by David Bishop
At six-thirty, with a bottle of cabernet in hand, I took the first of three steps that led from the front sidewalk to the raised walkway leading to Callie’s front porch. Her home was what the locals often called a bungalow, the outside covered in white stucco with a mostly flat roof except for a front gable over the kitchen crowned with red mission tile. The next set of two stairs took me past a small half-walled terrace, under an arched doorway toward a hand-carved wooden door which stood open, a screened door letting in the breeze that pushed up from behind me. The inside was well lit and looked homey and cheerful.
I could see Callie in the kitchen, moving about busily. A red apron tied to her waist didn’t provide much in the way of coverage, but it did provide a place to wipe a cook’s hands as the preparation of the meal progressed. I slowed my approach and then stopped just to watch her through the window. She looked elegant and earthy at the same time, sexy, yet totally classy. I couldn’t understand how women did that. Actually, not many did so successfully, but Callie had every time I saw her.
Tonight, she wore a black dress with a modest, yet enticing plunge in the front that tied behind her head in the halter style I had this very day saw featured on the fashion page of the L.A. Times. The dress had a belted waistband and a hemline that rested at her knees. The earlier years of the 30s had lower hemlines, but since last year the hemlines had been moving up. Still, mid-knee, as was Callie’s choice for tonight, would be considered racy by many women, certainly the more matronly. Apparently, the ladies agreed with the gentlemen’s preferences since the ladies were increasingly choosing the shorter dresses and skirts.
After another minute or two, I began to feel a bit like a Peeping Tom. I crossed to her door where I reached out and knocked on the wood frame of the screen door.
She startled some when she heard my knuckles rap on the wood. She looked to the screen door and smiled. She wiped her hands on the apron that fronted her thighs before waving like someone seeing a friend across the street. Her wave invited me to enter. The screen was not latched so I pulled it toward me and stepped inside.
Callie came close. She hugged me gently. “Welcome to my modest abode, Mr. Kile.” She then leaned in again. This time she kissed me on the lips. Her open palm slid behind my head, her fingers briefly exploring the short hair at the back of my neck.
I held her hands and stepped back. “You look lovely,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve seen that style of dress, those lines. As a man I don’t know what style it is, but as a man I know I like the way you make it look.”
“Thank you, Matt.” She wound her arms around one of mine, looking up into my eyes. She often did this and I liked it. “I made it,” she said. “It’s not something I’d wear in public.”
“Oh? I admit the hemline is a bit high, but not too high for me. And you do see them at the knee in some magazines, the movies, and in the newsreels of the fashion runways.”
“Why Mr. Kile, I thought you covered the crime beat and the world of entertainment. I didn’t realize you knew so much about women’s fashion.”
“You’re playing with me, now, right?” She smiled and nodded her head. I said, “I admit women understand men’s clothing much more than men understand ladies’ fashions.”
“What’s there to know about men’s fashion? White shirts mostly, various ties, belts, sometimes the lapels on jackets get wider or thinner. Not much going on there either. And all of it comes with or without a hat, mostly with a hat, usually the same day after day with most men. No plunging necklines. No cleavage. No heels or legs to tease. Blah is the word which races to the front of my mind.”
I smiled and lowered my head to avoid her eyes. “I must confess I lack cleavage and don’t think it would look good if I had some.”
“I agree. Hopefully, I have enough for us both… . Am I embarrassing you, Matt? … Should I tone down my comments?”
“Not on my account, Ma’am. Just give me a little room to adjust. No don’t. I like it. All I know for certain is that you look wonderful, enticing. Fetching is the word my father would have used.”
“I’m glad you like it.” She walked around me to shut the door. Then turned and came back to me.
“I don’t just like it,” I said. “I like it a great deal.”
She smiled. “I hoped you would. I wanted to wear it the last night we went clubbing, but it’s just not something I’d wear out. When we’re alone, well, that’s a different matter. When it’s only the two of us, I’d like to wear the kinds of things you enjoy seeing me in… . Is that too forward of me?”
“Not in my opinion. I’m glad you feel that way. It makes it sound like we’re a couple, something … anyway.”
“Don’t you think of us as a couple?” she asked.
“Well, tell you the truth I don’t know. I mean we set out to find Frances. We did. So, I wasn’t certain what relationship we’d have after that, if any.”
“You also said you’d be a gentleman at all times so I would not feel you expected anything in return for your help.”
“Haven’t I been?”
“Yes. Very much so, but your help is over. We found Frances and regrettably achieved nothing. You are now released from that promise. In fact, I’m dying to know more about the real Matt Kile. I already know the perfect gentleman.”
“Well, first off, I’m hungry and whatever it is you are preparing smells scrumptious. And that dress on you has diversified and expanded my hunger, if I can say it that way.”
“Say it however you want. As I told you that night on the beach, I’ve been married before. I am familiar with the affections of a man and woman. My having made a wrong choice in a man in no way diminished my desire to please the right man.”
“That’s good to know… . I’m not sure what to say here other than maybe a loud whoopee which somehow seems in bad taste.”
Callie laughed louder than I had ever heard her laugh, throaty, and then rubbed her fingers across her mouth.
“Now let’s take care of your first hunger. I made meatloaf and mashed potatoes. I hope you like meatloaf.” I nodded. She took my hand and led me into the small dining room off her kitchen. When I was seated, she returned to the living room to pull down the shades over the windows to the front street. After that she carried over the bottle of wine I had brought and gave it to me along with a corkscrew.
The night air silently joined us from under the raised window over the kitchen sink. Callie rubbed her bare arms. While I uncorked the wine, she went over and pushed down the window, lowered the shade, and joined together the two sides of a soft yellow curtain. Next, she went to the stove and brought back two plates of food ready for eating.
“There’s more, of course, if this doesn’t fill you.”
An hour after dinner she took my hand and led me through a stucco archway, down a hall toward the back of the house.
“And now, Mr. Kile, let us soothe your diversified and expanded hunger.”
Chapter Eighteen
Mickey Cohen arrived at the appointed time for his rendezvous with his informant from the office of Mayor Bowron. Cohen didn’t like the place the informant had designated for them to meet. The bar was firmly within the area of town controlled by Jack Dragna, the head of the Mafia in Southern California. The two gangsters had an uneasy peace fed by their mutual realization that they would each make more money if they didn’t engage in open warfare of the kind Chicago endured between Capone and Bugs Moran during the latter part of the 20s.
Cohen sat in a booth which gave him a clear look at the bar and anyone coming in the front door. He ordered a beer and studied the crowd at the bar and the people in booths which he could see directly or in a reflection from the mirror over the bar. He studied them each, one by one. No one looked familiar and no one had that edgy, serious look that men tended to have when primed for action, often looking down, licking dry lips.
At 8:20 his informant pushed her way through the padded, leather covered door from the outside front street
. She stood still letting the door swing in until it touched her backside. After a pause to let her eyes adjust to the dark, she walked straight back to Cohen’s booth. She was not the kind of looker people would expect Mickey Cohen to be meeting for drinks. Frumpy was part of her demeanor or part of her act. Either way, it diminished the likelihood that someone there would recognize him or remember her.
“Okay. I’m here, Mr. C. Now what’s so all fired urgent?”
Mickey snapped his fingers to attract the bartender, “A champagne cocktail for the lady. I’ll take another one of these.” Mickey held up his draft glass.
“I haven’t got long, Mr. C. Let’s get to it.”
“Listen, sister. No one talks to me in that tone, see. No … body. Now show some respect. I value what you provide. I show my respect by paying you very well, not by eating your shit. Get me?”
She calmed some, put her forearms on the table and leaned forward. “I apologize, Mr. C. It’s just that I’m very nervous. The LAPD has their intelligence squad tailing you most of the time. I picked now because it’s a window when you aren’t being tailed. At least I don’t think so.”
“Don’t worry, sister. I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck. I took precautions. No one knows we’re here but you and me.”
A well-built barmaid leaned in when she brought their drinks. “Anything else, folks?”
Mickey shook her off and tossed a ten spot on her tray. He had taken off his hat as was customary for men indoors, but he had sat on the darker side of the booth and kept his head down as much as he could without his effort drawing attention.
“The rest is for you, doll,” Mickey said.
She raised her eyebrows and parted her lips, then curled the side of her mouth into an angled yet pleasant smile. After that she turned smartly on her heels and sashayed back to the bar.
Cohen came around to face his stoolie. “Time to get down to business. What’s going on with the mayor and Cornero?”
“Tony Cornero turned the mayor down flat. Mayor Bowron offered Cornero a job in his administration as an expert and consultant specifically associated with the efforts to clean up the city. Same song and dance as D.A. Fitts offered Cornero last year, only the mayor offered better pay and working directly for the mayor. Cornero can set his own hours, even—”
“I don’t need that stuff. Cornero said no, so that’s it. What I need to know is what’s the mayor going to do?”
“He’s working with Attorney General Earl Warren up in the capitol. They are determined to put a stop to the gambling ships, to stop Cornero from doing business on the S.S. Rex. They want him shut down while they battle it out in court.”
Mickey sat back and drank half his second beer. “Nice having the law dogs working my beat.”
“That it? Can I go now, Mr. C?”
“Sit tight, sister. What’s their play? What’re they gonna do? And when?”
“That’s hush-hush. Only the mayor and Warren talk about the specifics. Maybe the D.A. knows, maybe not, but no one else. I gather they plan to strike fast, assume the legal authority, get the ships buttoned up, then let the lawyers handle it.”
“How’re they gonna button up the Rex?”
“That’s all I know. Well, that last part I gather to be right from small comments I hear from Mayor Bowron. They don’t want to chance Cornero getting word of their plan and being prepared. They may even be concerned with Cornero getting an injunction based on their taking action outside their jurisdiction. They are playing this very close to the vest.”
“Okay, sister. You can blow. Oh, here. Give this envelope to your favorite charity, right?” After Cohen chuckled, he added, “Get me specifics as to what and when and you’ll get double that over and above your next regular monthly payoff.”
The woman bounced the side of the envelope against the back of her other hand, nodded her head, got up and left.
Mickey swigged the rest of his beer, looked around, and then headed down the hall past the bathrooms and out the back door to the parking lot behind the bar, where he had parked.
* * *
Neighbors shouldn’t see a man leaving a woman’s home when the sun’s coming up. To prevent that, I left Callie’s bungalow a little after midnight.
As I got in my car I noticed a man sitting behind the wheel of a car parked about fifty yards down the street behind me on the same side. I didn’t let on I had noticed the car, and pulled from the curb. At the corner I turned left and drove five blocks with my eyes mostly on the rearview mirror. That same car stayed behind me, making no effort to close the distance between us.
My tail could be the cops or the mob. There was only a driver, so the mob was likely out. They usually traveled in groups, at least more than one. This is also true of the cops, but it could be someone from the department working alone. It could also have been Carter Mitchum, the PI whom Tony Cornero had keeping a loose watch on me. The car got a little closer. When it passed under a street light the look through my rearview revealed the driver to be an average sized man. Not small, but not big like Carter Mitchum.
I was headed home and didn’t want this whoever to trail me back there. It was too late and I was too tired to drive around until he grew weary of following, and the city didn’t cotton to high-speed chases on the streets. After letting two more blocks pass under my car and making two more turns there was no doubt, not that there had been much all along. I was the object of whoever’s affection.
I made one more turn to get on a residential street which had no traffic. I pulled to the curb about a half a block up and waited. Whoever would either pull over or drive on by. Either act was okay with me, although I’d rather handle it now so he would not be on my ass tomorrow and beyond. Whoever pulled over, easing to the curb about two car lengths behind me, far enough back that he could easily accelerate out and around me.
I got out and started walking back to his car. I kept my hand near Sadie which I could feel under my arm. When I got close, he rolled down his window. He left his lights on and turned off his engine. When he got out, his coat hung easy. He wasn’t packing. It was Carl, Callie’s ex-boyfriend, whom we had called over almost a week ago in one of the clubs.
“Kile, I didn’t want to make a scene at the Cinegrill the other night, but I demand you stay away from my girl.” He had been drinking. He wasn’t pie-eyed, but had enough in him that some was escaping on his breathe.
“Look, Carl. I know it’s tough to have a gal give you the take-a-hike talk. Lord knows it has happened to me more than once. Especially a classy dame like Callie, but this was Callie’s decision. It’s not up to me or you who she sees. She said you two were through. Now be a good boy, grow up, and learn to live with it.”
“I don’t like your mouth, Kile.”
“You’re not the first. It’s how I make my living. Look, Carl, it’s late. I’m tired. I’m trying to help ease you through this, but my patience is drying up fast. Wipe your nose and go home. Get drunk for a couple days, and then get on with your life.” I turned to leave.
Carl grabbed my outer shoulder and spun me back around. When he did he threw a high, wide, and not handsome right toward my jaw.
I stepped in close, inside the swing, and quickly whipped my left arm up, over and down, wrapping it around his right arm. Next, I raised my forearm up against the underside of his elbow, bending it in a direction it wasn’t designed to be bent.
“Carl. I can break your arm at the elbow from this position. Rather easily actually. I have no desire to do this, but your interference ends now. You’re not a bad guy. You’ve got a broken heart and now a bruised ego. Both those things heal faster than broken elbows. I’m going to let go so you can get in your car and drive away. I don’t want to see you again and I don’t want to hear from Callie that you’ve been pestering her. Most love affairs end. Yours with Callie is over. It’s time for you to start taking applications to replace her.”
I looked him in the eyes from close, real close, and raised my e
yebrows. He nodded, short and crisp, twice.
I unwrapped my arm from around his, first lessening the pressure so he could drop down off his toes. When I turned to walk to my car he grabbed me again. He was a slow learner. As I came around, he crouched low and hit me in the gut. A pretty good punch actually. It hurt. Maybe I was the slow learner. Tonight, words weren’t going to be enough with Carl.
As I regained my height, I judo chopped him in the neck and then hit him twice in the mouth, my left followed quickly by a right. He went down. Out. I dragged Carl back to his car, opened the passenger door, set him on the bench seat and pushed him over sideways. His head hit the steering wheel before settling onto the seat. I left his feet dangling out onto the running board of his 1934 Ford Deluxe. I looked through his wallet, got his name and address, and took one of his business cards: Carl Tressen, Jr., sales manager, Tressen Office Supplies. I popped his trunk and found various office supplies including a box of staplers, one of the newer hot office items. I took one with me and walked back up to the open car door. I took another of his cards out of his pocket and wrote on the backside, QUIT WHILE YOU’RE AHEAD.
I tore open his shirt, popping two buttons off in the process, and stapled the card to the right side of his chest. He groaned.
I got in my car and drove the rest of the way home.
The hardest part of wooing a woman is accepting it when she no longer wants your woo.
Chapter Nineteen
About that same time, on the other side of town.
“Frances. You set? You know what your job is?”
She nodded. “I got it Johnny. You can count on me.”
“I am, Doll. You do it right and I won’t have any worries from behind me.” Johnny kissed Frances and they headed up the short stairs to the back entrance to the second-rate hotel where tonight’s ten-to-ten, twelve-hour unsanctioned poker game would be going on in room 714.