“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was going to tonight. I found her on Catalina, we were coming straight here to see you. Couple of goons intervened, screwed the pooch.”
“Yeah. Just a little. Sanjee said you called, thanks. How’d you find her?”
I took a sip of the whiskey, glanced over at him. “I just had to figure out where she’d go.”
“And that was where?”
“Where only the lonely go. You should know that one, Frank.”
His eyes darkened with suspicion. He could see it coming now. “You bet I do, that’s my song.”
“But it was our place.”
That might have been a little too candid for the moment, but it was the truth.
His eyes met mine. “I see,” he said, crossing his arms. “It’s like that, huh?”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s like that.”
He winced silently, the new reality of Helen and me breaking like first light in his mind.
I changed gears. “Suppose you bring me up to speed now, Frank. There’s some mighty big pieces missing from this puzzle, and I’m thinking you have a few of them.”
He just looked at me for several seconds before answering. “Finish your drink, buddy. I’ll get you a cigarette. I got a story to tell you … and it’s a humdinger.”
* * *
Frank explained that Jack Kennedy and the girls made the film while they were staying at the compound several months earlier. When he found out about it, he begged Kennedy to destroy it, but the senator wanted him to keep it to amuse himself the next time he came out. Frank hid it among a few other stags, later coiling it inside the unmarked film of Helen and Lana Turner. The best Frank could offer was that Helen might have taken it unwittingly when she made off with the other one, but there was little faith in his words. The scales were tipping in my mind, too.
I told Frank everything that had happened in L.A. and Catalina, Roselli watching like a hawk from the other couch the entire time. After that, there was nothing more I could do; they knew as much as I did.
Dr. Rosenbloom came rushing in a few minutes later and tended to me like I was Franklin Roosevelt. He demanded that I go to the hospital immediately. Frank demanded that we bring the hospital to me instead. Two nurses were ordered up and promised within the hour, as was a portable x-ray machine.
The doctor said I might have a slight concussion, but it would be okay to grab some shut-eye. I wasn’t going to be awake long anyway. Hank and Frank helped me off to a bed, then Hank left the room.
Frank stopped at the doorway before leaving. “Thank God you’re alive. A nurse will be here when you wake up. I’m going to take care of everything else, brother, okay?”
“Frank?”
“Yeah, Joe?”
“Find Helen. We’ve got to find her.”
He nodded. “We will, paesan, we will.”
Then he flipped off the wall switch and shut the door, stillness falling over the dark space around me as his footsteps faded down the hall.
55
The dream came again, as it always did.
A dogfight by Picasso—navy blue and silver aircraft streaking across a gunmetal sky in angry hornet swirls, some melting into brilliant orange-yellow smears and fading from view, black ribbons billowing in their wakes. Tracer fire whistling by in surreal, phosphorescent streams—white, yellow, green. Warped voices making slurred sounds on cockpit radios, calling across time.
Sometimes it was abstract, burning men and faceless corpses spread across a dark tableau like lost shades in the underworld. Other times it was more lucid, and I’d see Pete’s face or hear his voice.
Fire and war and Pete calling my name. Me searching for him endlessly, diving over and down, over and down, over and down across the black waste of an empty sea.
* * *
I awoke in a darkened room, my face damp. I lay there in solitude, time-worn memories flickering by, each one a razor cut of sadness and shame.
“Pete …” I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Lieutenant J. D. Petersen—“Pete” to the guys in the squadron. My XO, my wingman, my best friend. I loved him like one of my brothers.
And I left him alone to die in combat.
We were in the Philippines, late ’44, just kicking the Japs’ asses sideways. He and I swapped planes on a bet that day, went up on strafing run together. We pasted the harbor pretty good on our first pass, then I put a burst into a stray dive bomber we caught out in the open as we climbed away.
Pete called for a second pass, but I was bucking for triple ace so I broke away to finish off the cripple. I’d never done that before. Still don’t know why I did.
I got my fifteenth kill, but some enemy fighters caught Pete during his solo strafing run. I could hear him calling for help over the radio, but I couldn’t find him in the haze and clouds.
Then there was nothing. No cry. No scream. Nothing. Just static on the airwaves.
Sick inside, I circled down to the water, calling out his name. I kept searching for him, oblivious to the battle around me, but there was no trace of him or his plane. Nobody saw him go in, but he never came home.
Because of me.
I just let go after that, became the navy’s reaper. I bagged ’em in scores, going out on patrol every day, seeking absolution through killing, trying somehow to undo what could never be undone. Nothing mattered to me any longer—I couldn’t feel a thing. The downward spiral began.
I rode it down a long time, smacking the bottom in Cuba before finally bouncing back that night in ’52 when I saved Frank from that hit attempt. I’ve been trying to make things right ever since.
It’s a long journey home.
56
I heard the voices of two women somewhere, one an angel, the other a harpy. They were discussing Dr. Spock. That tore it. I rolled over and pulled the pillow over my head, praying for the sandman to come back.
But it was no use. After a minute or so I stirred, and two blurry faces atop white cotton balls turned to face me. I figured them for the nurses Frank promised.
The closest one said, “So you’re finally awake,” as if I’d been keeping her from her bridge game.
I squinted at her. Focus came slowly and did me no favors when it arrived. She was a plump fifty and hard as slate. Hair like Lucy, face like Viv. Could’ve been a guard at Tehachapi. I couldn’t help grimacing at the sight of her, something she didn’t miss.
“Mr. Sinatra says you had a terrible spill on your motorcycle last night,” she declared, rolling her eyes in disbelief.
I propped myself up on an elbow. “Yeah,” I managed, “hit a coyote, went ass over teakettle.”
“Poor thing,” she said, emitting the faintest trace of sympathy.
“Thanks.”
She peered down at me, dark eyes narrowing. “The coyote.”
The other gal floated over. Could’ve been Angie Dickinson’s kid sister—strawberry blonde, beautiful, maybe twenty-four. The top two buttons of her off-white uniform were undone, one fold hanging carelessly open.
She looked at me a moment. Then ruby lips parted, curving voluptuously beneath sapphire eyes that gleamed in the soft light.
It was good to be alive.
I drank her in. Ten seconds maybe. Finally, I asked, “What time is it, Angie?”
“Six fifteen,” she said, still smiling, “but my name’s not Angie.”
“A.m.?”
“No, silly, p.m. You were out over fourteen hours. How about a sponge bath?”
I shot Lucy a sidelong glance. “Who’s giving it?”
Angie smiled again, shaking her head. Lucy glared at me awhile, then left the room.
“Okay, darling, mark me down. Frank, er, Mr. Sinatra, home?”
“Yes. I believe he’s in the living room talking with the gentleman from Lake Tahoe.”
“Tahoe?”
“Yes. He’s called Momo, I think. Wears glasses.”
“Bath’s gotta wait, An
gie,” I said, sitting up. I noticed then that I was in boxers and a wife-beater T-shirt. “Any pants around here, my dear?”
She chuckled, pointed out some pajamas on a chair. Said her name still wasn’t Angie but she’d wait outside.
She went out and I pulled on the bottoms, feeling the pain in my ribs as much as I had the night before. I didn’t even bother with the top—that contortion would have dropped me.
I took a look in the wall mirror—and almost turned away. A large bandage covered half of my forehead, surgical gauze protruding from the ends. My left eye was still closed and a deep purple discoloration stained the flesh below it. A raised red knot stood out prominently on my cheek where I took the punch. My hair was matted and sweaty.
I looked like the wreck of the Hesperus, but it was no time for reflection. I grabbed a roast beef sandwich from a platter, tore a chunk out of it, and headed toward the front of the house.
At the edge of the living room I pulled up and leaned in. Late-afternoon sun was flooding in through the sliding doors, bleaching the color from the room. Everything had a yellow hue to it, even the cigarette smoke zephyring by in lazy curls.
I had to look down in order to see, but I made out three figures in the glare.
This time it was just Frank, Peter, and Sam Giancana, the big boss of the Chicago Outfit. He was one of those people for whom Frank had an irrational and dangerous affection. We’d all told him repeatedly to steer clear of those guys, but he saw that as turning his back on his own kind.
Frank saw me and waved me in.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “the indestructible Joe Bones, back among the living. Whatsamatter, didn’t have any coins for the ferryman?”
He gave me his best wink. I had to smile at that one, but it hurt when I did.
Frank came over and kissed me gently on both cheeks. “Glad you’re still with us, buddy,” he whispered.
Then he said aloud, “Sam, Joe, you guineas know each other. Sam came down from the Cal Neva up in Tahoe to help us out here. And Joe took one for the club last night, but he’ll bounce back.”
I nodded to the others and slowly took a seat on one of the sofas without shaking hands.
Giancana’s getup looked like a hit job: white loafers, black slacks, the requisite white belt, and a garish black-and-red silk shirt. That alone would have gotten him kicked out of my house.
“Madonn’!” the mob boss declared. “You look like someone took a baseball bat to you all right, Buonomo.”
“Couple of punks—Maris and Mantle. Anything on Helen, Frank?”
He shook his head. “No. Not a word. I sent some guys out to your plane before the police got over there. Jesus, they said you did a number on Ratello.”
I shrugged, gave him a shruggy look.
“The boys combed the area. No sign of Lilah—excuse me—Helen, I guess it is. They brought a few of your things back. Your flightsuit, sunglasses … some other stuff.”
“My gun?”
“No.”
“Your film?”
He paused several seconds, exhaled. “No. We’re in Shitsville here, buddy. That film could end any chance Jack Kennedy has of winning next month’s election. Can you imagine what that creep Nixon would do with that thing?”
“Let me guess, returning it discreetly is probably not an option?”
He shook his head, smirking bitterly. “There’s a better chance the Lusitania will float up off the bottom of the Atlantic. Look, the Republicans will ruin him if they get their hands on it—the presidency of the United States is at stake here.”
“And there’s been nothing from Helen or Spazzo, or anyone else?”
“Not a goddamn thing, but they gotta be together, dontcha think?”
I nodded once. “Yes, I do. Thought we’d have heard from one of them by now.”
Frank growled a sigh. “This is one hell of an opera we have going here. A missing girl, a missing mobster, and a missing film—all of ’em together. Joe Kennedy’s boys will find them, and when they do, Spazzo and the movie are going to disappear forever.”
“And Helen?”
He crossed his arms and gave me a leaden stare. “You’re going to have to find her first.”
“Count on it, pal.”
Frank picked up a cigarette from a tray, Peter thrusting out a bejeweled lighter and putting flame to it for him. He took a deep drag, flashed a Bogart grimace, then gestured with his hand, spinning curls of gray smoke into the already foul air.
“So what do we do now?”
I stood up and planted my hands on my hips, frowning impassively. “We wait, Frank. We wait until we hear from them. There’s nothing else we can do.”
Across the valley, the sun was slipping below the tops of the Santa Rosas, a thin orange corona shimmering above the wrinkled mountains as the day hung on by its fingernails.
I watched it go, lost in thought, trying to make sense of the last four days and my complicated relationship with Frank—and now Helen.
The others left the room, one by one, leaving me to my ruminations. I drifted over to the enormous wall of glass facing west, standing before it in silence as an aching drumbeat began pulsing in my temples.
Outside, purple shadows crept down the hills as evening stole across the desert, wrapping the sands in her long, cool embrace as she enveloped the day, the eternal battle beginning anew.
III
57
We waited.
All that night. And all the next. Then into the following day. It was just as well since I could only see out of one eye for the first two days anyhow.
The Palm Springs PD went ahead and interviewed me—three times. I told them what I knew: Ratello was a bad guy. He pulled a gun on me. He was a big target.
I gave them my feelings about Spazzo, too, and his new nose. I also described the woman he had with him—but I didn’t say she was Frank’s girlfriend.
The L.A. boys took a ride out, too. They had a big powwow with the Vegas and Palm Springs detectives. Frank’s lawyer handled that one. I got to stay out of the cooler, but each department told me not to leave town. No one ever said in what order, though.
Frank canceled all his appointments, staying inside mainly, taking occasional walks around the grounds. His only meals came out of a Jack Daniels bottle. He asked me a thousand times if I had any ideas. I gave him the same answer a thousand times—we had to wait, Spazzo would contact us.
Late afternoon of the third day, he did.
A telegram came to the house. It read simply: Have girl. 100k ransom. Details to follow. It had been sent from somewhere in Mexico, but the sending exchange had been omitted, no doubt at the sender’s request.
It was better than knowing nothing.
Frank convened a meeting that night. Roselli came back up from L.A. with two of his boys. Lawford came across town from Vista Las Palmas. I came from the swimming-pool patio where I was resting.
We assumed our usual positions in the living room. Frank began speaking about the ransom request and how he was going to scare up the money. Roselli said he could help. Peter mentioned his father-in-law, Joe Kennedy, as an option. He got told no.
Then Roselli suggested an armed intervention. Peter mentioned Joe Kennedy as an option again. He got told fuck no.
I sat quietly while this went on, summing up each of the players and calculating his motivation. Frank wanted his girl and the film, but I knew him well enough to know that he’d be okay in the end without either. Roselli wanted the film for his own purposes and didn’t give a damn about the girl. Lawford needed both, however, because without the film, Kennedy might not become president, and if he didn’t, Frank would have no use for him. And that would put a washed-up actor like Peter in a very lonely place.
I listened to them dicker around a little more, then I cleared my throat aloud and said, “Frank?”
The conversation fell away, and they all looked over at me. Frank said, “Go ahead, Joe.”
“Our main asset here i
s surprise. We don’t need money and we don’t need an army if we can sneak up on Spazzo.”
“But we don’t even know where he is.”
“Yes, we do.”
He crooked an eyebrow. “Where?”
“Mexico.”
“It’s a pretty big country. Should we start in Mazatlán and just work our way north?”
I shook my head. “I’ve got somewhere else in mind. I’m going to need some help, though.”
Frank put his hands on his hips, his face puckered in curiosity. Roselli looked on with a grin favored by tiger sharks. Lawford stared at his shoes.
“I can leave tonight. I’m pretty much in one piece again—most of the purple in my face has faded to a lovely light green. I can do this, but I could use a couple of guys.”
“Who?” Frank and Roselli asked in unison.
“Them,” I said, pointing to Roselli’s two men outside on the patio.
“Done,” said Roselli.
He stood there smiling at my brass as I mused, Here you go, Joe, another Mexican holiday. Hope it ends better than the last one.
58
Within two hours, we were rolling south in a station wagon of unknown provenance toward the border at Mexicali, outfitted like three guys on a fishing trip. Rods, reels, tackle boxes, binoculars, brass knuckles, handguns—the usual stuff. Me and Vito and Lino, my two new best friends, just getting away from it all.
The truth is I didn’t have any choice. What I needed was four or five crack guys I could trust with my life, an airplane, and Helen’s precise location. What I had was two mobsters, a Rambler wagon, and a wild-ass hunch. But there wasn’t any time to waste if we were going to get the drop on Spazzo.
Vito and Lino wouldn’t have been my first choice—or second or third—but at least I knew they were good enough to be Roselli’s bodyguards. That meant they were street smart—and tough.
I’d met Vito before and liked him. He was from the old country, and I’d spent some time over there—that gave me an in with him. Lino was Vito’s friend. That didn’t hurt, either. Under the circumstances, I liked my hand.
One for Our Baby Page 17