The Royal Racketeers

By William W. Sutton, Jr.

Enjoy an intriguing story of rum runners and racketeering during the period of prohibition in the 1920’s to 1933. The Royal Racketeers takes you on a journey along the entire U.S. east coast and Caribbean, detailing exciting events along Rum Row and an exciting and exotic woman known as Rum Row Rose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780359711420

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The Royal Racketeers

The Royal Racketeers

William W. Sutton, Jr.

Copyright © 2019 by Michael J. Sutton

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2019

ISBN 978-0-359-71142-0

Chapter I

As I waited for a taxicab, in the doorway of my apartment house one rainy night, a shadow moved beside mine. I felt something hard, sticking in my side and a hoarse voice said, Mr. Brown?

I half turned my head without moving my body and, as I saw the face of the man who was holding a gun at my ribs, I slowly raised my hands. As I did so, he quickly tapped my hips with his free hand and then felt under my arms. Satisfied that I was not carrying a gun, but still covering me with his own, he said again, Are you Howard Brown?

Yes, I said, I am Howard Brown. What do you want, money?

He shook his head from side to side and taking a small flashlight from his pocket, pointed it towards the street and flashed it three times. A cab came up along the curb from where it had been standing some fifty feet away and stopped in front of us.

Get into that cab please, said the man with the gun and we walked across the narrow sidewalk. The door had been opened and as I stepped in someone said, Sit on the floor, please. The door was closed, the car started up and I found myself seated on the floor, my back to the chauffeur, facing three men in the rear seat. Each man had something in his lap on which the streetlights we passed were reflected. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I could see that, as I had supposed, these objects were revolvers.

At Park Avenue we headed downtown. One of the men lit a cigarette and by the light I recognized the face of the man in the middle. For a minute I could not place him. I had not seen him for five years. During the war, he had been the cook on the S.P. 219 and I recalled his cooking with genuine pleasure. Turning out a decent meal on one of those little sub-chasers, rolling and pitching up and down the coast, was recognized by all of us as something worthy of the Congressional Medal of Honor. I remembered the cold stormy nights when he had gotten hot chocolate across the sea swept decks to me in the tiny pilot house that we never could heat. I remembered chicken dinners, roast beef and thick steaks that he used to serve us after every one of his shore leaves. And, I recalled with a guilty feeling, why I had given him shore leave at every possible opportunity. Once he had asked me to recommend him for the Ensign School. At great length and considerable feeling, I emphasized the value to the Navy of a good cook and told him of the tremendous over-supply of Ensigns. When the war was over, he was still a cook, but I had raised him to Chief Petty Officer.

It was a long trip, sitting on the floor, from 57th Street to the fish docks below the Brooklyn Bridge and it was raining hard. Front Street was deserted as we left the cab and entered the dock where we were met by two men who joined our party. We walked out on the open dock, passed a dozen fishing boats and climbed down into a small, open motor boat. Someone cast off and we drifted out into the East River without lights. After a few minutes of silent drifting, someone turned on the gas and spark and gave the flywheel a couple of turns. We started off under good speed towards Governor's Island.

Kelly, my ex-cook, was near me. He handed me an oilskin and then he said, Mr. Brown, have you a bank account?

Yes.

That's good. You will need it. You will have a lot of money to put in your account and it will have to be sent by mail.

Rum running?

Yes.

Why pick me?

Need a navigator.

Why?

Ours got plugged, one shot in a fog off Jones Inlet early this morning. Went right through his middle. He never peeped, just smiled and folded up. He was dead when he hit the deck.

How did you find me?

Telephone book.

Do you know this is abduction? Have you ever heard of the Sullivan Law?

"Yes, but we have to put a navigator on the Royal Flush before daylight so we are forced to take a few chances and anyway, you are going to like it!"

Are you the cook on this ship too?

Hell no! I'm the owner and I've got one swell chef. Live like a King. You'll like it.

You said that before. How about my job at the bank?

Good.

What's good?

Good you are not married. Forget about the job. When this is over, you'll never need a job again anyway.

I pointed to his gun and said, You mean—?

No, not that, I just meant you'll have so much money.

When will that be?

When we are caught!

We skirted Governor's Island. The Bay was smooth and the rain drowned the noise of the motor. Through the Narrows, across Gravesend Bay to Sea Gate, around the point and up past the Iron Steam Boat Pier at Coney and then, at half speed, through the blinding rain, straight out to sea.

We had slickers on but were cold and soaking wet when, just at dawn, we found the Royal Flush and were warmly welcomed aboard, for our arrival meant flight and safety. They had come in close to shore when the rain started and had drifted around there all day waiting for Kelly and expecting a Coast Guard boat to pick them up at any moment. They were glad to get under way again. The launch was raised and strapped in chocks and we were standing out to sea within ten minutes.

The Royal Flush was a long, narrow oil burner of some three hundred tons. Originally a yacht, her clipper bow and overhanging stem now seemed out of place. Stripped of awnings, slender spars and bowsprit, the steel hull still maintained the beauty of line characteristics of palatial yachts.

The staterooms, bathrooms and saloons had been knocked out and the decorations and furnishings removed. Here and there, a bit of brass or a piece of paneling of mahogany or birdseye maple still lingered on to recall her better days.

The glass in her ports were painted over and the windows of the deckhouse were boarded up. The pilot house was sheathed with steel and the windows were equipped with steel shutters.

Kelly's cabin was the after-half of the pilot house, a room about nine feet square opening onto the deck through a steel door at the rear and connected to the wheel house by a steel door forward. The house was stayed and bolted to the deck against smashing seas.

A heavy turtle-back covered the deck forward of the wheel house. Battleship grey paint covered her steel, brass and mahogany and was smeared thick on decks that had once been varnished. A once graceful funnel had given way to an ugly exhaust pipe for the diesel engine. The men were quartered forward and slept in bunks along the walls and ate at a long table in the middle of the room. Next aft came the galley, engine room and cargo space.

Kelly was king on the Royal Flush. He was owner and captain and God. He ate his meals alone in his cabin. He seldom left his cabin except to enter the wheel house. Never did he go into the men's quarters, the engine room or the galley. When he spoke to any of his crew it was to give an order. He fraternized with no one.

Our quarters were fairly clean and our food was excellent. The men were well clothed. We had plenty of blankets, good mattresses, oil skins, rubber boots, sweaters, pea-jackets, helmets and mittens. Hot chocolate was on tap day and night and a mince or apple pie was always available if a man wanted it.

The crew was ample and divided into three watches. Books, cards, dice, checkers, dominos, a phonograph and a radio were at the disposal of those not on duty. Smoking was permitted on or off duty. There were no inspections and no regulations with two exceptions. Drinking was barred and anyone caught at it was put ashore. Games of chance were limited to five dollars. This rule was so arranged as to limit the losses of any one player to five dollars a day and was enforced to protect the large earnings of the men. I had put that system to work on the S.P. 219 after one of my men won all the pay checks in a little game of stud. Here, a card shark could clean up a hundred thousand dollars and the men on the Royal Flush were there to make money. Big losses would lead to plenty of trouble. Kelly's two wise rules were never broken.

We had some four thousand cases of Buchanan's Old Scotch Whiskey on board which they had taken on at St. John's before clearing for Havana. On the way down the coast they had run in too close to Jones Inlet, trying to pick up the little rum runners from Freeport and Baldwin in a heavy fog and had almost been rammed by a patrol boat. Fast as she was going, the patrol boat still had time, as she crossed their bow, to take one shot at the Royal Flush, before the merciful fog enveloped her. That was the shot that had finished off their navigator.

We stood out to sea all day and towards night headed for Atlantic Highlands to get rid of some more stuff. At about eight bells, four Seabright skiffs came alongside in the dark and hailed us. Kelly came out of his cabin and talked with them over the rail awhile. One man from each boat then boarded the Royal Flush.

We gave them four hundred cases and when they were loaded the four hostages gave Kelly eight thousand dollars in cash and were then allowed to rejoin their shipmates in the fast little skiffs.

Before daylight they were back again for second loads and two other skiffs and one tug took off fifteen hundred cases. Kelly took in forty-six thousand dollars that night.

By noon we were ten miles off Asbury Park, drifting in a long, greasy swell with mean weather coming from the North East. Kelly called