Read Online Jelly's Gold by David Housewright - Free Book Online

a vacuum existed. Not only had he been a mob peacekeeper who helped make sure the O’Connor System operated smoothly, Hogan was the city’s most accomplished fence. He could launder any amount of cash stolen with either gun or pen; he offered criminals thirty-five to forty cents on the dollar for stolen railroad bonds and security bonds and eighty-five to ninety cents for Liberty Bonds.
    What, though, did they expect the Cardinal to do about Hogan’s departure from this earth? The Big Fellow usually dealt with that end of the O’Connor System, and he had died four years earlier.
    “If you don’t step in to help us fill the void that now exists, we believe that Leon Gleckman will,” said the young man.
    “Gleckman,” said O’Connor. “The bootlegger?”
    “He is indiscreet, not a man of good judgment, not a man we can trust.” There was that “we” again, O’Connor thought. “He has actually announced publicly his intention of running for the office of mayor of St. Paul.”
    O’Connor laughed at the suggestion. Well, why not, he asked himself. O’Connor had known seventeen mayors in his time and felt that Gleckman would easily fit in.
    “Mr. O’Connor,” the young man said. “We believe if something isn’t done immediately, the system by which we have all lived and profited these many years will collapse, the reformers will take over, and who knows who might be compromised as a result.”
    The Cardinal smiled. He knew a threat when he heard one.
    “I’m retired,” he said.

    I wondered—with Dapper Dan Hogan gone, would Nash have entrusted his gold to Gleckman? Nash was a meticulous planner, and somehow I couldn’t see him working with a fence that had a reputation for recklessness. I dug deeper. Other names surfaced: Harry “Dutch” Sawyer, Hogan’s protégé, who took over the Green Lantern nightclub when Hogan was killed; Jack Peifer, owner of the Hollyhocks Casino, a popular gangster and high society hangout (the FBI reported that there had been an unusual amount of telephone traffic in and out of the Hollyhocks just before and after the Kansas City Massacre); Robert Hamilton, the gambling impresario who directed the casino operations at the Boulevards of Paris, where Nash was seen the evening of the gold heist. I didn’t like any of them, but that didn’t mean Nash agreed. He had been bosom pals with Verne Miller, and he was a stone killer. He associated with Ma Barker’s brood, and they were maniacs.
    On the other hand, I knew that Nash got wind of the gold shipment only a few days before he hit the bank in Huron, South Dakota—that’s when he ordered his specially modified car. Maybe he didn’t have timeto arrange for a fence that could handle such a big job. Maybe he did hide it in his backyard, like Berglund suggested. Question was, where was his backyard?
    It was while I was attempting to answer that question that the Nordic princess I noticed earlier abruptly pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table from me and sat down. Up close she looked like a romance novel cliché—perfect teeth in a perfect mouth formed into a perfect smile, eyes sparkling like liquid azurite, hair as lustrous as spun gold. She was wearing a black pencil skirt with a pleated hem and a long-sleeve scoop-neck T-shirt made from some stretch fabric that clung to her athletic body like damp cloth. I would have dropped a pencil so I’d have an excuse to duck under the table and examine her legs except that it was too juvenile even for me.
    She extended her hand. “Good morning, Mr. McKenzie. I’m Heavenly.”
    “Of course you are,” I said.
    “Heavenly Petryk.”
    I shook her hand. There was strength in it.
    “Your parents named you Heavenly?” I said.
    “Some might argue it’s a couple of steps above Rushmore.”
    “You know my name. Should I be impressed?”
    “Considering how quickly you learned the names of my friends yesterday, I wouldn’t think so.”
    “Ted and Wally are your