American Gangster by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online Page A

hangout for black GIs on R & R.
    This was Frank’s first trip to Southeast Asia, and—though he didn’t impress easily—the sights and sounds and smells had overloaded his sensory system. What a shock it was to enter the Soul Brothers Bar and find the kind of black joint you might find in a funky corner of Atlanta or Chicago or Harlem itself.
    The only way the joint could have been smokier was to be on fire. Otis Redding was singing “Dock of the Bay” courtesy of the Rockola jukebox, and at tables and booths and along the bar, black soldiers—Frank was the only man other than the two bartenders not in uniform—were putting the moves on slit-to-the-thigh-silk-dress Thai girls, who didn’t look hard to seduce.
    Frank ordered a Coke at the bar and found his way to a small table, where he sat and surveyed the scene. And some of what he saw would not have been allowed in the funkiest hole in Atlanta, Chicago or even Harlem. . . .
    Not every GI had a hooker on his arm or in his lap; a few were zonked out, slumped in booths laughing lazily or flat-out sleeping, and a few others were drunk out of their minds. Dope was being rolled and smoked and even shot up. A staircase, up which went soldiers and their “dates,” meant the second floor wasn’t so restrained.
    After a while a trio of ex-GIs started playing Southern blues tunes—“Gone Dead on You” by Blind Lemon Jefferson was their opener.
Authentic-sounding shit
, Frank had to admit.
    Just as authentic were the smells that found their way through the smoke and general bar stench to tickle both his nostrils and his memory: ham hocks and collard greens served by waiters in stripeless army uniforms. Home away from home for Uncle Sugar’s boys.
    One uniformed figure stood out from all the others, perhaps because he wasn’t wasted on dope or booze, and didn’t have a hooker hanging on his arm, either: an army master sergeant. The tall, commanding figure, whose Apache cheekbones added an edge to affable, handsome features, threaded through the tables and patrolled the booths and bar as if on inspection.
    At first the sarge seemed to be checking on the GI customers’ well-being. Then at one booth, he shook hands with a patron and, through the smoke, Frank could barely see the pass-off of cash from the client for some packets of white from the sarge.
    Frank must have been staring, because the sarge was suddenly squinting at him through the smoke, the guy’s expression sinister at first, then shifting into a kind of loose-lipped shock.
    The sarge called out, “
Frank?
”
    Frank lifted his Coke in salute and smiled, just a little, and his old friend Nate Atkins beamed at him and made a beeline.
    Nate sat and grinned and said, “You’re too old to get drafted. What the fuck are you doing on this turf?”
    â€œThought maybe you could recommend a good Thai banker.”
    Nate blinked a couple times. “Got a major deposit to make?”
    â€œYeah. A major deposit. And maybe a sergeant major deposit, too.”
    Nate liked the sound of that. He gestured to the dingy, debauched surroundings. “What do you think of the place?”
    â€œAll the comforts of home. Soul food with dope on the side and a blow job for dessert. You’re not still in the
service
. . . ?”
    â€œNo! Hell no.” He gestured to the uniform. “This is just to make the fellas feel comfortable. So I heard about Bumpy. You taking over for him, or what?”
    â€œWhat. Protection’s out.”
    â€œBut you’re still moving powder.”
    â€œYeah. And I want to move some more.” He flicked half a smile at his old friend. “I hear the quality is high, your neck of the woods. Rumor or fact?”
    Nate’s brown eyes, always alert, took on a sharpness. He got up easily, saying, “You got a few minutes? Let me make a call.”
    Frank sat at the same table with