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“No one beats Abe Weintraub.”
“There’s a first time for everything, Mr. Weintraub. You’re looking at yours. You will turn on the phonograph and tell me who’s your boss.”
“What’s the difference? You’ll kill me either way.”
“There is a third way. Work for me. Trespasses are forgiven if you’re my man. Would you like that?”
“Go to hell.”
“Put him back under.”
24
AN ELECTRIC SIGN of multicolored bulbs as dazzling as any in Asbury Park glared atop a fresh-painted, veranda-draped hotel on an all-weather highway ten miles outside Detroit:
TEXAS WALT’S HIGH SOCIETY ROADHOUSE
The parking lot was full of Pierce-Arrows, Packards, Cadillacs, Rolls-Royces, Marmons, and Minervas, and it looked like a safe bet there were movie stars inside. If they were, then a new kind of lighted sign imported from Paris—neon gas set aglow inside clear tubes shaped like a martini glass—left no doubt they were drinking cocktails. Music gushed from the open windows, a sweet tune from a Broadway hit. It was played by Detroit’s favorite twelve-piece society band, Leroy Smith’s, and the cream of the Motor City’s fast and rich spilled onto the verandas, dancing and singing along with “Kansas Nightingale” Amber Edwards:
“TILL IT WILTED SHE WORE IT,
SHE’LL ALWAYS ADORE IT
HER SWEET LITTLE ALICE BLUE GOWN.”
A lime green V-8 Cadillac Sport Phaeton pulled up under the porte cochere.
Texas Walt Hatfield himself strode down the front steps to greet it. The tall western star was wearing his signature J. B. Stetson hat, a turquoise silk shirt, string tie, brocade vest, and ostrich-skin boots. Twin Colts were holstered low on his hips. Strapping doormen flanked him.
“Good job, Walt,” said Isaac Bell, stepping down from the Phaeton in his bootlegger outfit. “The joint is jumpin’.”
“Just like you ordered. Music, gambling, pretty gals, and the best booze south of Canada. Now, will you tell me why I’m operating an illegal alcohol establishment?”
“What do you mean illegal? The cops are directing traffic.”
“And the town council’s in the bar, toasting the mayor. Dammit to hell, Isaac, why is the Van Dorn Detective Agency running a roadhouse?”
“Information,” said Bell. “Moneymaking roadhouses attract gangsters offering ‘protection’ for a cut of the profits. We’ll put the question to every shakedown thug who tries to horn in on us.”
“What question?”
“The same question Marat Zolner is asking: Who is Detroit’s top dog? He’s looking for a bootleg partner, like the Black Hand in New York.”
“Detroit’s different. Top dogs get shot, dynamited, and throat-slit on a regular basis. Every time the cops reckon who’s running things, the sidewinder gets ambushed. It’s bootleg war.”
“I’m betting the Comintern has the muscle and the money to swing the war their way. The boss who Zolner backs will win the war. When we learn who Zolner chooses, we will do the ambushing.”
“Looking forward to that,” said Texas Walt. “Meantime, we’re making money hand over fist. More than enough to cover the bribes— Good evening, Mr. Mayor. Good evening, Judge,” he greeted two plump men in new suits. “Your fair ladies asked me to tell you they’re getting a head start in the bar.”
“Wouldn’t it be funny,” said Bell, “if the Comintern were up to the same scheme we were?”
“Ah’d put nothing past Bolsheviks,” said Walt. “But how do you mean?”
“Bootlegging to pay for the revolution.”
Walt Hatfield laughed. “Personally, Ah’d say the heck with the revolution, Ah’m getting rich off Prohibition.”
“Of course, you’re not a Bolshevik.”
