David Bishop - Matt Kile 04 - Find My Little Sister (11 page)

I had
most of the day to go out to the Rex and get Tony’s final answer. I also needed to do a second draft of my next column, with or without reference to Tony the Hat and how he might change his life. If he had decided he would change it. I’d make my decision about what to say in my column after I spoke with Tony.

I called Callie while washing down
a half of a cantaloupe with a cup and a half of black coffee. We chatted an hour or so. It’s surprising how long a man and woman can talk when they are considering attaching themselves to each other. She planned to work again today at her desk in Daddy’s business. Neither of us mentioned going clubbing tonight. I think we were both a little tired of it. She was also discouraged about not having seen or even heard anything solid about Frances. Tomorrow, we had the tickets for Fats Waller’s opening night so we’d be hitting some spots then.

At nine-thirty I took Pug’s water taxi out to the Rex to see Tony and hear his answer. Pug had been a pugilist. He fought lightweight. At least he did until he had so many concussions in the ring that he couldn’t remember in which round the mob had told him to take his dive. He had kept fighting to support his wife, Katherine. He called her Kitty. They had met in a brothel. It wasn’t textbook love, just the solid, devoted kind. Kitty had immediately stopped hooking, but she hadn’t stopped drinking. About ten years later, she died from cirrhosis of the liver and Pug buried her on the cheap—all he could afford. After that he started playing the numbers
with the dream he’d hit one big so he could buy a classy headstone for Kitty’s grave. Tony and I talked about chipping in to get Kitty a proper marker, but that was Pug’s dream and you don’t invite yourself into another man’s dream.

Few knew, as I did, that Tony
had bought Pug his water taxi and got him set up with the authorities on the dock. My book listed both Tony and Pug on the short page where I jotted down the good men. The page wasn’t short, just the list of people on it. Life had treated these two men, Tony and Pug, very differently. Pug had been used by the mob, used up is more like it, but he held no grudge. He had liked being a boxer. Pug just hadn’t been a very good boxer, and he ended up with the face and scrambled brains to prove it. How life would end up treating Tony the Hat remained undecided, although part of all that might be decided today.

When
Pug dropped me at the top of the gangway, Tony was out on deck, waiting. Instead of going into the coffee shop he suggested we walk the upper deck which allowed strollers to go all the way around his ship. He had struggled with whether or not to include this feature on the Rex. People liked the walk-around. In the end he decided that if the Rex was to be the first class crown jewel of the gambling ship fleet, he had to include the walk-around. Tony’s quandary had come from maybe them liking it too much. It kept the suckers away from the room with the gambling tables, which, after all, was his reason for outfitting the Rex to begin with. Actually, Tony gave the suckers as close to an even break, not an even break just closer to one, as they would find on any ship and more so than in the gambling dens of Los Angeles.

We strolled a while without saying much of anything other than meaningless small talk
about the weather and last night’s ballgame. Yeah, Tony was also a Dodgers fan. For us both, it started when we were in New York and the Brooklyn Dodgers appealed to us more than the Yankees or Giants. Red Barber had taken over doing the radio play-by-play for the Dodgers this season and we were looking forward to them having a great team. We walked the length of the ship’s sunny side and around into the shade where Tony stopped and put his forearms on the rail. The sea was calm this morning. No white caps, just a rolling salty sea, the dark blue color disclosing there was substantial depth under the Rex.

“I appreciate what you did, Pal. I do. You talking with the
D. A. and bringing me his offer.”

“But
?”

“But
, it’s not for me. I can’t see it. On some level I want to. Truth is I’d enjoy giving Siegel and Cohen, and Dragna their what fors. Yes, sir, I’d enjoy that more than just a little bit. Still, in the end, it just ain’t me. I’m a gambler. I sell booze, the expectation of happiness, the promise of hitting it big. I couldn’t sell stay home and work hard, spend your money on only necessities and save the rest… . It does happen you know—hitting it big. Once or twice a week somebody beats the odds and goes home with a bankroll and the feeling of being invincible. That’s my product, that feeling, that maybe it could happen for me feeling. It’s a dream which comes true for a few. For the common man, it’s hope when he has little else. That’s what brings the regular folks out to the Rex.”

“I’m sure, but
too many go home worried how they’re going to feed the kids and pay the rent after what they dropped on your tables.”

“Life’s choices, Matt, it’s their right as humans. They don’t need the D.A. and Earl Warren being their conscience, their daddy. They don’t need me telling them what to do, either. The ship’s here. It’s their choice. God gave us the capacity to think and with that comes the right to decide. Lots of my customers are the same high rollers who hit the mob’s backroom casinos in town.

“Choices, like I said. I make mine. You make yours. The rest of the folks have that same right. None of us needs these pious egomaniacal politicians to do our thinking for us, to make our choices. Truth is the politician doesn’t give a shit about the common man. They only want our votes come Election Day. It’s always been like that, ever since men used shiny rocks instead of folding money. It always will be that way. The voters that think otherwise are the real suckers.”

Walter Winchell said a friend is one who walks
with you when the rest of the world walks away—or something like that. Tony was that kind of friend. I wanted him to see me the same way. I think he did. If that reincarnation stuff had any truth to it, maybe Tony and I had once been Jesse and Frank James. He would be Jesse. Frank James apparently had no more luck getting Jesse to live the straight and narrow than I was having convincing Tony.

“I’ll give the
D.A. your answer.”

“Nice. Polite like.”

“Sure, Tony, sure, I’ll take care of it. The D.A. will accept it. His conscience will be clear and he’ll come after you by supporting Earl Warren who has you in his sights.”

Tony started walking again
, me by his side stride for stride. “That covers the D.A., Tony. What about Mickey Cohen and Bennie Siegel? They aren’t hypocrites like the politicians. They’ll take your answer hard. They want a cut or they want you blown out of the water, so to speak, so their places onshore will get more play. What do I tell Mickey Cohen?”

“
I decided long ago, I wouldn’t pay protection or split my action. I did my time for bootlegging. Nowadays, my business is legit. I don’t need anything from the mobsters.”

“Lots of businesses that don’t need anything from the hoods pay so they’ll get left alone
, sort of left alone, for a fee.”

Tony stopped again. A table with coffee had been set against the inside wall of the walk
-around.

“Not me, Matt.” He poured a cup. “If they come out here, we can protect ourselves. They’ll be pirates trying to board a vessel on the open sea.
That there’s illegal if you don’t have the captain’s permission.” He extended the cup toward me. I took it. “I know you don’t like my decision, Matt, but it’s my decision. Are you okay carrying it back to Mickey? If not, you walk away. I can get the word to him.”

“I said I’d take it back and I will. I may be able to soften it a bit. Likely not enough to do much good, but, in some strange way, I think Mickey Cohen and I have become pals.
I use the word very loosely. Cohen and Siegel have killed lots of their pals so that doesn’t put me on safe ground.”

“I guess if he can be friends with the Reverend Billy Graham, he can be friends with a
nosey newspaperman.”

I laughed. Tony put his arm over my shoulders. “You’re a treasure, Matt Kile. It’s a great pleasure knowing you, you no good Irishman. Will you join me in a shot of Tullamore Dew before you head back?
We keep the brand just for you.”

I shook my head. “Another time
, when we have something to celebrate, but before I leave take a look at this.” I handed Tony the picture of Frances.

“A real doll. Who is she?”

“Name’s Frances, I’m helping her older sister find her. She been around?”

“I’ve seen her here
or on the Tango a few times, nothing regular. Her hair was different.”

“With anyone in particular?”

“Not so’s I recall. Let’s go show it to Billy Gargan.” When I raised my eyebrows, Tony added, “Billy’s my bartender. He’s been here since I opened; he worked on the Tango for years, got a real eye for the ladies. Billy knows all the regulars.”

That sounded encouraging, but it fizzled. Billy Gargan added nothing to what Tony had said. To paraphrase: a classy dish, been around several times, no pattern, came with no one as far as Gargan knew. He did think Frances left once with someone.

“But you can’t be sure,” Gargan said. “People get talking at the bar and both decide to call it a night so they head out to the gangway together. Unless their hands are all over each other you don’t know if they’re leaving together or just headin’ out at the same time.”

Tony walked me out.
“Come back, soon, Matt. You’re always welcome. And you know my offer is still open for you to come join me as my publicity guy and head of security.”

I didn’t say anything. I had answered that before, several times.

“What do you think about Carter Mitchum? I’m talking with him about heading up security. Right now I’m wearing that hat also. I had to offer it to you one more time.”

“Don’t know him real well. What I do know says he’
s straight, trustworthy, and can be a hard man when it’s needed. I’d say he’s a good choice. He walked off the force when they stifled his advancement because he wouldn’t play ball.”

“That’s the story I get. When I interviewed him he didn’t snivel about it. I think I’ll take him on.”

“You could do worse.”

“Then it’s settled,” Tony said.

Neither of us said another word. After stepping into the water taxi, I waved up to my friend whose future looked as uncertain and confused as my own. Pug waved also before easing his taxi, “The Kitty” was the name on its side, away from the landing at the bottom of the gangway.

There’s no getting around it.
I left concerned about Tony. In the same morning, he had just turned down the two major powers in L.A.: the law and the underworld.

N
ot a good double-down bet for any gambler.

I stopped at a
phone booth and called the office of Buron Fitts. I hoped my call would be answered by the district attorney’s receptionist with the perfect hair, nails, and eyelashes.

“Please hold, Mr. Kile.”

No. It wasn’t Ms. Perfect. The voice had no syrup on it. When whoever had answered came back on the line she said that Mr. Fitts could see me in fifteen minutes or after four this afternoon. I took the immediate choice and hopped back in my car and took the quickest route I knew to get downtown.

Miss Perfect was not behind the receptionist desk when I arrived
, instead, a sturdy woman, on the attractive side. She sat working at the desk, easy like, not flustered by her daily task of dealing with numbers and papers and phone calls from out of the blue, plus people dropping in with what they considered an urgent need to see the district attorney immediately. Receptionist/secretary was far from an easy task and she appeared fully in command. But where was Miss Perfect?

“Mr. Kile?” the stout fill-in asked
. One of her silk stockings sang when it dragged across the one on her other leg. She realized by my reaction that I had heard the silk note. She smiled and extended her hand which held a business card. “Miss Hayward asked me to give you this. She had to leave for the morning. I came up from bookkeeping to fill in.”

I took the card. The front
read, Evelyn Hayward along with the expected identification: D.A.’s office, phone numbers, and her position as receptionist. The back, when I turned it over, revealed a second phone number, hand-written. I smiled inside, a private smile. Yes, I was fully smitten with Callie Hopkins, but we had not spoken of what, if anything, would survive of us once I had finished helping her find her sister Frances. I would keep Evelyn’s card as a sort of reserve against the coming of a possibly lonely winter.

You might see this as my not being romantic or
perhaps just being cynical. I choose to see it as being practical, like a squirrel storing nuts in anticipation of winter. You get the idea. Frankly, I shouldn’t have to explain this beyond the obvious: I’m a man, the easiest explanation for such behavior. But, hey, I didn’t ask for Ms. Hayward’s card. Besides, Callie may be seeing other men herself. We had discussed her decision to no longer see Carl, and she had mentioned maybe not sharing any further platonic dates with her ex-husband, but we had never talked about her not seeing anyone else—no one at all. Although, I’d like to think she isn’t. Yes, I decided to keep Evelyn Hayward’s card in case Callie’s and my relationship … like she had explained to Carl— most relationships don’t hold up over time.

I
slipped Evelyn’s card into my shirt pocket.

A
moment later I walked into the private office of District Attorney Buron Fitts. His inquiry took me quickly to Tony’s rejection of what Fitts had offered. The D.A. was gracious. He took it well.

“Mr. Kile, I expected that
would be the answer from Cornero. I’m disappointed, but not surprised. I’ve made the effort.”

“So
, now your conscience is clear and you can saddle up with Earl Warren and try to ride Tony Cornero asunder.”

“Something like that. May I call you Matt?” I nodded. “I made my choice to ask him. He made his choice to say no.”

I laughed a sad inner laugh, sensing my lip curling slightly. The D.A. had used very similar words to what Tony had said about choices. We each make our own and are saddled with the attendant consequences. However, Fitts’s and Warren’s choices carried the weight of law, or could. Tony’s choices just carried the pride of having made them.

“
Am I free to report this offer and refusal in my column? It would make good copy and let the folks know you tried to find an accommodation.”

“No, Matt. I get no benefit from appearing to make deals with gangsters. L.A. has had too many
officials who have done just that. If it had worked, I could have played up the benefits of closing down a top-of-the-line gambling ship and gaining Cornero’s expertise in cleaning up illegal onshore gambling operations. That benefit is now gone. I’ll settle for being the law-and-order D.A.”

“I’m sorry for this result, Mr.
Fitts. Although I agree Cornero’s decision was all but inevitable.”

“I’m sorry too, for your friend and also for those of us who are trying to clean up
this cesspool. Mr. Cornero could have been a grand help.”

“Yes. But then Tony Cornero likely doesn’t know anything more about in-city gambling dens than certain officers in your own police department. So, it’s not as if that knowledge is not otherwise available to you. Many of the
illegal locations are so widely known as to be considered common knowledge. May I ask, why so much energy is going toward ending gambling on what many claim to be the high sea, while so little is being done to shut down the dens, brothels, and bookie joints right here within our city?”

“Matt, I don’t think I need to explain that to you. These
hoodlums are connected into our police department, hell, even into my own staff. I don’t like that fact, but we both know it’s true. Regardless of their station in life, most people want more money than they otherwise have. The marketplace works not only for goods and services, but also for the information gangsters want. There is no interview technique or employment test that allows us to select only those with the morals to resist the temptation of tax-free cash.”

“Especially when many
citizens believe that government should not infringe on the people’s right to gamble, or drink, or fornicate.”

“There is that
, too.” D.A. Fitts stood and extended his hand. “Thank you, Matt. I owe you and I won’t forget. I’ll find something fitting to replace you keeping this matter between us. Stop by anytime.”

So far I’d gotten a no from Tony
, and delivered it to District Attorney Buron Fitts. I still had Mickey Cohen to go.

Why not save the best for last, right?

* * *

From a booth on Spring Street not far from City Hall, I called Mickey’s Haberdashery.
High-Pockets answered, put his hand over the phone, and after a moment returned his attention to me.

“
The boss says you should come on over. His exact words were, ‘Tell Matt we got a full selection of ice cream and two clean bowls.’ He’s giving me some time off after you arrive.”

I hung up the pay phone, got back in my car and headed for the Mickster
’s high-class clothing joint. I know an expensive clothing store shouldn’t be called a joint, but I thought of everything associated with the Mickster as a joint.

“Hello, Matt,
” Cohen said when I arrived. “High-Pockets, dish us out some cream before you leave. Same flavors as last time.”

High-P
ockets brought two heaping bowls and then headed out the door. On his way out Harry passed a smallish guy coming in.

“Hello, Mr. Cohen
,” said the guy coming in. “You got anything in here that’ll fit me?” The man spoke and walked with an effeminate manner.

Mickey screamed.
“Get the hell out of here, you fag.” The man spun on his heels and headed out the door close enough behind High-Pockets Harry to be walking in his shadow.

“Who was that?” I asked
. “I’ve never seen him around.”

“
You ain’t missed nothin’, that’s for damn sure. He’s the fairy I pay twice a week to paint LaVonne’s fingernails and toenails. Can you believe that shit? With all the laws they keep making, they oughta have one to eliminate those damn swishers.”

“
LaVonne’s your wife, right?”

“
Not a chance. I’ve been married before. I don’t need another noodge. The mishegaas.”

“I
didn’t know you’d been married.”

“Not many people do.”

“Come on, Mickey, I’m sure you got something worthwhile out of being married.”

He laughed. “
A hell of a recipe for chicken salad. And a pretty good one for potato salad, if that fits your definition of something worthwhile. Pretty damn expensive recipes, I’d say.”

“That
can’t be all.”

“
I kept some great memories of us doing it on a trampoline.”

“Okay, so
LaVonne’s not your wife, but you’re paying to have her toenails done. Sounds like something pretty close to marriage, if you ask me.”

“Who
’s asking you? You know nobody talks to me about this kinda shit but you.”

“That’s what makes me such a good friend, Mickey. We relate. I’m not trying to get anythin
g from you. Well, maybe a juicy quote now and again, and free ice cream of course.”

“Listen. We had a reason for this meeting. Let’
s get to it. When do I sit down with your pal Tony?

“Sorry to say this, Mickey. You can’t. Tony’s position is resolute. He’s on the high seas
where he says there are no anti-gambling laws and, therefore, no need for protection from the laws of Los Angeles or the State of California.”

“
You know there’s pirates on them high seas? Pirates who plunder and scuttle ships.”

Scuttle
and plunder were not words I expected to hear from Mickey Cohen whose police file says that Meyer Harris Cohen made it through the third grade just before his first arrest for using a baseball bat for a weapon while holding up the box office at a movie theater. He must’ve anticipated Tony’s answer and planned his reply.

“Funny
thing, Mickey. That’s the word Tony used, too, pirates. The law of the sea allows the captain of any vessel to use virtually whatever force he deems necessary to drive off pirates. Now, Tony’s not trying to pick a fight here. He respects you and Bennie Siegel. He just feels that his ships are his and he can run them as he wishes. He also states he will not in any way compete or interfere with your control and operation of onshore gambling.”

“
This town’s crowded with creeps who once thought the way your friend thinks. The graveyards are full of mugs who never wised up.”

“I’m sorry, Mickey
. I tried. I crapped out.”

“I understand.
Tony’s a hardhead, always has been, but I knew he’d hear you out. Nobody coulda done better. But here I am, with wind pudding for my effort. Your pal made his choice. Now he’ll have to live with it … as a figure of speech of course.”

“One more question, Mickey. When I dig something up that’s newsworthy, it ends up in my column. Things which come to me from others, voluntarily, don’t get in print without
their approval. How would you feel about my putting out the story of your offer and Cornero’s refusal? You know the folks in this town love to read about the Mickster.”

He laughed.
“Leave me out of it. Keep it in the context of underworld figures offered, somethin’ along them lines.”

“
You know the public will take that to mean Mickey Cohen. You are the man to my readers.”

Mickey laughed
again. Unlike Jack Dragna and most other mobsters, both Siegel and Cohen loved their Hollywood images as real tough guys. Not like Bennie Siegel’s pal, George Raft, a fine thespian who always played himself—a tough guy. Raft had been known to punch a few guys. It was said he also had a tough jaw and liked to scrap, but his rep didn’t include putting anybody down for the final count.

“Use it like that, Matt, and we’re jake, okay?”

“
So be it. Thanks for the ice cream, Mickey. It hit the spot.”

“Always does. Stop in any time and we’ll share a bowl.
Call first.”

“I’ll be seeing
you, Mickey, unless you got any other tips for my column.”

“Not for your column, Matt, but here’s one for you.
Stagehand in the Santa Anita Handicap on the fifth of next month. Seabiscuit will be the big favorite. Stagehand is a three-year-old and no three-year-old has ever won that race so the odds should pay big. Bet the farm, Matt, you’ll clean up. And that don’t go in your column, capisce? You keep this one buttoned up.”