Гарольд Роббинс - The Raiders

Maurie went inside and watched the picture. It was Max Sand! No question. Nevada Smith was Max Sand!

That night Maurie wrote him a letter. He was discreet. He didn't use the name Max Sand. He just said he wondered if Nevada Smith remembered his old friend Maurie Cohen.

Max remembered. Maurie received a note three or four weeks later, saying sure he remembered, and someday when he was in the area he'd stop by and say hello.

The man in the camel coat and the white homburg looked like a gangster. By his clothes. The resemblance ended there. He was tall and lean and tanned. He was Max Sand.

Maurie hurried across the room. "Max ..." he said quietly as he took his hand. "Nevada Smith. Congratulations. You've done damned well!"

Nevada glanced around. "Looks like you're doin' okay yourself."

Maurie shrugged. "Well ... C'mon. Have a drink. Have — What can I do for you?"

What Maurie could do for Nevada was not the question, it turned out. Before the evening was over, Maurie had told Nevada how dolefully precarious his position was and had put the touch on his old friend for money to buy a piece of The Clock.

"You need a stake," said Nevada dryly.

Maurie nodded.

"How much?"

Maurie shrugged.

Twenty thousand dollars was a lot of money in 1929. Maurie swore he would pay it back. It was enough to buy The Clock: all of it, not just a piece.

Maurie made payments to Nevada over the years, but it took him fifteen years to repay the twenty thousand dollars. Only two years after the loan was made, he repaid the favor — even if Max never knew.

Nevada met Maurie on the station platform. Maurie had been in Texas but never in California, and he found the sun blinding and the heat oppressive. Nevada led him, not into shade, but to a magnificent Duesenberg roadster. With the top off and the sun beating on their heads, they rode behind a chauffeur who drove them through palm-lined streets and up into barren hills studded with gorgeous mansions.

Nevada's house was not pretentious, yet was the home of a movie star.

His wife was there: a woman conspicuously overwhelmed by her circumstances and not really happy with them. She was almost as old as Nevada and was dark-skinned and pudgy, with a weathered face that said this luxurious life was new and troubling for her. She seemed not to know there was such a thing as a swimsuit and swam innocently nude in the pool behind the house, while Maurie and Nevada sat at poolside and talked about old times.

After dinner, when the woman was washing the dishes and going to bed, Nevada and Maurie sat in the living room over cigars and more whiskey and talked. Nevada told Maurie about a problem he faced.

"Y' remember what happened to Fatty Arbuckle?" Nevada asked.

"Charged with rape," said Maurie.

"Yeah. He wasn't guilty of it, but it ruint his career."

"Don't tell me that you —"

"Yeah," Nevada grunted. "I never even seen the girl. But her mother claims she's pregnant and says I'm the daddy. Worst part, she's just fifteen years old. Hell, even if they can't prove a thing, just the story gettin' out will prob'ly be the end of Nevada Smith."

"Sounds like extortion to me."

"Right. They're askin' fer money."

"That's a dirty shame, Max. What's her name?"

"Emily. Emily White. Her ma is Ruby White."

Maurie shook his head. "A dirty shame," he repeated.

The next morning Maurie made half a dozen telephone calls, putting the word out that the bookkeeper for the Purple Gang was in town and wanted to talk to somebody about a personal problem. Several men in Los Angeles were glad to do something for a representative of the Purple Gang.

Three days later Maurie was at lunch with Nevada at the Brown Derby and was called from their table to take a telephone call. His caller told him they had confirmed what they suspected, that Ruby White was using the threat of a paternity suit or even a statutory rape charge to extort money from Nevada Smith. She had threatened Francis X. Bushman the same way, and he had given her money to get rid of her.

"Want us to take care of it?" asked the man on the phone.

"I'd appreciate it."

"Consider it done," said the man.

The next morning's newspapers carried the story of a fatal accident. Ruby Smith, drinking and driving, had taken a curve too fast on the Coast Highway. Her Buick had crashed through a guard rail and rolled down a rocky slope and into the ocean. She and her daughter were killed.

Maurie didn't tell Max what he had done. If Max guessed, he didn't mention it. The thing was done, there was nothing he could do about it, and it was not Max's way to do a lot of talking about what was done and couldn't be changed.

Saturdays were big times at The Clock. People came early and stayed late. A third of all the whiskey and beer sold in a week was sold on Saturday nights. The girls made most of their week's money on Saturday nights.

Just before midnight, Saturday, November 21, 1931, three men pushed their way into Maurie's office.

"You lyin', cheatin' Jew bum!" one of them yelled.

And then the beating began. He was too small to struggle against it. When the men left, he lay unconscious on the floor. His nose, jaw, and a cheekbone were broken. Also two ribs.

Six days passed before detectives could question him in the hospital.

"Okay, Cohen, who did it?"

Maurie shook his head. "Don' know," he muttered through his teeth. His jaw was wired shut.

"Th' hell you don't!"

Maurie shook his head again. "Huh-uh."

" Omertà, huh," the detective grunted. The cops were starting to talk in Italian terms. They spoke of the Black Hand and used the word omertà, meaning code of silence.

Maurie was able to smile faintly. "Me? Omertà?"

"You c'n learn their tricks," said the detective. "I guess you have."

Of course he knew the guys that beat him. What he didn't know was why.

He found out when Firetop came to see him. The big redheaded man sat down beside his bed, took his hand, and explained —

"It was a mistake," he said. "Somebody told us you were sellin' beer somebody else cooked. Not true, we know now. Too late, but we know now. We'll make it up to you some way, Maurie. We'll take care of you right."

Maurie nodded and smiled painfully. " 'S okay," he muttered.

"And you've kept your mouth shut," said Firetop. Then he grinned and shook his head. "Bad choice of words, hey? But you didn't tell the cops who did it. We won't forget that, Maurie. That's somethin' we'll never forget. There'll always be guys that'll remember that. You'll always be taken care of."

What Firetop said was true. Maurice Cohen was from then on a favored man, the man who took a savage beating he didn't deserve and didn't squeal on the guys who did it to him. Firetop soon went away to serve a life sentence. The Purple Gang was broken up. But there were always guys who would remember. There would always be something for Maurie.

One thing they couldn't save him from. The Toledo detectives were furious. They knew who had beaten him. They had wanted those leg-breakers for a long time but could never make a case against them. Now they had beaten a man who could identify them, and he wouldn't do it.

On another Saturday night, January 23, 1932, The Clock was raided by state Prohibition agents. Maurie was taken out of his carpet joint in handcuffs and lodged in the Lucas County jail. The Clock had operated for years without a raid, but the Toledo detectives had demanded this raid. Selling liquor was against the law. Few were arrested anymore, since Prohibition was likely to be repealed soon, but it was a handy tool occasionally when somebody wanted to embarrass a politician or punish a guy like Maurice Cohen.