Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 12 (25 page)

“Naw, she wasn’t hooking. Al—the proprietor—he wouldn’t put up with that . . . Al likes to steer clear of the cops.”

If Al Greenberg and Bobby Savarino were using the cafe as their heist crew’s clubhouse, that made sense.

“But it didn’t hurt,” Wilson was saying, “having a good-looking piece of tail like that sitting on a bar stool. Wasn’t exactly bad for business.”

“One guy was buying most of her drinks, though—right, Arnold?”

The Adam’s apple bobbled again. “You mean Bobby.”

“That’s right—Bobby Savarino.”

Thin lips twitched in the ravaged mask of his face. “I don’t think I should get into that.”

“For that double sawbuck, Arnold, I really think you should.”

A big bony hand pawed the air dismissively. “Bobby was filling her with all that Medal of Honor bullshit—dago bastard, he was never even overseas! But good-looking guy like him, line of bull like that . . . hell, he gets more ass than Sinatra.”

“I understand he’s a married man.”

Wilson shook his head, disgustedly. “Yeah, with a nice wife, nice-
lookin’
wife, kid on the way . . . I like Bobby, man. I mean, he’s a regular joe, but, shit—that’s friggin’ low.”

“Did Beth Short know Bobby was married?”

“Not at first . . . and Bobby told her he wanted to marry her, too. Can you believe this, before she found out he was married, they were engaged for a while—he even gave her a ring.”

“A diamond?”

“Yeah. Bobby’s connected to these jewelers—ice is never no problem for the group.”

“The group?”

Wilson paused, his deer-in-the-headlights expression indicating he’d spoken too freely. But he continued, anyway, saying, “Yeah, uh—the McCadden Group. It’s a bunch of guys that hang out here at the cafe.”

Sort of like the Elks or Kiwanis, except for the part where they went out on heists with guns.

“What happened to her diamond ring?”

Wilson shrugged. “I heard she hocked it. She was raising money.”

“Do you know why?”

“I dunno. . . . I think maybe she had Bobby’s bun in her oven.”

“Fertile fucker, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. He’s a fucker, period—but I like the guy, don’t ask me why. . . . Listen, she wasn’t in here since November, first week
of December at the latest. I mean, you could ask Henry’s wife, her and Beth were tight . . . Maybe she could tell you something.”

“Henry’s wife? Mrs. Henry Hassau, right, the guy who was arrested with Bobby?”

Now Wilson knew he’d spoken too freely. “Oh—so you know about that.”

“It was in the papers. It’s no secret, Arnold—or that your boss Al Greenberg is in county lockup, too.”

Too casually, he said, “Yeah, for that Mocambo robbery.”

“How tall are you, Arnold?”

The slitted eyes blinked, several times. “I dunno. Six four maybe.”

“Funny—that’s just how tall the witnesses said one of the thieves was. He had bad acne scars, too.”

Wilson thrust out a big hand, palm up. “Let’s have the double sawbuck—I’m through talkin’.”

I gave him a pleasant smile. “Look, Arnold—I have no interest in turning your skinny ass over to the cops. . . . By the way, how the hell did they miss you, if they’re arresting guys left and right out of this joint?”

The Adam’s apple jumped again. “I was in San Francisco for a week. Al called me and asked me to come watch the joint while he was in stir. He’ll be out soon—the Ringgolds’ll post bail.”

“The Ringgolds. And who are the Ringgolds?”

The eyes widened and rolled and he shook his head, apparently pissed at himself. “I already said too much. . . . How about that double sawbuck?”

“There’s a Ringgold Jewelry Store in Beverly Hills, isn’t there? Wouldn’t happen to be the jewelry store whose display merchandise at the Mocambo got taken in that robbery?”

A shooing hand waved the air. “You better get on outa here, now—I got work to do ’fore four.”

So the Mocambo heist had been primarily an insurance scam: steal jewelry for its owners who can claim the loss and keep the stones. I wondered how many other jewelry robberies the
McCadden Group had pulled for the Ringgolds. This little heist crew was definitely more impressive than these meager surroundings.

“Arnold, a whisper from me in Harry the Hat’s ear would land you in the cell next to your boss.”

Wilson jerked back, almost hitting his head on the wooden booth. “Are you threatening me?”

“I wouldn’t do that, Arnold—you and me, fellow vets and all. But this conversation—this private conversation, which goes no further than just the two of us—ends when I say it ends. Understood?”

He sighed. And nodded.

I swirled the last of the beer in its glass. “I just want to ask you a question—simple question, obvious question, that just happens to be one nobody’s asking. . . .”

I looked right at him—hard.

“Arnold, do you think Beth Short was murdered to send a message to Bobby?”

Wilson didn’t answer right away, and when he did, it was pitiful: “How would I know?”

“Just looking for an informed opinion, Arnold.”

Words tumbled out: “Bobby was blabbing to the cops and the papers about Jack Dragna trying to muscle him into hitting Mickey Cohen. Next day, Bobby’s girl friend turns up dead in a vacant lot in Dragna’s backyard with her mouth slashed, informer style. What the fuck do you think?”

“You think Dragna did it?”

Wilson shrugged one scarecrow shoulder. “Had it done. Who else but Dragna?”

Dragna was the answer I kept coming up with, myself.

“Arnold, I don’t get this. Why would Jack Dragna go to Bobby Savarino to do this?”

Wilson shrugged both shoulders this time. “Maybe ’cause Bobby was friends with the Meatball.”

Benny the Meatball Gamson was a renegade bookie who had been bumped off, not long ago, reportedly at Mickey Cohen’s behest.

“Still,” I said, “why would a savvy mob boss like Dragna try to enlist the help of somebody in Al Greenberg’s gang?”

“Which don’t make sense to you,” Wilson said, nodding, “because Greenberg is an East Coast guy and a crony of Ben Siegel’s, whose boy Cohen is.”

“Yeah!”

“Well, for one thing, Bobby coulda got close to Cohen . . . Mickey wouldn’ta suspected one of Greenberg’s group. And Al, well him and Siegel were friends, sure, but Al did a stretch in Sing Sing, was one of the handful of them Murder, Inc., guys unlucky enough to do time. Al don’t owe any of those guys nothing.”

“But in the end, Savarino didn’t want anything to do with hitting Cohen.”

Wilson was shaking his head, but it was an affirmative gesture. “Bobby’s no hitman. He’s just a thief, knockin’ over scores.”

I took the last sip of beer, and said, “I’d like to talk to Bobby. You think the Ringgolds’ll post his bail?”

“Maybe. You want me to set up a meet, if they do?”

I reached in my pocket and withdrew the twenty and held it up. “There’ll be another one of these in it for you.”

Wilson took the twenty. I told him where he could find me, and I got out of the booth, thanking him for the beer.

“Arnold, you got a phone I can use?”

“Sure—behind the bar.”

I called Fred.

“You won’t believe this,” he said, “but Welles
wants
to see you. How do you know this guy?”

“He got his start in Chicago.”

“Well, he’s anxious to meet with you. And it seems he is out at Columbia, strike or no strike. Write down these directions. . . .”

I did.

Moments later, ceiling fans churning the stale air, the cadaverous Arnold Wilson was walking me out, the limp not slowing him down appreciably. Perhaps our conversation had got him excited—or that double sawbuck.

“You know, if Jack Dragna’s the one that had the Black Dahlia butchered,” Arnold said, unlocking the door, “the cops won’t
touch it. Nobody’ll do a damn thing about it, a Mafia guy like that responsible.”

“Arnold,” I said, already halfway out the door, reaching back to pat him on his bony shoulder, “don’t count on it.”

14

Horse operas, crime melodramas, horror pictures, comedies, and every other stripe of B-movie were still churned out by the independent studios on Sunset Boulevard, near Gower Street. Despite the ongoing strike by the CSU—the Conference of Studio Unions—the usual parade of featured players was crossing Sunset in full makeup to grab a bite at a hamburger or hot-dog stand; Brittingham’s, the popular eatery in Columbia Square, at the corner of Sunset and Gower, was servicing its usual clientele of actors and extras, including western gunfighters with empty holsters (prop men having confiscated their sixshooters) and starlets in sunglasses and white blouses and dark slacks, freshly waved hair tucked under colorful kerchiefs.

This lack of support for the strike came as no surprise to me, and was in fact why a bit player like Peggy was getting chauffeured to the studio, daily. The CSU was a militant leftist coalition that included carpenters, painters, and machinists; they were an alternative to the International Alliance of Theatrical and Stage Employees, IATSE having been organized by Nitti racketeers Willie Bioff and George Browne, both currently still in stir. Under the leadership of new Screen Actors Guild president Ronald Reagan, however, the CSU had been left twisting in the
wind, and SAG actors—among other union and guild members—were crossing the picket lines.

Which was how Peggy could be working at Paramount, during a strike, and I could be keeping an appointment with Orson Welles at the giant of Gower Gulch, Columbia. A Poverty Row weed that had blossomed under the firm hand of Harry Cohn, Columbia was now a major force in Tinsel Town, and had been ground zero for the strike last October, when fifteen hundred picketers laid siege to the studio, with nearly seven hundred strikers arrested on charges ranging from unlawful assembly to assault with a deadly weapon.

But now, several months later, sold out by Dutch Reagan and SAG, the picketers were a halfhearted, signs-on-their-shoulders bunch, a sea of Reds who quickly parted to allow me to check in at the guard gate. My unionist pop would have been ashamed of this lackluster picket line—and ashamed of me, for crossing it.

I parked and strolled past surprisingly ramshackle-looking offices onto a typically bustling backlot—workshops, cutting rooms, projection rooms, soundstages. But—despite following Fred Rubinski’s detailed directions—I soon found myself wandering amid chattering extras in costume and bored grips and gaffers in work clothes, ducking cars and trucks transporting people and equipment. Finally I was just standing there, scratching my head, a detective who could have used a detective, when I felt something—or somebody—tug at my sleeve.

I glanced down and a large adult male face was looking up at me.

“You’re Mr. Heller, ain’tcha?” the hunchbacked dwarf asked. His accent said New York, Lower East Side.

“Uh, yes.”

He grinned up at me; he had a pleasant, well-lined face—blue eyes, high forehead, gray hair, late fifties.

“The boss is expectin’ ya.” He shuffled around in front of me and extended a hand. He was wearing white pants and a white shirt and white shoes, and looked like a little ice-cream man—the shirt, however, was spattered with red. “Shorty Chivello, Mr. Heller—I’m Mr. Welles’ chauffeur and personal valet.”

I shook his hand, which was of normal size, his grip firm and confident. “Chauffeur, huh?”

He laughed, saying, “Hey, I’ll save you the embarrassment of askin’ how I manage that, Mr. Heller—I got these special wooden blocks strapped to the pedals.”

“Cut yourself shaving, Shorty?” I asked, as I followed him toward a nearby soundstage.

“Aw, it’s just paint, Mr. Heller.”

“Make it ‘Nate.’ ”

“Naw, that’s okay. I’m ‘Shorty,’ but you’re ‘Mr. Heller.’ The boss likes certain respect paid. . . . He says you’re an old friend.”

“That may be overstating, Shorty. But he was barely out of that prep school in Woodstock when I first met him in Chicago.”

“Jeez, was the boss the boy genius they say he was?”

“Shorty, he still is.”

Shorty opened the door for me and I stepped into the mostly darkened soundstage, and what I saw gave me a start: out of the gloom emerged another giant head—not another hunchbacked dwarf’s, something even better, even stranger . . . the profile of a wild-eyed, vaguely Chinese dragon, hovering above me, perhaps forty feet off the floor, the head itself thirty feet high, angled skyward, a shiny slide extending from its open mouth like an endless silver tongue snaking its way up into the darkness where the ceiling presumably was; disturbingly, the silver slide also exited the back of the beast’s head, emptying into a vast pit.

“Christ!” I said. My eyes adjusting to the near dark, I could see that the whole preposterous serpentine affair was constructed on roller-coaster-style scaffolding.

Shorty was shuffling around in front me, saying, “Watch your step, Mr. Heller. The boss had ’em dig that pit right through the cement. . . . Ya shoulda heard them jackhammers!”

We skirted the edge of the mini-abyss, which was a good eighty feet long, and half again as wide, perhaps as deep.

“The boss made the cameramen slide down that thing on their stomachs,” Shorty was saying. “Put the camera on a mat. So you could get a whaddayacallit, objective view.”