Chapter Eleven
Polly
New York, New York
A shard of broken crystal catches the early-morning sunlight streaming through the windows of the King Tut bar. It casts a rainbow on the wall opposite, and I shake my head. How can something so beautiful actually be a harbinger of doom?
I pick up the jagged shard and add it to the growing pile of shattered liquor bottles, crystal flutes, and wineglasses.
They aren’t the only evidence of last night’s destruction; toppled chairs, tossed mahjong tiles, and strewn playing cards are everywhere.
I cannot count the amount of dough I’ve spent on cleanup from Dutch’s men’s carousing or the number of times their bills for drinks and girls have gone unpaid.
The only thing I’ve been able to prevent so far is damage to my girls.
But being known as Dutch’s place has its upside.
For the most part, the cops don’t threaten me when the girls and I are out and about.
And as long as his cops are on duty, I’m protected from the wild packs of unorganized criminals who’ve been plaguing other brothels.
The Lion will manage all this cleanup when she rises for the day in a few hours’ time.
But the Lion’s worried glances and quiet tsking—born from fierce loyalty, but no less annoying for their source—are more than I can bear this morning.
She’s so much more than a housekeeper; sometimes, she’s more like a guardian angel.
When you have no choice but to deal with the Devil, however, an angel can be awfully annoying.
Not to mention that Dutch will come stumbling down those steps any minute now, and I’ve got to be ready. Even though his goons are the wrecking ball that blew through the King Tut bar and gambling room last night, it won’t do to have him trip on a book or cut himself on a jagged piece of glass.
I cannot imagine what might happen next. And I never want to find out.
I hear footsteps and brace myself. Which version of Dutch will I be facing this morning?
Would the amenable Arthur Simon Flegenheimer, son of German Jewish immigrants, appear in my bar?
The one who rescued me from three years in the slammer when I made a secret deal with him?
Or will I be dealing with Dutch Schultz, as Arthur is now known, and his brutality?
A violence that’s only increased as he’s become obsessed with Dewey’s ongoing investigation into him.
Why has Dewey gotten under Dutch’s skin this time when Dutch has conquered the much more fearsome enemies of the Mafia’s Five Families and the Irish Mob?
Not to mention, he’s shaken off Dewey’s earlier efforts to get him for tax evasion.
I can’t spend too much time in Dutch’s warped mind trying to figure that out, because no matter the reason, bringing down Dewey has become Dutch’s primary obsession.
The powerful thud of his boots grows louder. Dutch likes a steaming cup of coffee waiting for him when he emerges from one of the girls’ rooms in the morning. And it behooves me to have it ready.
Just as he enters the bar, I place the oversized mug of coffee at his favorite spot. He ambles past me and thunks down on the chair. He draws deeply on his coffee, then pauses.
Lifting his mug in the air, he says, “I think I need some hair of the dog this morning, Polly.”
“ ’Course, Dutch. Should’ve thought about that myself.” I scamper behind the bar to grab his bottle of whiskey—the good stuff I keep just for him—and I pour a generous splash in his coffee.
A wry half grin appears on his face, and I guess I’m dealing with Arthur this morning. “Care to join me?” he asks.
I don’t, in truth. I’d like this mercurial tornado to leave my house, and then I want nothing more than to crawl into bed until dinnertime.
As is my habit. But it will not happen, as my house has become his de facto office these days; he’s even begun to take meetings in my bathtub.
And I could never, ever say such a thing.
It would earn me the sort of slap or punch I’ve seen Dutch dole out more than once.
And anyway, this is the deal I struck when I asked for his help in my sentencing.
“I’d be honored.” Settling the bottle of whiskey in the center of the table, I pour myself a cup of coffee.
I usually don’t sit across from Dutch in the cold light of day, which lays bare the crisscross of scars on his face and hands as well as the crooked nose.
Trying hard not to think about the thieving and bootlegging and gambling and murdering that yielded this disfigurement, I aim for lighter topics.
“Hope that Virginia was good for what ails you?”
Virginia is one of my most popular girls, certainly with Walter.
With her pale blond hair and icy blue eyes, she cultivates the air of a society matron, even though she actually hails from the Bronx, where her drunk of a mother raised her alone on beatings and sparse food.
My patrons seem to enjoy the “chase” she provides, as well as the “class.” If only they knew.
“Nothing is good for what ails me except bringing Dewey down,” he says, then chugs his spiked coffee. If only I had a dollar for every time he’s said this.
I rush to pour him another coffee and whiskey.
If I’m very, very lucky, the liquor will compound that already in his system, and tiredness will overtake him.
Maybe even until nighttime, when the distractions of the girls and the cards will lighten his mood.
But I don’t count my chickens, because Dutch only ever seems to need four hours of sleep a night.
I try to change the subject. “Ever think of giving up the life? Retiring to a Florida beach and taking in the sun, a fruity cocktail in hand?”
Dutch laughs. The first authentic, deep laughter I’ve ever heard from him. “Polly, that’s the best joke I’ve heard in a long time.”
I’m perplexed. “What do you mean?”
“Once you’re tagged a criminal, you’re tagged for life. There’s no getting out.” He stares at me with eyes that almost look sad. “I thought you knew that?”
I’m quiet for a long minute while I take it in. Before I return to myself and wrangle command of the conversation, Dutch blurts out, “I’ve got to get rid of Dewey.”
I try to buoy him up and away from the darkness I can see nipping at his heels. “It seems to me that you’ve already given him a good beating. Throwing off those tax evasion charges was like a dozen eggs on his face. Eggs he can’t wash off.”
When he slams the mug down on the table, I have to keep myself from jumping. What’s next? Will he slug me as a way to slake his anger?
His hand comes toward me, but instead of a punch or slap I feel a pat on my arm. A gentle pat.
“You’ve hit the nail on the head, Polly. A good beating. That’s exactly what Dewey needs to put him off my scent.”