The Commodore was a chic apartment hotel up on Western and Holly in the exclusive Summit neighborhood. Over the years the hotel hosted famous and infamous clientele—Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda, Al Capone, the Barker gang, and a gaggle of other celebrities.
I walked up the steps, through the courtyard, and into the lobby. The bar was to my left. It was a grand-looking place, decorated in the Moderne style. Glass mirrors and chrome sparkled throughout. A bartender in a white shirt and black bow tie stood behind the small but luxurious bar mixing a cocktail in a shaker. Off to the side a group of happy drunks were gathering around a small piano, giving out with a dirty version of the song, “If I Could Be with You One Hour Tonight.”
The place was intimate enough for me to spot the blonde at a small glass table at the back of the room. She was dressed in a blue silk dinner number, ankle length, cut high in the front and low in the back. It did nothing to hide her lush figure. I had been right when I guessed it had to be swell under her fur wrap.
I said hello and started to sit, but she pointed to the singers and said, “It’s too noisy here. Come up to my apartment in ten minutes—number 402.” She stood and left.
I stopped at the bar and ordered a scotch, my first drink since I left Leavenworth. The singers had switched to “Let’s Do It.” It was kind of nice just watching people have fun.
I finished my drink and went up to her apartment. She opened the door at my first knock. I pushed past her, Luger in hand, in case this was a setup. I checked the place over. When I was satisfied we were alone, I turned to her. “Okay, baby, spill. Start with who you are and what this is all about.”
She blinked her dark blue lamps and said, “My name is Claire Blake, Mr. Kane, and I need your help.” And tears began to flow.
I handed her my handkerchief, led her to a settee, and sat beside her. “Tell me about it.” What guy isn’t a sucker for a beautiful dame with tears in her eyes?
She wiped the tears away and looked at me. “I heard you’ve come back to town to settle a score with Tom Macintyre.”
I didn’t answer her, so she continued. “Macintyre is a dangerous man. You could get killed.”
“Why should you care what happens to me?” I asked.
“Because I know what Tommy Macintyre did to you. The whole town knows. What they don’t know is what he did to me.”
Through sobs she revealed her story.
Just a small-town girl, she had come to the big city to be a singer. Not much different than others with the same dream. She ended up working for Macintyre as a hostess in his club. When Tommy found out she could sing, he gave her a break.
“But there were strings,” she said. “I don’t love him; I don’t want to be known as Tommy’s bim. But…”
“But what? Are you telling me that Macintyre wouldn’t let you sing unless you slept with him?”
“Yes, he made it clear that it was part of the deal.” She lowered her eyes as if she were ashamed.
I raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“It’s true—I swear.”
“If you say so.”
“You don’t believe me.” More tears. “Look, Mr. Kane. I may not be a virgin, and I might be ambitious, but Tommy Macintyre owns me. I am so afraid of him. I’ve an offer for a radio contract in New York, but he won’t let me go. He told me he’d kill me if I ever left him.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Everyone knows you’re gunning for him. But he’s dangerous. I can distract him and maybe you can take care of him. It’s to both of our advantage.”
“What if he kills me first?”
“I have a friend to back the play.” The tears were gone and she was all business. “He wouldn’t dare go up against Tommy alone, but with you…”
“Who’s your friend?”
“You can meet him tonight. Come out to Tommy’s club, The Rose of Tralee, around 8. If you need money, I can pay you.” She took a roll out of her purse as big as a grapefruit.
“If this isn’t enough…”
“I don’t need to be paid for what I’m going to do,” I said, pushing the roll back at her. “Looks like Tommy’s been generous,” I added.
“Material things. A girl needs more,” she breathed softly.
“How much more, baby?”
She smiled. Next thing I knew she was in my lap, her arms around my neck, and her tongue down my throat.
I picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. She whispered, “Fuck me,” a phrase that you didn’t hear from nice girls, but I hadn’t been with a nice girl since Mary Agnes Murphy back in 1917 before I joined the army. I must have made some impression on Mary Agnes, because when I was in France, she became a nun.
I had known bad girls from Paris to Havana. And Claire was definitely a bad girl. She made love like an alley cat—the scratches on my back would hurt for days. It was a great ride, especially since I’d been without for four years.
We went at it a couple more times and when it was over, I said, “You were swell, baby. I like the way you move.”
“No complaints from me either, big boy.” Claire planted a honey-cooler on my lips and went into the bathroom.
She came out wearing a silk kimono, sat at her dressing table, and proceeded to fix her hair and makeup. I dressed and she walked me to the door.
“You’ll be out to the club by 8?”
“Yes.” I leaned in to kiss her.
She turned her head. “Jake, my makeup.”
“Sure,” I said, and left.
Back at Izzy’s, I cleaned up and changed into my new tux, transferred the Luger to that outfit, and grabbed my hat and coat.
Izzy had gone home, which was good. The less he knew, the less he would worry.
It was cold in the Overland as I drove out Fort Road. The heap had no heater and I had to keep the windows down so the windshield wouldn’t fog over.
The Rose of Tralee stood on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi. It was a nice-looking place, nightclub in front, illegal casino upstairs.
The valet sniffed when I handed him the key to the Overland. I gave him a fin and he put a phony smile on his face.
I checked my hat and coat with a cutie wearing a sexy little green satin number. I ran my fingers through my hair, turned, and came face-to-face with my ex-partner. No, not Tommy Macintyre, but Maurice “Mummy” Lamott. Tall, with hooded eyes and hollow cheeks. Always a menacing figure. We had parted ways early in the ’20s.
“Hello, Jake,” he said, holding out his hand.
I shook it, fighting off the urge to count my fingers.
Mummy was a hard mug and more than a little dangerous. We went back as far as Franklin Grammar School. His gang had jumped me on the playground and beat the shit out of the “sheeny bastard.” I was saved by Frank Jr. and Tommy Macintyre.
I caught up with Mummy a few days later and kicked his ass. We had sort of a truce after that—never buddies, but we got along in high school. When Frank Jr., Tommy, and I came back from France in 1919, Mummy was setting up a bootlegging operation. He needed tough guys who knew their way around a gun. Tommy and I didn’t see anything better coming our way, so we joined his gang. Frank Jr. declined. He had seen enough of war and his health was frail.
But Mummy was too free and easy with his rod; you never knew when he would start throwing lead. His antics brought down the big machers who ran the rackets in town. Tommy and I were able to square ourselves, but Mummy had to leave St. Paul. He went to work for the Chicago Outfit where his special talents got him in good with Capone. He’d drift in and out of town after that, on errands for the Outfit. Now here he was togged to the bricks, in a fine set of white tie and tails.
“You the doorman?” I asked.