By W. E, Mueller
WALLY MAHONEY, A big suit with the Bureau, had invited me to a Cards doubleheader against the Bums. I told him I wouldn’t be able to stay for both games because I had a late afternoon appointment back in my office. I was mildly disappointed, too, because Howie Pollet was pitching the second nine, and I knew Pollet would throw a good game against the Brooklyn club, even though Furillo and Snider were hitting over three hundred against Cardinal pitching.
Mahoney and I were law school chums. He thought like Einstein, looked like Valentino and made it big-time with Hoover’s organization. I got stuck in the minors at a two-bit law firm, loaded with pro bono work. The starched clients and collars got under my skin. I dropped the law gig like a bad date and became a Private Investigator. My name’s Zach Bannister.
I said thanks and shook Wally’s hand after the Cards won the opener, 9-2, chasing Bum’s starter Ralph Branca in the fifth inning, when Musial and Kurowski homered.
“Say ‘hello’,” Mahoney shouted at me as I headed for the exit. I left Sportsman’s Park and headed north on Grand Avenue, toward my office, wondering who Wally wanted me to say hello to.
It was St. Louis in August—hot. The temperature played tag with the century mark, and kids were frying eggs on cast iron sewer lids. My office is two rooms the size of peanut shells on Grand near West Florissant. I’m on the second floor, above Pulaski’s Shoe Repair shop, and two doors from Kemoll’s Italian restaurant. When western spring breezes blow in from the Plains, they carry garlic, marinara and Parmesan. But now, in the smothering heat of August, only the aroma of Karol Pulaski’s leather soles and rubber heels seeps up through the floorboards. In the evening, when we both work late, I can hear his small hammer tacking brads or the whirl of his stitching machine sewing leather. My office felt like a Swedish sauna. As I said, it was hot.
Earlier that day, Geraldine McGuire, my secretary, reminded me that my afternoon appointment was with Peaches and Cream. They were two new strippers, in from Chicago, now shedding their sequins at the local Stardust Club. Geraldine’s reminder came with her eyes rolling in disapproval. I didn’t tell her, but I partly accepted the appointment because peaches and cream was an infrequent but favorite desert my mother made during The Depression. Geraldine has been with me since Pearl—the Day of Infamy—seven years ago. She’s perfect for the job. She protects the office like a German shepherd, and has gotten me out of more tight spots than Houdini ever could. She’s thirty-three, smart and good-looking. Her husband came back from Normandy with one less hand and one less foot. I respect vets too much and Geraldine too much to fool around.
I got to the office at ten to five and Peaches and Cream were chatting away with Geraldine. They were wearing sleeveless light blue dresses with white piping, very high heels, had tightly curled blonde hair like Orphan Annie, and apple red lipstick. Their bodies were painted by Vargas, straight from the pages of Esquire. They were identical twins. I couldn’t quite place it, but they looked familiar.
“Hi, Zach,” they said in unison.
I squinted at them, my elephant memory in chaos, and slapped my forehead. “Helen? Betty?”
“Peaches and Cream,” one said.
“The Braun sisters?” I had to be sure.
Both were nodding yes and had ear-to-ear grins. Geraldine stopped pecking the Underwood and sat in a rare state—speechless. I held open the door to my inner office. Helen and Betty brushed by, their double dose of dime-store cologne clashing with my aroma de ballpark hotdog. I pointed to two chairs facing my desk. Peaches and Cream settled in, white leather purses in their lap, legs crossed, chins thrust forward, huge smiles showing perfect teeth. I fell in my chair and shook my head in disbelief.
“Ok,” I said, pointing to my left.
“Helen,” she said, and added, “Cream.”
My finger swung to the right. “Betty and Peaches,” I said, displaying my honed deductive powers.
Betty and Helen Braun, identical twins, were high-school classmates. Central High, class of ’37. The yearbook photo I remembered showed two pudgy twins with uneven teeth, but they were smarter than a hitched pair of Missouri mules at the State Fair. The Braun sisters were tied for second in our class of 282 and, as I recalled, had scholarships to Northwestern. I hadn’t seen them since graduation.
“You look good,” Helen said. Betty nodded agreeably.
I tried to be clever. “I guess I’ll have to stand in line to tell you how great you two look.”
“Most of the guys we meet don’t want to talk,” Betty said. Helen nodded.
“This is a standard line, but I have to ask. How did you two beautiful gals end up in a strip joint?”
“Money,” Betty said. “Helen has a degree in psychology and I have one in finance, but there aren’t many opportunities out there, Zach. When we got out of Northwestern, we got jobs in Chicago, rented an apartment, bought some new clothes, dropped the college look. But the job market is tough. Guys seem to do all right. Women are different. And every job we had, it seemed the boss was more interested in after-work activities than in what we were doing for his company.”
“So you went into stripping?”
“At least you know what to expect, Zach,” Helen said. “And the money’s good.”
I got up and went to an icebox I kept in the far corner of the office, away from the blistering sun that burned through the western window. I pulled out a Falstaff and held the bottle up to the Braun sisters, offering one.
“Thanks, Zach, but we have to work tonight.” Betty said. Helen nodded.
“I think that’s a damned shame,” I said, referencing their job situation. “If you gals are asking me to help find a job—”
“No, no,” Helen cut in. “Nothing like that.” She looked at her sister, arched her eyebrows, meaning ‘Are we ready to tell him?’
“Zach, we’re paying too much insurance,” Betty said. She paused to let that settle in. I knew exactly what she meant. The mob was selling “insurance” to every stripper and nightclub in the area. It was the old protection racket, something mobsters had been practicing since the Civil War, maybe before. In St. Louis, Frank ‘Scratch’ Costello ran the mob’s operation and piped money straight to Chicago. Big revenue came from pinball and slot machines, gambling, prostitution, loan sharking, hijacked cigarettes, illegal booze and “protection.”
I leaned forward over my desk and pointed my beer at Betty. “It goes with the territory.”
“We know that, Zach,” she said. “But we think we’re paying double. You see each of the acts at the Stardust pays fifty a month. There are two of us, so Joey The Weasel says we have to pay one hundred.”
I knew Joey The Weasel. He was in his over-weight fifties, short, bald, and with a forehead that slanted sharply back from his small, wide-set eyes. His nose was long and narrow. He looked like a weasel.
Helen stepped in. “The Stardust manager told us everyone paid The Weasel by ‘the act.’ Since most of the girls are singles and considered a single ‘act,’ that’s not a problem. But we’re an ‘act’—it’s a single ‘act,’ Zach. There are two of us, but it’s only one act. We think we should pay fifty like all the other acts.” Betty nodded.
I pushed back my chair and studied their faces for a moment. They were serious.
“What do you think I can do?”
“We want to talk to Mr. Costello.” Helen said.
“Whoa, whoa,” I put up my hands. “You don’t expect me to go up against ‘Scratch’ Costello, do you?”
The Braun sisters grinned at me. Of course they did.
“Why don’t I start with Joey The Weasel?”
“We’ve tried that,” Helen said.
“And gotten nowhere,” Betty said. “But if you want to talk to The Weasel, be at the Stardust by ten-thirty tomorrow tonight.”
I got to the Stardust Club an hour early to check out the lay of the land. Peaches and Cream introduced me to the manager as their former agent. They showed me the backstage door where The Weasel would stand to collect his ‘insurance’ payments. At first, they said, The Weasel was allowed inside, backstage, outside the girls’ dressing room, but apparently he had busier hands than a clock factory and the manager booted him out.
The Braun sisters introduced me to the other ‘single act’ strippers. Candy Barr, a redhead, dressed in large sugar cubes and took them off to New Orleans jazz. Cherry Blossom dressed as Uncle Sam and peeled to a Sousa march. Cinnamon Bunns had a baker’s outfit and stripped to “Ain’t She Sweet.” The main attraction at the Stardust Club, of course, was Evelyn West and her Treasure Chest. She had a thirty-eight inch bust, putatively insured for fifty thousand bucks by Lloyd’s of London. I wondered what the premium was.
I watched from the side curtain as Candy Barr stepped out. Hoots, howls, whistles and shouts of ‘take it off’ greeted her. The stage was small; you don’t need a lot of room to take off your clothes. The room was dark. Three guys who didn’t make enough during the day were thumping out bump-and-grind on a piano, drum and sax. The comic, who looked and sounded like Bert Lahr, had exited. A thick layer of smoke hung like a cirrus cloud, pierced by red shafts from overhead klieg lights. Strip joints, they come packaged like that.
The Weasel showed up at ten-thirty sharp. He opened the backstage door just enough to peer through and stick his hand in for the monthly collection. I waited until the other girls paid and then had the Braun sisters slowly approach the door. I leaned against the wall where The Weasel couldn’t see me. When he put his forearm through the opening, I grabbed it by the wrist and pulled the door closed on his arm.
“Damn,” The Weasel cried. “What the hell—”.
“How much do Peaches and Cream owe?”
“One C-note, as always.” There was pain in The Weasel’s voice.
“Wrong,” I said. “They’re a single act and each act pays half a C.”
“There’s two of ‘em…that’s one C-note.”
“Says who?” I pulled a little harder on the door.
The Weasel grunted and gave a little hesitation before answering. “Scratch,” he said.
“Weasel, you’re skimming fifty.”
Another hesitation, then, “No, no. It’s what I’m supposed to collect.”
But Joey The Weasel had hesitated a little too long. I felt certain the extra fifty was a skim, but I couldn’t be sure. I had to give The Weasel the hundred. If he wasn’t skimming and the girls came up short, Costello would have them roughed up, maybe disfigured—something I couldn’t risk at this point.
I explained the situation to Helen and Betty.
“That’s why we have to see Mr. Costello,” Betty said.
Helen nodded, and said, “We know you can arrange it.”
The fact is I did know Frank Costello. Two years ago Costello’s father died and he hired a half-dozen private eyes to “guard” the funeral home. He was afraid rival gangs might show up and, confronting his own goons, a head-busting melee might occur—or worse, a shoot-out. Third party private investigators would keep their cool, and had enough muscle to handle any mischief. Only one has-been from Wortman’s mob showed up. He was drunk, smelly and vulgar, and threatened to urinate on “old man Costello’s coffin.” ‘Scratch’ wanted to pounce on the guy when I put my hand up, then turned to the intruding goon. With a simple but effective grasp of his left thumb I persuaded him to leave the premises. ‘Scratch’ was impressed and asked for my business card. Three months later he called me and asked me to chaperon his niece and her date to the Cleveland High senior prom. I wasn’t exactly proud to work for Costello, but his pay was generous and I did nothing wrong.
I called Bowman’s Restaurant the next morning. Bowman’s was the mob’s upscale eatery. Linen tablecloths and napkins, stainless silverware, crystal glasses and a menu that badly mimicked the Tenderloin Room in the Chase Hotel. Bowman’s was Costello’s “joint.” He spent his days there, holding court to pimps, prostitutes and politicians.
I told the goon who answered my name and phone number. I asked him to repeat it, like you would a third-grader. I told him I wanted to see Mr. Costello that afternoon and to call me back within the hour. Yeah, sure, he grunted. I kept my fingers crossed that Scratch would remember my name and the services I had rendered.
Twenty minutes later the phone rang. “Be here at three sharp. Be clean.” The goon hung up.
I picked up the girls at two-thirty and we headed across the river. East St. Louis was—Federal authorities would later say—an “open city.” Porter’s Anything Goes could have been composed about the city. It was a bad place to go for a good time, just don’t get caught in the crossfire. Helen and Betty Braun were modestly dressed. I had expected some sexy, knee-length dress with little on top considering the hot weather. But the twins were dressed for business.
Two goons stood under the canopied front door of Bowman’s. I unbuttoned my suit coat and raised my arms. One patted me down, while the other fixed me in a stare that begged me to make a wise crack. The muscle moved to my left, ready to pat down the girls.
“Touch me, monkey face, and you’ll be singing in the Vienna Boys Choir,” Betty said. Helen nodded vigorously.
The second muscle jerked his head, indicating we should follow him. Inside Bowman’s a huge bar lined the north wall. Two bartenders were cleaning glasses, stocking beer, and shuffling whisky bottles. Straight ahead, on the west side, was a large bandstand and dance floor. On the south side was Scratch. He was sitting at a round booth in the rear of the dining room. His back to the wall, naturally, and two goons on each side of him. Otherwise, the place was empty. Scratch Costello was in his early sixties, medium height and weight, and thinning brown hair combed straight back. W. C. Fields had modeled his nose, and acne had cratered his cheeks. Costello had been with the mob since he got out of knickers. He started “from scratch,” he told everyone, and had worked his way to the top. Costello made it sound like he had worked his way through Harvard. We wound our way through the set tables and stood before him.
“Bannister, glad to see you again.” His eyes strayed to the Braun sisters. “Looks like you’re keeping excellent company.” He waved at the upholstered chairs in front of us. “Sit down, sit down. Have a drink.” The goons had their eyes fixed on Peaches and Cream like Harry Blackstone had hypnotized them. We declined the drink.
“What’s up, Bannister?”
“Let me introduce Peaches and Cream, from the Stardust Club—”
“I’ve got to get over there more often, I can see that.” Costello cut in, his goons leering in agreement.
“The girls here have a complaint that—”
“That’s enough, Zach,” Helen said. “We can take it from here.”
“Zach, do us a favor and grab a beer at the bar. We’d like to talk to Mr. Costello alone,” Betty said.
I didn’t know what to say. I was stunned. A bit miffed. I had put the arm on Joey The Weasel last night, made this appointment with Costello, and now the Braun twins were freezing me out of the action.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I asked.
“Positive,” they said in unison. They batted their eyes at me and looked over their shoulders toward the bar. That’s where they wanted me.
Costello grunted a ‘well-how-do-you-like-that’ noise. He said something to the goons at his flanks and they got up and walked toward the kitchen. “It’s on the house,” he said to me as I turned to the darkened bar. I was upset but I didn’t want to create a scene in Costello’s headquarters and queer whatever the girls had in mind. I’d drink a beer and mind my own business—something, I decided, I should have done in the first place.
But I didn’t miss everything. One barkeep was working at the far end of the bar. Bowman’s was quiet, except for the bits and pieces of conversation that drifted across the room from Costello’s table. The girls had their backs to me, so I could hear little of what they were saying, but Costello was projecting straight in my direction.
“Yeah, yeah…Bannister’s an okay dick…Last night?…All the time?…No, he ain’t right…The Weasel knows it…that little bastard.”
The girls handed a piece of paper to Costello, apparently kept a copy and began talking from the single sheet, as if it were some program or agenda. Costello was nodding, agreeing, looking at the Braun sisters—a mix of confusion and admiration apparent in his face. Helen was talking, pointing to items on the sheet of paper. Betty reinforced whatever Helen said. The two were talking faster than an auctioneer working a movie star’s Bentley. Costello’s eyes shifted from one girl to the other, his chin dropped in incredulity.
“You’re absolutely right,” I heard him say. “Not a single one…I don’t know…I don’t know that…where did you get …some guys are gonna be sore…I think you’re right…damn, I know you’re right!” The girls kept yapping and Costello kept agreeing. Women can do that.
After thirty minutes, Frank ‘Scratch’ Costello relaxed and gave a heavy sigh. “I never thought…see the day…but…makes sense.” Costello edged his way out of the booth. Both girls stood up. Costello straightened his suit jacket and extended his hand to the girls. They shook like businessmen shake. The three walked in my direction.
Costello was shaking his head. “Bannister, you sure know how to pick ‘em. Do you know that—?”
“Let us tell him, Mr. Costello…please,” said Helen.
“If you know any more like these two, bring ’em over,” Costello told me.
I headed for the exit, pouting. What the hell was going on? Betty and Helen were trailing behind me.
“Don’t be mad, Zach,” one of them said.
I said nothing. I didn't offer to open their door. I got in, turned the key in my ’39 Chrysler and headed across the river. There was thirty minutes of silence as we drove through downtown, heading for the western edge of St. Louis and the Stardust Club.
“We’re going to work for Mr. Costello,” Helen blurted out.
I almost ran a red light. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Betty said, “He needs us. His organization is a mess. People like Joey The Weasel can ruin your business.” She paused. “Mr. Costello has an ‘empire’ but with little control and few standard procedures in place. He relies on goons who flunked kindergarten.”
“What?” It was all I could say.
“We’re finished stripping, Zach.” Betty was talking. “Starting Monday we’re using our college education. Helen—with her psychology degree—will help Mr. Costello screen his goons. Kind of run a personnel department for him. She’ll also train those goons in people skills. How to approach people. If the goons are breaking legs, how do they expect the guy to work and pay off?”
“And you?” I asked Betty, mockingly
“Finance. Keep the books. In code, of course. Make sure there’s no more Joey Weasels skimming fifties. Mr. Costello’s bookkeeping is ancient. He’s not even sure what comes in, or what’s supposed to come in, who he’s paying off. It’s a mess, Zach, and we’re gonna fix it. Mr. Costello was impressed. Very impressed.”
“It’s a great opportunity for us.” Helen was ecstatic.
It was as if Doc Frankenstein had stolen my tongue and brain for his monster. My brain was on Empty, my voice box frozen like it was packed in dry ice. I had heard a lot of stories and I had seen a lot of improbable sights, but nothing came close to this lunacy.
It was early evening when I pulled up in front of the Stardust.
“Thanks, Zach. We owe you one. Give us time to settle in and maybe you can come over to Bowman’s for a steak dinner. On us. You’re sweet,” Helen said. Betty nodded.
I nodded.
That was August. Fall came and went. Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years came and went. I never heard from the Braun sisters. Over those months, the usual mundane detective work consumed my time. Repros, court summons, delivering divorce papers, husband-chasing for abandoned wives, wife-chasing for husbands who wanted to shoot the bastard they ran off with. Geraldine got pregnant. Michener won a Pulitzer for Tales of the South Pacific, but the book I liked was Mailer’s The Naked and The Dead, a tough book by a tough guy. The Boston Braves won the pennant behind Spahn and Sain, and the heavily favored Dewey got beat by Truman. As I said, though, the bottom line was I did not hear from the Braun sisters. No twins in concrete heels were found in the Mississippi, or beat to a pulp in some alley, or found stuffed in some car trunk. So I figured they were comfy with Costello. So why should I worry?
Then on Tuesday, February 18, I opened the morning Globe-Democrat to read this headline and story. It made me uncork my bottle of Southern Comfort, unusually early.
FEDS NAB COSTELLO,
SMASH MOB RING
FBI and Treasury agents swooped down on Frank ‘Scratch’ Costello’s East St. Louis headquarters yesterday with arrest warrants in hand, naming
Costello and nine of his henchmen in money laundering, prostitution, loan sharking and gambling charges.
Walter Mahoney, Special Agent in Charge of the St. Louis FBI office, said the agency had been carefully tracking the Costello gang’s activities
since last August. Sources close to the investigation said that two undercover agents had infiltrated Costello’s organization in August,
posing as management type hoods that could help Costello run ‘a tighter ship.’ These sources also said the two agents were women, although
Agent Mahoney would not confirm that speculation.
I stopped reading and took a long pull straight from the bottle. I sat there, putting two-and-two together, taking another pull from the bottle, realizing I had been setup, conned, suckered, hoodwinked and expertly bamboozled. Women can do that.
The phone rang. I let it ring. Five minutes later, it rang again. I picked it up, slurring my name. “Ban’ster.”
“Zach, this is Mahoney. Don’t hang up. The newspapers can only speculate about ‘two women’. I need to know they won’t learn anything from you. Lives are at stake here, Zach.”
I grunted.
“I’m sorry, Zach, but you were the only one we could go to.”
I grunted again.
“The girls told me to say ‘Hello’,” Mahoney said.
My third grunt.
“Come on, Zach, say something.”
After a long moment, I said, “You got ballgame tickets this year?”
More information about Bill Mueller and his writing here.