by David Bishop
“Okay. Okay. Back to Cohen and Siegel. What are they after? Are they claiming they can control the next mayor and Earl Warren?”
“Those two, likely not. Mickey admits that. He points out that to put new laws or even regulations in place those officials will need city, county, and state cooperation. Local politicians and perhaps the voters themselves may need to cooperate. Siegel and Cohen figure that’s where they can come into play. They can help with that, also with the courts. Mickey Cohen makes the valid point, at least he implied, that with their bought and paid for contacts you will likely have less trouble with them than without them. That by showing them some respect, of course that means with a split, and staying open you’ll make more than if you’re shut down part of the time, getting bad press, and dragged into court at every turn.”
“Back when I started my first ship, partners in the Tango, I did it to get away from John Law and mobsters like Mickey Cohen and Bugsy Siegel.”
Right then, Dudley did a double jump on two of Slim’s shot glasses and got to throw them back.
“No man’s an island, Tony.”
“Now that’s funny. An island when I’m doing it on a ship.” We laughed.
“So,” Tony said, “you bring me a choice between closing down and throwing in with the politicians or staying open and throwing in with the hoods.”
“That’s about it. Safe. Legit. Working to improve society. Or risky, likely illegal as they evolve the law, and making money off people’s weaknesses.”
“Listen, Pal. People like to gamble. They’ll do it whether or not I’m around, whether the Rex is in play or at rest on the bottom of the ocean. Siegel and Cohen realize that if I’m open they’ll get less action in their onshore gambling dens so they offset that by taking a slice of what’s mine. If my ship is gone, they’ll get more play in their joints. They win either way. Hell, they likely agree with the D.A., if they know about his offer, and that wouldn’t surprise me a bit.”
“Cross ‘em up, Tony. Take the offer from Fitts and help the D.A.’s office shut down illegal gambling onshore.”
“That puts me back at risk, with the risk coming from the mob rather than the coppers. John Law locks you up. The hoods bury you.”
I pursed my lips. “That’s your choice, Tony. It’s not pretty either way you go.”
“How long I got to decide?”
“Not long. This could be a break, Tony. I’d like you to get some fair in your life.”
“My friend, you’re such a romantic. Life ain’t fair. It was never set up to be. There’s no logic. No routine to life. No channel of calm water. No assurance that any good deed will get you anywhere. Every man must pick a code to live by. Then do it. If you like yourself, well, the rest works out if you stick to your code. If it don’t and you end up with dirt in your face before it happens natural like, well, them’s the breaks and the last problem you’ll ever have.”
I grinned at my philosophical friend. “I wouldn’t recommend you taking more than a day or two to decide.”
I watched Diggers and Slim play a few turns while Tony thought about what he heard.
“Does my answer go back through you or should I make direct contact?”
“It’s your call. But I’d recommend you use me. Less risk and I can likely reason with them more than they’d let you once they had you in front of them.”
“That’s how we’ll do it then. You’re a good friend, Scribe.”
“The best you got, Tony.”
“Probably true, Matthew.”
Tony had said it like he meant it. I appreciated that. We agreed I’d come back out tomorrow sometime during the day to hear Tony’s final answer.
Chapter Twelve
I had most of the day to go out to the Rex and get Tony’s final answer. I also needed to do a second draft of my next column, with or without reference to Tony the Hat and how he might change his life. If he had decided he would change it. I’d make my decision about what to say in my column after I spoke with Tony.
I called Callie while washing down a half of a cantaloupe with a cup and a half of black coffee. We chatted an hour or so. It’s surprising how long a man and woman can talk when they are considering attaching themselves to each other. She planned to work again today at her desk in Daddy’s business. Neither of us mentioned going clubbing tonight. I think we were both a little tired of it. She was also discouraged about not having seen or even heard anything solid about Frances. Tomorrow, we had the tickets for Fats Waller’s opening night so we’d be hitting some spots then.
At nine-thirty I took Pug’s water taxi out to the Rex to see Tony and hear his answer. Pug had been a pugilist. He fought lightweight. At least he did until he had so many concussions in the ring that he couldn’t remember in which round the mob had told him to take his dive. He had kept fighting to support his wife, Katherine. He called her Kitty. They had met in a brothel. It wasn’t textbook love, just the solid, devoted kind. Kitty had immediately stopped hooking, but she hadn’t stopped drinking. About ten years later, she died from cirrhosis of the liver and Pug buried her on the cheap—all he could afford. After that he started playing the numbers with the dream he’d hit one big so he could buy a classy headstone for Kitty’s grave. Tony and I talked about chipping in to get Kitty a proper marker, but that was Pug’s dream and you don’t invite yourself into another man’s dream.
Few knew, as I did, that Tony had bought Pug his water taxi and got him set up with the authorities on the dock. My book listed both Tony and Pug on the short page where I jotted down the good men. The page wasn’t short, just the list of people on it. Life had treated these two men, Tony and Pug, very differently. Pug had been used by the mob, used up is more like it, but he held no grudge. He had liked being a boxer. Pug just hadn’t been a very good boxer, and he ended up with the face and scrambled brains to prove it. How life would end up treating Tony the Hat remained undecided, although part of all that might be decided today.
When Pug dropped me at the top of the gangway, Tony was out on deck, waiting. Instead of going into the coffee shop he suggested we walk the upper deck which allowed strollers to go all the way around his ship. He had struggled with whether or not to include this feature on the Rex. People liked the walk-around. In the end he decided that if the Rex was to be the first class crown jewel of the gambling ship fleet, he had to include the walk-around. Tony’s quandary had come from maybe them liking it too much. It kept the suckers away from the room with the gambling tables, which, after all, was his reason for outfitting the Rex to begin with. Actually, Tony gave the suckers as close to an even break, not an even break just closer to one, as they would find on any ship and more so than in the gambling dens of Los Angeles.
We strolled a while without saying much of anything other than meaningless small talk about the weather and last night’s ballgame. Yeah, Tony was also a Dodgers fan. For us both, it started when we were in New York and the Brooklyn Dodgers appealed to us more than the Yankees or Giants. Red Barber had taken over doing the radio play-by-play for the Dodgers this season and we were looking forward to them having a great team. We walked the length of the ship’s sunny side and around into the shade where Tony stopped and put his forearms on the rail. The sea was calm this morning. No white caps, just a rolling salty sea, the dark blue color disclosing there was substantial depth under the Rex.
“I appreciate what you did, Pal. I do. You talking with the D. A. and bringing me his offer.”
“But?”
“But, it’s not for me. I can’t see it. On some level I want to. Truth is I’d enjoy giving Siegel and Cohen, and Dragna their what fors. Yes, sir, I’d enjoy that more than just a little bit. Still, in the end, it just ain’t me. I’m a gambler. I sell booze, the expectation of happiness, the promise of hitting it big. I couldn’t sell stay home and work hard, spend your money on only necessities and save the rest… . It does happen you know—hitting it big. Once or twice a week somebody beats the odds and goes home with a b
ankroll and the feeling of being invincible. That’s my product, that feeling, that maybe it could happen for me feeling. It’s a dream which comes true for a few. For the common man, it’s hope when he has little else. That’s what brings the regular folks out to the Rex.”
“I’m sure, but too many go home worried how they’re going to feed the kids and pay the rent after what they dropped on your tables.”
“Life’s choices, Matt, it’s their right as humans. They don’t need the D.A. and Earl Warren being their conscience, their daddy. They don’t need me telling them what to do, either. The ship’s here. It’s their choice. God gave us the capacity to think and with that comes the right to decide. Lots of my customers are the same high rollers who hit the mob’s backroom casinos in town.
“Choices, like I said. I make mine. You make yours. The rest of the folks have that same right. None of us needs these pious egomaniacal politicians to do our thinking for us, to make our choices. Truth is the politician doesn’t give a shit about the common man. They only want our votes come Election Day. It’s always been like that, ever since men used shiny rocks instead of folding money. It always will be that way. The voters that think otherwise are the real suckers.”
Walter Winchell said a friend is one who walks with you when the rest of the world walks away—or something like that. Tony was that kind of friend. I wanted him to see me the same way. I think he did. If that reincarnation stuff had any truth to it, maybe Tony and I had once been Jesse and Frank James. He would be Jesse. Frank James apparently had no more luck getting Jesse to live the straight and narrow than I was having convincing Tony.
“I’ll give the D.A. your answer.”
“Nice. Polite like.”
“Sure, Tony, sure, I’ll take care of it. The D.A. will accept it. His conscience will be clear and he’ll come after you by supporting Earl Warren who has you in his sights.”
Tony started walking again, me by his side stride for stride. “That covers the D.A., Tony. What about Mickey Cohen and Bennie Siegel? They aren’t hypocrites like the politicians. They’ll take your answer hard. They want a cut or they want you blown out of the water, so to speak, so their places onshore will get more play. What do I tell Mickey Cohen?”
“I decided long ago, I wouldn’t pay protection or split my action. I did my time for bootlegging. Nowadays, my business is legit. I don’t need anything from the mobsters.”
“Lots of businesses that don’t need anything from the hoods pay so they’ll get left alone, sort of left alone, for a fee.”
Tony stopped again. A table with coffee had been set against the inside wall of the walk-around.
“Not me, Matt.” He poured a cup. “If they come out here, we can protect ourselves. They’ll be pirates trying to board a vessel on the open sea. That there’s illegal if you don’t have the captain’s permission.” He extended the cup toward me. I took it. “I know you don’t like my decision, Matt, but it’s my decision. Are you okay carrying it back to Mickey? If not, you walk away. I can get the word to him.”
“I said I’d take it back and I will. I may be able to soften it a bit. Likely not enough to do much good, but, in some strange way, I think Mickey Cohen and I have become pals. I use the word very loosely. Cohen and Siegel have killed lots of their pals so that doesn’t put me on safe ground.”
“I guess if he can be friends with the Reverend Billy Graham, he can be friends with a nosey newspaperman.”
I laughed. Tony put his arm over my shoulders. “You’re a treasure, Matt Kile. It’s a great pleasure knowing you, you no good Irishman. Will you join me in a shot of Tullamore Dew before you head back? We keep the brand just for you.”
I shook my head. “Another time, when we have something to celebrate, but before I leave take a look at this.” I handed Tony the picture of Frances.
“A real doll. Who is she?”
“Name’s Frances, I’m helping her older sister find her. She been around?”
“I’ve seen her here or on the Tango a few times, nothing regular. Her hair was different.”
“With anyone in particular?”
“Not so’s I recall. Let’s go show it to Billy Gargan.” When I raised my eyebrows, Tony added, “Billy’s my bartender. He’s been here since I opened; he worked on the Tango for years, got a real eye for the ladies. Billy knows all the regulars.”
That sounded encouraging, but it fizzled. Billy Gargan added nothing to what Tony had said. To paraphrase: a classy dish, been around several times, no pattern, came with no one as far as Gargan knew. He did think Frances left once with someone.
“But you can’t be sure,” Gargan said. “People get talking at the bar and both decide to call it a night so they head out to the gangway together. Unless their hands are all over each other you don’t know if they’re leaving together or just headin’ out at the same time.”
Tony walked me out. “Come back, soon, Matt. You’re always welcome. And you know my offer is still open for you to come join me as my publicity guy and head of security.”
I didn’t say anything. I had answered that before, several times.
“What do you think about Carter Mitchum? I’m talking with him about heading up security. Right now I’m wearing that hat also. I had to offer it to you one more time.”
“Don’t know him real well. What I do know says he’s straight, trustworthy, and can be a hard man when it’s needed. I’d say he’s a good choice. He walked off the force when they stifled his advancement because he wouldn’t play ball.”
“That’s the story I get. When I interviewed him he didn’t snivel about it. I think I’ll take him on.”
“You could do worse.”
“Then it’s settled,” Tony said.
Neither of us said another word. After stepping into the water taxi, I waved up to my friend whose future looked as uncertain and confused as my own. Pug waved also before easing his taxi, “The Kitty” was the name on its side, away from the landing at the bottom of the gangway.
There’s no getting around it. I left concerned about Tony. In the same morning, he had just turned down the two major powers in L.A.: the law and the underworld.
Not a good double-down bet for any gambler.
Chapter Thirteen
I stopped at a phone booth and called the office of Buron Fitts. I hoped my call would be answered by the district attorney’s receptionist with the perfect hair, nails, and eyelashes.
“Please hold, Mr. Kile.”
No. It wasn’t Ms. Perfect. The voice had no syrup on it. When whoever had answered came back on the line she said that Mr. Fitts could see me in fifteen minutes or after four this afternoon. I took the immediate choice and hopped back in my car and took the quickest route I knew to get downtown.
Miss Perfect was not behind the receptionist desk when I arrived, instead, a sturdy woman, on the attractive side. She sat working at the desk, easy like, not flustered by her daily task of dealing with numbers and papers and phone calls from out of the blue, plus people dropping in with what they considered an urgent need to see the district attorney immediately. Receptionist/secretary was far from an easy task and she appeared fully in command. But where was Miss Perfect?
“Mr. Kile?” the stout fill-in asked. One of her silk stockings sang when it dragged across the one on her other leg. She realized by my reaction that I had heard the silk note. She smiled and extended her hand which held a business card. “Miss Hayward asked me to give you this. She had to leave for the morning. I came up from bookkeeping to fill in.”
I took the card. The front read, Evelyn Hayward along with the expected identification: D.A.’s office, phone numbers, and her position as receptionist. The back, when I turned it over, revealed a second phone number, hand-written. I smiled inside, a private smile. Yes, I was fully smitten with Callie Hopkins, but we had not spoken of what, if anything, would survive of us once I had finished helping her find her sister Frances. I would keep Evelyn’s card as a sort of reserve agains
t the coming of a possibly lonely winter.
You might see this as my not being romantic or perhaps just being cynical. I choose to see it as being practical, like a squirrel storing nuts in anticipation of winter. You get the idea. Frankly, I shouldn’t have to explain this beyond the obvious: I’m a man, the easiest explanation for such behavior. But, hey, I didn’t ask for Ms. Hayward’s card. Besides, Callie may be seeing other men herself. We had discussed her decision to no longer see Carl, and she had mentioned maybe not sharing any further platonic dates with her ex-husband, but we had never talked about her not seeing anyone else—no one at all. Although, I’d like to think she isn’t. Yes, I decided to keep Evelyn Hayward’s card in case Callie’s and my relationship … like she had explained to Carl— most relationships don’t hold up over time.
I slipped Evelyn’s card into my shirt pocket.
A moment later I walked into the private office of District Attorney Buron Fitts. His inquiry took me quickly to Tony’s rejection of what Fitts had offered. The D.A. was gracious. He took it well.
“Mr. Kile, I expected that would be the answer from Cornero. I’m disappointed, but not surprised. I’ve made the effort.”
“So, now your conscience is clear and you can saddle up with Earl Warren and try to ride Tony Cornero asunder.”
“Something like that. May I call you Matt?” I nodded. “I made my choice to ask him. He made his choice to say no.”
I laughed a sad inner laugh, sensing my lip curling slightly. The D.A. had used very similar words to what Tony had said about choices. We each make our own and are saddled with the attendant consequences. However, Fitts’s and Warren’s choices carried the weight of law, or could. Tony’s choices just carried the pride of having made them.