Flappers, Flasks and Foul Play (A Jazz Age Mystery #1) by Ellen Mansoor Collier

Author:Ellen Mansoor Collier
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, murder mystery, historical, galveston, 1920s, reporter, prohibition, gangsters, jazz age, roaring twenties, boardwalk empire, flappers, federal agent, flapper, speakeasy, great gatsby, foul play, ollie quinn, turf club, hollywood dinner club, sam maceo
Publisher: Ellen Mansoor Collier

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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Let’s go find some gangsters,” Burton said as we drove off. “We can try the Surf Athletic Club first. I hear Ollie Quinn and his boys usually go there on weekends. They like to make the rounds at all their bars, make sure the cash and booze are flowing.”

“No raids, promise?” I said, half-serious. “I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

“Promise. Tonight we’re just a couple of crazy kids out on the town. I’d want to see who all the big guns are, watch them on their own turf, so to speak.”

I saw him smile, noticing his even profile—not unlike F. Scott Fitzgerald’s photo on his book jackets. In his natty suit, Burton looked more like a gadabout than a Federal agent.

Somehow I had to breeze through tonight without revealing anything about Sammy or Andrews or the methanol in his flask. We turned onto 23rd Street and Burton parked directly across from the Surf Club. Bold move. A few husky men, no doubt security guards or bouncers, lurked outside the three-story building, scrutinizing the crowd lined up to get in. The Beach Gang didn’t take any chances.

Everyone knew the “Surf Athletic Club” was a euphemism, a cover for the Beach Gang’s swanky headquarters. It was a class act, all right—complete with a bookmaking parlor on the first floor, a lavish nightclub on the second floor, and a gym on top, sporting a boxing ring. These gangsters even had their own baseball team, the Surfers. How all-American. I hated to imagine how they punished their players if they ever lost.

I couldn’t wait to get inside, curious to see how Agent Burton was going to fast-talk his way into the club. But I lagged behind, expecting to be turned away or tossed out like gate-crashers. To my surprise, the door opened wide, as if by magic.

“What did you say?” I marveled. “Open sesame?”

“Like you journalists, I’ve got my sources. They prefer to remain anonymous, if you get my drift. Tonight I’m incognito, only an average sport.”

Once inside the door, a platinum blonde hostess held out her hand. “Welcome to the Surf Club. May I take your hat?” She looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her.

“Thanks, but we may not stay long.” Burton held his hat over his chest, like a shield. “Say, do you know if Ollie or Dutch are here tonight? How about Papa Rose or Big Sam?” He dropped the Beach Gang leaders’ names as if they were old pals.

She looked uncomfortable, as if she’d swallowed a fly, and motioned for the maitre d’. This was it! I was afraid they’d give us the bum’s rush, but instead a short Italian host appeared.

“The Studio Lounge? Right this way.” He escorted us to an elevator operated by an old Negro man in a red uniform and hat that opened onto the second floor. The elevator man held the door open as we stepped out into a different world. Stylized murals and zebra fur-trimmed mirrors decorated the walls while the black lights cast a mystical, purple glow over the nightclub.

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