And the place was packed, with Hollywood industry figures like Jesse Lasky and Sid Grauman scattered amongst a crowd that mingled rank and file with Los Angeles society types. Siegel had instructed the security staff to enforce a dress code of sorts; it was vague-one of the few specifics was that men had to check their hats, which annoyed the natives who were used to wearing their Stetsons just about everywhere, bed and bathtub too I suspected-but it was working to the extent that the majority of patrons tonight were in formal wear.
Even I was in a rented tux, provided by Siegel, and I was determined that this would be my last night in his service. I’d trained his people and otherwise helped him. If nothing else, spotting the cheating on the floor, and helping him zero in on Sedway as his betrayer, had earned me my paycheck.
But I wasn’t confident that Siegel could keep his head-not to mention his temper-in the face of the pressures ahead, not the least of which was his conflict with the boys back east. Meyer Lansky, Lucky Luciano and the rest obviously wanted three things from Ben and the Flamingo: fast results on their investment; a slowdown on spending; and no more embarrassing publicity. They also wanted him to shitcan Trans-American, which had after all been intended as merely a stopgap measure till Ragen’s Continental could be bought out or taken over.
I wasn’t convinced Ben Siegel could deliver on any of those things. And I knew he was dreaming a bigger dream than the Flamingo itself in thinking the Combination would buy him out of their own race wire for two million. One determined man standing up against his old mob cronies who, past friendships or not, wanted him to hand over his race wire, well-that was where I came in. I wished him luck, but didn’t want to be around when, inevitably, the bullets would start flying. Sixty grand a year and fringes was nice. But breathing had it beat all to hell.
And Peggy? I wouldn’t be taking her home. That was the best bet of the night.
I spent the evening moving through the crowded casino, posting myself here and there, watching the dealers and croupiers, not spotting anything untoward; nor did any dips seem to be working the room tonight. Maybe the word had got around.
Shortly before midnight the Hollywood guests-Sonny Tufts and the rest of the luminaries-trooped out through the lobby, shaking hands, smiling, flash bulbs popping, Siegel lording over it all with a big shiteating grin. He was in the white dinner jacket again, tonight, with a pink carnation in his lapel, like that first night on the S.S. Lux. (Speaking of which, earlier that night I noticed Tony Cornero, looking gray and defeated, standing at one of the craps tables, looking for some luck. I doubt he found it.)
Raft and Siegel were bidding the stars goodbye, limos waiting outside to drive them to the nearby airport, where the chartered Constellation would wing them home. Standing near Siegel was Peggy, wearing an off-the-shoulder emerald green taffeta cocktail dress with a flamingo-shaped jeweled brooch. She looked very chic, short black gloves, hair piled high, tight curls framing her sweet face. God, it’s annoying still loving a woman after it’s over.
I was down in the casino, but well within viewing range. I wondered where La Hill was keeping herself. She’d been playing chemin-de-fer earlier, looking opening-night lovely in her white crepe formal gown, aglitter with gold sequins. And an hour ago or so I’d seen her in the bar, in a not untypically sloshed condition, buying the “best champagne in the house” for a honeymooning couple-using a thousand-dollar bill to do so. She’d moved on, latest stinger in hand, and left the $900 change on the bar. She was known to be a good tipper, but the bartender had nonetheless paged Siegel to pick up the dough.
I assumed Ben had tracked her down and deposited her in their penthouse suite. He would not want her at his side on this big night, not that drunk. Maybe Peggy was chosen as Ginny’s stand-in, so the boss would have a lovely woman at his side as the Hollywood crowd was bid fond farewell.
They were just going out the door, Tufts and all, photographers following on their heels (a fortunate break, as it turned out), when trouble came from the other direction, through the lobby, entering from the patio. At the very moment, so luck would have it, that Siegel was slipping an arm around Peggy’s waist and leaning over to give her a peck on the cheek.
Virginia Hill, legs swishing in the expensive crepe gown, saw this and was rolling inexorably toward them, bumping patrons out of the way like bowling pins. Her face was distorted by drink and anger.
I moved through the casino-floor crowd up the five steps to the lobby.
I was just in time to see Tabby attack with both clawed hands, her painted nails like ten scarlet knives. First she snatched the jeweled flamingo off Peg’s breast, tearing the taffeta, and hurled the bauble at Siegel, Then one hand scratched Peg’s face, viciously, leaving trails of red behind, and the other grabbed a handful of that curly hair and yanked.
Peg yelped and a stunned, silent crowd looked on, fascinated. This was better than the Christians versus the Lions.
Siegel was momentarily frozen as his two girl friends went crashing to the lobby carpet. Virginia sat on top of the dazed Peggy and smacked her with a small hard fist, twice, and then Peggy fought back, grabbing onto Virginia’s dress and ripping, exposing a breast. Then they were rolling over, biting and gouging and punching, Peggy screaming, Tabby growling.
We pulled them apart, Siegel yanking Virginia back roughly, and me cradling a shaking, stunned, bleeding, bruised Peggy in my arms; Peg was a tough cookie-she wasn’t crying. But she was badly shaken, and clung to me, without exactly knowing it was me, I think.
Siegel slapped Virginia Hill. It was a hard, ringing slap, and she looked at him, covering her exposed breast with one hand, with big eyes and a hurt expression that had nothing to do with the pain of the slap.
“You ain’t no fuckin’ lady,” he told her.
“Ben…”
Siegel swallowed, suddenly aware of the many eyes upon him, the awful silence around him; only the casino sounds, and even they seemed hushed, continued.
Quietly, under his breath so that only those nearest by could hear, he said to her, “You made me look like a bum.”
Trembling now, she covered her mouth with one hand, the other hand still protecting her breast, and with a rasping cry, she rushed out.
He looked after her with a scowl. Then he faced his public. He couldn’t cover for such a disaster; there was no dazzling smile to pull out of somewhere, no crack about “no cover charge, folks.” Just an angry and, somehow, hurt Ben Siegel.
Slowly, the crowd went back to entertaining themselves. The photographers came in from shooting the departing stars, not knowing they’d missed anything.
Siegel turned to Peggy, who I had up on her feet, now. Her hair had come undone; she looked generally undone, actually. He touched her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” he said, his voice soft now, seeming genuinely to care.
“I–I think so.”
He put his hand on her shoulder, gently. “Maybe we oughta get you to the hospital. Have you checked up.”
“It’s not that serious, Ben. I’m just…embarrassed.”
“Sure you are.” He smiled a softly wry smile. “Who isn’t?”
She managed to smile back at him, despite the caking blood on her cheek.
“Nate,” Siegel said to me, “why don’t you drive Miss Hogan back to the Last Frontier. She needs some rest.”
“Sure,” I said. “If that’s okay with Miss Hogan.”
She nodded, smiled bravely.
Siegel patted her cheek-the unbloodied one-and gave her a warm smile. His blue eyes seemed almost to twinkle. Fuck him, anyway. I had more hair than he did.
I walked her out to the Buick I was using. Guided her by the arm; just being helpful. Strictly business. Siegel’s gopher. Until tomorrow, and the hell with this noise.
We drove in silence; it wasn’t far.
I walked her to her room.
She paused at the doorway, her back to me. “Thanks, Nate.”
“Are you okay, kid?”
> “Not really.”
“I’d offer you some company, but I don’t think you really want any.” Not mine, anyway.
“No…I don’t. But thanks. Thanks for not rubbing it in.”
“That’s okay.”
“You said all along she was dangerous.”
“She is dangerous. It could be a gun next time.”
She nodded. “I know. I’ll be careful.”
“Do that, would you?”
She went in, and I walked away.
Then she called out to me. “You could see I was right, though, couldn’t you?”
“What?”
“He doesn’t love her. He hates her. It was me he was concerned about.”
Right. That’s why he had his gopher drive you home.
“Sure, baby,” I said, and walked on out.
When I got back to the Flamingo, Siegel was sitting in the bar. It was not his usual wont to hang out there, nor was it his wont to drink a double Scotch. He was doing both.
“Rough,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. He gestured to the stool next to him.
I sat. “How’s Virginia?”
He shrugged. “She’s sleeping it off in the penthouse. I went up there and we went a few more rounds. I belted her in the belly and she puked. Got it out of her system, anyway.”
Ain’t love grand.
“Ben, uh…”
“You’re not gonna take my offer, are you?”
I shook my head no.
“You don’t like it.”
“What?”
“Me and your ex-girl.”
“Well, I’m not going to scratch your face over it, Ben. But I probably like it just a little less than Ginny does.”
He sighed. Nodded. “Fuckin’ broads, anyway. Too bad.”
“You mean it could’ve been the beginning of a beautiful friendship?”
He smirked. “Something like that, pal.” He raised his glass to me.
“Besides,” I said, not having a glass to raise, “I’m like you. I like running things. I like having my own agency. It started out just me, in a little ratty office, fourteen years ago. And now I got people working for me, and I’m moving into a big modern office. I got dreams, too, Ben. And they don’t include the Flamingo.”
He was nodding, slowly. “Fair enough. When you leaving?”
“Monday. And I don’t particularly want to work tomorrow.”
“Fine with me. I haven’t paid you yet, have I?”
“Just expenses as we’ve gone along. You promised me ten grand, you know.”
He nodded again. “Yeah, and you earned it. I oughta pay you a bonus, but I been told to watch my spending.”
I gave him a rueful grin. “Just my luck I’m where you decided to start.”
Of course, bad as my luck had been running, it was still better than Siegel’s. He told me to meet him in the counting room at 3 a.m., and he’d pay me, in cash. And I found him there with that familiar, sick, ashen look.
“Fuck,” he said, sitting at the table, money boxes before him, pit boss lurking nearby, staying out of the boss’s way but ready to be at his beck and call.
“How bad is it?” I asked, leaning against the table.
“Bad. Another thirty grand.”
“Christ…”
“If this keeps up, I’ll be down a hundred thou by weekend’s end.”
“You got to close up, Ben. You got dishonest sons of bitches on that floor, watched over by other dishonest sons of bitches, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll put the fear of God in ’em,” he said, with nasty resolve. “Better still, I’ll put the fear of me in ’em.”
I ignored that. “I think you ought to close up, and do some new hiring, and wait till the hotel’s open.”
“What the fuck do you know about it?” he spat.
I shrugged. “Why don’t you just pay me and I’ll go. Pay me while there’s still some cash in the till.”
He shook his head, his expression softening. “Sorry, Nate. Sorry. I’ll think about what you’re saying. Your advice has been good so far. I’ll think about it.”
“Good enough, Ben.”
He counted me out nine grand in hundreds, and another grand in fifties and twenties and a few tens.
“Let me know what you’re gonna declare on your taxes,” he said, “so we got our stories straight.”
“Good idea,” I said, folding the hundreds into one thick wad, the other grand of smaller bills into another. Put them away. A lot of money, but I earned it.
I was shaking hands with Siegel when Chick Hill came rushing in.
“Benny!” he said. “You gotta come quick! She’s killed herself, I think she’s killed herself!”
“Tabby?” he said, standing, eyes wide.
Chick nodded, pointed back behind him.
“Nate,” Siegel said, his eyes desperate, moving away from the table, “can you lend a hand?”
I nodded, and we rushed out through the lobby around to the patio and across the terrace garden to the unfinished hotel building.
“She’s swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills,” the frantic Chick explained. “I don’t think she’s breathing…”
“How’d you happen onto her?” I asked him, as we crossed the lobby to the private elevator.
“I wanted to check up on her,” her brother said. He looked with wounded eyes at Siegel, as we boarded the tiny elevator. “I heard you beat her up, Ben.”
“Shut up, Chick,” Siegel said tightly, looking upward, as if willing the elevator to rise more quickly.
We found her on the pink sheets of the big bed, on her back; she was still wearing the torn gown, one breast exposed, her eyes closed, a faint bluish tinge to her cheeks. Siegel bent over her.
“She’s breathing,” he said. “Shallow but breathing-get me some cold wet towels!”
Chick wetted some down in the nearest bathroom, on the floor of which I found the empty pill bottle. The kid handed Siegel the towels and he began slapping her with them.
“Wake up!” he said. “Goddamnit, wake up!”
Chick stood off to one side, helpless, near tears.
I said, “Ben, look, let’s get her to the hospital, get her stomach pumped. I can pull my Buick in the construction access out back. I’ll go right now, what do you say?”
He was cradling her in his arms now; he looked up at me, with a haunted expression, and nodded.
“Can you two haul her down okay?” I asked.
Siegel nodded, said, “Go on, get the car!”
I did.
Southern Nevada Hospital was five miles away, on Charleston Boulevard. Traffic was heavy, and I had to weave in and around it, hurtling along at upwards of eighty miles an hour.
Virginia Hill, dead to the world, was between Siegel and me in the front seat; he had his arm around her, holding her close to him, soothing her like a sleeping baby. Chick was riding in the back, nervous with worry.
“Step on it!” Siegel yelled at me.
“I am.”
“Goddamn stupid bitch,” he said, but quietly, in that previous, soothing voice. “Why did she have to do it?”
I pushed the Buick harder; the speedometer’s needle quivered at ninety. A siren cut the night behind us.
“Damn,” I said. “A cop…”
“Screw the cop,” Siegel said, holding her to him. “Keep stepping on it.”
The cop didn’t catch us till we pulled in the emergency entrance, by which time he’d more or less figured out what the score was; just the same, Siegel quickly, pointlessly, handed the guy a C-note, which would buy you twenty traffic tickets in Chicago.
The orderlies lifted Hill’s slack body onto a stretcher and wheeled her into the emergency room and before long we were in a private room and Siegel was shaking the hand of the doctor who had pumped Mrs. Siegel’s stomach.
You see, Virginia Hill, it turned out, was Mrs. Benjamin Siegel. That was the name she was admitted under, anyway.
“Do
c,” Siegel said, turning on the charm, dazzling smile and all, pumping the man’s hand harder than Ginny’s stomach had been, “thanks a million. I just might donate a new wing to this joint.”
Virginia Hill, groggy, looked up and said her first words since rejoining the living: “Give ’em the fucking Flamingo for a wing. To hell with that dump. Get out, Ben, before you’re dead! Before you’re dead…”
And she was crying.
He began comforting her, and the doctor and Chick and I slipped away.
I said to Chick, “They’re married?”
Chick shrugged affirmatively. “It isn’t common knowledge. They did it in Mexico a while back.”
“Why’s it a secret?”
“It’s not exactly a secret, but I don’t think some of Ben’s friends back east approve of my sister.”
“Hell, I thought she was in tight with them.”
“That was before she and Ben got so close. She hasn’t done any business with them since.”
A few minutes later, Siegel came out. He smiled a little; it was almost a nervous smile, and I wondered why.
Then I found out.
“Nate,” he said, “I want you to take that little girl of yours home.”
“That little girl of mine.”
“Peggy Hogan. It’s just not going to work, having her around. It’s just gonna be a burr under Tabby’s saddle.”
Our voices echoed a little in the hospital corridor.
“Well, we can’t have that, now,” I said. “But what if Miss Hogan doesn’t care to go?”
“I took care of that already. You just go back to the Frontier. Knock on her door.”
“Christ, it’s almost four o’clock in the morning, Ben!”
“Do it, Nate. She’s up. I called her.” He swallowed. Then, as if mildly ashamed of himself, he grinned like a chagrined kid. “Tabby made me call her.”
But I didn’t knock on her door. I went back to my own room at the Last Frontier. I’d had quite enough emotional bullshit for one night.
And I was between the cool sheets of the warm bed, just tired enough to go right to sleep in spite of it all, when somebody knocked on my door. I let some air out. I stared up into the darkness where the ceiling was. And somebody knocked again, kept knocking. Then I hauled myself out of bed. I was in my skivvies but I didn’t give a damn.
Neon Mirage nh-4 Page 26