by David Bishop
“Am I free to report this offer and refusal in my column? It would make good copy and let the folks know you tried to find an accommodation.”
“No, Matt. I get no benefit from appearing to make deals with gangsters. L.A. has had too many officials who have done just that. If it had worked, I could have played up the benefits of closing down a top-of-the-line gambling ship and gaining Cornero’s expertise in cleaning up illegal onshore gambling operations. That benefit is now gone. I’ll settle for being the law-and-order D.A.”
“I’m sorry for this result, Mr. Fitts. Although I agree Cornero’s decision was all but inevitable.”
“I’m sorry too, for your friend and also for those of us who are trying to clean up this cesspool. Mr. Cornero could have been a grand help.”
“Yes. But then Tony Cornero likely doesn’t know anything more about in-city gambling dens than certain officers in your own police department. So, it’s not as if that knowledge is not otherwise available to you. Many of the illegal locations are so widely known as to be considered common knowledge. May I ask, why so much energy is going toward ending gambling on what many claim to be the high sea, while so little is being done to shut down the dens, brothels, and bookie joints right here within our city?”
“Matt, I don’t think I need to explain that to you. These hoodlums are connected into our police department, hell, even into my own staff. I don’t like that fact, but we both know it’s true. Regardless of their station in life, most people want more money than they otherwise have. The marketplace works not only for goods and services, but also for the information gangsters want. There is no interview technique or employment test that allows us to select only those with the morals to resist the temptation of tax-free cash.”
“Especially when many citizens believe that government should not infringe on the people’s right to gamble, or drink, or fornicate.”
“There is that, too.” D.A. Fitts stood and extended his hand. “Thank you, Matt. I owe you and I won’t forget. I’ll find something fitting to replace you keeping this matter between us. Stop by anytime.”
So far I’d gotten a no from Tony, and delivered it to District Attorney Buron Fitts. I still had Mickey Cohen to go.
Why not save the best for last, right?
* * *
From a booth on Spring Street not far from City Hall, I called Mickey’s Haberdashery. High-Pockets answered, put his hand over the phone, and after a moment returned his attention to me.
“The boss says you should come on over. His exact words were, ‘Tell Matt we got a full selection of ice cream and two clean bowls.’ He’s giving me some time off after you arrive.”
I hung up the pay phone, got back in my car and headed for the Mickster’s high-class clothing joint. I know an expensive clothing store shouldn’t be called a joint, but I thought of everything associated with the Mickster as a joint.
“Hello, Matt,” Cohen said when I arrived. “High-Pockets, dish us out some cream before you leave. Same flavors as last time.”
High-Pockets brought two heaping bowls and then headed out the door. On his way out Harry passed a smallish guy coming in.
“Hello, Mr. Cohen,” said the guy coming in. “You got anything in here that’ll fit me?” The man spoke and walked with an effeminate manner.
Mickey screamed. “Get the hell out of here, you fag.” The man spun on his heels and headed out the door close enough behind High-Pockets Harry to be walking in his shadow.
“Who was that?” I asked. “I’ve never seen him around.”
“You ain’t missed nothin’, that’s for damn sure. He’s the fairy I pay twice a week to paint LaVonne’s fingernails and toenails. Can you believe that shit? With all the laws they keep making, they oughta have one to eliminate those damn swishers.”
“LaVonne’s your wife, right?”
“Not a chance. I’ve been married before. I don’t need another noodge. The mishegaas.”
“I didn’t know you’d been married.”
“Not many people do.”
“Come on, Mickey, I’m sure you got something worthwhile out of being married.”
He laughed. “A hell of a recipe for chicken salad. And a pretty good one for potato salad, if that fits your definition of something worthwhile. Pretty damn expensive recipes, I’d say.”
“That can’t be all.”
“I kept some great memories of us doing it on a trampoline.”
“Okay, so LaVonne’s not your wife, but you’re paying to have her toenails done. Sounds like something pretty close to marriage, if you ask me.”
“Who’s asking you? You know nobody talks to me about this kinda shit but you.”
“That’s what makes me such a good friend, Mickey. We relate. I’m not trying to get anything from you. Well, maybe a juicy quote now and again, and free ice cream of course.”
“Listen. We had a reason for this meeting. Let’s get to it. When do I sit down with your pal Tony?
“Sorry to say this, Mickey. You can’t. Tony’s position is resolute. He’s on the high seas where he says there are no anti-gambling laws and, therefore, no need for protection from the laws of Los Angeles or the State of California.”
“You know there’s pirates on them high seas? Pirates who plunder and scuttle ships.”
Scuttle and plunder were not words I expected to hear from Mickey Cohen whose police file says that Meyer Harris Cohen made it through the third grade just before his first arrest for using a baseball bat for a weapon while holding up the box office at a movie theater. He must’ve anticipated Tony’s answer and planned his reply.
“Funny thing, Mickey. That’s the word Tony used, too, pirates. The law of the sea allows the captain of any vessel to use virtually whatever force he deems necessary to drive off pirates. Now, Tony’s not trying to pick a fight here. He respects you and Bennie Siegel. He just feels that his ships are his and he can run them as he wishes. He also states he will not in any way compete or interfere with your control and operation of onshore gambling.”
“This town’s crowded with creeps who once thought the way your friend thinks. The graveyards are full of mugs who never wised up.”
“I’m sorry, Mickey. I tried. I crapped out.”
“I understand. Tony’s a hardhead, always has been, but I knew he’d hear you out. Nobody coulda done better. But here I am, with wind pudding for my effort. Your pal made his choice. Now he’ll have to live with it … as a figure of speech of course.”
“One more question, Mickey. When I dig something up that’s newsworthy, it ends up in my column. Things which come to me from others, voluntarily, don’t get in print without their approval. How would you feel about my putting out the story of your offer and Cornero’s refusal? You know the folks in this town love to read about the Mickster.”
He laughed. “Leave me out of it. Keep it in the context of underworld figures offered, somethin’ along them lines.”
“You know the public will take that to mean Mickey Cohen. You are the man to my readers.”
Mickey laughed again. Unlike Jack Dragna and most other mobsters, both Siegel and Cohen loved their Hollywood images as real tough guys. Not like Bennie Siegel’s pal, George Raft, a fine thespian who always played himself—a tough guy. Raft had been known to punch a few guys. It was said he also had a tough jaw and liked to scrap, but his rep didn’t include putting anybody down for the final count.
“Use it like that, Matt, and we’re jake, okay?”
“So be it. Thanks for the ice cream, Mickey. It hit the spot.”
“Always does. Stop in any time and we’ll share a bowl. Call first.”
“I’ll be seeing you, Mickey, unless you got any other tips for my column.”
“Not for your column, Matt, but here’s one for you. Stagehand in the Santa Anita Handicap on the fifth of next month. Seabiscuit will be the big favorite. Stagehand is a three-year-old and no three-year-old has ever won that race so the odds should pay big. Bet the
farm, Matt, you’ll clean up. And that don’t go in your column, capisce? You keep this one buttoned up.”
When Mickey gave you something private it was an act of friendship. He expected it to be used in accordance with the conditions, particularly if one expected to get more tips from the Mickster.
Would I be placing a bet? You’re damn right. I had nothing to do with arranging the fix, if there was a fix to begin with, so what the hell. Yeah, I’m rationalizing. I’ll also be collecting, hopefully. There was still some risk. Horse breaks a leg. Jockey falls off. The guys with the big risks were the ones at the track if things didn’t go as Mickey may have instructed they should go.
I nodded and he said, “Remember, bet your shorts on this one, it’s a lock. And place your wager with one of Dragna’s books so nobody connected with me will have to pay you.”
Mickey laughed while walking me to the door.
Chapter Fourteen
I had promised the Mickster I’d deliver his message and bring back Tony’s reply before I went to the hotel to see if their guest list included one Johnny Breeze, gunman extraordinaire. I’d done that, so it was time to visit the Hotel Roosevelt to try and brace the man who carried the odd description of gorgeous and ruthless.
The Hollywood Roosevelt was a place habited by the swells and those who had enough green to stay down the hall from the swells. Johnny Breeze would be in the later group, assuming he was in residence.
The front desk claimed no guest by the name of Johnny Breeze or Tommy Rocco, the alias Mickey Cohen said Breeze sometimes used. The way the counter jockey’s eyes went tight and he ran his tongue across his lips before answering told me he had either lied, or his shorts had suddenly and invisibly been yanked up to his waist.
I sat around awhile before venturing into the hotel’s Blossom Room for lunch. Eating gave time for the desk clerk to tire of keeping track of me. While I ate I watched the cashier for the restaurant scanning the nickels in her cash box. The Jefferson nickel had been introduced a few weeks ago and many people were hoarding them as collector’s items. After I ate and settled up with that cashier, I roamed the halls.
Eventually, I found a young bellhop with a name badge. Morgan had the manner of a self-ordained man-about-town, a hustler, at least in his mind. It cost me twenty, which was a lot of cabbage in today’s moola. Hopefully, I’d make it back betting on Stagehand in the Santa Anita race. The double sawbuck bought me a room number and enough description to be reasonably sure I had the found Breeze.
“Half the maids is playing with themselves after they see ‘im,” Morgan said. “As for the dish he’s with … whoa. The boys who work my job are jockeying to be on call when that dame needs something. I never heard no name for her, but she is gor—geous. Movie star scrumptious.” Morgan then wrapped up his apt description with, “Yummy and I don’t mean for the tummy.”
After Morgan did a three-sixty on the ball of his left highly-polished brogan, I asked, “Red hair?”
“Yeah. She’s got red hair. And she can sure stretch a sweater.”
I extended another ten spot toward Morgan. He grasped it between his thumb and forefinger, while I kept a firm grip on my end. After that we stood there speaking with a ten dollar bill suspended between us.
“This is not to be talked about with anyone—anyone. If I learn you have spoken of this with … anyone … I’ll be coming back for my money. And you don’t want me to come back for my money. You get me?” When Morgan nodded, I released my grip on my end. Morgan folded the ten once and hid it in his front pocket.
“I understand,” he said. He didn’t, but if he kept his trap shut my dough had bought what I wanted.
I located Breeze’s room on the fourth floor. Then I reconnoitered to find the elevator and stairs closest to his room. I followed them down to where they came out in the lobby. After stopping at the gift shop for a newspaper, I hunkered down where I could see the two ways Breeze would have to pick from when he came down.
Two hours later, almost two hours, the elevator doors parted and Breeze, at least a guy I assumed to be Breeze, came out. He was mid-to-late thirties and tight. I don’t know a better word to describe him. He was neither skinny nor fat. It was his skin, yeah, his skin, his face in particular. Tight, the experts might say taut. The skin over his cheeks wrinkle free to the point where they could be played like bongos. His eyes twinkled, but not like the merry connotation that goes with twinkle. His twinkle made me think of light reflecting off a grave shovel.
He walked toward me. Before he got by, I said his name, “Johnny, Johnny Breeze,” loud enough for him to hear, but no one else.
His stride shortened for a step, more a hesitation, a hitch, before he recaptured his pace as if to appear he had not heard me, or more precisely hadn’t reacted.
“I can say it louder, Johnny. I’m trying to be discreet.”
He came back and sat in the seat next to me, settled in, and leaned toward me. His hand firmed his arm against the edge of the chair. His forearms weren’t Popeye’s, but nonetheless well muscled and taut like the rest of him. The sag in his coat just enough to show off the rod kept warm by his armpit. It appeared to be a practiced move when he wanted someone to know he was packing a gat.
I did the same, showing off my Stainless Thompson 1911 pistol. After the attempt on my life the other night, Sadie, my pet name for my Thompson, and I were again going steady. I offered a mirthless smile. He did as well. We each sat back.
“Are you the guy who’s been asking about me in the clubs lately?”
I nodded.
“And what is it I can do for you?”
I had heard that Breeze was well educated and the way he spoke confirmed it.
“Your name came up while I was having ice cream with Mickey Cohen.”
That was true. It was also true that I was shamelessly name-dropping. Letting Breeze know I was pals with the Mickster. I wanted Breeze to be sure of that, more sure than I was.
“You a copper?” He smiled.
“Don’t smile, Johnny. You face looks better without it. Like cold, chiseled granite, a headstone waiting to be carved.”
His smile withdrew like a flushed toilet. Just then I glanced across the lobby to see a gorgeous woman with black hair take a quick look in our direction before turning and heading out the door. I thought it might have been Frances in a wig, but, at the distance, I couldn’t be sure. It happened too quickly.
“I asked, are you a copper?”
“If I am, I wouldn’t be alone and you wouldn’t still be sitting. Now let’s quit wasting time. You know who I am. My identity was part of the messages you got about my asking for you in the clubs.”
“You’re an ex-copper, Kile, a not very smart ex-cop, coming looking for me alone.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not smart, but you are. Smart enough to know you don’t need the heat that would follow plugging a guy known as the Walter Winchell of the West. For bumping off a news writer, the press would make you public enemy number one and keep the prod on the coppers to bring you in.”
“You figure I know that?”
“I do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been satisfied stitching up the side of my car the other night. That was a warning, not an attempted murder. Had you meant to knock me off I wouldn’t be here at your hotel.”
“Get to it, Kile. What do you want?”
“I’m looking for a dame name of Frances. You said you heard I’ve been asking about you around town. That means you know I’ve also been asking about her.”
“Showing a picture around, I’m told.”
I held the picture of Frances out to Johnny, my fingers remaining on a good measure of it.
He grasped the upper corner, tilting it a bit to get rid of a reflection from the ceiling light, and looked. “Don’t know the woman,” he said after about a ten-second look. Then he said, “I’ll hold onto this.”
I tightened my fingers on the picture he still held the other end of. The tug of war with Morgan over the
ten spot had been good training.
“You said you don’t know her, so what would you want with her picture?”
He smiled.
“I figure you told her to get rid of all the pictures of her at home. She missed one.” I pulled back gently. Enough for him to know I didn’t plan on letting him have the picture.
Breeze drew back his hand. “Don’t overly rely on that Walter Winchell of the West bit. It’s in play, I grant you that, but it doesn’t override all other considerations.”
“You could try and plug me right here, right now. Then take the picture of Frances. Of course that would mean walking away from what you got in your room upstairs. I don’t figure you want to do that.”
Breeze got up and moved across the lobby without saying another word, without another look. He went out through the far door, the door through which the dame with the black hair had exited a few minutes before.
I moved to a chair out of sight of the doorway that Breeze had just walked through and waited ten minutes. When he didn’t come back into the hotel, I went looking for Morgan. As the mayor had said, information like goods and services traded openly in the tax-free cash market.
For another twenty, making my investment in Morgan a half-a-hundred, he got me in their room. I left ten minutes later. I thought about taking a lipstick or whatever for Callie to identify as the brand used by her sister, but they’d miss it and know I had been in their room. Instead, I wrote down the brand, along with the brand of face powder and the label name in some of her dresses. I also found one of those head-shaped forms on which women kept wigs when they were not being worn, it held no wig. That could explain the black hair I saw on the woman, who otherwise resembled Frances, I saw going out the door. While none of this was foolproof, I added the black-haired dame who went out the hotel door, and the redheaded woman Morgan said shared the room with Breeze, for the answer that they were one and the same: Callie’s sister, Frances.