I’ll grab him from behind.”

“I can do that.” Frankie ruffled his hair, unbuttoned his jacket, and stumbled down the alley singing “My Wild Irish Rose.”

The guard got to his feet with an eye on Frankie who stumbled past him, fell to his hands and knees, and began to dry heave.

With his back to me the guard kicked Frankie in the side and shouted for him to move on.

I crept along the wall in the darkness, my cane at my side.

Frankie didn’t move, so the guard gave him two more vicious kicks to the ribs. Frankie crumpled to the ground.

I twisted the handle of the cane, clamped my arms around the guard’s neck, and pressed the dagger against his throat. “Don’t move, tough guy.”

Wincing, Frankie climbed to his feet, clutching his ribs. “Next time, you play the drunk, and I sneak up from behind.”

“Deal.”

The guard seethed as Frankie patted him down. He tossed a six-inch knife that clattered down the alley then displayed a pistol retrieved from the back of the man’s trousers. Frankie stuck it inside his own jacket. When he’d finished the search, he stepped back and kicked the man in the balls. “How does that feel?”

The guard crumpled to the ground, holding his crotch, and moaned.

Frankie pressed against his side and grimaced. “I think he broke a couple of my ribs.” He gave the man another kick.

As the guard writhed, I nudged him with my shoe. “Paul Cummings inside?”

He coughed. “Never heard of ’im.”

I bent down and pressed the tip of the dagger against the guard’s chin. “Try again.”

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Never met no … no Paul Cummings.”

“He’s Jamaican.”

“Yeah. Sure. The Jamaican. Never caught his real name.” Sweat slid down the guard’s neck. “He ain’t inside. Ain’t seen him for days.”

I grabbed a flashlight clipped to the man’s belt and struggled to my feet. “How many people are upstairs?”

He shook his head. “Got no idea, mister. I’m just a guard.”

I gestured to Frankie with the flashlight. “Keep an eye on him.”

Frankie drew the gun. “You be careful, boss.”

“You’re making a big mistake.” The guard struggled to sit up.

I laughed. “You’re right. Shoot him.”

The man’s eyes widened. He held up two trembling hands. “No, please.”

Frankie winked. “He did say please.”

“Suit yourself.”

Frankie aimed the gun at the frightened guard. “You sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

“Just watch the guard. I’ll take care of Cummings.” I stepped inside a small storeroom stacked with crates and boxes. Behind the door on the far wall came the sound of cue balls cracking in the pool hall. To my left, a wooden stairway that looked like it would creak led to the second level. I climbed the steps as quietly as I could. On the landing I clicked on the flashlight. The beam swept the dark corridor.

Outside the first room I listened for movement on the other side of the door with growing suspicion. The only sound was the thumping of my heart. Would the Blackshirt headquarters be so easily penetrated by overpowering a single guard? I listened at the next door before I entered.

I checked the first two rooms, a bathroom and a closet with cleaning supplies. Easing open the third door, I went inside. The flashlight beam revealed boxes of paper stacked along one wall. A small printing press stood in the corner next to a table covered with scattered newspapers. I picked up a newspaper, shined the light on the articles filled with hate messages against Jews, immigrants, and various ethnic groups. Other articles railed against Roosevelt’s policies.

I entered a room across the corridor, an office with filing cabinets and a wooden desk stacked with papers. The filing cabinets contained posters and books with a patriotic theme. Hate and patriotic fervor. I’d read about that combination regarding Germany. I sifted through the desk papers, searching for information that would convince the feds to get involved. I found a list of businesses identified for future indoctrination. Nothing linked these goons to the Golden Legion.

Where was Paul Cummings? I left the office, clicked off the flashlight, and walked to the end of the corridor. Stairs led to the noisy pool hall below. I peered over the railing. Two guards stood at the foot of the stairway, their eyes focused on Danny and Gino at a pool table near the front door.

Gino held both arms out toward a dark-haired man in a pin-striped suit. “Honest, Lorenzo, I didn’t realize she was your wife until I woke up the next morning.”

I backed away from the railing and reached for the doorknob to the final upstairs room. I wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, gripped the dagger tightly, and opened the door. I swept the light toward six rows of wooden chairs facing a lectern—a Blackshirt meeting hall. I closed the door behind me and aimed the light on the far wall where a green, white, and red flag of Italy hung from the wall behind the lectern.

Oil paintings hung on both sides of the flag. One I expected: the granite-jawed face of Mussolini, Il Duce. The other painting froze me in place.

Oliver Greenwoody in full military uniform, complete with medals and decorations, sat atop a white stallion with a flowing mane. A brass plate below the painting read A
MERICAN
W
ARRIOR
.

The painting revealed Dorothy’s father was more than an admirer of Mussolini, but I sensed something far more sinister. Before I could think it through, footsteps in the corridor forced me to move. Someone stopped in the corridor outside the closed door. I ducked behind the lectern and shut off the flashlight.

A dagger was effective in close quarters. If the man had a gun, my weapon would be useless. I gripped the flashlight and dagger and waited as the door swung open.

The door closed. Three heavy footsteps sounded on the wood floor. “I know you’re in here, Donovan.”

I stepped from behind the lectern. It was Landon Stoddard. “I should’ve known it was you.”

Stoddard scowled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I slipped the dagger inside my suit coat. “I came looking for Paul Cummings. No luck.”

“If you’d checked with me, I could have told you that. I’ve had the place under surveillance from a roach-infested hotel across the street. After you and your friends showed up, I had no choice but to follow you inside.”

“I found something more important.” I aimed the light at the painting of Greenwoody.

Stoddard’s face reddened. “Who does he think he is, George Fucking Washington?” He moved closer to the painting and scoffed. “Warrior. Once, maybe. Now he’s the hero to a bunch of goons and thugs.”

“Doesn’t make sense, unless—”

“Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Wait.” I rubbed my forehead and studied the painting and the link between Greenwoody and the Golden Legion. Cold sweat dripped down my back. “The Golden Legion isn’t planning to kill Roosevelt.”

“What?”

I paced the room, hoping by speaking the words aloud, Stoddard could punch holes in my
theory. “The assassination attempt was in February. Roosevelt was inaugurated March fourth. If they kill him now, Vice President Garner takes office and a sympathetic Congress implements the New Deal of a martyred president. For the bankers that make up the Golden Legion to keep their power, they have to stop the New Deal. Killing Roosevelt won’t stop the policies they perceive as a threat to their wealth and power.”

“What are you saying?”

I took a deep breath. “Their only recourse is to replace the government.”

Stoddard’s mouth dropped. “You’re crazy. This is the United States.”

“It happened in Italy and in Germany.”

“A fascist dictator in America.” Stoddard raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t a plot in one of your novels. It’s the real world.”

“Dalrymple’s smart. He understands the country wouldn’t go for a thug such as Mussolini or a crazy bastard like Hitler. The Golden Legion needs to sell the citizens on the idea that we face an emergency and this is the only way to get us out of the Depression and save the republic. They need someone popular.” I pointed to the painting. “A warrior on a white horse.”

Stoddard’s eyes shifted between Mussolini and Greenwoody. He whispered to himself, “Is it possible?”

“People will forget Roosevelt didn’t cause this mess. Twelve million unemployed will follow anyone who promises them a job. The veterans love Greenwoody. The whole country does.” I liked the guy until I found out he was a fan of Mussolini. I couldn’t believe Dorothy knew of her father’s involvement in a traitorous plot.