CHAPTER 1
HOUSTON, TEXAS—MARCH 1928
Herbert Irwin Mannington—HIM to his friends—rotated a glass between his thumb and forefinger on the bar at Cora's Place off McKinney Avenue. He watched the illegal beer swirl around inside, pushing the remaining foam in small waves like incoming surf. The huge goon behind him roared with laughter and chewed on Mannington's nerves. The union man spewed anecdote after anecdote about putting screws to the rail line owners to get their demands met. Mannington ground his teeth with each bloated guffaw.
"We got them to bend over hard, and the first scab across the line went to the hospital with a bagful of his own teeth," the goon laughed.
Mannington set his beer down on the bar. He knew the guy they were laughing about, a family man with four young kids. HIM was all of six foot one, athletic, good looking, with a brush haircut. The goon was humongous and might easily outmatch him. The bluster continued, and Mannington's restraint continued to erode. Against his better judgment, he spun off his stool to face the drunken giant. "You sound pretty proud of yourself, asshole."
The goon, standing about six-four, with a meaty jaw and hands the size of pie plates, glared back and sized his antagonist up and down. "Butt out, pretty boy, or you won't be so pretty going home to Mama."
The two were quickly nose to nose. The other patrons spread and circled, expecting a cockfight.
"The puke got what he deserved!" the goon spat.
"You apes need to learn that might doesn't make right."
"Wanna bet, you little pri—" The goon lashed out to grab a piece of his challenger but never finished his sentence.
Like lightning, HIM cut a convincing feint to the monster's midsection. The goon's hands dropped to cover, and he never saw the left hook coming. HIM heard the goon's jaw crack, and the man fell to the floor in a pile.
The place began to erupt. A second later, the bartender slapped a scattergun down on the counter and diffused the situation. A couple of locals worked to peel the fallen man off the floor and led him to the door as he moaned and slurred threats along the way.
The bar settled down, and HIM went searching for the last of his beer. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He snapped around, hands cocked.
"Whoa! Whoa!" A guy in suit, tie loose at his neck, offered his palms. "Just wanna talk." He introduced himself as Randall Devers, representing the Bureau of Investigation—the BOI.
HIM sighted a path to the door and considered bolting on the spot.
Devers caught the situation and padded the air with his palms. "How would you like to put a badge and the weight of the federal government behind that left hook of yours, son?"
Mannington was between jobs; an athlete and star quarterback in high school, he'd been working at a local garage but got let go after a fight with the owner's son. Devers asked about his interest in academics, specifically in law and math. Mannington looked down, rubbed the reddened knuckles of his left hand, and smiled. "Uh, athletics and looks are pretty much what I've been relying on," he said. With an absentee father and mother working two jobs, he saw his prospects growing thin, and being on the menial end of a shovel wouldn't satisfy his ambitions. He didn't own a suit, but he decided that a career that required one held more promise than one that didn't. He recalled seeing a bureau recruiting poster with a smartly dressed agent sporting a sharp fedora and pistol, who leaned off the running board of a shiny black car, and he admitted to being intrigued.
They chatted for a few more minutes until the bartender caught Mannington's attention. "Union's got friends downtown, HIM. They'll be coming for you."
Randall pulled out his card, jotted his hotel and telephone number on the back, and slipped it into Mannington's hand. "I leave for Washington in the morning. Pack a bag and meet me for the first train out."
"I'll think about it."
* * *
Mannington kept to the back streets and made his way home. Peering around the last corner, he spied a Lincoln Phaeton touring sedan, an asset of the Houston Police Department, idling outside his apartment. Across the street, another sedan sat surrounded by four civilians milling on high alert, no doubt friends of the broken jaw, union roughnecks. Mannington eased back, made his way to a pay telephone, and dialed Devers's hotel. The operator put him through to the hotel switchboard that patched him to Randall's room. "I want to sign up," he said. "Tonight."
"Great. You can head to Washington with me in the morning."
"No, it's gotta be tonight," Mannington said.
"If you need a place to stay, I can put you up in a hotel."
Mannington thought about it and checked his watch. "No. Houston North Shore has a coach to Baytown tonight. I'll be on it."
Devers agreed to meet him at the station. "I forgot to ask. How old are you, son?"
"Nineteen."
Devers sighed. "Congratulations—you just turned twenty-two. I'll back you up. Got it, Herbert?"
"Yeah, sure." Then, before he hung up, he said, "HIM."
"What? Him who?" Devers asked.
"Herbert Irwin Mannington, h-i-m ... my friends call me HIM." He dropped the handset in the cradle and immediately picked it up again. He should call his mother. Just then, a car passed by with its headlamps off. He kept his back to it, listening for it to slow, ready to run, if necessary. The car moved along down the street. He set the handset back down without dialing and took off for the station.
The train would eventually get HIM to Washington. Three months later, he was back on a train bound for New Orleans for his first field assignment.
* * *
HIM spent his first few weeks tagging along on a number of prostitution raids for violations of the Mann Act and several arrests at the port of New Orleans to close down smuggling operations—everything from liquor to immigrants. Eventually assigned a partner, he was paired with a seasoned field agent named Donald Parker, and began work in earnest for the bureau. On a tip, they investigated alleged corruption and fraud involving local officials and the dockworkers' union. The lead came from a scab who crossed a union picket line and later took a heavy beating for it. Beatings, coercion, and extortion were common themes with the unions and added to HIM's resolve to take them on when opportunities arose. They met the scab in an alley off Canal Street.
"You'f no idea who you dealing wit," the scab said through a busted lip and a couple of missing teeth.
"Why don't you fill us in, and we'll bring it back to the guys that did this to you." Parker said, and he wasn't kidding. Watching his work, HIM decided that Parker was committed and tougher than most of the roughnecks they arrested. Being the nephew of former governor John M. Parker afforded Parker some clout and political cover for the harsh tactics he often employed; not that he needed much cover. New Orleans was bubbling with opportunity for the bureau to flex its muscle, and Hoover gave his agents sufficient leeway to get the job done, even if that meant bending the rules a bit.
Squinting like a swollen raccoon, the scab referred them to Father Eugene Vermette, a priest who ran a small chapel and soup kitchen near the waterfront. "Heesh in with the bigs, knows who's who. You ash him about da...
