“Wait,” Bertie said, “Linc left for San Francisco on Monday?”
“He took the Southern Pacific first thing.”
The scowl on Bertie’s face looked out of place. “But he was here on Tuesday.”
“Here? At the Garden?”
“He knocked on my door about nine a.m., which means of course he got me out of bed—”
“What did he want?”
“To get into my safe.”
“You mean the one in my old room?” Alla asked.
Bertie nodded. “I handed him the key and busied myself in the bathroom to give him some privacy. I couldn’t have been in there more’n a minute before I heard him close the safe door.”
Gwendolyn didn’t like the way Kathryn was staring at her now. She looked at Marcus for reassurance, but his face held a rising panic. “And then?”
“He kissed me. On the cheek, like a big brother.” She was still scowling, as though puzzling through something. “He told me not to take guff from anyone. I thought that was strange. Since when do I take guff?”
A flourish of trumpets announced the funeral procession’s arrival at Fifteenth Street. “And so it is,” the commentator resumed, “our former, late, great president makes his final journey to the White House.”
Both Kathryn and Marcus were staring at Gwendolyn. She knew what they were thinking, but didn’t want to acknowledge—not even for a moment—that their suspicions had any merit, so she stared at the steam rising from the teapot nobody had touched.
Thirty seconds that felt like three hours crawled past before Kathryn jumped to her feet. “If you’re not going to check, then I am.”
Gwendolyn listened to Marcus’ chair scrape against the linoleum before she stood up.
“Bertie,” she said, her voice guttural, “may I borrow your safe key?”
* * *
Bertie’s apartment—Nazimova’s old master bedroom—consisted of a living room and a bedroom, with a private bathroom. Its three windows looked into the Hollywood Hills, but Bertie kept the blinds drawn, ensuring it remained in semitwilight.
In Nazimova’s day the safe was hidden behind a bookshelf, but that was impractical, so Bertie hung a William Morris Hunt print of Niagara Falls over it. She pulled the painting off its hook and handed Gwendolyn the key.
Gwendolyn listened to the tumblers drop into place, then pushed the handle down. Please let me see Linc’s cardboard box. She opened the safe door and peered inside.
“Dammit! Dammit! DAMMIT!” she exploded. “I only got into this because banks won’t lend money to single girls. So I figured, Who needs those small-minded men? In fact, who needs a man at all? I’ll do this myself. And who ends up screwing me over? A MAN.”
She let out a heavy sigh just as the edge of Bertie’s bed grazed against her legs. She let herself drop onto it.
Kathryn pulled a folded-over note from the empty safe, with Gwendolyn’s name on the front. “Aren’t you going to read it?”
Gwendolyn curled her lip. “I don’t care what his reasons are.”
“I think you should,” Kathryn persisted.
“Then you read it,” Gwendolyn said. “Let’s all hear how well Mr. Lincoln Tattler justifies taking my dream away from me.”
Kathryn unfolded the paper and cleared her throat.
“‘My dearest, darling Gwendolyn. I guess you’ve discovered I’ve flown the coop. This business with Siegel and the O’Roarkes and my father has made me realize I wanted to be anywhere but LA. Please don’t think me a coward. If Siegel comes after you’—OH!” Kathryn looked at Gwendolyn, her eyes wide with alarm.
Ritchie’s death three months earlier was still a sore spot. The news of the unsolved gangland killing had filled the front pages for a couple of days, then kicked off when Roosevelt was inaugurated for a fourth time. Officially, the murder went unsolved, but everyone standing in Bertie’s room knew who was behind it.
“Go on,” Gwendolyn insisted.
“‘If Siegel comes after you, go to Mrs. O’Roarke. Tell her everything we talked about that night Ritchie’s landlord came to see you. She’ll help you. In fact, she’s probably the only one who can. Try not to hate me, but I’ll understand if you do. With all my love, Linc.’”
Gwendolyn took in the gaping faces around her. “You see what’s happened, don’t you? I spent all that time trying to become Scarlett O’Hara, but it turns out, I’m just Rhett Butler. A war profiteer. This is what I get for breaking the law. They were right—crime doesn’t pay.”
Bertie sat down beside Gwendolyn and brushed aside her Wild Man of Borneo hair. “Crime, schmime,” she mocked. “In the first place, it’s not like you’ve been peddling dope. Nobody’s died, okay? And in the second place, it’s not like you’re Bugsy Siegel. That guy’s been pilfering ration coupon books and selling them for obscene profits. That is what you call criminal. All you’ve been doing is what my dad calls ‘responding to market demands.’ For the first time in history, women have been earning more than they ever thought possible. They have money and need nylons; you have nylons and need money. A simple business transaction.”
“You have made nearly four thousand dollars in three and a half years,” Alla pointed out. “That makes you one hell of a businesswoman, if you ask me.”
“The question is,” Kathryn said, “what are you going to do about it?”
Gwendolyn thought for a few moments. To her surprise, she felt a blister of anger swell inside her. She jumped to her feet and plucked the note from Kathryn’s hand.
* * *
Gwendolyn rapped on the wrought iron knocker. The timid black maid who opened the door confirmed that Leilah was home but doubted that she was receiving visitors. Gwendolyn shoved past her.
She stood at the bottom of the stairs. “LEILAH? LEILAH!”
“For heaven’s sake, child!” Leilah stood in a doorway to the right.
“I need to speak with you.” Gwendolyn glanced at the maid. “In private.”
Leilah ushered Gwendolyn into the library and closed the pocket doors behind her, then snapped on a Tiffany table lamp with a butterfly pattern, lighting her face with greens and reds. She said nothing until they were seated on a pair of stiff-backed chairs. “Whatever is the matter?”
Gwendolyn thrust Linc’s note toward her and ran a fingernail along the studded edges of the leather upholstery while Leilah read it.
“My goodness! No wonder you’re steaming mad.” She handed back the note. “He always seemed like such a nice boy.”
“He is a nice boy.” Why am I defending him? “Linc said you’re the only one who can help me. So here I am.”
“Why would Ben Siegel come after you?”
“A few months ago Siegel informed us that he was taking over our black-market business for a fifty percent cut.”
“Fifty percent? That’s outrageous.”
“We were hardly in a position to say no. Then we discovered that the black-market thing was only a lure. Siegel thinks Linc runs a bunch of brothels above the Sunset Strip and—”
Leilah burst out laughing. “He thinks Linc runs those brothels?”
“You know about them?” Gwendolyn dug her nail into the tip of her thumb to keep her apprehension at bay.
“Those brothels are west of Crescent Heights, which puts them outside the LA city limits, and therefore beyond the reach of the vice squad.” She gave a so-what-can-you-do shrug. “Does he really think Linc runs the most profitable brothels in LA County?”
Gwendolyn wondered how Leilah knew so much about these places.
“You, my dear, need Benjy to back off.”
You call LA’s most notorious gangster “Benjy”? Gwendolyn thought of Bette Davis’ warning: Those O’Roarkes put themselves first every time.
“It’s all in the approach,” Leilah continued airily. “Something like this is best handled via the side door. In other words, his girl, Virginia. Lucky for you, I got Mayor Fletcher to do her a favor a few months ago, so now it’s tim
e to reciprocate.”
* * *
The front door of 810 North Linden Drive opened. In place of Virginia Hill’s sour face, Gwendolyn saw Mickey Cohen’s thuggish puss with the scar below his left eye. He looked her up and down, then smiled at Leilah, who didn’t seem the least bit intimidated.
“We’re here to see Virginia.”
“Went shopping.” He opened the door wider. “Come on in.”
Leilah stepped back onto the porch. “Some other time.”
Cohen’s mouth hardened. He stretched a hand toward the living room on his right. “He saw you come up the driveway.”
Leilah hesitated. It was only for a moment, but long enough for Gwendolyn to sense a crust of uneasiness. Oh no, if Leilah is losing her nerve . . .
Cohen ushered them into the living room, where Ben Siegel was seated on the sofa. He was in shirtsleeves—no jacket, no tie. On a round table in a bay window was a wooden Emerson radio tuned to the same station they’d been listening to at the Garden. The commentator was saying something about the laying to rest of a mighty soul. Siegel let the women stand like forgotten toys until the broadcast ended.
“Take a seat, ladies,” he said, looking at them for the first time. “Leilah, good to see you. And the charming Miss Brick. Always a pleasure.”
“Benjy,” Leilah said firmly, “Gwendolyn came to me this afternoon to seek my advice on an unexpected development. I told her, let’s go straight to the top and sort it out like civilized adults.”
Gwendolyn doubted she knew anyone who could match Leilah’s bravado. She could see why Bette Davis warned her against the O’Roarkes, but it was different when you needed her in your corner. Siegel, however, was not as impressed. He regarded her for a moment, then turned to Gwendolyn.
“Where is he?”
For a split second, Gwendolyn thought he meant Ritchie. The image of Siegel raising his gun flashed in her mind, then disappeared when she realized who he was asking about. “You mean Linc?”
“Of course I mean Linc.” His eyes were sapphire hard.
Gwendolyn squeezed her fingers around her pocketbook. “If I knew where Linc was, don’t you think I’d be there with him?”
“Would you?”
She went to snap back, Of course I would, but realized how hollow she’d sound. Her heart was still catching up with what her head knew. You slimy rat bastard, she told Linc. You stole my future and left me to deal with the biggest mobster this side of Lucky Luciano.
“Where is he, Gwendolyn?” Siegel’s voice had lost its measured civility.
“Benjy,” Leilah broke in, “I’m sure if Gwendolyn knew—”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
Leilah let out a huff. “Need I remind you of the less than inconsequential favor I convinced the mayor to do for Virginia?”
“And need I remind you that favor was payback for something I did for the mayor? We both know what that was, and we both know we need not speak about it here and now.”
Leilah went pale beneath her makeup.
Movement off to one side caught Gwendolyn’s eye. Mickey Cohen had a dark gray revolver in his left hand. In his right was a blue handkerchief. He was using it to slide his hand up and down the barrel, polishing it with a slow and deliberate rhythm.
“Honey,” Leilah said slowly, “you need to share everything you know with Mr. Siegel.”
Gwendolyn attempted a smile while she scrambled together a story that might hold water. “I only found out about Linc this morning, so the best I can do is guess.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Linc got his supply from South America. Mostly Argentina, but Brazil and Uruguay as well. Linc is no dummy, so I think Argentina is too obvious. My guess is Uruguay. He talked about it once. Said there was a lake. Lake Rincón something-or-other.”
“Lago Rincón del Bonete?”
Shocked that Siegel could name any lake in South America, let alone one in Uruguay, Gwendolyn fought to keep the astonishment out of her eyes. “He said it was the perfect place to run away to.” In truth, Linc had told her that the two most miserable weeks of his life were the ones he spent recovering from dengue fever in a bug-infested hotel on the shores of Lago Rincón del Bonete. “If I were looking for Linc, that’s where I would start.”
Siegel arched an eyebrow. “I take it you’re not looking for him?”
“He left me high and dry, and took—” She was going to say that he took all her money, her hopes, and her dreams, but decided Bugsy Siegel didn’t need to know that. “He took my heart with him.”
“So screw him, right, honey?” Leilah patted Gwendolyn’s hand.
While Cohen continued to polish the shaft of his gun—up, down, up, down—Siegel stared at Gwendolyn, unblinking and unreadable. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Lincoln Tattler has information I need, so he must be found. You’re the person most likely to accomplish that for me. Locate your boyfriend, and our arrangement comes to an end.”
“But our boys are less than fifty miles outside Berlin, and they’ve taken Iwo Jima,” Gwendolyn pointed out. “Once the war ends, so does the black market. What if I can’t find him before then?”
“Our arrangement only comes to an end when you deliver Tattler to me.”
“And if I can’t?” Gwendolyn asked.
“There is no can’t.”
CHAPTER 39
Marcus stopped typing. He had to. Every tendon in his fingers throbbed. He let his hands drop to his side and started counting to sixty.
Sixty seconds was all he could afford. The rewrite had to be on Taggert’s desk by Friday lunchtime. It was now eleven thirty Wednesday morning. With enough black coffee, Camels, and Benzedrine, he could make it.
He heard the clack of a single typewriter belonging to one of the new guys several offices away. These days, half the desks in MGM’s writing department were filled with fresh-faced twenty-year-olds who’d maneuvered their way out of the draft or jaded fifty-year-olds too ripe for service. The one with the clacking typewriter belonged to the former group: talented and he knew it, ambitious but didn’t care who knew it.
Marcus interlaced his fingers and stretched his hands over the Remington until he heard the joints in his wrists crack. His eyes fell on the words across the top of the page inserted in his typewriter:
FREE LENINGRAD!—REWRITE—MAY 2, 1945—MARCUS ADLER
It was difficult for Marcus to stop and think about his life and not feel some measure of guilt at how smoothly it flowed nowadays, and the irony that at a time when war roiled across the globe, his own little world was like a still pond in spring.
Oliver had moved in without officially moving in, and the four of them now dined out on Marcus’ expense account. He was still glowing from reconnecting with sweet Doris, and he’d come up trumps with his Free Leningrad! idea.
Mayer loved it so much that he made an unspoken promise that the studio would fully support an Oscar nomination. In an unprecedentedly short space of time, the movie was cast, old sets were transformed into Russian streets and homes, and filming progressed without incident. A quality movie soon emerged from the editing room.
But then the sneak preview in San Diego happened. That day, the radio was filled with the news that Mussolini and his mistress had been executed near Lake Como, and the German forces in Italy were laying down their guns. As Free Leningrad! unfolded on the screen, it became obvious that if the movie had been released when the real siege was ending, it would have been a hit. But now it felt like last month’s news. Free Leningrad! was a disaster.
The Marcus of three years ago would have crumpled under the disappointment, but he sent word through Taggert that the movie was fixable. The order came back in less than an hour: the release date for Free Leningrad! was set in stone, so the rewrite had to be on Mayer’s desk by the end of the week. “Not a problem,” he told Taggert. “I’ve got it all worked out.” He would shoehorn into the story a fictional American GI who—implausibly but bravel
y—helps break the siege. Ta-da! Movie fixed, boss happy, Oscar nomination guaranteed.
Marcus’ fingers had started to send Lieutenant Charlie Walters crawling along a secret tunnel underneath the blockaded walls of Leningrad to meet his love interest, Veronika, when a roaring cheer filled the department.
“GODDAMN COWARD SON OF A BITCH!”
Marcus emerged into the corridor to see Taggert rushing toward him.
“It just came over the wire,” he said. “Hitler has shot himself.” Taggert gripped Marcus by the shoulders, tears welling up. “The Ruskies have got Berlin surrounded.”
Marcus felt all his strength drain out the soles of his feet. “So it’s all over?”
“Not officially, but close.” A deafening cheer boomed down the corridor from the conference room. “I’ve only got half a bottle of gin in my office.” He pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet. “Scoot down to the commissary and pick up as much booze as this’ll buy.”
Marcus glanced back at his typewriter.
“Screw Leningrad!” Taggert barked. “We’re getting roaring drunk, and that’s an order.”
Outside the building, Marcus spotted knots of people gathered around open windows and doorways—anywhere that put them within earshot of a radio. As he dashed past soundstage 18, he heard a chorus of voices singing, “Ding, dong! Hitler’s dead! Mean old bastard, let’s get plastered! Ding, dong! The German prick is dead!”
The commissary was already more than half full; the din of a hundred excited voices engulfed him.
“Let me guess,” the woman behind the beverage counter said. Her mascara had left two thick trails down her cheeks. “You want booze.”
Marcus waved Taggert’s money at her. “How much will ten bucks buy me?”
“I got Pabst Blue Ribbon and some whiskey. It ain’t top drawer, but it’s palatable—especially after the third go-around.”
Searchlights and Shadows (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 4) Page 28