Chapter Fourteen
Polly
New York, New York
It’s nearly midnight, and Dutch and his crew haven’t made an appearance. There’s a chance they may not show up at all. While they’ve stormed the place as late as three o’clock in the morning, it is decidedly not the norm. They’ve usually taken the run of my house long before then.
How I wish I hadn’t made that damn deal with Dutch.
The toll it takes on the house, the girls, the Lion, and me to have him and his men here so frequently is too much.
The three years in prison I would’ve received without Dutch’s help sometimes seems a small price to pay to have the control of my house back.
The worry about what would happen to the Lion and my girls during that long absence—since my money would have run out during the first year of my imprisonment—is the only thing that gives me pause, even now.
Never mind what would happen to my family here and abroad without my financial support.
I entered this life with a vow to run a different kind of house—one where the girls would be safe; where the clients would be entertained, and not only by the girls; and where I called the shots.
A house unlike any other, from what I saw—more of an upscale club than a brothel. The deal with Dutch threatens that.
“Polly?” the Lion whispers in my ear. Although the Lion sees all and knows all, she very rarely emerges from her post in the corner of the room. Unless she must. Something serious is up.
“Excuse me,” I say, turning away from Donald Ogden Stewart.
The writer is on his usual rant about Hollywood politics—who gets what project and why, all that nonsense—and just wants a sympathetic ear.
Hopefully the other man standing with us, Robert Benchley, will provide that. If not, I’ll get one of my girls on it.
“What is it?” I ask the Lion quietly.
“A kid is at the door downstairs. He doesn’t want to come up but wants to tell you something.”
“Can’t he just tell Jerry to tell me whatever it is?
” While the chatter and the booze and cards all seemed to be percolating along smoothly, I know better.
Three of the four girls are about to turn over clients, and the gents awaiting their turns are getting anxious.
That anxiousness can lead to kerfuffles. Or worse.
“He said it’s for your ears alone,” she persists.
I make as invisible an exit as possible.
Opening the secret bookshelf door as surreptitiously as I know how, then quietly closing it behind me, I pass through the parlor and down the stairs to where Jerry stands guard.
A raggedy-looking kid who couldn’t be more than fourteen years old stands at the bottom, gazing up at me expectantly, his eyes hard.
I know this type of kid; I was this type of kid. Young, scrappy, unprotected.
“Dutch, Abe, Otto, and Lulu were at the Palace Chop House,” he blurts out, then pauses for a breath.
“Alrighty,” I answer warily to this unsolicited update about Dutch and his companions’ whereabouts.
Dutch can usually be found in the company of his accountant, Otto Berman; his lieutenant, Abe Landau; and always, his bodyguard, Bernard Rosenkrantz, who goes by Lulu for reasons I’ve been too scared to ask.
And they can often be found at the Newark restaurant and saloon called the Palace Chop House.
It’s always a relief when they decide to spend the entire night there.
“That’s one of their usual haunts. I’m not sure why that’s so newsworthy I had to be dragged out of my place of business,” I say.
The kid’s mouth opens, then closes. When I don’t get an immediate explanation, I swivel away from him and start walking back up the stairs.
“Wait, wait, Miss Adler.”
Without turning around, I ask, “What is it, kid?”
“Dutch has been shot.”
Pivoting back to face him, I screech, “What?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Now he’s talking so fast that he’s practically stammering. “Some gunmen stormed the Chop House. Dutch was in the gents’ near the bar, and they went inside and shot him first. Then the shooters went into the dining room, where they mowed down the other three.”
I clutch the banister, simultaneously shocked and elated.
I don’t really wish Arthur Simon Flegenheimer dead, but in many ways, he passed a long time ago.
Arthur died when his father walked out on him and his mom, leaving Arthur to become Dutch and support his family by whatever means necessary, a story Dutch disclosed to me one late and drunken night.
A story that I can relate to. But the violent, obsessive Dutch he’s become—well, his death is a very different matter. His death is a sigh of relief.
“I didn’t think Dutch could die. He’s got more lives than a cat,” I say.
“Oh, you misunderstand me, Miss Adler. All four of the guys have been shot, but they somehow kept their wits and returned fire. They’re headed to the hospital by ambulance now, although truth be told, Abe doesn’t look so good. Hit right in the neck, and you know how that goes.”
I do. This isn’t the first shoot-out I’ve been privy to—or experienced firsthand.
“What about Dutch?” I ask the million-dollar question.
“Hit in the belly, blood everywhere. Needs surgery, or so the ambulance guys said. All four are headed to the New York Polyclinic.”
“He sent you here to tell me this?” I ask, and as I say the words, they sound odd. I’m not Dutch’s mother or wife or fellow mobster or rabbi or priest or friend, if he has any of those. I’m just a madam who’s beholden to him. Why would I deserve special notification of his fate?
“He asked me to make the rounds to all his loyal contacts. He wants your ears to the ground—so he can find out exactly who ordered the hit. So he can start making plans.”
“Alrighty, kid. I’ll put out some feelers in the morning,” I reply, motioning for Jerry to give the kid a tip.
“I don’t think you understand, Miss Adler. You’ve got to start asking around now. No one is sure Dutch will survive until morning, so he wants to get his revenge.”