The Pictures

by Guy Bolton

  They could hear music playing from the corridor of the fifth floor where Wilson was staying. A heavy drumbeat and a clarinet playing somewhere.

  The concierge knocked on the door boldly. Three hard knocks that might as well have been a police siren.

  O’Neill pulled Craine to one side. “Maybe we should take this to Simms before we go any further. Or higher.”

  “No higher.”

  “Why not the District Attorney’s office?”

  “The Attorney’s office isn’t as cheap as it used to be but it’s still a buyer’s market.”

  “Meaning?”

  “They’ll cooperate with the highest bidder unless we present our case very carefully.”

  “You think they’d protect Wilson? And the Lilac Club?”

  Craine held up a hand for quiet. The concierge was looking at them.

  “Who is it?” Wilson’s voice from inside, shouting over a Benny Goodman swing song playing loudly in the background.

  All eyes looked back toward the door. “Reception, sir. I’m with two officers from the police department.”

  Wilson opened the door wearing silk pants and a red smoking jacket emblazoned with his initials. His pupils were dilated and restless, flicking from Craine to O’Neill and back in quick succession. A cigarette between his teeth couldn’t disguise the smell of alcohol on his breath. It was 10 A.M. Either he had started early or he was finishing late.

  “Craine?” he exclaimed, barely audible over the music. He grinned with recognition and received him with a vibrant handshake. “What a fucking pleasant surprise! Who’d have thought?”

  “We need to talk, Billy.”

  “It’s Saturday, for Christ’s sake. Don’t you ever sleep?”

  A joke, of course, not meant to be taken literally. “It’s important.”

  “What’s it about? Another Enquirer article?”

  Craine shook his head. “Relates to an investigation.”

  Wilson peered out into the hallway and looked up and down the corridor. “Then I suppose you best come in.”

  They followed Wilson to the center of the room, where two deep couches faced each other, separated by a long, rectangular coffee table. The glass surface was dusted with white powder and Wilson tried his best to cover the marks by tossing a pile of trade newspapers across the table. “Take a seat anywhere you’d like,” he said as the music reached its zenith. “The sofa! Sit on the sofa. Not the one on the left, I don’t like to face the window.”

  Craine said, “Can you turn the music down?”

  “Can I what? Oh, the music, sure.” Wilson swung his hand in O’Neill’s direction and whispered conspiratorially. “Who is this, by the way?”

  “Detective O’Neill.”

  Wilson pushed the loose hair from his forehead nervously. “Not a narc, is he?”

  “No,” said Craine.

  “Just curious.”

  Glancing around the room, Craine took a mental inventory: champagne bottles rolling across the parquet floor; a guimpe shawl on the couch; empty cola bottles lined up in a row; ashtrays filled with smoldering cigarettes scattered around the room.

  “You alone?”

  “’Course I’m alone. I had friends over last night but they left after drinks and dinner.”

  They hovered by the sofas as Wilson danced over to a phonograph in the corner and carelessly pulled off the record. He’s so high he’s almost floating, thought Craine, watching him.

  “Look at you, Craine, you look like shit,” Wilson slurred, two bloodshot eyes patrolling the empty space between them. “Used to be a real dandy, the debonair investigator.” His hand flourished then slapped his leg. “Hilarious! Now take a look at yourself. You look like you can barely stand. Sit down before you fall down. You too, kid.”

  Wilson returned to the table and took a seat on the couch. “You want to order something?” he said when they were seated opposite. “They try and tell you they don’t do room service here but I always get it. Maybe they make an exception for me. What time is it? Is it too early for lobster? Hey, Irish, do you like fish, or shall I see if they can do you some mash potatoes, some boiled spuds, some—”

  “We’re not eating,” Craine said. O’Neill opened a notepad and started scribbling across the first line.

  They waited for Wilson to stop laughing. He was sitting upright with his back straight but his arms and head were lurching from side to side as if he were still listening to the music. “Come out with it, then,” he said more seriously as he fished through his pockets. “You must have some questions for me if this isn’t a social visit.” He brought out a monogrammed gold case and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke rings across the table.

  “A prostitute died two months ago. It was the same night as Herbert Stanley’s suicide. Do you remember it?”

  “I remember nothing about a prostitute dying anywhere. I run a trade newspaper, Craine, not a tabloid.” Wilson yawned and looked at his wrist in a theatrical display of ignorance.

  Craine produced the pictures, first of Florence Lloyd lying provocatively in her bedroom, then the crime scene photographs of her dead body, a shadow of blood and brain matter like a black halo around her head.

  Wilson took one look at the pictures and blanched.

  “You’ve seen this picture before, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re sick, Craine, do you know that? Bringing in photos of some butchery like I’m going to burst into tears and sign my confession. I’m not one of your niggers, you know. I’m not that obtuse. Who do you think I am?”

  Craine met Wilson’s rolling eyes and tried to hold them still as the smoke drifted between his teeth. He tapped a finger over the glamour shots. “Earlier this morning we spoke to another prostitute who told us she worked with Lloyd at the Lilac Club,” he said in his usual sotto voce. “That’s one of your clubs, Billy, so I thought you might want to explain a few things to us.”

  Wilson flicked his eyes down then back up again. His teeth began chattering against each other, his feet dancing on the spot. He knew what was coming.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you. What’s to explain?”

  “Are you involved in a prostitution racket?”

  Wilson tried to settle his knee, leaning all his weight against it as if it might spring up at any moment. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “We have a girl who claims to work as a prostitute for one of your clubs.”

  “She’s lying.”

  “Why would she?” said O’Neill. “Who pretends to be a prostitute?”

  Wilson twisted on his haunches, bunching his hands together. “I don’t own the club anymore.”

  Craine glanced sideways at O’Neill then back at Wilson. “Then who does?” he said.

  “I can’t even remember,” he said casually. “Some people, out-of-town business types who, you know—” Wilson sprawled back across the couch, leaving the sentence incomplete. For a second it looked like he might be sick over himself.

  Craine was losing patience. “I think you’re lying. I think you know exactly who it is. And that isn’t a problem, because I can get a court warrant and take it straight to your accountant.” With men like Wilson, he had to be persuasive without being coercive. He couldn’t force Wilson to tell him what he wanted; he needed him to volunteer that information. “Do you really want every payment, every invoice, every transaction you’ve ever made scrutinized by the attorney’s office?” he continued. “With your Nevada project, the Federal Bureau are desperate for an excuse. Don’t you think you should make things easier on yourself?”

  Wilson began fiddling with his gown, exposing a gray-haired pigeon chest as he loosened the velvet rope around his waist. “I lost some money—the horses, the ships, a few card games,” he muttered, fidgeting. “Anyway, I had some debts and I needed the capital for my Las Vegas venture, so I sold the Lilac Club to Frank Nitti and the syndicate.” Wilson said, arching forward across the table to flick the ash of
f his cigarette. “I have de facto control but I’m really only a frontman for the books. The syndicate owns most of it and Carell manages the place. Good riddance, I say. I was bored of it anyway.”

  O’Neill made notes judiciously. He turned a page then frowned. “The syndicate?”

  Wilson waved a hand in the air. Craine had handed him control of the conversation and now he was enjoying himself. “The Chicago Outfit. Frank Nitti and the rest of them.”

  “Why are they in California?”

  “You don’t know? You have no idea, do you?” Wilson laughed then cleared his throat. “When Prohibition ended,” he went on with surprising alacrity, “the Chicago Outfit had to find new ways to make money because the New York families control most of the rackets. Drugs, liquor, bookie business, it’s all taken. This is background, you understand. So Carell and a few others come out to try and make some money out of the studios. He buys my club and fills it with the Hollywood rich and famous. And there’s back-room stuff as well—dope and cards and all that kinda thing. You know, I’m surprised you don’t know all this already,” he added with a glance at Craine. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? The police lieutenant on the studio payroll.”

  O’Neill stopped writing and Craine knew he was looking at him.

  Ignoring him, Craine said: “None of this explains the girls.”

  “The girls, the girls, the girls.” Wilson repeated the words, rolling them around his mouth. “Ah yes, the girls. Okay, so now the studios and Carell have a relationship, they’re starting to scratch each other’s backs. At first it’s ‘Can I get a good table?,’ ‘Can Bing Crosby play Friday night?,’ ‘Can my nephew get a part in your next gangster flick?.’ Then Carell starts offering an even better service—”

  O’Neill said, “You mean he provided call girls to movie studios?”

  Wilson smiled, pointing the cigarette cherry at O’Neill. “Look at chatty over here, he’s a regular Sherlock Holmes, isn’t he? Careful, Craine, you’ll lose him to the Pinkertons. Sorry, Detective, yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Real pros they are too. All races, all types, all ages, some of them young, still in their teens. They’re all beautiful, though, and you need to be born with a celluloid spoon in your mouth, a movie pedigree as long as your arm to get one of them to go home with you.” He laughed raucously. “That or a filthy rich newspaper magnate.”

  “Why would studio players sleep with prostitutes?”

  “Why wouldn’t they? Think about it, you’re a movie star who can have any girl you want—why would you take some sewer girl who’s shit in bed, couldn’t blow her own nose, and will probably rat to the papers afterward? The Lilac Club isn’t like that—it’s discreet and the girls are pussy platinum.”

  “And the studios are okay with that?”

  “It’s mutually beneficial. Come on, Craine, how many times have you seen some actor get a debutante pregnant, or you got Chaplin or Fairbanks sleeping with an underager and the studios have to pay out for an abortion and keep the family quiet. Carell, he saw a niche in the market. He’s solved all of that.”

  “How many of them are there?”

  “The girls? A dozen or so. Less than twenty.”

  “That’s not many.”

  “Supply and demand. Low supply, high demand. It keeps the prices up.”

  “How much?”

  “Two grand,” he confided, leaning forward and engaging them with a wide-eyed stare.

  “Two thousand dollars?”

  “They have it. That’s half a day’s work for Cagney, not even. Think of Howard Hughes or any oilman or newspaper owner. High rollers will lose twice that at roulette and think nothing of it. Besides, they can’t help themselves. Those photos, they really lure them in. It’s like these girls are the stars, does that make sense? But fifteen girls, two thousand a pop, even once a week that’s . . .”

  “One and a half million dollars.” This from O’Neill.

  “There he goes again. Exactly. One point five million annually, off the books, tax free.”

  For a time nobody spoke, then abruptly Wilson said: “All this is pretty crazy, huh? I mean Carell, we get on fine, play cards once in a while; he already told me it’s a trial run. This isn’t just L.A. This is both coasts. This is blueprints for Las Vegas.” Wilson took a drag off a fresh cigarette, punctuating each sentence with a smile, seemingly amused by the whole affair. “Don’t you see? Forget drugs or gambling or liquor. His product is human pleasure. And there’s so much more money to be made in girls than people think. It’s a slave trade, more or less. Genius, really.”

  Craine’s eyes stayed on him intently. He held up the pictures of Lloyd. “Genius? This girl was murdered in her home,” he said. “Her boyfriend and Jack Rochelle were dead three nights later. Why, Billy? Why was she killed?”

  The question pinned Wilson in place. “That I don’t know about.”

  “Then what do you know?”

  “Look, I don’t want anything more to do with this. I mean Christ, Carell—he’s a businessman first and foremost but—”

  “So you’re saying Carell was behind the murders?”

  “I never said that.”

  “You might as well have.”

  Wilson tossed his cigarette case onto the table. After a few seconds’ silence he said, “A while back I got a call from a friend of mine that runs another paper.”

  “Name?”

  “No, I’m not gonna give you—”

  “Tell us.”

  “Not a chance. Some yellow rag.”

  “When was this?”

  “This was a few months back.”

  “When exactly?”

  “I can’t remember. Easter time. No—later. A month or so before all that shit kicked off at Loew House. Anyway, he tells me this photographer comes to see him with some pictures. Says he’s got photos of celebrities with hookers.”

  O’Neill said, “Who were the celebrities?”

  “He didn’t say. Movie people, but the photographer never got as far as showing the pictures.”

  O’Neill turned to Craine, a scenario forming in both their minds. “Could be Stanley. Maybe he slept with Florence Lloyd and the photographs were used against him.”

  “Hey, it’s anybody’s guess. It’s possible.”

  “Do you know if the photographer was James Campbell?”

  “I never asked and I don’t want to know.”

  “What did your friend do?”

  “He told the guy to take a running jump.”

  Craine and O’Neill looked at him, confused. Wilson explained. “Advertising revenues are down, every paper in town is trying to do more with less. The only people paying for ad space are the studios. God knows I like to wind them up a bit but there’s a line. And besides, you’re never gonna get in the way of the syndicate.”

  “Do you think Carell had Campbell killed? And the girl?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not even going to hazard a guess. That’s your job, not mine. Christ, Craine, do you have any idea what is at stake here? With the club and the girls, this is four or five million dollars annually. Don’t expect them to file in quietly.”

  “We’ll need you to go on the record.”

  “There’s no way. I’m staying as far away from this as I can. And don’t even threaten me with subpoenas because we both know it’ll never get that far.”

  “You’re scared of Carell.”

  Wilson stood and moved toward the door. Their conversation was over. “You bet I am. And so should you be. He’ll come for you, you better know that. Doesn’t matter who you are. He’ll come for you.”

  Maria Chavez waited at her concierge desk for the two detectives to leave the building. It was common to have police come to the hotel, but something about today’s visit bothered her. She’d heard the younger policeman mention the Lilac Club and she knew immediately she should make a phone call.

  Chavez lived in Boyle Heights in East Los Angeles, one of the lower-middle-class areas on the
bluffs, away from the slums in the Flats. She traveled every day by bus, two hours each way, for half the pay of the white people who worked at the hotel. It was barely enough to make a living. So, for the past six months, Maria had been on the Lilac Club’s payroll, seventy dollars a month to keep an eye on the girls who worked at the club. They never mentioned the word prostitute but she knew that the girls who came back with hotel guests were call girls. She understood that times were hard and everyone had to make ends meet however they could. It wasn’t her place to judge. Her only job was to call the club when a girl arrived and call again when she left. It was a safety measure for the girls and Maria felt glad she was protecting them.

  She picked up the receiver and dialed. Maria heard a female voice on the other end. One of the agents.

  “This is the Marmont. I need to speak with Mr. Kinney.”

  Chapter 34

  “Stanley slept with Florence Lloyd. Campbell tried to sell the pictures,” O’Neill postulated as they drove toward Central Headquarters. “When the papers wouldn’t buy them, Campbell tried to blackmail Stanley. Stanley couldn’t bear the humiliation and killed himself.”

  “Possibly. But then who hired the shooter? And what about Rochelle?”

  “Carell hired the shooter, maybe on Frank Nitti’s order,” O’Neill went on. He was less diffident now, a confidence apparent when he spoke. “They wanted Campbell dead for sabotaging their business venture. And Rochelle, maybe he knew too much. He was the one providing pictures to the studio workers, right?”

  Craine wasn’t convinced. “It’s too early to assume anything,” he said, aware that he had spent months, years even, walking around slightly blinkered and conscious too that he still might be. There was so much more left to understand.

  They were driving down Sunset Boulevard, heading east past the tracts of flat-roofed block-builds as they tried to make their way over to Route 66. The Pacific fog had passed now, replaced with dense city smog that dusted across the windshield. O’Neill flicked on the wipers, smearing dirt in wide arcs across the glass. They were hoping for a short drive onto Route 66 but even Sunset’s large, unwieldy roads seemed unusually busy with lunchtime traffic. Young hustlers crowded the streets and sidewalks; a line of grime-gray Fords pulled out from the side streets, the merging traffic and the gathering pedestrians enough to bring the road to a slowpoke crawl.