The Prince of Beverly Hills (16 page)

“It’s beautiful, Eddie,” Rick said admiringly.

“Take a seat,” Eddie said, waving him to a sofa. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got a date for a drink with Ben Siegel at six,” Rick said.

Eddie looked surprised. “What for?”

“Chick Stampano may be the father of Martha Werner’s child.”

“You mean Barbara Kane.”

“Yes, I have to get used to that.”

“Did she tell you this?”

“Yes.”

“And she said he may be the father?”

“She isn’t sure.”

“Oh, it’s like that.”

“Yes. And there’s more: Jim Judson tells me that somebody injected, ah, Glenna Gleason with morphine before her wrists were slashed.”

“She didn’t do it herself?”

“No, there were no drugs in her cottage.”

“Any idea who?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Stampano again? Jesus!”

“I can’t prove it, because Glenna doesn’t remember anything, but he’s the leading candidate.”

“Is this why you’re seeing Ben Siegel?”

“Yes. I thought it might be worth one more try to get Siegel and Jack Dragna to do something about Stampano.”

“Do what—kill him?”

“Quarantine him from anything to do with Centurion girls.”

“You might as well include Metro and the others, too; they’d appreciate the favor.”

“All right, I will. I have your permission to do this, then?”

“If you think it’s the right thing to do.”

“It’s all I can think of, short of calling Al, and that might have repercussions.”

Eddie leaned back and put his feet on the coffee table. “It occurs to me that warning Siegel first might increase the possibility of repercussions, should we later have to bring Al into it.”

“I’m doing my best not to bring Al into it.”

“But you understand, if you meet with Siegel and ask him to ‘quarantine’ Stampano, as you put it, and later, you have to call Al, then Siegel’s going to know where the bullet came from.”

“I understand.”

“I mean, all you can tell Siegel is that if Stampano isn’t reined in, there will be serious consequences. Then when the consequences occur, he’ll know their origin.”

“I suppose he will.”

“I don’t think you’re getting it, Rick.”

“Sure I am.”

“I mean, he might fixate on you as the source of the problem, and you might end up offshore somewhere, wearing cement shoes.”

Rick blinked. “You’re right, I wasn’t getting you. I was thinking more along the lines of Siegel taking out some sort of retribution against Centurion or the other studios.”

“Like what?”

“Like an extras strike.”

“Could happen. I would be equally unhappy if there were retribution against the studios or against you, personally.”

“Thank you. Either of those outcomes would make me unhappy, too, though not equally.”

“Let’s think this through: Is there some other way to deal with Stampano less drastically, but equally effectively?”

“The nice thing would be to get him convicted of the attempted murder of Glenna Gleason and send him up to San Quentin for twenty years or so, but we don’t have the evidence for that.”

“I like the idea of a conviction,” Eddie said, “and I don’t care what it’s for. Surely Stampano, given his line of work, is guilty of all sorts of things.”

“Very probably. I have a friend in the LAPD who works on organized crime cases. He’s overworked and understaffed, but . . .”

“I would be happy to offer him some sort of, ah, motivation, if you think it would help.”

“It might. Probably half the force is taking a bribe for something.”

“Is it a bribe when you pay a cop to do his job?”

Rick laughed. “I don’t think you would get convicted of that. Anyway, it’s possible that my friend already has enough on Stampano for a conviction, but that he’s holding out in the hope of catching bigger fish.”

“That sounds good.”

“What’s more likely is that he knows Stampano has dirt all over him but that he can’t make a case.”

“Then maybe what your friend needs to do is to create a case that can be made.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Rick admitted.

“I’ll bet it would be the first time he got paid for it.”

“Probably.”

“Go ahead and keep your appointment with Siegel, but assume it’s not going to work. Then see your friend and see what can be worked out.”

Rick looked at his watch and stood up. “I’m on my way.”

DRIVING OUT THE MAIN GATE, Rick felt relieved that he had an alternative to out-and-out murder.

32

THE FRONT DOOR to the Trocadero was locked, and Rick knocked loudly on it. Then he saw a doorbell to one side and rang that.

Ben Siegel opened the door. “Hello, Rick,” he said, shaking hands. “Come on in.”

The place was strangely empty. The tables were set for dinner, and there was a slight scent of disinfectant.

Siegel walked him to the bar, offered him a stool, then let himself behind the bar. “What’ll it be?”

“Bourbon. Old Crow is good, over ice, no water.”

Siegel filled a glass with ice, then with bourbon, then poured himself a scotch. He set Rick’s drink on the bar and raised his own. “What’ll we drink to?”

“Happy days,” Rick said. He took a breath and started to speak, but Siegel interrupted him.

“Where you from?”

“Originally? A small town in Georgia, but I’ve been out here since I was ten.”

“I thought I heard some accent. I’m from New York, you know.”

“Are you?”

“I’m a Jew. Did you know that?”

Rick shrugged. “Half the people I know are Jews.”

“Some of your best friends?” Siegel smiled a little smile.

Rick took him seriously. “Not really.”

“You got any problems with Jews?”

“Not in the least.”

“Then you got no problem with me?”

“Not personally.”

“With my business?”

“I don’t know what your business is, except you seem to be in business with Jack Dragna, and I guess I pretty much know what he does.”

“Yeah? And how do you know that? You ever done any business with Jack?”

“I used to be a cop. You hear things—not to mention what you read in the papers, and Dragna’s been in the papers from time to time.”

Siegel laughed. “Yeah, I guess he has been. I was hoping you were going to tell me we could do some business together.”

“I’m not in business, Ben. I’m just a studio cop, and part of my job is to keep the studio out of some kinds of business.”

“You said something like that before.”

“Yes, I did, and nothing’s changed.”

“So why did you want to see me?”

“Things have taken a bad turn with your friend Stampano.”

“Oh, shit, not that again.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What’s Chick done now?”

“He got one of Centurion’s actresses pregnant, and he may have tried to kill another one.”

“Oh, come on. Girls in this town get pregnant all the time.”

“Sure they do, and when they’re Centurion’s girls, the studio has to take care of them and clean up after them, which means I have to take care of things.” He noticed that Siegel had not addressed the charge of attempted murder.

“And that’s what you’re doing now.”

“That’s right.”

“What do you want
me
to do? I haven’t gotten any of your girls pregnant.”

“What I want, what Centurion wants and what all the studios want is for Stampano to stay away from girls who are under contract to them.”

“You mean you expect Chick Stampano, who thinks of himself as God’s gift to women, to stay away from half the girls in LA? Come on, Rick. I can’t put a lock on the guy’s cock.”

“You can if you want to.”

“How’m I gonna do that?”

“Maybe he would be happier back in New York. Surely there’s work for him to do there.”

“That’s not my call.”

“Maybe you could speak to your friends in New York about it.”

“I can mention it, sure, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to do anything about it.”

“Ben, maybe you can explain to them that Stampano’s romantic adventures are making things tough for everybody. The guy’s a loose cannon.”

“You know, I never really knew what that meant—a loose cannon.”

“It goes back to the days of sailing warships. If a cannon wasn’t tied down, what with the ship rolling in the seas, it might roll around the decks, killing people and otherwise doing great damage. You get the picture?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.”

“You never know the kind of damage a loose cannon can do until it’s too late. So you have to tie it down or, maybe, kick it overboard before it gets people hurt.”

“Is that some kind of threat?”

“No, Ben. I think you know it’s not. The studios have a legitimate beef against Stampano, and your people are in charge of him.”

“So you want us to tie him down or kick him overboard?”

“They want you to do whatever it takes to end the problem.”

“And what are they going to do for us?”

“You deal with Stampano, and everybody benefits.”

“And how do we benefit?”

“He’s aboard your ship. You deal with him, and he doesn’t bump into your people and your businesses.” Rick had an idea. “You know, Ben, I don’t know Stampano well, but I know the type.”

“What type is that?”

“I’ve seen tough guys like Stampano brought into a police station and charged with something, and first thing you know, they’re singing like a bird to keep themselves out of jail.”

Siegel shrugged. “Our people don’t do that,” he said, as if stating a simple fact.

“One of these days, one of them will, and Stampano strikes me as the type.” It wouldn’t hurt to plant a few seeds of doubt in Siegel’s mind.

“If you’re running a legitimate business like I am, you don’t have to worry about that stuff.”

“Come on, Ben, how long do you think Stampano would last with a legitimate business? He goes around beating up girls, getting them pregnant, then taking a powder. Any legit business would fire him out of hand. What does it say about your business that you keep somebody like that on the payroll?”

Siegel looked into his glass and rattled the ice. “Chick works for a liquor distributor that I have an interest in, that’s all.”

Rick tried another tack. “I think I get it,” he said.

“Get what?”

“He’s somebody’s cousin or nephew, right? Somebody important enough not to insult by dealing with him.”

“Chick has friends.”

“People like Chick don’t have friends, they just have relatives.”

Siegel finished off his drink and set down his glass. “Okay, I’ll talk to New York, but I’m not making any promises.”

Rick finished his drink, too. “Do what you can, Ben. It’ll make life easier for everybody.”

They shook hands and Rick let himself out of the club. He saw a pay phone across the street and headed for it.

33

RICK CALLED THE LAPD and asked to speak to Ben Morrison, his acquaintance who handled organized crime.

“Detective Morrison.”

“Ben, it’s Rick Barron.”

“Hi, Rick. What’s up?”

“I’d like to buy you a drink.”

“Why?”

“Some business to discuss. Could be profitable.”

“When?”

“How about right now? It’s after work.”

“Jimmy’s in half an hour?”

“Good. See you then.” Rick hung up and called Clete Barrow. “Evening. How about some dinner?”

“I’m not drinking, so I don’t need my hand held.”

“Shucks, I just wanted to have dinner with a movie star, and you’re the only one available.”

“Well, since you put it that way. Brown Derby?”

“How’d you like to experience a little local color?”

“Why not?”

“Remember the gun shop Al’s, on Melrose?”

“Sure.”

“Right across the street, place called Jimmy’s. It’s a cop bar, and they have simple but decent food.”

“When?”

“An hour?”

“See you there.”

Rick hung up and went back to his car. He sat there for a few minutes, thinking, then he started the car and drove to Jimmy’s.

The place was noisy, filled with police officers—some of them off-duty—and cigarette smoke. He spoke with half a dozen cops he knew at the bar, fending off jibes about his new line of work and buying some drinks, then he found an empty booth at the back where he could still see the door. A waiter made a halfhearted pass at the booth, but Rick put him off. “When my friend gets here,” he said, “and I’m paying.” As if Ben Morrison would reach for a check.

Ben showed up ten minutes later, worked his way down the bar, and finally settled into the booth with Rick. A waiter appeared.

“A double Johnnie Walker Black, neat,” Ben said. He pointed at Rick. “Hollywood Joe here is buying.”

“Old Crow, ice, no water,” Rick said.

Ben tossed his hat onto the seat beside him and slicked back his hair. He was fortyish, thicker around the middle than he used to be and with a little less hair to slick back. “So, what? You’re gonna make me rich and famous?”

“Just a little more comfortable,” Rick said. “You might be able to figure a way to get a promotion out of it.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ben snorted. “I made sergeant eight years ago, and that’s it for me, pal. I got eight more years till pension, and I’m going to sit it out keeping tabs on the organizational activities of spics, niggers and goombahs.”

“I knew there was crime to be found among our Spanish and darker friends, but I didn’t know it was organized.”

“Oh, there’s a thriving marijuana trade among the wetbacks, and the darkies have learned to steal cars. We got an actual ring going out there.”

“How’s it going with our Italian community?”

“Jack Dragna has learned from experience. He’s trying to make it look legit where he can, which makes it harder for me, but he’s not fooling anybody. Bugsy Siegel is shoving him aside, anyway, and he apparently has Luciano’s backing.”

The drinks arrived and they raised their glasses.

“How many guys working for you, Ben?”

“I’ve got two detectives, and I can borrow bodies as needed.”

“That’s not much.”

“You’re telling me! The department is going to go on ignoring organized crime, and one day that attitude is going to rise up and bite them on the ass.”