enter lives—bubbles of existence—interview, take notes, understand, and then walk away.
But I couldn’t leave the thought of Charlie Wall.
“I hear they cut his fucking head off,” Ann O’Meara said, and took a bite of onion from her Gibson. Ann was a plump woman who knew and wrote about the latest fashions and kept a little leather-bound book in her desk of the ins and outs of Tampa society, and had mainly turned to newspaper work because she’d become somewhat bored being a homemaker. And as a newsman, at first thought I might not have liked someone like plump old Ann O’Meara in her imitation Parisian clothes who went on and on about the Palma Ceia Country Club crew and the latest goings-on for Gasparilla (our local kind-of Mardi Gras), but I’d have been wrong. Ann O’Meara was a tough-talking, shrewd woman who knew about every major power broker in this town, and knew their wives a lot better.
“Who said that?” I asked.
“A cop I know,” she said. “Wouldn’t go on the record, though.”
“Bullshit,” said Tom, our City Hall reporter. “He was shot. The whole throat-cutting thing is a ruse. Cops want to pull in some poor bastard who will blurt out that he didn’t shoot him, and then the city cops will lean in and say, ‘How do you know he was shot?’”
“You been watching Justice again?” I asked.
“Ha,” Tom said.
“I bet he got his fucking head cut off,” Ann said.
“It all goes back to the Kefauver Commission,” Tom said.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“That’s where I’d look,” he said. “Find those transcripts. This doesn’t have a damned thing to do with anything else but bolita.”
“What else is there?” I said.
Bolita was the city’s numbers racket based on the Cuban National Lottery, with locals selling tickets and making the payoffs.
“Did you get to the wife?” I asked.
“No,” Ann said.
“Parkhill?”
“No.”
“Dunn want us in early tomorrow?”
“What do you think,” she said.
The piano man played Gordon Jenkins’s “Goodbye,” while I was on my second drink in that glowing red room with an empty dance floor.
“The cops will never know,” Tom said.
“Why’s that?”
“Ybor City doesn’t talk.”
I nodded.
“Sure they will,” Ann said.
I looked at her.
“You know why?” she said. “Because about forty years ago, Charlie Wall saved those people. I don’t know, maybe it was 1910 or ’11, but look back, and find out about the cigar strikes and the companies trying to starve out all those Cubans, and Mr. Charlie Wall, the son of the mayor turned big-time gambler, using all his money to keep those people eating, so they didn’t have to cave and go back to work until they were goddamned ready.”
“Come on,” Tom said.
“Look it up,” she said. “Why do you think he swung every election back in the thirties? Because of fear? Fear is cheap, my friend. Loyalty among those Latins, now that’s something else. They called him El Sombre Blanco . The White Shadow. And when those people got old, their children remembered Mr. Wall—still do—and they will be talking plenty about who slit his throat or shot him, or whatever happened to the bastard.”
“They voted because Charlie Wall paid them,” Tom said.
The song behind Ann’s words was beautiful, and I finished my drink, paid the bartender, and was ready for a nice Chinese meal at the Bay View Hotel when Eleanor Charles walked in the door and had all the men twisting their necks.
She sidled up to the bar. And I ordered another drink.
I smiled.
“Hello, Virginian.” Eleanor was from Georgia, and had a wonderful Southern accent that I always loved.
“Miss Eleanor.”
She was wearing a black skirt with a white blouse, with red-and-yellow vertical stripes and French cuffs. Her hair was very blond and shiny and curled up at the shoulder. She had thick eyebrows, not the painted-on kind so popular at the time, and a face that always reminded me strongly of
But I couldn’t leave the thought of Charlie Wall.
“I hear they cut his fucking head off,” Ann O’Meara said, and took a bite of onion from her Gibson. Ann was a plump woman who knew and wrote about the latest fashions and kept a little leather-bound book in her desk of the ins and outs of Tampa society, and had mainly turned to newspaper work because she’d become somewhat bored being a homemaker. And as a newsman, at first thought I might not have liked someone like plump old Ann O’Meara in her imitation Parisian clothes who went on and on about the Palma Ceia Country Club crew and the latest goings-on for Gasparilla (our local kind-of Mardi Gras), but I’d have been wrong. Ann O’Meara was a tough-talking, shrewd woman who knew about every major power broker in this town, and knew their wives a lot better.
“Who said that?” I asked.
“A cop I know,” she said. “Wouldn’t go on the record, though.”
“Bullshit,” said Tom, our City Hall reporter. “He was shot. The whole throat-cutting thing is a ruse. Cops want to pull in some poor bastard who will blurt out that he didn’t shoot him, and then the city cops will lean in and say, ‘How do you know he was shot?’”
“You been watching Justice again?” I asked.
“Ha,” Tom said.
“I bet he got his fucking head cut off,” Ann said.
“It all goes back to the Kefauver Commission,” Tom said.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“That’s where I’d look,” he said. “Find those transcripts. This doesn’t have a damned thing to do with anything else but bolita.”
“What else is there?” I said.
Bolita was the city’s numbers racket based on the Cuban National Lottery, with locals selling tickets and making the payoffs.
“Did you get to the wife?” I asked.
“No,” Ann said.
“Parkhill?”
“No.”
“Dunn want us in early tomorrow?”
“What do you think,” she said.
The piano man played Gordon Jenkins’s “Goodbye,” while I was on my second drink in that glowing red room with an empty dance floor.
“The cops will never know,” Tom said.
“Why’s that?”
“Ybor City doesn’t talk.”
I nodded.
“Sure they will,” Ann said.
I looked at her.
“You know why?” she said. “Because about forty years ago, Charlie Wall saved those people. I don’t know, maybe it was 1910 or ’11, but look back, and find out about the cigar strikes and the companies trying to starve out all those Cubans, and Mr. Charlie Wall, the son of the mayor turned big-time gambler, using all his money to keep those people eating, so they didn’t have to cave and go back to work until they were goddamned ready.”
“Come on,” Tom said.
“Look it up,” she said. “Why do you think he swung every election back in the thirties? Because of fear? Fear is cheap, my friend. Loyalty among those Latins, now that’s something else. They called him El Sombre Blanco . The White Shadow. And when those people got old, their children remembered Mr. Wall—still do—and they will be talking plenty about who slit his throat or shot him, or whatever happened to the bastard.”
“They voted because Charlie Wall paid them,” Tom said.
The song behind Ann’s words was beautiful, and I finished my drink, paid the bartender, and was ready for a nice Chinese meal at the Bay View Hotel when Eleanor Charles walked in the door and had all the men twisting their necks.
She sidled up to the bar. And I ordered another drink.
I smiled.
“Hello, Virginian.” Eleanor was from Georgia, and had a wonderful Southern accent that I always loved.
“Miss Eleanor.”
She was wearing a black skirt with a white blouse, with red-and-yellow vertical stripes and French cuffs. Her hair was very blond and shiny and curled up at the shoulder. She had thick eyebrows, not the painted-on kind so popular at the time, and a face that always reminded me strongly of
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