Bordello Politique

By Hank Chapot

Bordello Politique is the story of San Francisco’s most notorious madam, Dolly Fine, who found herself trapped in the great police corruption scandal of 1937.

When Dolly’s elegant brothels are raided without warning, she is outraged. Her houses are raided, her girls are jailed, her money is stolen, and she’s dragged before a grand jury to testify against the cops she’s been bribing for years. As if that isn’t bad enough, she loses her immunity when her bail bondsman/crime boss buddy is named the “fountainhead of corruption” in an expensive, incendiary civil investigation called the Atherton Report. The good citizens of San Francisco command the mayor and the police commission to crack down on gambling, good-time girls and crooked cops, and Dolly is left high and dry. She tries to save herself but can’t count on anyone—can the city really come clean? Bordello Politique is a true crime story from a city searching for its center between the Great Depression and the World’s Fair.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hank Chapot
• Release date: Nov 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9780615459660

Hank Chapot

Hank Chapot is a San Francisco native living in Oakland. He is a gardener at U.C. Berkeley and an historian.

Book preview

Bordello Politique:

Dolly Fine and the fall of the House of McDonough

A San Francisco Story

by Hank Chapot

There's only one mob in San Francisco. The police. – Dolly Fine

Copyright Hank Chapot 2011

Smashwords Edition

http://dollyfine.com

This ebook is licensed for personal use and not to be resold.

Chapter 1

Dolly Fine reached out her opera-gloved right hand. Dance with me, Harold. She looked lovely beneath the golden light of the chandeliers and the setting sunlight pouring through the tall windows. The penthouse ballroom was filled with policemen, politicians, and Dolly’s best girls. The mayor and the head of the police commission huddled together at the grand table, far from Dolly and Lieutenant Braig’s spot on the far side of the dance floor.

Goddammit, Dolly, you know I'm too sick to dance. He gagged on the words and coughed blood into a handkerchief, then folded it softly into his palm.

Oh, Harold, what did the doctor say?

Doctors are no good now. I'm already dead. Harold fished in his pocket until he found a small golden key. He held it out to her. I've got to give you this. It's for a safety deposit box. You keep it.

Dolly's eyes lit up. Harold, you dear man. Which bank?

I'll tell you. Soon enough. Not just yet. He jerked a crisp, folded letter from his tuxedo’s vest pocket. Here, it's a letter of administration. Insurance. There's a password.

You going to keep that secret, too? Dolly smiled gently at him. He’d always been a secretive man.

Fuchsia. My favorite flower. Another coughing fit took him and Dolly held his forehead until he stilled. Blood spotted the table linen. Death was advancing on him like a freight train.

When he’d had a few shallow breaths, Dolly pressed him again. Harold, honey, which bank is it? Where will I go?

Harold stared sadly at the rowdy crowd gathered in the penthouse of Police Commissioner Thomas Shumman. It was Saint Patrick's Day, 1937. Dolly grabbed a napkin and dipped it in her water glass, then leaned over to wipe the blood and spittle from Howard's chin. She dabbed at the blood spots on her gown.

I'll get you a cab. You go home and rest. She pulled him up in his chair and fixed his collar. Harold shuffled and wheezed, heavy on Dolly’s shoulder as they crossed the gilded corridor to the gold and brass elevator door. He looked back through the ballroom doors at the swirling dancers reflected in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Dolly hit the button and led Harold into the golden cage.

***

Mayor Angelo Rossi hailed the crowd and bade them a Saint Patrick's Day blessing before he sat down triumphantly and dipped into a silver soup tureen.

Dr. Shumman buttonholed him. Mr. Mayor. This damn investigation . . . well, it's going to be hell to pay.

The dullard’s only reply was a sloppy slurp. Rossi's beady eyes scanned the room for campaign donors. Shumman had learned to expect indifference from him.

Your Honor. Am I boring you?

Angelo burped and swabbed his face with white linen. "Yes, Thomas, you've bored me for years. But I'm listening, I'm listening. I'm the mayor. I have to listen." He turned his attention to a platter of pasta.

Angelo, please. When I started on the commission, there were three thousand saloons in town. Bunko men, pickpockets, thugs and highbinders—neighborhood bosses had this city divvied up. The police department was in a deplorable state, owned body and soul by saloonmen and grafters. We had to put a policeman on the sheep in Golden Gate Park. That is what I stepped into. This Detective Atherton should have been around in those days. He'd have had something to investigate indeed. You've got to hear this—I'm trying to save your job and our police department. Your reelection was a sure thing, but then you had to go investigate my police force.

Dinner was over. The crowd streamed onto the dance floor, but the mayor kept eating. The more he listened, the slower he chewed. Finally He laughed with a high cackle. This town attracts all kinds, Thomas, all kinds. Sheep and wolves and bunny rabbits. He gestured with his fingers to make rabbit ears.

The president of the chamber of commerce hailed the mayor sloppily, but the doctor pressed on. Angelo, I am trying to make a point here. Can I have two minutes more?

Rossi shrugged and stabbed at another slice of French bread. All right, Doctor, continue.

Dr. Shumman squared his shoulders. Thank you, sir. I will take care of Detective Atherton if you'll defend the police commission. There'll be a rebellion in the force if we send the worst of the men down.

Thomas, you can't just break these men out of the department. You'll break them for life.

I agree, sir. I hate to use the big stick. After a man has been in the police business long, he can't adjust to other work. If we break him out, we disgrace his family. My commission will be lenient. I can show you brave men, men who have gone against gunmen, who would not have been there if we followed policy and broke them out for bribery or theft or drunkenness.

Angelo was running out of patience. Dr. Shumman, that's all well and good. But if you can't police your police, I can't protect you.

The mayor's aide, Maurice Raphaeld, arrived with a dour look on his face. He pulled up a chair and spoke in a low voice.

Well, the report is out. Atherton released it to the grand jury, and Judge Fitzpatrick gave it to the papers. Rossi and Shumman blanched, looked at each other and then looked away. The partygoers danced up a riot in full swing time and the champagne splashed. The mayor craned his thick neck to see who else was at the banquet tables. He rose, adjusted his tri-color sash and stepped off the dais to greet a horde of glad-handers. He shot the doctor a raspberry. Shumman, one of us drinks too much.

***

Dolly placed Harold gingerly in the back of a cab and told the driver to take him home. She paused and held his face. Harold, I'll send someone around to keep you company. Sleep well, my dear. The party was over, and now it was time for work. She settled into the back seat of the next cab.

Where to, ma'am?

Oh, shoot. Nowhere, not yet. Can I just sit for a minute? I'm rattled.

Well, okay, lady, you can sit, but I like to eat. Maybe you'd let me run the meter? The young cabbie couldn't shut up.

Dolly's ears burned. "Run the meter? I can't sit for a moment? A lady can't rest herself for just one damn minute without you running the meter? Jeez. She lit a cigarette. Tell you what, taxiboy, you run your meter. Better, you start driving."

Look, ma'am, I just— Jimmie Mooney was raised right and fancied himself a gentleman. He was feeling royal regret right then.

She interrupted. I said drive. Take me for a ride.

I'm sorry, lady, didn't mean nothing. But I got to pay the boss at the end of the night. A lady like you ought to understand. Jimmie put his arm over the seat and had a good look at her, and that was all it took.

Dolly was easy on the eyes. Stylish. On the other side of thirty, long and rounded and perfectly made up. Her little veiled hat tilted across her forehead and her wispy blonde hair circled softly down her neck, and those blazing blue blinkers burned into him. Jimmie wanted to look into those eyes forever after.

Her stare hardened and she thrust a five-dollar bill into the air between them. Drive, taxiboy.

The young cabbie wiggled the throttle and pulled down his cap to hide his blush, but Pete McDonough, a stylish old widower, emerged from the lobby of the Shumman building as if on cue; marguerite boutonniere, black tie and tails. He excused himself courteously from his companion and left her on the sidewalk alone. Dolly rolled down the cab’s oval window and leaned forward.

Miss Fine. A lovely evening for a worthy cause, won't you agree?

Of course, Peter. Widows and orphans of our under-appreciated constabulary. I always enjoy the doctor's Saint Patrick show. Hate the rhumba line, love the party. They both laughed, even Jimmie laughed.

Pete leaned on the cab and his pince-nez slipped down. You look stunning, my dear. Did you see Harold off?

She dipped her eyes. I did. I'm worried, Pete. He's sicker than last week.

The smile left Pete's ham-colored cheeks and he spoke more softly. He's a grown man, Dolly, lived life his own way. He glanced at Jimmie and dropped the subject.

This is perfect. I see you've met my driver. Very good. He nodded to Jimmie. Son, you take Miss Fine home now. And in the future, when you muster at my office, you will drive Miss Fine whenever she calls.

Pete stood back and filled the window with his girth. About what time would you like to begin, my dear? The usual?

Dolly's smile turned into a sneer. Pete, you tell Mr. Taxiboy here to drop by this address tomorrow, say, around eleven. She smiled lusciously again and Jimmie's face glowed. Dolly threw Pete a soft wink and pushed her business card over the seat.

Pete chuckled softly. Eleven it is. Jimmie, you do what this lady asks. She is a favored friend. Goodnight, children. Pete returned to escort his charge, a well-preserved matron.

Dolly had once been Pete's runner, delivering court papers, arrest records and crime files across town and inside the Hall of Justice. She'd delivered tribute, too, holding court every Tuesday at Silas' Bachelor's Buffet, a safe and central spot. She'd dress up nice, have Sally and Rita or maybe Louise to lunch, treat the blue gang to a glorious luncheon and hand out packets of cash. Citizens rich and poor paid liberally for the privilege of staying in business or out of jail. In January, though, Pete had told her not to show her face at the Buffet anymore; he needed her for more discreet pursuits. She missed the fun, but Pete’s cabbies took her place.

Jimmie sat with his hands at midnight on the steering wheel and his shoulders caved, ears burning and his blood rising, shamed like when a nun scolded him at school. It was the same feeling, but this lady was no nun. Maybe she was a movie star, or maybe a singer at the Bachelor's Buffet. They always had good-looking singers at the Bachelor's.

He pulled away from the curb and snatched another look in the rearview mirror, just to see her again, but she was looking back at the arched entryway. The last few tuxedoes and ball gowns milled about the great glass doors while chauffeurs scurried to place the wealthies into long black automobiles.

The cab pulled onto Sutter Street and paused below a stoplight hanging like a lantern over the intersection. Dolly fretted over Officer Braig. She felt helpless. She sighed, looked up the street at the apartment district beyond.

Jimmie asked, Where to ma'am?

It's on the card. Twelve seventy-five Bush. Take me home.

Jimmie nearly saluted. Yes, ma'am. The stoplight turned green and he stuck out his arm.

Dolly's mood cooled. She was less angry now. She took a sidelong look at her fresh-faced little driver. Turn around. I want to see your face.

Jimmie turned and squirmed under the gaze of those cool blue eyes, a bug under a microscope.

Well, aren't you cute? What do you weigh?

One-forty on a good day, ma'am. All muscle, if I do say.

I bet you’re a boxer.

He nodded agreeably.

How exciting for you. Where do you fight? She hated the fights, but that was all the men talked about, and she knew how to talk to men.

Well, I don't fight anymore. Just work out at the Lurline when I'm not driving.

Ever win a match?

Oh, I boxed at the Oakland auditorium a few years ago, but it was an even match-up. We split the pot.

And what's your name again, taxiboy?

Jimmie Mooney, ma'am. Been a while since I was a boy.

Her skittering laugh exploded and Jimmie looked right past her red lips and perfect teeth, right down her throat. She had a mouth he wanted to kiss.

They arrived and she rolled her head lightly and pushed at the door like it wouldn't open. Jimmie remembered himself and jumped out, circled the cab and yanked the door open. She stood full height and found herself looking directly into the medallion on his taxi cap, he at her smooth white throat encircled with the little black silk roses on the collar of her soft lavender dress. Like ice cream, Jimmie thought. Their eyes finally met and Dolly smiled widest.

Lovely to look upon, thought Jimmie. He liked her shoulders, her hair, her eyes. He liked everything.

Okay, Mr. Jimmie Mooney. Can I get hold of you in off hours?

Sure, ma'am. You can call dispatch and ask for me, seven days a week. I'll drive all night. Never too late to call.

Well, I need a direct line. I'll talk to Pete. When you're not running errands for the House of Lords, you can work for me. Now what do I owe you?

Embarrassment hit him all over again. He didn't mean to charge her for just sitting.

No charge, ma'am. Sorry about the wisecracks. I wouldn't put on the meter just for you to sit—just a bad joke. It's the cabbie's curse.

It's okay, Jimmie. I'm upset about a sick friend. You got the worst of it.

She handed him a dollar and turned on one foot, shot him a glance to cut glass. He felt it, sharp. Thanks for the ride, Jimmie Mooney. I'll be calling.

She did. They were stuck on each other within a week. She liked his face and she liked his smell. Like a newborn. She called him at all hours, and he came running and got a feeling for who her friends were. He'd get the call to wait at the doorstep and before he could take it out of gear, somebody would jump into the back seat. That was in 1936, a million years before the vice investigations and the grand jury hearings and the graftcrackers.

Jimmie learned quick. Dolly had a family of reliable customers. Men of all ages, hats down low, collars up, maybe a college boy or grey-haired business type. Ready and randy on the way in, stinking of sex and liquor on the way out, they didn't talk much on the ride home. They'd give an address or intersection within walking distance of home and sit back quietly. He learned not to talk.

Other friends of Dolly Fine were more to Jimmie's liking; sweet smelling, young, pretty, just a girl maybe, dressed in nice but not too flashy clothes, heavy overcoat against a cool San Francisco fog, fur collar, red lips, makeup perfect, not a slip showing or hair misplaced. Sometimes they'd just nod or smile and give him a little note with an address; a hotel, a swank apartment building. Sometimes the note said wait or gave the next fare.

It was a comfort that Yellow Cab had radios; the girls liked the music. Sometimes the girls would talk and talk. Jimmie was a good listener. They'd tell him things, they'd complain about their boyfriends or how they missed Momma. They'd complain about Dolly, but not much—everybody knew Dolly and Jimmie were lovers.

Sometimes he'd run a girl on an errand or a favor. Dolly's girls always had money, but sometimes he did it for free.

The girls rarely came back as fixed-up as on the trip out. Their makeup would be a little mussed, their hair repaired but never quite perfect. Sometimes they were happy as hell for the new trinket, a wad of cash or a jewel, and sometimes they were close to tears. Once or twice he rescued a girl from a bad situation, but Dolly's friends were mostly respectful, and in the loosest sense could be called gentlemen. Judging from the places he dropped the girls, they were some of the town's best, or at least wealthiest, men. But not all. Some of Dolly's customers came from nothing, from the factories, the college, the docks and the sea.

Chapter 2

It was a few weeks after the ball. Dolly was losing her patience and the feeling in her fingers. She held tight to the hard curves of her wrought-iron gate, trapping a detective's ankle at the threshold of her most important asset—a high-class knocking shop in an uptown apartment district. She'd always said she lived a storybook life, but tonight she felt like the last little pig with the wolf at the door.

Choking smoke from a welding torch seared her nostrils as she bent back to keep the detective's ankle wedged firmly in the gate. The sandy-haired young snooper caught in her bear trap was pale with pain but as much as she insisted, he would not remove his foot. After a three-quarter-hour standoff they had tired of arguing, and the cops called for a cutting torch. Two shotgun squads screamed up the block behind the welder's man.

The chain on her gate kept out bullies, greedy beat cops and drunken johns, and their hacksaw wasn't working, but she knew the burning torch would eat through the iron. Dolly blew a blast of frustration into her golden bangs and gave up the fight.

All right, boys, I'll come along, just don't burn down the house. She released the gate. Let me get my hat and gloves. And leave a copy of the subpoena. The detective rescued his ankle and sank to the sidewalk, raising his cuff cautiously, wincing at the pulsing red-purple crease.

An escort of police prowlers followed Dolly to city hall, sirens screaming. Riding in the back seat of a squad car, Dolly was determined, self-possessed, and very angry. She would appear before the Atherton grand jury, but she was felt greatly disconcerted.

Excuse me, Mr. Foreman. If the district attorney can hold his tongue for a minute, I'd like to speak to the grand jury.

A sense of duty called the jury foreman to speak. Hold on a minute, Miss Fine. Let me do some business first. He stood, scuffed the floor and faced the rumpled assemblage of jurors.

In these investigations of the police department in the city and county of San Francisco, the roll having been called, the reading of the minutes from the previous hearing having been dispensed with, Dorothy Rose Fine called as a witness. He lowered his voice. Go ahead, Dolly . . . er, Miss Fine.

She climbed the platform to the witness box and stayed on her feet. Her head tipped sideways and she tugged at her white net veil, crisscrossed with tiny crystal roses, the one she wore to vex the photographers. She cleared her throat with a genteel music, placed one white-gloved hand on the polished wooden bar before her, and fixed the men with her clear blue eyes. No one made a sound. Grey tobacco smoke hung in the stale air of the hearing room.

Go ahead, Miss Fine, don't let the district attorney bother you.

Thank you, Mr. Foreman. Ahem. Members of the grand jury, if you please, I am Dorothy Rose Fine. People call me Dolly. She held the good citizens in her long gaze. I am subpoenaed here tonight, brought in against my will by that ill-mannered little investigator in the back, she lit Detective Howard Philbrick with her eyes, who very well may owe me for repairs to my gate. Before I answer your questions, I have a few things I'd like to say.

Howard slouched, trying to blend into the last row of the dark hearing room pews, his grey hat pulled down low. He rarely took it off, even indoors; thought it made him look older than his twenty-six years. He avoided Dolly's stunning gaze and focused instead on his ankle.

***

Before the subpoena was so rudely delivered, it had been a typical night at Chez Dolly. Back from the bottle shop, Dolly strode up Hyde Street, only pausing to peer around the corner before turning on Bush. A man in a checked suit, clean cut, shiny shoes and a smooth flat hat, stepped furtively out her door and nodded to Dolly as he jumped into the back seat of a cab. Another satisfied customer.

She turned and stabbed the key into the lock and noticed someone had scratched the names off the mailboxes again. A madam up the street thought Dolly was stealing her business. Dolly was sure she was the one sending those anonymous letters to the cops. She waved at the cabbies lined up in the street. She checked for damage on the bank of shiny brass doorbells that all rang a gong, and turned her key in the lock.

An envelope of warm, perfumed air surrounded her as she stepped inside. Soft music and male voices tumbled down the stairs, laughter rang far away. She set down her bundles and stopped by her apartment to drop her purse and coat. She was pleased with her formal silk walls and French antiques, all paid for. She stroked her cat, Baby, put on a dark-colored housecoat and returned to the lobby for a house check.

She heard the chaotic sounds of men torturing playing cards on the second floor where Rita stayed; their voices rumbled and barked behind thick walls. She took the first flight of carpeted stairs, crossed the shadowed landing and stopped at Rita's parlor door.

Laughter, cussing and the shouts and groans of wins and loss broke from beyond the door. Dolly tapped loudly, waited, and knocked harder. Rita Russell pulled the door open with one hand and her kimono closed with the other. Her black curls and makeup were slightly undone, her cheeks cocktail-lit with a few too many.

Hello, my dear Dolly! Wanna drink?

Rita was still a kid really, her red apple cheeks split by a pure white smile. She slurred a little but Dolly ignored it, peering through the cigarette smoke to inspect the men in rolled shirtsleeves who straddled her chairs around a small French table. Dolly had a knack for decorating and she had just signed a twenty thousand dollar contract for a remodel at Hyde Street, the second of her three houses. She was proud of her fancy furnishings, the little inlay table and the antique sideboard, and she didn't mind the litter of empty bottles and full ashtrays that covered them tonight, the slagheap of cash and cards and the coats slung carelessly around the room. This mess meant business, if it was handled right.

A regular shouted happily, Hey there, Miss Dolly! What's up, buttercup? and his tablemates laughed. One player threw down, yelling, Straight flush! Yeah howdy, boyos!

Rita, honey, Dolly cooed. I think you need to open the windows and clear these boys out. Unless of course they're paying, all right?

Rita leaned out the door a little too far and caught herself on the doorframe. "They are paying, Doll. I'm doin' one every half hour since seven thirty, and Louisa's catching the overflow upstairs." Her wide, white grin split her lipsticked mouth. She was proud of her business smarts.

Dolly's money mind took over. Yeah? How much? Rita was a real man-pleaser, but only when she was working; she was unproven as a hostess.

Sixty last count, and they got two more sharpies comin' over quick. She dropped her voice to a whisper. And I'm getting rent for the table, too. She beamed. Rita was a real money magnet.

Sixty bucks before nine? Not bad; Dolly was pleased. Okay, honey, that's great. But you clear those boys out soon as they close their money clips. I'll send Eugenia in later to straighten up, okay? I got some work for you later, a quiet type. Have you eaten?

A petulant squeak slipped past Rita's red lips. She blew a puff of air and in her best little girl voice, patronizing and acquiescent at the same time, said, Yes, Mother Fine, I've eaten. I'm stuffed with Genie's potatoes.

Rita, honey, go easy on the booze. Maybe put a little water in.

But how else would I stand these yokels?

Dolly smiled wryly. She turned her around and kissed the top of Rita's head, sniffing her musk-scented black hair, and whispered, Go get our dress money, girl.

With a worldly leer over her shoulder, Dolly's finest waltzed back to the table, put her arms around the wide shoulders of the winningest, and kissed him on the neck. Rita held a sizable affection for a man's money.

Dolly's girls sometimes fell for men who suckered them. They never admitted Dolly was right until they were abandoned at the bus depot or the racetrack, broke and heartbroken but maybe wiser, calling in tears to come home. As a business courtesy, Dolly kept accounts for them; it was a courtesy that the girls kept it coming.

As she slipped quietly back to her apartment, Dolly wondered idly who else was in the place, what other working stiff or paragon of civic virtue was avoiding loneliness or the wife and kids at Dolly's tonight. Before she reached her door, though, loud voices and heavy footsteps rang from the stairs. She smoothed her hair and tapped her nose with the back of a hand, then strode out into the lobby to bid farewell to two well-dressed gentlemen she knew well.

Well, young men, how nice of you to call. How are my two favorite gentlemen this fine afternoon?

The older man snorted and blew his nose in a ragged handkerchief. Hell, Dolly, this fine afternoon is closing in on nine. Your clock needs winding. The younger man laughed a little too loud. His friend got all serious, We're fine, honey. How are you holding up?

A tiny shadow crossed her face and she pushed out her wide lower lip. The older man hit the landing and put an arm around her shoulder. We'll have to go to Sally's if you don't get your name out of the papers, dearie. They'll clean up this town, all right, so only their friends can steal and screw and get rich. Tell me, Doll, you need a lawyer.

She tugged at the front door, her cheeks going scarlet, then looked over her shoulder and tried to smile.

Byron, you rounder, I trust you're still my lawyer. But you of all people should know—being in the papers isn't all bad for business.

Her enterprise had remained untouched by the scandals at the Hall of Justice, thanks to her good and great friend, and Byron's only client, the bail bond king Pete McDonough, the Boss of San Francisco.

Byron's friend loosed a schoolboy giggle, wiped his face in a handkerchief, and tried to reintroduce it to his breast pocket but fumbled. He pounded down the lobby and strode to the front door with the elder man in his wake. They grabbed their hats from Eugenia, Dolly's partner and confidant, who stood straight, black and slender in a white nurse's uniform. It suited her and added a professional air to the house. Eugenia always appeared at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She handed each man his lot: a hat, overcoat, briefcase, wilted flowers and a cheap box of chocolates for the younger man's wife. They grunted their thanks and escaped, and the gate slammed with a brassy jangle.

She returned to her apartment and poured a glass of Scotch, but before she'd opened her newspaper, Eugenia yanked her door open.

Get out here, Dolly, right now. Trouble.