Life is like a great canvas, framed by Birth and Death, on which each writer portrays his vision of “things as they are.” We judge his stories by his nearness to truth. If they are unreal, and their characters merely stuffed images that move automatically against false backgrounds, then we know them to be useless extravagances of the mind. But if they are stories written out of the raw of experience, so to speak, with human people in accurate surroundings, our conclusion is that such stories are worth while. And not only worth while because they are entertaining to read, but because they convey life as it is, and contain deep object lessons of true experience. Seeing how others have suffered; how the “other half lives”; how complex are the dangers that beset our journeys day by day, we gain a vicarious experience of our own that aids us in fighting the great battle.
Stories of the West and cowboys would indeed be tame and without value were they not written by those who know the frontier. Stories of the air and the bird men would be dull and uninstructive if they were written by those ignorant of the science of aviation. The same holds true with detective and gangster stories.
In the pages of this magazine you meet a cruel race of humans; people who move through the dark alleys of crime and terror. They arc but the creations of the writers’ minds, however, and are only reflections of actuality. One has but to pick up any newspaper in order to read the actual accounts of gangsters and racketeers. This magazine would indeed be of little worth were it to portray the racketeer as “he isn’t.” We must show him in his true colors, in his real environment. We must go to the depths of his twisted heart and soul. Yet, in spite of all this, these pages are but figments of the imagination. They are only true in their balance of actuality and fancy. The characters you meet are only a continuation of the imaginative line of literature produced by such masters of underworld life as Balzac and Charles Dickens.
You can gain much from these pages in truth; you can guard your own hearthstone from these modern brigands by understanding them and their ways. Knowledge is power, power is truth, and the truth will set you free. Knowing of these crooked byways of crime, and the people who walk there in darkness, you will be forearmed and forewarned about the pitfalls that are on all sides. But look only upon these pages as stories — the creations of our writers’ fancies — and if you gain valuable know ledge through entertaining reading, then indeed we have fulfilled a real purpose in publishing this periodical.
Racketeer Stories, February 1930
The story is the thing.
Yet we must not forget, that no matter how real it seems, it is, after all, only the weaving of a writer’s imagination. The characters are also only figments of the mind. The exciting situations are merely the creations of brilliant authors.
Keep these things before you as you read the amazing collection of yarns we have gathered together in the first issue of RACKETEER STORIES. They are — every one of them — only stories. They are intended for your entertainment — an escape from the routine of dull, daily life.
Many of the characters seem to triumph in crime, but if we could go on with them beyond the ends of these stories, we would read of their eventual downfall. Glittering as they seem crime can never pay, in the long run.
Crime is the product of weakness. And weakness is a disease of the mind and body. Therefore, in reading of the underworld, one must remember always that these pitiful children of evil are only red shadows in the shadowy realm of unreality. Let us read of them, but believe in them — no!
Rather let us gain a lesson from their ragged existence — a lesson in terror and pity that should help us to watch our own steps and beware of stupid temptations and idle pleasures gained at the price of our souls.
In these pages, you find the dregs of existence — moving paragraphs of horror, drama and even humor — and these pages are but loose leaves from the book of an imaginary life created for your entertainment and also your guidance.
Faithfully yours,
Harold Hersey
Triple Cross
By Jack Compton
The Dragnet Magazine, February 1930
Honesty among gangsters — that was what the new Commissioner thought. But the tough old police captain had different ideas.
The new Police Commissioner had some definite ideas.
“There’s only one way to handle these gangsters and racketeers,” he pompously told the grizzled old detective captain. “And that’s to be their pals. Give them an even break. They’ll meet you half way.”
“Bunk!” grunted the captain. “The only way to handle them birds is to kill ’em off — the faster the better. I’ve been on the force twenty-five years and I know.”
“Twenty-five years,” repeated the commissioner meaningly, “and you only a captain. Now take my—”
“I never did get a break on political graft,” cut in the captain, studiously flicking an imaginary speck from his uniform.
“Sir!”
“No offense,” the veteran officer replied simply. “I was just telling the truth — and you know it.” The captain rose from his chair and grinned at the over-dressed commissioner. “When you get near enough to them racketeers to give ’em an even break, I’d like to be around.” He moved the door.
The commissioner stopped in the act of taking a cigar from his desk humidor. “If you would like to be on hand, Captain, just remain in my office here for five minutes.”
Like a man who suspects his hearing of playing tricks on him, the grizzled old detective turned around. “Huh?” he inquired.
“I said,” explained the commissioner, as he adjusted a tiny flower in his button hole, “that if you remain here for five minutes you will see my theory become a fact. You will see me put an end to all gang war in this city.” The Police Department head coughed importantly and said, “The three biggest racketeers of the underworld are coming here at my invitation.”
“Suffering cats!”
The commissioner ignored the captain’s outburst and lit a fragrant Havana. “Of course, Captain, you’ve heard of Tony Sarotto?”
“The blackest murderer unhung!” snapped the detective.
“And of Mike Morgan?”
“Sure,” replied the captain sourly. “Mike’s checks will bounce him into the stir some day.”
“And of Big Sam Stevens?”
“Ugh! He’d drop his phoney money into a blind man’s cup.”
At that moment a pasty-faced clerk stepped into the commissioner’s office. “Mr. Sarotto, Mr. Morgan and Mr. Stevens to see you, sir. Shall I show the gentlemen in?”
“Gentlemen!” snorted the veteran officer.
The commissioner looked annoyed but did not reply to the detective’s sarcasm. He turned a stern face to his nervous clerk. “Show them in.”
And in came the racketeers three. First was the swarthy-faced Tony Sarotto. The short, stocky gangster crossed the floor quickly. His right hand was deep in his coat pocket as he glanced from side to side as if suspecting a trap. He nodded curtly to the commissioner’s cordial greeting and slipped into an indicated chair. A taunting smirk creased his dark features when he saw the detective chief.
But the veteran officer paid him no heed. He was thinking what an ass the new commissioner was about to make of himself. Second of the trio was the red-nosed Mike Morgan. The cocky Irishman swaggered into the room with a big grin for everybody. He dropped into the chair next to the captain and bummed a cigar.