By Any Means

By Edward Norton

It's 1933-34. America has sunk into Depression, and a new Administration in Washington is trying all means to return prosperity. A young out-of-work lawyer goes to Washington, his last chance, and he finds a friend in President Franklin D. Roosevelt, who recognizes his talent for solving problems with liquor imports, Wall St. and crime in the nation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Norton
• Release date: Oct 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301633401

Edward Norton

Edward C. Norton, author of more than 10 novels, was an award-winning reporter/editor in New Jersey and New York. He was named a Nieman Fellow at Harvard University.Norton left daily journalism to write about public affairs and business issues for Mobil Corporation in op-ed ads in Time, The New York Times and Reader’s Digest. He retired as communications manager from Hoechst Celanese Corporation.As a free lance, Norton has had articles published in various magazines, including New York. and the first daily internet newspaper on Cape Cod. His novel, Station Breaks , was published by Dell [1986] and The House: 1916, [1999] was also published by RavensYard. His novels have been published under pen names, such as Adrian Manning, Lane Carlson, West Straits and Ted Neachtain.Norton can be reached at [e-mail]

Book preview

By Any Means

America in the Depression

The 1930s

by

Edward Norton

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by

Edward Norton

Chapter 1

A long shot

They awoke early that gloomy November morning in the hotel room on Manhattan's West Side, the cheapest place they could find where you could trust something else did not climb into bed with you.

Finucane had come down from Boston, where he had finished his business with Governor Curley and the Providence gangster. Prohibition was limping to its end. Kate Phelps had closed her summer season on Cape Cod in September and took a room at the hotel.

Myles Finucane's wallet was thinner when he stepped off the train in Grand Central, so he was OK with staying with his former mistress when he was an up-and-coming young stockbroker-lawyer in the 1920s.

Now he was a near-broke, out-of-work lawyer headed to Washington. He had a worn telegram in his pocket from Postmaster Farley to see him in the Capital. A job, he prayed, perhaps the best thing that could happen to someone in the year 1933.

Kate had a minor role in a historical play that was ending its run in a drafty, chilly theater off 45th St. She could pay for the hotel room. Finucane paid for their meals—and drinks.

Kate insisted he come with her to Chicago for the post World's Fair season. I have this offer of a job in Washington, Finucane repeated.

He knew if he went to Chicago he would never leave the blonde actress who was the cause of his marriage breakup in 1928. Finucane did not see himself married again—and not to an actress. Her young players from the Cape Cod summer season were on their way to California to try the movies. A long shot, Finucane thought.

Washington was where the action was these days, he told Kate. If the Depression was to end, it would be cured from Washington. Kate laughed.

The night before he had taken her to a late supper in a joint on 44th St., then they made love in the lumpy hotel bed.

Finucane was first up and his packing took all of five minutes. One ragged leather suitcase from the old days, two shirts, worn at the cuffs, three ties, and a pair of worn brown shoes. A light summer suit, unsuitable for wearing in November. He had the black shoes shined the day before. He wore the plain blue suit that had seen too many cleanings and pressings.

Kate offered him the $25 he needed to buy a new suit. He flared but softly declined.

"I'll get some new clothes when I get on the pay roll, he said.

Finucane had hoped Kate would sleep in, so he could leave without waking her. He had his ticket on the noon train to Washington. But she heard him moving and awoke. She slid her bare feet to the cold floor and stood by the dirty window.

Not a nice day, Myles, she said in a low voice.

Finucane laughed. Any day with you, Kate, is a sunny day.

She turned to face him. He smiled at her tousled, short blonde hair and wondered if he was making a mistake leaving the only person who cared for him.

Finucane realized he was lucky to escape with his life from the collection caper he had experienced the summer before. And he escaped with a payment of $400 from the transfer of stolen scotch from local thieves to Governor Curley and the Providence gangster. Scotch would soon be legal and Curley saw the logic of holding the confiscated booze and selling it back to what would be a legit wholesaler.

Kate, dressed, accompanied Finucane down to the side-street coffee shop, where they had eggs and ham. They did not talk as they sipped their coffee.

Finucane had brought his suit case, and when they were finished, they stood silent on the street as Finucane waved for a taxi. They were everywhere, as few people had money for a cab fare.

Kate watched as Finucane put his suit-case in the back seat, before following it.

Break a leg, you big lug, she said. The pair hugged, and Finucane kissed her on the cheek before climbing into the beat up yellow Hudson.

Kate Phelps

I used the show business good -luck saying because he would need it. There he stood, too thin for his suit and shirt. The summer had been rough for him, what with all the Misha gas about the booze and gangsters. He could have been killed. That would have broken my heart.

I still loved him, even though I knew he had gotten over me, especially after his wife left him and everything fell apart. I could have helped, but I was in London with the show.

Maybe he was right—he wouldn't have much to do in Chicago. At least he'd be with me. I don't think he wants the show life, travel, and constant uncertainty. He has enough uncertainty. I promised myself not to cry, but a few tears came as the taxi drove down the street.

At Pennsylvania Station Finucane found he was early for boarding the train to Washington. The station was crowded but Finucane found seat on a wood bench. He noticed that those around him did not seem like travelers, at least not on this dank, dark day. They huddled on the benches, some reading old newspapers. Finucane realized they were mostly out-of-work men killing time in the only place where they could sit without someone asking them to buy something, or the police harassing them to move on.

Finucane passed the time by studying the faces of the men, as they were ninety-nine percent men from twenty to sixty-plus years in the mass. At least it was warm, Finucane decided.

He dozed a bit but kept a grasp on his suit case, realizing it would be a target for someone to boost with a quick walk-away.

Finucane had not lost his New York awareness.

The echo-ey public address announced his train and he headed for the basement track, his coach ticket in his hand.

The conductors carefully looked at each ticket held by the two dozen passengers. It would not be a crowded train. Finucane found a relatively clean window seat and place his suit case in the overhead bin. It would be safe, he decided, unless he left his seat when the train was stopped at a station. He noticed a young fellow with what looked like new clothes from his top coat to his highly shined shoes move down the aisle to another window seat. The young fellow had a wispy mustache that reminded Finucane of the upper lips of the Royal Flying Corps instructors he had trained with—young men in a hurry to look like veterans with a curled-end mustache that the Americans used to call 'tea strainers."

The train left on time, and soon it was rolling over the Jersey meadows on its way to the first stop at Newark. Few passengers got on there.

Chapter 2

Two bits

Finucane had always enjoyed train travel, from the days when his mother took him on the Third Avenue El downtown to buy new Easter clothes. The views from the El were not all that exciting—passing the top-floors of tenement streets on end. But the clang and clatter of the old cars was exciting to a 7-year-old. That was the year the family had managed to get out of Manhattan's dirty West Side, up to the Bronx, to one of the new apartment buildings. Finucane's father had finally been promoted to sergeant in the New York Police Department, after twenty years of waiting. The promotion was long over due, Finucane learned later, because his father, James, had refused to pay for his stripes.

By the time Finucane was eighteen and headed for Fordham College from Morris High School, the war had been declared. His father was close to retirement from a quiet precinct house in the West Bronx. Finucane, caught up in the war fever, volunteered and was sent to flying school in Texas. The war ended before he could fight the Boche in the air.

The terrain the train was passing now was as far from Texas as possible. Old factories and greasy-looking rivers. And every few miles the train would slow as it passed one of the many hobo camps alongside the tracks.

The railroad managements insisted on the slow speed, as too many track -side residents had been killed in the last two years, either accidentally, or on purpose.

The camps were close to the tracks, so the hobos could jump a freight, if they were of a mind to ride to another state. The problem in 1933 was that the other states were as bad as the one left.

Finucane wondered idly how many men were on the road these days. He stared out of the dirty train window at men huddled by fires in tin cans, wrapped in old overcoats against the cold and wet. The men would crib food and work from the locality, if possible. Many places, however, had little to spare and would run the hobos off

The bottom was falling off, Finucane mused. He decided, too, he was no better than the men by the tracks. He had no real job, just a promise. And what was his future? What was the future of the country, with problems as these?

By Baltimore, Finucane had read an old newspaper on the seat beside him, and was dozing.

The train arrived at Washington's Union Station with its usual clatter. Finucane took his time leaving the car, and then found himself surrounded by anxious porters eager to carry his bag. These black men existed for a tip. Finucane pushed his way through the crowd to the street. He decided against walking to the Mayflower Hotel in the drizzle then darkening the street. He hailed and cab and asked the fare? Two bits, the cabbie said.

Finucane took the cab. He could afford quarter. At the hotel he had to pay $5 in advance for a two-day stay. His wallet was shrinking—he had less than $60 left. If he didn't get a job in two days, he would be SOL.

The lobby bustle of the old Mayflower raised his spirits somewhat. The people looked prosperous, those headed for the elevators, restaurant and bar. He gave the bell man a quarter for carrying his suitcase to his room on the eighth floor. The room overlooked a collection of shabby roofs. Washington, it was said, was a city of monuments and slums.

Finucane shed his tie, suit and shirt, and washed in the small bathroom sink. He decided against a shave. He sat on the bed and reached for the black, new compact style phone.

A clerk in Postmaster Farley's office told him that the postmaster would see him at nine sharp the next morning.

Finucane ate a light dinner and spent the evening in the lobby reading the latest issue of Mencken's American Mercury magazine