Neon Mirage (15 page)

She was holding onto a big black purse—La Hill’s trademark bag, stuffed with cash no doubt—like the dutiful secretary she was. Neither she nor her boss lady spotted us as we moved along the edge of the crowd, heading toward the bar.

Which was where Bugsy Siegel was waiting for us.

He was perched on a bar stool, facing the casino, watching the action there with bland seeming indifference, a lean handsome man with languid light blue eyes, as sky blue as Jim Ragen’s, and dark, slightly thinning hair. He looked a little like Raft, actually, giving off that same sleepy sensuality that could get a guy inside a nun’s pants, a resemblance made startling by their wardrobe: Siegel, too, wore a white dinner jacket and black tie and carnation. Only in Siegel’s case the carnation was pink. I didn’t remember seeing a man wearing a pink carnation before, but I supposed if you were Ben Siegel you could wear a tulip in your ass if you wanted.

He had a drink in one hand and a pool cue of a cigar in the other, and didn’t notice us approaching. Cohen did, tapping him on the shoulder. Siegel hopped off the stool, setting the drink on the bar, and grinned at Raft and put an arm around his shoulder and hugged.

“How ya doin’, pal?” Siegel said, in a mellow medium-range voice. “Been a while.”

“Nice to see you, Ben. You been a stranger lately.”

“Lots of work to do on my baby, turning that desert into a paradise. You oughta come down and see the miracles we’re workin’. You’d be amazed.”

They broke ground on the Flamingo last December, Rubinski had told me.

“This is Nate Heller,” George said, nodding toward me.

Siegel turned his smile on me; it was a dazzler—white as winter and warm as summer. He pumped my hand and said, “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Heller. Really is.”

“Pleasure, Mr. Siegel,” I said, smiling tightly.

He patted my shoulder, puffed his cigar, smiled around it, apparently sensing my unease. “Tell you what. You call me Ben and I’ll call you Nate. How’s that sound?”

“Fine, Ben.”

He narrowed his eyes and made a mock menacing face. “Just don’t call me ‘Bugsy’ or you’ll find out what a crazy asshole I really am.” Then he laughed quietly and motioned toward an exit. “Let’s go out on the deck, Nate. I been wanting to talk to you.”

“Fine. I should say hello to a friend of mine, though.”

“Miss Hogan, you mean? She’ll keep. She’s keeping Tabby company, and Tab’ll be working this room till I drag her outta here by the hair.”

By “Tabby,” I gathered he meant Virginia Hill, who seemed to have as many nicknames as she did personality quirks.

“Mick,” Siegel said to his baboon-like bodyguard, “take a break. Have a beer or something.”

“Sure, Ben.”

Raft didn’t have to be told that Siegel wanted to talk to me alone; he just faded back to the bar and another soda water. I hoped talking
was
what Siegel had in mind. My Ragen affiliation might brand me an enemy, after all. I hoped his affability wasn’t a mask that would drop as he tossed me casually overboard. Three miles is a hell of a swim, particularly with a broken neck.

It was cool out on the dimly-lit deck, as we leaned against the rail. Big band music was still coming out the speakers, in a fuzzy, tinny way: “Am I Blue?” A few necking couples shared the rail with us, but none were close by. Siegel smiled out into the darkness, the tip of his cigar glowing red, as the blue of the ship’s neon trim bathed us.

“I hear good things about you,” Siegel said.

“I’m surprised you heard of me at all,” I said.

“Fred Rubinski says you’re one of the best in the business.”

“I’m good. If I were great, I’d be rich.”

“Not necessarily. To be rich you got to be born that way, or be willing to kill for what you want. You don’t look like you were born with a silver spoon, and the word is you don’t like shooting much.”

“Who does?”

“Cowboys like Mickey Cohen. It helps to have boys like that around sometimes, especially if they can be trusted. Anyway, story is you don’t like rough stuff but you can dish it out if you have to, and can take it too. And the story also is you don’t look down on people like me. You aren’t too proud to do a job for a guy like me.”

“It depends on the job and it depends on the money.”

Siegel smiled wide again, a smile that could charm an A-plus out of the meanest old maid school teacher. “I like you, Nate. I known you, what? Under five minutes, and I already know I like you. That’s a good sign. You know why?”

“Sure. It means I’ll wake up tomorrow morning.”

He waved that off, flicked cigar ash over the side. “Don’t be silly. Guys like me and Guzik, we only kill each other. A guy like you, if he plays it straight, even if he’s out on the fringes, he’s not going to buy it.”

“That’s encouraging news, Ben. And it’ll come as a surprise to that dentist who got drilled at the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. Frankly, I got a reputation for being tight with Outfit guys that ain’t entirely deserved.”

Long lashes fluttered over baby-blue eyes. “How’d you get that rep, then?”

I shrugged. “Mainly, when Frank Nitti asked me to come ’round, I came ’round. I didn’t see any other option.”

He smiled gently; the son of a bitch was almost pretty. “I suppose that’s right,” he said. “But word is you were privy to inside dope and you never took advantage of it, and you never leaked it. Not to the press and not to the cops.”

“Listen,” I said, putting as much edge in my voice as I dared. “I got friends who are cops. I even got friends who are honest cops. Don’t make me out to be a wise guy. Don’t trust me with any secrets. I don’t want to wander off the fringes to where I qualify for the ‘only kill each other’ club.”

He waved that off, too. “Don’t worry. See, I’m going straight. I’m turning this West Coast operation, most of it anyway, over to Dragna and Cohen. I’ll get my split, but the day to day shit, I’m not interested. I’m a legitimate businessman, now.”

“In the resort business.”

“That’s exactly right,” he said, gesturing with the cigar, waving it like a wand before the black horizon, as if he could make a rainbow at will. “Since the war thousands of people moved to L.A., and it’s just a half day’s drive to Vegas—and I’m going to make the Flamingo the greatest vacation spot in the world.” He flicked a forefinger off a thumb, riffling his carnation. “Pink. Flamingo. It’s on my brain—but it’s only the beginning. There’s Reno, there’s Lake Tahoe, all fucking gold mines if you can create vacation spots where people with a little money can have good rooms, good food, good shows, swimming pools, tennis, golf, and all the gambling they want, and all the broads they want. And all that shit’s legal in Nevada. And the politicians are for sale and so are the gaming licenses.”

“Sounds like the ideal place to go legit, all right.”

He went enthusiastically on: “I tell ya, Nate, I owe a lot of what I see ahead to my pal Tony, here. These gambling ships of his are the blueprint—he’s known all along the big dough’s not to be made from the highhats, or the high rollers, either—but the middle-class, the average joes, who can be sucked in to play the slots or a roulette wheel. Regular folk who ask only that a joint be clean, attractive, safe, professionally run. Tony’s known from day one that a casino is a volume operation—the big money comes from a lot of little square johns on vacation with a few hundred bucks to blow.”

“You and Cornero go way back.”

“I had money in the Rex. I don’t have any in this bucket, and that’s partly ’cause I got so much tied up in the Flamingo, and also that I’m not convinced Tony’s gonna get away with this.”

“You think he’ll get shut down?”

“I’m afraid so. Tony’s a sharp guy with great ideas, but sooner or later, every time, he hits a streak of bad luck. I only tore myself away from my baby ’cause I wanted to be on board to show him some loyalty. He’s an old pal, and that’s what it’s all about. You want to get ahead, you got to have friends, people you can depend on—you got to have their loyalty.”

I wondered where that left his dead brother-in-law, Whitey Krakower.

“Well, I got to admit your Flamingo sounds like a money magnet,” I said, not as convinced as I seemed to be. “You’ll have customers lining up in the sand.”

He nodded, smiled slyly. “That’s where you and Rubinski come in. It’s like I said, I’m strictly legitimate now. See, it’s like me turning my bad check action over to Fred. Think about it. Where would you expect a guy like me to turn for action like that?”

“Well, to be honest, I’d figure you wouldn’t go to a private detective, at least not a straight one like Fred. You’d use some juice collector, some arm breaker.”

“Right. But a legit businessman, he doesn’t do that, does he?”

“Not that I know of.”

“So there are things I need guys like you and Fred for, from time to time, that if I turned over to some enforcer, or even somebody with a few brains like Mick, would be handled with no fuckin’ finesse. Which is bad for business.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

The sound of a motor launch approaching interrupted us.

Then Siegel said: “Fred says you used to be on the pickpocket detail, back in Chicago.”

I shrugged. “That was my first plainclothes job. Most of my ops are former pickpocket detail guys. Fred isn’t, though.”

“Right. At the Flamingo I got a little staff of ex-L.A. and Hollywood cops who are my private police force, only those assholes couldn’t catch colds. I could use somebody to teach ’em the ropes, for general security and especially at nabbing dips.”

“With a resort like the one you’re building,” I said, “you will have a pickpocket problem. No question about it.”

“Would you take that assignment from me?”

“I might be able to send a man out, or find somebody qualified through Fred…”

He poked the cigar at me. “I want
you.
I like what I hear about you.”

“I’m flattered, Ben, really. But I’m a businessman, too, and I have an agency to run.”

“I know all about being an executive. I sympathize. On the other hand, there’d be five grand in it for you for a week’s work.”

“When did you want me to come out?”

He grinned, making dimples that made Shirley Temple look like a piker. “You are a businessman, aren’t you, Nate? I like your style. Anyway, I’ll be in touch. I plan to open before the end of the year—I won’t bring you in till we’re closer to being up and running.”

“I think it’s only fair to warn you about something.”

“Oh?”

“Jim Ragen’s a friend of mine. And a client. Even for five grand…even for more…I won’t be party to anything that would put me in a conflict of interest with Jim.”

“Of course not,” Siegel said, talking around his cigar, “that would be bad business. But teaching my staff to spot and stop pickpockets has nothing to do with Ragen, does it?”

“Well, I just thought it needed to be said.”

“I know about you and Ragen. I know all about it. It doesn’t bother me.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Why should it? Ragen’s no worry to me.”

“Flat on his back in the hospital, you mean, all shot up?”

“I wish he was up and around.”

That knocked me back a bit. I said, “Why in hell?” Thinking:
so your people can get another crack at him?

“Ragen’s business is good for my business,” he said, flatly.

“That doesn’t make any sense…”

Siegel smiled, almost to himself. He pitched the cigar over the side and turned and looked at me and put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m not a schmuck. Do I look like a schmuck?”

“No.”

“You were Ragen’s bodyguard when the hit went down. You swapped slugs with the shooters, who if they were my people woulda got the job done, by the way. And you been keeping guard on his hospital room. Am I right?”

“To a tee,” I said, feeling very uncomfortable with that friendly hand on my shoulder.

“It stands to reason that Ragen would hire you to find out who took the contract out. I mean, you’re his friend, and you’re already in his employ, and you got certain Outfit connections but you’re not in their pocket. Who else would he hire?”

“Pinkerton?” I asked.

“No. Nate Heller of the A-l Detective Agency at Van Buren and Plymouth. The guy who helped nail Bioff and Browne without even pissing Nitti off, which is a fucking miracle. And which opened some doors out here for me, thanks very much. You figure—Ragen figures—this hit coulda been bought by only one of two people: me or Jake Guzik. Guzik’s probably trying to make you and Ragen believe it was me behind it. Meanwhile he’s probably trying to negotiate a buyout, at the same time he’s trying to sneak somebody into Ragen’s hospital room to ice him. Am I cooking with gas here, or what?”

“Both burners,” I admitted.

He took his hand off my shoulder; looked out into the darkness. “From what I hear about Ragen, he must be a great old guy. I love it the way he’s standing up to those bastards. Those Outfit guys, they always want something for nothing. Out East we learned you work for what you get. Anyway, I’d be lying if I said I like Ragen, ’cause I only met him a couple of times, so I can’t even say I know him, really. But I wish him the best of luck.”

“You wish him the best of luck?” I asked. My mouth hanging open lower than Mickey Cohen’s.

“Sure. If he goes under, well, hell—sooner or later, I’m out of business.”

“I don’t get you. He’s your competition.”

Siegel laughed. “He’s no competition to me. Early on we had some rough stuff, sure; Mickey roughed up Ragen’s son-in-law, Brophy, back when we were trying to break in the L.A. market. But things have settled down since. Now, if I go in a wire room, or one of my boys does, they buy what I’m sellin’. No questions asked. If they like Ragen’s service better than mine, well they buy his too. How does that hurt me?”

“Not at all,” I admitted.

“I’m pulling in twenty-five grand a week on Trans-American, Nate. That’s my end alone. Sweet numbers, I’d say.”

“So would I.”

“If Ragen sells out, or if he dies and his family sells out, the Outfit will take over Continental and my pals back east, having business arrangements with Guzik and the boys, will cave in and shut Trans-American down. And I’ll be out of business.”