David Bishop - Matt Kile 04 - Find My Little Sister

by David Bishop

  “Frances Hopkins is in the next room, Mr. Breeze.”

  Mitchum opened the door. I walked in first, then Breeze, followed by Tony and Mitchum. I continued to keep my eyes riveted on Breeze. The killer had seen lots of death, delivered lots of death. Still, he looked stunned when he saw Frances, the sheet lying across her chest like a strapless evening gown, minus the glamour.

  His hands hung heavy at the end of his arms. My read of the man was that he now understood the despair felt by the loved ones of many of his targets. Breeze said only two words: “Who? Why?” Both said in monotone. He looked at me, at Mitchum, and then at Tony. The two questions were still on his face, in his eyes, crowding his heart.

  I felt no sympathy for Johnny Breeze, only for Frances and for Callie whom I needed to tell before the scuttlebutt on the ship brought her the ugly news. I excused myself. Tony looked at me and nodded. He understood.

  * * *

  “Callie,” I said after getting back to our stateroom. “I need to tell you something.” I sat on the couch against the wall just below the starboard side porthole.

  She came over and sat next to me. She looked into my eyes. Without words she knew I carried a burden. She waited until I was ready. Sitting there, holding my hand nearest her.

  I looked at her, my hand firming onto hers. “Frances is dead. I’m so sorry. There is no easy way… . I’ve seen her. There is no doubt.”

  Then she unknowingly quoted Johnny Breeze. “Who? Why?”

  “We don’t know who or why. I don’t believe Breeze did it. He was devastated. Her throat had been cut. She was found in the hallway near her room. That’s about all that is known at this time. Carter Mitchum is looking into it. He will keep me apprised, as I will you.”

  Callie hugged me. She pulled back without having cried aloud, her face washed by quiet tears.

  I went into the bathroom and returned with a damp warm hand towel. I wiped her face and held her.

  “I need to call Father,” she said after a few minutes. “Let him know.” She used the now cold towel to wipe her eyes saying, “The cool feels good. Thank you.”

  “I’ll set it up with Tony. You can call from his room. My guess is in about two hours you can make the call. They’re a bit busy and you need some time to gather yourself.”

  Truth was I wanted Tony to get Frances’s body out of the room before Callie made that call. Callie hadn’t asked to see Frances. I didn’t suggest it.

  “You saw my sister, Matt?”

  “Yes.”

  “No doubt it was her?”

  “None whatsoever. Frances is dead.”

  That’s where we left it.

  “I’d like to be alone for a while. Maybe an hour. Okay, Matt? You understand?”

  I held her. When I took down my arms, Callie went to the bed. I put the do not disturb sign on the door and walked down the hall.

  Out on deck I saw Tony again standing near the press boat. This time he had a case of scotch and a case of rum. He was tossing the bottles down. The first twenty-three were caught. The last bottle dropped short into the ocean and a newsman retrieved it using a fish net.

  “You need any food, boys? I can have you brought out what the passengers are eating. Better vittles than you’ll get from the law dogs.”

  When Tony saw me he ran his finger across the bill of his hat and saluted the newsmen. Then he came to me.

  “How’s Callie, Matt?”

  “About like you’d expect… . Anything happening with the authorities?”

  “Mitchum went down to the landing,” Tony said. “He motioned over the boat which held Warren Olney, the deputy D.A. The two of ‘em talked about the killing, also about the need to get the passengers off. The coppers took the view that if I didn’t think they had any jurisdiction then we would not have told them about the murder. After a while, they accepted that by cooperating they could argue I was admitting they were the proper authority here.”

  “That is an argument in their favor, Tony.”

  “Yeah. But we have a murder and a body. If we weren’t under siege, we’d have one of the water taxis and the ship’s purser take her ashore.”

  “You could hold a funeral at sea.”

  “I doubt either Callie or her father would want that. No, this is the right thing to do.”

  “You’re a good man, Tony Cornero.”

  “Don’t let that get around.” Tony put his hand on my shoulder. “Hanging around you must be rubbing off.”

  I shook his hand, and then our hands moved to one another’s shoulders. Tony Cornero was a solid human being. He just had this unquenchable desire to take on all challengers. The mob. The law. The next turn of a card. The next tumble of the dice. The next twist of fate.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The next morning, by radio, we heard the authorities make two primary points. One, that there had been a murder on the Rex, but that no one else appeared to be in any danger. And, secondly, being the political animals they are, the interview with the authorities had a theme that the murder on board the Rex proved the unsavory and violent nature of organized crime and the societal influences of illegal gambling. The interview did not acknowledge that the very issue of whether or not gambling at sea beyond three-miles of shore was in fact, illegal. Instead it simply labeled it as such. They also didn’t mention the dozens of murders which occur in Los Angeles every year, a city crowded with what is clearly illegal gambling.

  Around noon, a police boat came to the landing and a short while later took the stretcher that held the remains of Frances Hopkins. Her identity would get out soon. Callie had already spoken with her father, a task she called the hardest thing she had ever done.

  Before the stretcher started down the gangway, Callie walked near until security stepped in front of her. Cornero gave the okay and security stepped to the side. Callie lowered the cover and looked at her sister’s face. She needed to see for herself, but she needed to see no more than her little sister’s face. She turned and came to me.

  After that Callie and I, Tony, and Carter Mitchum went in the restaurant. Tony braced Callie’s coffee with a little brandy. I ordered her some scrambled eggs and buttered toast. She said she didn’t want it. I told the waiter to bring it anyway.

  Johnny Breeze sat two tables over from us.

  When the waitress started toward our table, Breeze stood up. A gun from somewhere appeared in his hand. He moved quickly, his gun hand held at his side. The gun was visible only if one looked down his arm at his hand.

  Breeze angled his approach slightly, coming more toward the approaching waitress than directly toward our table.

  Carter Mitchum abruptly stood. An echo rose from his chair when it fell backwards against the floor.

  Carter hollered, “Stop right there. Keep your gun down.”

  Breeze stopped. In a flash he raised his gun and shot the waitress three times. His first two shots struck her in the chest. His last entered her head. Carter fired once at Breeze, his bullet striking the gunsel in the shoulder.

  People screamed. Chairs were tipped over. Tables were knocked off kilter. Tablecloths darkened from spilled glasses and cups. Diners ran for the exits, their coats forgotten.

  I looked back at Breeze. He moved the gun into his other hand and, standing over the waitress, shot her twice more in the head.

  Carter fired three more times.

  Johnny hit the floor like dead weight—which he was.

  The short, inglorious saga of Frances and Johnny ended right there on the floor of the S.S. Rex. No one understood their love, but everyone understood the inevitability of their death. They had taken what they wanted and gotten what they deserved.

  * * *

  Carter Mitchum had recognized the waitress. Flaxi was her name. She had been Breeze’s former moll. He said she had a reputation for having killed twice for Johnny, both times slashing the throat of the victims while they slept, after having seduced them.

  Mitchum said Flaxi was her nickname bec
ause of her pale yellow hair, the color of flax. He didn’t know her real name.

  By the end of the day, Deputy District Attorney Olney and Tony Cornero had negotiated an end to the standoff. Well, at least a change. The passengers would all be allowed to return to shore by water taxi.

  * * *

  The following morning, August 3rd, 1939, the radio repeatedly played Earl Warren speaking of his satisfaction.

  “We are satisfied that the Rex is not doing business, and if Cornero and his crew want to remain in seclusion three miles out on the ocean indefinitely, we can wait longer than they can. I don’t think they will commit any further crimes unless they start stealing from each other.”

  Later that day, Police Captain George Contreras asked through a bullhorn, “Are you ready to turn over the Rex?”

  Tony Cornero laughed. “What good would that do me?” Tony went on to speak of ample provisions and the relaxed atmosphere of the ship without passengers. He made it seem the crew and he were on vacation.

  Callie and I left on Pug’s water taxi. We were the last passengers to go ashore.

  On the eighth day of the siege, Cornero gave up and let officers confiscate the Rex. When asked by reporters why he gave up, he claimed he needed a haircut. His surrender agreement included that he would be taken back to Santa Monica on the water taxi named Kitty, captained by Pug. I rode out with Pug and accompanied Tony, Carter Mitchum, and Captain Stanley as they came in. When they stepped back onto the Santa Monica Pier they surrendered to L.A. District Attorney Buron Fitts.

  While being escorted by the officers, Tony turned to the members of the press, to whom he had thrown scotch and rum a few days before while the boat they were in circled the Rex.

  “See ya in court, boys. The real battle is about to begin.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Over the next several weeks my column mostly featured the ongoing legal maneuverings of both California Attorney General Earl Warren and the lawyers for Anthony Cornero. Following several lower court skirmishes, the case percolated up to the California Supreme Court in “People v. Anthony Stralla.” The law considered Tony’s correct last name to be Stralla, his stepfather’s name, not Cornero, his birthfather’s name, as Tony preferred.

  The judges reviewed numerous historical records that mentioned the geographical formation of Santa Monica Bay, including the Portuguese Explorer Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo’s notes from 1542 in which he designated it the “Gran Ensenada” (the “Grand Bay”). In the end the California Supreme Court sided with the California Attorney General Earl Warren and declared that Santa Monica was a bay and, as such, fell within California’s jurisdiction.

  Tony had lost in the highest relevant court. He settled the case. As part of that settlement, he agreed to pay the high costs for the destruction of the gambling equipment and related furnishings, the state and local expenses to abate the S.S. Rex and all unpaid taxes. No charges were made against Tony Cornero.

  In my view, the lack of criminal charges against Tony confirmed the state remained unsure of its argument that Tony had engaged in any illegal activity given the mixed lower court rulings during the periods when the S.S. Rex was open for business.

  It has also been rumored that the house’s cash on the Rex had been confiscated in some manner.

  * * *

  November, 1939 - The End of an Era

  The approximate eleven-year run of the colorful and romantic California gambling ships has passed. With Tony Cornero’s surrender of the S.S. Rex and the California Supreme Court ruling that the California coastline extended out to an imaginary line between Point Vicente and Point Dume, the era of these ships is over. The prevailing legal argument was one Cornero had defeated on appeal from a lower court decision, but in the end the Supreme Court overruled the appellate court so the interpretation that came from the office of Earl Warren, California Attorney General, has survived.

  Still, fear not, gamblers among you, we continue to have the gambling dens and bookie joints which organized crime has scattered among the citizenry. Estimated at more than one thousand, these establishments continue to mysteriously avoid discovery by the local and state coppers and the district attorneys who have so frequently and eloquently spoken of the horrors of gambling. Their point, apparently, is that gambling on a ship three plus miles out to sea can destroy the very fabric of society while that fabric remains intact and strong as long as the gambling dens are down the street and around the corner. This logic escapes me. But then, perhaps there are other issues involved. Tony Cornero swore he never paid for protection from the authorities. If this is true, might that have a role in the different treatment of onshore gambling compared to offshore gambling? I shall leave that to the reasoning and conscience of the readers.

  The one thing I know for certain, we have not heard the last of Anthony “Tony the Hat” Cornero. He will resurface, and I will report it when he does.

  Good night Mr. and Mrs. Los Angeles and the gambling dens on shore… . Good Luck, Suckers. Matt Kile.

  * * *

  I took Callie home to her father’s house. We found him sitting on a wooden chair, on the patio near the pool. He didn’t get up. Callie pulled a chair close and sat near him. She put her hand on his bare forearm and stayed quiet until her gray-haired father turned to her. His eyes were red. His cheeks wet. His lips quivered.

  I went into the house and found a bottle of whiskey, the brand I’d heard him request when the three of us had gone out to dinner on several occasions, and three glasses. I took them out, poured two fingers in two glasses and handed them to Callie and her father, then a third glass for myself. I took a seat in view, but at a little distance. This was a family time and I wanted to respect their need for it.

  After about ten minutes, Mr. Hopkins said, “Why? Why, Callie?” He looked over to me, his eyes, his entire face and body, beseeching me to make sense of it. “Mr. Kile … why?”

  I moved my chair a little closer. “Mr. Hopkins, sometimes, in spite of how badly we want it, the why can’t be found. I doubt Frances even knew. Young people sometimes get a romantic notion. The pull of excitement, thrills, independence, just overwhelms them. Johnny Breeze was a good looking, confident man, but a bad man. Your daughter came under his spell. She forgot all she had learned growing up. The wonder of his world. The daring of his world. The magic of Hollywood and the underworld drugged her. I’m afraid no more of an explanation is available.”

  “Matt’s right, Daddy. We need to grieve for the sadness of it all, and then move on. We each must decide how we’re going to let this loss affect the rest of our lives. We’ll always miss her. Always remember the Frances we knew and loved.

  * * *

  That night, Callie and I returned to our favorite stretch of beach. The Pacific Ocean a bit rougher than usual, yet the air felt mild. We sat on our regular driftwood stump to take off our shoes. Then we walked down and along the hard sand, the surf alternating between lapping at our ankles and licking our toes. It was like all the other times, except we were quiet. Callie said nothing.

  We just walked. Oh, we held hands, but she didn’t cling to my arm. We didn’t stop to ooh and aah at the silvery gossamer the moon scattered across the surface of the water. We didn’t kiss.

  After an hour we turned around and headed back. We usually turned back if she found the air too cool or the wind too strong. She never minded if the sea breeze messed up her hair. I liked that. She was beautiful, yet not consumed with being so.

  When we were partway back, Callie stopped and gave me that little tug she did when she wanted me to stop as well, wanted me to come around to face her. I did.

  “I spoke to the police about Frances’s body,” Callie said. “Because she was murdered there will be an autopsy. The body may be released in a few days. I want to have the burial as soon as possible. Daddy needs it to be over. We all do.”

  I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t really anything to say. I held her. She wept for a few minutes. Then she sta
rted walking again, tugging my arm to get me started.

  “Frances wasn’t all bad,” she said in a tone that made me wonder which of us she was saying it to. “Not really. Was she, Matt?”

  “She was your sister. You will always love her. Your memories will always be filled with her smiles, the good times the two of you shared, her gentleness as a child. The kind things she did for you and with you, the things that sisters share. So, no, to you she wasn’t all bad.”

  “What about to you? To everyone?”

  “I didn’t really know her. I only saw her as a grown woman, a tough woman, a moll for an assassin. Still, I understand the love you have for her and I know that anyone you loved could not be all bad.”

  “Do you remember when we walked here the first time? We talked about the romantic notion that when a person dies, their name is written on a cloud?”

  “I remember.”

  “Do you think that will happen?”

  “I think that what you just said was that cloud.”

  “It hurts so much. My father is … devastated.”

  “Tony has a saying. ‘Life has tragedy. Rise above it. If you can’t, it isn’t worth having.’ ”

  “That’s not something I’d expect to hear from a gangster.”

  “Tony was a bootlegger and always a gambler so I suppose he falls within the definition of gangster. But he is nothing like most gangsters. Sort of like you just said about Frances, he isn’t all bad. Not really. He’s my friend and I’ve never had a better one. I have this ominous feeling that, like you did Frances, I’ll lose Tony one day in the not-too-distant future.”