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  ADVANCE PRAISE FOR MAN WITH TWO FACES

  A hard-boiled Noir journey through the glamorous and gritty world of the 1930s filled with a plethora of characters who made the times memorable. Twists at every turn that make a page turner, and a few surprises await the reader in a world where wealth could shield deeds done in the dark.

  —Bruce Lee Bond, author of Treasures of the Night, The Broken Coast, Girls Gone South, The Babysitter and Hippie Hill

  A deliciously zany, sometimes politically incorrect, audacious romp through 1930s America. A romp you’ll remember.

  —Damian McNicholl, author of A Son Called Gabriel and The Moment of Truth

  No one tells a story quite like Don Swaim. He’s written a hell of a good yarn about a lovable antihero who expertly twists his way through a gauntlet of close calls, from villains’ bullets and assassins’ blades to tender affairs of the heart.

  —William J. Donahue, editor-in-chief of Philadelphia Life magazine and author of Too Much Poison

  Man With Two Faces reads like vintage Hunter S. Thompson, but with gangsters and Nazis. Superbly grounded in the period, there are myriad cultural references to delight history buffs, and a hilarious, fast-moving story with plenty of action and hardboiled dialog. It’s another page-turning knockout from Don Swaim, who just keeps getting better and better

  —A.L. Sirois, author of Jersey Ghouls and The Bohemian Magician

  A rollicking evocation of a lost epoch, sparkling with period detail, with walk-ons by Clarence Darrow, Walter Winchell, Orson Welles, Albert Camus, J. Edgar Hoover, and a host of others. A bravura performance not to be missed!

  —John Schoffstall, author of Half-Witch

  Like chameleon good guys and badass female operatives? Guns that walk into rooms? The Thin Man meets Indiana Jones meets Hedy Lamarr. Swaim and his savvy characters give the reader precise, witty prose while dispatching bad actors with just enough bark, bullets and booze for the period. So good.

  —Chris Bauer, author of Jane’s Baby and Scars on the Face of God

  BY DON SWAIM

  Man with Two Faces

  The Assassination of Ambrose Bierce: A Love Story

  Steampunk Electroblaster Romance

  Bright Sun Extinguished: Ode to Norman Mailer

  The H.L. Mencken Murder Case

  First Montag Press E-Book and Paperback Original Edition April 2018

  Copyright © 2018 by Don Swaim

  As the writer and creator of this story, Don Swaim asserts the right to be identified as the author of this book.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law. However, The physical paper book may, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, or hired out without the publisher’s prior consent.

  Montag Press

  ISBN: 978-1-940233-54-3

  Design © 2018 Rick Febré

  Vector files by Vecteezy

  Author photo © 2018 Elizabeth Joyce

  Montag Press Team:

  Project Editor – Charlie Franco

  Managing Director – Charlie Franco

  A Montag Press Book

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  Montag Press

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  Printed & Digitally Originated in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s vivid and sometimes disturbing imagination or are used fictitiously without any regards with possible parallel realities. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  It’s almost worth the Great Depression to learn

  how little our big men know.

  Will Rogers

  I ask you to judge me by the enemies I have made.

  Franklin D. Roosevelt

  Wherever men are fightin’ for their rights,

  That’s where I’m a-gonna be, Ma.

  That’s where I’m a-gonna be.

  Woody Guthrie

  FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

  MEMORANDUM

  To: J. EDGAR HOOVER, Director

  From: MIKE LITVAK, Special Agent

  Date: December 7, 1941

  Re: Tokoloshe and Son Cleansing Services

  First, I would like to extend my appreciation for reinstating me as a special agent. I was most unhappy in my interim job as a security guard at Wanamaker’s Department Store in Philadelphia, and am glad to be back in the agency’s good graces. For my inadvertent leaking of classified FBI information to Walter Winchell I apologize. I had no idea he would actually use the material on the air.

  Understandably, some portions of this memo may need to be redacted because of the sensitive nature of the particulars.

  Per your request, I have put together this fact sheet so that some light may shine on the enigmatic Mr. Tokol Tokoloshe as well as his companion Miss Diana Dryad, both of whom have vanished under mysterious circumstances. Tokoloshe was useful to the FBI on more than one occasion as an independent contractor, which included assisting in exposing a Nazi spy ring and capturing Public Enemy Number One, although he displayed too much of an independent attitude to be an actual agent.

  Despite my own personal acquaintance with Tokoloshe, there is much we do not know about him, and probably never will. However, the hearsay that he was an alien sent to this planet from another world is false.

  We have no knowledge of his birthplace. Because of his familiarity with the Midwest it is assumed he may have been born there, perhaps in Iowa, although he claimed to be fluent in a number of languages, including German, French, Arabic, Mandarin, and Hindi. He referred to an uncle who took him as a child on excursions to McComb, Mississippi, and Enid, Oklahoma, but we have not been able to determine the name or whereabouts of this reputed uncle.

  Tokoloshe’s real name is unknown. He adopted the pseudonym after a falling out in either Detroit or Cleveland with a man known only as Janus, who swore vengeance on Tokoloshe following the death of a man with whom they were both infatuated. Tokoloshe’s assumed name appears to spring from either ancient Arabic or Chinese folklore in which a clever gnome is able to alter his colors like a chameleon, thus fooling his enemies. In that vein, Tokoloshe learned to apply various disguises to hide his identity.

  In the relevant time period, 1934-1940, Tokoloshe appeared to be in his mid to late thirties, suggesting that his birth date was around 1900.

  He did not serve in the War to End All Wars, although he was an enlistee in the French Foreign Legion in Morocco. It was probably there that he became enamored of guns and other armaments. He was also embroiled in the conflict in the Holy Land, where he became intimately involved with the late Lawrence of Arabia. It is speculated that the two men had an affair of a sexual nature.

  How Tokoloshe acquired his wealth has not been fully established. He made casual reference to diamond dealing, but rumors that he was involved in the heist of the massive Lavender Star of Africa have been thoroughly discredited. It is known, however, that he was once a rum runner out of Havana, which was the likely source of his fortune.

  Despite claiming that he had little need for funds, he opened Tokoloshe and Son Cleansing Services in Manhattan in which he accepted certain dangerous and secret assignments on behalf of questionable causes. Our agents have
assiduously attempted to unearth Tokoloshe’s business partner and son, but the younger man has remained elusive. Tokoloshe engaged a telephone answering service operated by Mrs. Prunella Mayhem, although she emphatically denies any connection and hangs up the phone when we try to speak to her.

  He maintained an account with Banque Cantonale de Genève in Switzerland, but it is impossible to determine the amount of his assets or whether the account still exists. The locations and amounts of any other of his assets are uncertain.

  While not Sicilian, Tokoloshe was once a soldier in the Castrogiovanni Crime Family, although one of low rank. Confidential informants suggest he was involved in the Mafia’s Castellammarese War in 1930 in which the notorious La Cosa Nostra figure Gaetano Gagliano saved Tokoloshe’s life, for which he was ever grateful. Gagliano, who became his personal gun dealer, currently operates a convenience store in The Bronx.

  Tokoloshe may also have helped to spark a Chinese tong war in a bid to control the distribution of opium, and briefly served as a bodyguard to Senator Huey Long, who was later assassinated. Most recently, we have indications that he was sent to Casablanca to spy on Nazis for a federal intelligence agency, but we lack hard evidence.

  While he wore conservative apparel from Hart Schaffner & Marx, as well as safari attire from Best and Company, Tokoloshe usually shopped at the five-and-dime. He rented a well-appointed office suite in the Woolworth Building, yet he considered himself an ascetic and stayed most nights in a tenement room on The Bowery. However, he was impeccable about his clothes, which were cleaned at a Chinese hand-laundry on Hester Street.

  It is thought that he kidnapped Aimee Semple McPherson, the celebrated California revivalist and sexual bon vivant, after their torrid love affair went awry. She was released when a ransom was paid.

  Tokoloshe and Diana Dryad first became acquainted in Budapest, although what the two were doing in Hungary is to be determined. Dryad is the name for a tree nymph in Hebrew mythology, but whether that was her given name has not been established. While her past is murky, we have determined she was raised in East Asia to parents who were big game hunters or, possibly, Bible salespeople. In any event, she became sufficiently proficient with a blowgun to be considered dangerous. Her pet python Kevin kept her supplied with venom for her darts.

  While she and her parents were impoverished, Dryad came to be wealthy as the creator of several of radio’s most successful afternoon soap operas. She was a close acquaintance of broadcast moguls Paley and Sarnoff, and served as Miss Television at the 1939 World’s Fair.

  Aviation records indicate that Dryad became a licensed pilot in 1937. Subsequently, she crashed her plane in Saskatchewan, Canada, but recovered after suffering serious injuries. She owned a penthouse apartment at Park Avenue and Seventy-Fourth Street, where she also operated her radio scripting business. That apartment is currently up for sale.

  It was primarily through Dryad’s radio empire that Tokoloshe, enamored by athletics, became acquainted with an immense variety of professional sports figures, such as George Herman Ruth, Jr., Jim Thorpe, Jesse Owens, Bobby Jones, and Don Budge. Because of their shared interest in sports, Tokoloshe had a relationship with Walter Winchell, and while Tokoloshe made known his dislike for the columnist, Winchell was useful in funneling to him certain information, which was reciprocated.

  I hesitate to reveal, sir, that Tokoloshe frequently expressed his distaste toward you, describing you as an officious, tyrannical, cross-dressing despot, certainly a misapprehension on his part, as you have never been known to be officious or tyrannical. In fact, sir, it would not be an understatement to say you are adored outside of the Bureau.

  Tokoloshe’s preferred mode of travel was rail, but when speed was important would take commercial flights or the de Havilland DH.82 Tiger Moth owned by Dryad. The two were once passengers on the Hindenburg, but apparently not on the date of its fatal explosion. Normally, in traveling overseas, Tokoloshe would sail on the Queen Mary or the Rex, and sometimes tramp steamers. He owned several automobiles, which he stored in strategic locations, and often employed a chauffeur.

  Although a teetotaler, he habitually smoked a hookah. He admitted he was once addicted to opium, but kicked the habit aside from occasional relapses. In Ethiopia, Tokoloshe learned to play the didgeridoo, a traditional African wind instrument, and while it is well established that he despised jazz, he once performed with Glenn Miller’s orchestra.

  I hope these facts provide a better understanding of Mr. Tokoloshe, and you can be assured of their accuracy. Although his whereabouts and those of Miss Dryad are currently unknown, please note that our special task force will remain on the case and eternally vigilant as long as you are in office.

  Respectfully,

  Mike Litvak, Special Agent

  one

  Man With Two Faces 1934

  The Man With Two Faces had returned to New York.

  To kill me.

  Manhattan glowed with skyscrapers and light, marble-floored hotels trimmed with bronze, museums filled with statuary and Old Masters, foie gras and lobster overflowing at the priciest restaurants, while in Central Park the remnants of Hooverville and its jerry-rigged shacks of the unemployed were still being demolished to make way for the new Great Lawn.

  Janus disembarked from the S.S. Rex at Pier 86 after a first-class voyage on which the soprano Rosa Ponselle sang Schubert’s “Nacht und Träume” in a ship-to-shore radio transmission heard round the world.

  In truth, I had half been expecting him. Maybe it was inevitable. Or perhaps my conscience was rattling. Confirmation of his arrival came directly from Walter Winchell at Table 50 in the Cub Room of the Stork Club on East 53rd.

  “I’m bushed, Tokol,” the Daily Mirror columnist and Blue Network commentator told me over White Russians: one part Kahlúa, one part vodka, one part heavy cream. “I’m not getting enough sleep.”

  “Edison only needed four hours a night, Walter,” I said.

  “Edison never had a daily column to write.”

  Winchell, who never revealed his sources, was a prick, but he was my prick. Whenever I had the goods, I fed him dirt for his gossip pile, and he’d return the favor.

  Not known for whispering, he leaned in close and whispered into my ear, “I gotta flash for you. Watch your ass. Janus is in New York looking for you.”

  After thanking Winchell I slipped him a Benjamin. Bastard always took it, and he was flush.

  The Depression hurt. The newspapers told us so. But now, at least, we could drown our troubles in untamed abandon thanks to the repeal of the Eighteenth Amendment. Unless you sold apples or pencils on the street or lived in the Dust Bowl, it was the age of romance: Garbo, Dietrich, Harlow, Lombard—Busby Berkeley.

  The era was all about speed. Only the breadlines were slow.

  It was easy to tell the bad guys. They wielded tommy guns like John Dillinger, cut down on the bloody Chicago streets by the feds, or they ostentatiously flashed monogrammed gold cigarette cases, lighters, tie clasps, and cufflinks—as did The Man With Two Faces.

  It was purely coincidental that The Man With Two Faces, the Edward G. Robinson-Mary Astor flick, was unreeling at the Strand in Times Square. Not impressed, I sat through the matinee. Better were the Donald Duck short, Pete Smith Specialty, and the Metrotone newsreel showing Hitler and Mussolini mutually heel-clicking in Italy.

  Janus and I went way back. We first met while in the Legion, both enlistees in Morocco south of Fez fighting Berber tribesmen in the Rif mountains. More than drinking pals, we shared our Midwestern American pasts, I from Kansas he from Nebraska. As a young man he was enamored by the impalement arts and wanted to be a professional knife thrower in a carnival. He always carried with him an exquisite set of throwing knives he would use to perform awesome and dangerous feats.

  “Eighteen feet,” he would tell me. “Always stand eighteen-feet from your target.”

  But later, in some waterfront dive in Singapore, we had a boozy falling out. Not over
the six-thousand carat Lavender Star of Africa, largest diamond known to exist, which made us both impossibly rich, but over a woman. Isn’t it always?

  I’ll always remember Singapore as the place where The Man With Two Faces and I parted ways.

  Because of my share of the gem, I never needed to work again. Still, my needs were crudely simple.

  I slept at the Y. Frequently, however, I crashed at the penthouse of Diana Dryad, my fiancée and creator and writer of record of radio’s most popular network serials, but at night was the nymph of the urban tower, mountain forest, and green valley. No one could fire a blunderbuss, parry with a vorpal sword, or wield a bow and arrow with as much accuracy as she. And what she could do with her blowgun was astonishing.

  She had spent her childhood in the Amazon rainforests of Ecuador where her parents were missionaries.

  Believing it was a form of onanistic indulgence not to be without gainful labor, I opened shop in a panoramic suite on the sixty-third floor of the Chrysler Building. Mine was highly particularized work in which I performed special, often risky services for a select clientele, which sometimes took me around the world.

  I named my business Tokoloshe and Son Cleansing Services. There was no son, of course. That was a diversion, and while I was a cleaner of sorts, it was never with a broom or mop.