Jonas flipped the sheet. He didn't want to read any more about Angie.
(2) The second set of fingerprints are those of Maurice Cohen. Maurice Cohen was born in New York, N.Y., on April 26, 1882. This Bureau possesses fingerprint records of Maurice Cohen as follows:
a. Subject was arrested on May 3,1900, in New Orleans, La., on a charge of larceny by fraud. This charge was subsequently dropped.
b. Subject was arrested on August 8, 1900, in New Orleans, La., on a charge of larceny by fraud. Subject was convicted on this charge and sentenced to one year of imprisonment. Subject entered a Louisiana state prison farm on September 21, 1900, and was released on September 21, 1901.
c. Subject was arrested in Houston, Texas, on March 17, 1903, on a charge of public vagrancy. He was sentenced to thirty days on a road gang and was released on March 18, 1903.
d. Subject was arrested in Detroit, Mich., on June 4, 1927, on a charge of being accessory to murder. The charges were dropped for lack of evidence, and he was released from the Wayne County jail on August 19, 1927.
e. Subject was arrested on January 23, 1932, in Lucas County, Ohio, on a charge of violating the National Prohibition Act and the Ohio state laws prohibiting the sale of alcoholic beverages. Subject was convicted on this charge and sentenced to three years imprisonment. He was received at the Ohio Penitentiary on February 27, 1932, and was released on parole on May 2, 1934.
The subject Cohen is reputed to have been a member of the "Purple Gang."
This Bureau has no further record of the subject Cohen.
Jonas grinned at Bat. "So that's who Morris Chandler is," he said.
"It makes me wonder what we'd find out if we ran a check on Nevada Smith," said Bat.
Jonas's face darkened. "No!" he yelled. "Don't even think of it. Don't even— Son of a bitch!" He grabbed a vial, popped off the lid, and shook a tiny pill into his hand. He shoved the pill into his mouth and sat silently for a quarter of a minute, eyes closed.
"Can I do anything for you?"
Jonas shook his head. "The pills take care of it," he said.
Bat stood staring at Jonas, his mind filled with things he might say, with thoughts to which he would not give voice. God, it had to be hard on a man to—
"Listen to me," Jonas grunted. "Don't you ever think of running any kind of check on Nevada. He was a better man than you'll ever be."
"Better than you, too?" Bat asked. It was what popped out; he had not meant to challenge Jonas at this moment. "I mean— "
"Yeah," Jonas interrupted. "Better than me. Better than the old man. I mean my father. Some ways. Nevada knew some special things about ... life. I wish you'd known him better. I wish— " He paused, as if his breath came hard. "So ... Chandler is Cohen. Felony record. By God!"
27
1
BAT SAT ACROSS THE TABLE FROM MARGIT LITTLE, in a cozy candlelit Czech restaurant in Beverly Hills: the kind of place more likely to be found on the Upper East Side than in Los Angeles. They had finished their dinner and were sipping the last of their wine. Bat's hand was on hers.
"Margit," he said in a low voice. "What I'm going to ask probably won't come as any surprise to you. Will you come to the hotel with me?"
"I don't think that's a very good idea, Bat," she said solemnly.
"Sometimes the best things in the world are bad ideas."
She sighed softly. "I'm not surprised. I knew if I came out to dinner with you again, you'd ask. I guess if I didn't want to hear you ask, I shouldn't have accepted your invitation."
This was the fourth time he had taken her to dinner. From their conversation over those dinners, he had learned that Margit was no naïf. To the contrary, she was cunning and focused; she knew what she wanted, and she thought she knew how to get it. What was more, he could detect no sign that she carried any burdensome emotional baggage. She was pretty and talented, and she knew it. She was fresh and vivacious before the TV cameras. She was potentially a bigger star than Glenda Grayson ever dreamed of being, and she knew that, too.
"If you're not offended by my asking, I won't be offended if the answer's no," said Bat.
"I'm not offended. I expected you to ask, sooner or later. Everybody does. It's just that I don't think it's a good idea," she said.
"Why?"
"Your father. He'd be furious. Wouldn't he?"
"Well, in the first place, he doesn't have to know. In the second place, he doesn't own you. Has he told you he loves you? Has he asked you to marry him?"
She shook her head.
"So ... " said Bat. He tossed back the last of his wine.
Margit turned her hand over, palm up, and closed her fingers around his hand. "All right, Bat," she said. A faint but playful smile came to her face. "I guess a girl can never have too many friends."
2
They coupled on the couch, and when that proved too constricting, they rolled off onto the thick carpet and finished there, too fervently involved to interrupt long enough to get up and walk to the bedroom. He was enervated when they were finished and was astonished at how exuberant it left her. She scrambled to her feet and pirouetted around the living room of his suite. Bat watched her, fascinated. He'd never before had sex with a girl who shaved her crotch. She shook her head, tossing her ponytail around, and then she sat down on the couch beside him.
"Do you have any Old Bushmill's?" she asked. She had acquired a taste for the Old Bushmill's Irish whiskey Jonas had introduced her to and always ordered it for her before-dinner drinks. "I feel like a drink."
"I'm a lecherous seducer," he said. "I ordered a bottle put on the bar, expecting to get you up here and break down your inhibitions with alcohol."
He poured two drinks, on the rocks.
"To next year," he said, lifting his glass.
"To next year," she agreed.
"It will be a great year," he said.
For a moment Margit stared thoughtfully at him, then nodded and lifted her glass again.
"The Margit Show," he mused. It had been his suggestion that the show they were putting together be called that instead of the Margit Little Show.
Bat sat down beside her on the couch and drew her into his arms. He put a hand on the soft bare flesh of her genital lips and gently fondled them. Margit sighed contentedly.
3
The dressing rooms backstage at the Ocean House in Miami Beach were not as posh as the ones at the Nacional or those at the Flamingo in Vegas. Glenda had a shower anyway, and she stood under a refreshing stream behind a canvas curtain in a rusting steel cubicle. Amelia hovered outside the curtain with a huge bath towel, knowing that her star would have to dry herself and begin to dress in the close presence of two men.
John Stefano sat on a wooden chair — there was no couch — puffing on a big cigar. Sam Stein sat on another chair.
"Hand me in a drink, Amelia. Jeez Christ, hand me in a Scotch!"
Amelia put aside the towel and stepped to the makeup table, where a bottle of Black and White waited. They had no refrigerator in this dressing room and no ice, but she had learned that Glenda was more interested in the Scotch than in ice or soda, and she poured a shot of the liquor into a water glass. She shoved the glass past the curtain, and in a moment Glenda shoved it back out, empty.
"What brings you to Miami Beach, John?" Glenda asked.
"Nothin' special," said Stefano.
She turned off the water and flipped back the curtain. For an instant Stefano stared at her naked, until Amelia covered her with the towel. As she dried herself, Amelia tried to keep herself between her star and the eyes of the men. She handed her a pair of panties and a bra, both simple white underwear, and Glenda pulled those on and came out into the room.
"Thank you, Amelia," she said.
Amelia knew that was an invitation to leave the room.
" 'Nothin' special,' huh?" said Glenda. She sat down at her makeup table and poured another drink. "Good."
"Let's don't kid around," said Sam. "John is upset
about the Edna Trotter piece."
"Part of the game," said Glenda dismissively. "Nobody can control the gossip hens."
"Pictures," said Stefano. "Not only pictures but a tape. It wasn't supposed to happen. Hotel security was supposed to— "
"Well," she interrupted. "I didn't let it happen. It's not my fault that— "
"Makes no difference whose fault it is," said Stefano darkly. "What? Thirty, forty newspapers. Then picked up by fifty more, plus magazines. It damaged our investment in you."
"What do you mean by that?"
Sam explained. "It's like I warned you, Glenda," he said. "You've killed yourself for television."
"Fuck television," she snapped. "I was sick of that Pollyanna bullshit."
"There is more damage," said Stefano. "You were in demand for the best rooms in the best hotels in the hemisphere ... because you were a television star. Now— " He turned down the corners of his mouth and turned up his palms. "Now you're just another broad that sings and dances and recites an off-color monologue."
" 'Just another broad.' I'm just another broad? Glenda Grayson is just another broad?"
John Stefano stood. "We made a deal," he said. "We said there'd always be a booking for you, and there will be. We're not dumping you, understand. You'll be working. But the very big rooms aren't interested in you right now. Maybe sometime."
Stefano stood and put a hand on her bare shoulder. "How 'bout dinner after the second show?" he asked.
Glenda glanced at Sam, who nodded almost imperceptibly. "Okay," she said. "Why not?"
"See you later, then," said Stefano. He left the dressing room.
"Sam! Has it come to this?"
Sam Stein stood and put a hand on her shoulder. "My bet's still on you," he said softly. "We've got to work on the act."
She looked up into his eyes, tears in hers. "Don't tell me to start playin' the little old lady in the modest cocktail dress, who tells jokes about her husband and kids and stuff that happens at the supermarket. Sam, for Christ's sake! We had a thing goin' before the Cords came along and before the goddamned Mafia came along— "
"Don't speak of Stefano as Mafia," Sam warned her. "Don't talk that way."
"Which one of the Cords shot me down?" she asked. "Which one planted the story with Edna Trotter?"
"I don't know."
"If I thought it was Bat, I'd kill him! I swear to God I would!"
4
Bat walked through the casino of the Havana Riviera, led by Meyer Lansky and towering over the little man. Both wore tuxedos. Lansky continued to insist he was only the food-service manager of the hotel, but the deference paid him by staff and gamblers alike belied his self-definition.
"You don't gamble, do you, Bat?"
"Not like this."
"Don't start," said Lansky somberly. "Look at these people. This is an honest casino, but some of them are going to drop fortunes in here tonight. And you know why? They're addicted to it."
"There are other ways to gamble," said Bat.
"Yeah. I'm a gambler myself. So are you. So's your father. The thrill of the risk. I mean, risking more than you can afford. Do you mind if I drop a personal note into this conversation?"
"Shoot," said Bat.
"What you're doing is dumb. You think your father is not going to find out you've brought Margit Little to Havana?"
"Who's going to tell him, Meyer?"
"Not me. You can be sure I'm not gonna talk. But the pilot, the— "
"I've got it covered," said Bat curtly.
"You think you have," said Lansky. "But confess something. The thrill of taking her to bed is nothing compared to the thrill of knowing you're bedding down your father's— "
"Margit is not his," Bat interrupted.
"Try telling him that. But don't tell him I helped you."
"If he finds out, I'll say we stayed at the Nacional."
Lansky led Bat to his private dining room, with a window overlooking the show room. In half an hour he would go up and bring Margit down on a private elevator. He wanted this half hour to talk with Lansky.
"I'll get right to the subject, Meyer," Bat said when they were seated at a small round table for four, covered with thick white linen and set with heavy silver and delicate china.
Meyer Lansky poured Chivas Regal for Bat. He lit a cigarette for himself and held it under the table, trying to keep the smoke from rising to Bat's nostrils.
"I'm going to do you a favor, and I'm going to ask you one," Bat went on.
"A good way of doing business," said Lansky.
"I think so. You are not going to like what I have to tell you, but please believe me that I know what I'm talking about. You're an American— "
"A Pole," said Lansky.
"An American," Bat repeated. "And so is my father. But my mother is Cuban. And I ... Well, I am American, now. But I know Latin America. I know something about Cuba."
"You are going to tell me," said Lansky, "that these ... unwashed ones in the mountains are about to come to Havana and overthrow the government."
"Make yourself a fallback position, Meyer. That's what I'm telling you. You are going to need it."
"I know you believe this," said Lansky.
"You think his niece wouldn't know?" Bat asked.
Lansky shrugged. "Anyway, there is no fallback position for me. Everything I've got is invested in this place."
"There's a job for you with us, if you need it. Look. At least be sure you can get out. There will be shooting."
Lansky nodded. "I am grateful for the warning," he said. "Now what is it I can do for you?"
"I want to show you some photographs," said Bat. "I want to know who the man is." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small envelope of snapshot-size pictures. "Know him?"
Lansky frowned over the pictures. "How'd you get these?" he asked.
"My father arranged it. I'm not exactly sure how."
"A hooker," said Lansky. "The guy must have been with a hooker."
Bat nodded. "Do you know who he is?"
Lansky crushed his cigarette. He closed his eyes. "I know who he is. Is he involved in something?"
"He met with Jimmy Hoffa and Morris Chandler a couple of weeks ago. Chandler, incidentally, is really Maurice Cohen."
"Right. A small-timer. But— " Lansky stopped and jabbed at the photographs with a finger. "This guy is not a small-timer."
"You know him?"
"I've met him. I don't like what he does, and I wouldn't want you to think he's a friend of mine."
"What does he do, Meyer?"
"He's a killer, what they call a hit man. I don't know his name. They call him Malditesta. You understand the reference?"
Bat thought for a moment, then nodded. "Shooting a man in the head is called giving him a major headache."
"I will trust you with some information the FBI would very much like to have," said Lansky. "Please don't think I speak from firsthand knowledge. What I tell you is hearsay. It was Malditesta who killed Albert Anastasia. I tell you so you'll know what kind of man you're dealing with."
"It's been called the perfect hit," said Bat.
"Right. He walked into the barbershop, emptied his gun into Anastasia, dropped the gun on the floor, and walked out. These pictures you got of him are probably the only pictures ever taken of him, that he didn't want taken. I bet the cops showed the barbers a thousand mug shots. None of them was Malditesta. He's never been arrested."
"Who is he?" Bat asked. "I mean, what's his cover?"
"I don't know who he is. I doubt six men in the country know his real name or how to get in touch with him."
"Suppose you wanted to get in touch with him," said Bat. "Could you?"
"I don't want to get in touch with him."
"Suppose you did."
"I'd have to talk to somebody. Carlo Gambino maybe. Vulcano ... The dons don't like killing anymore, and they try to avoid it. But when they decide they have to get rid of somebody, Malditesta
is their man. He charges a heavy fee, but he never fails. Or so they say. I'd guess he's failed sometime."
"The secret of that might be that he only takes the jobs he knows he can do," Bat suggested.
"That's a thought."
"If he met Hoffa and Chandler, that means— "
"You or your father," said Meyer Lansky grimly.
5
Bat sat down in the living room of his father's suite atop The Seven Voyages. Having judged his father's mood, he poured himself a heavy drink of Scotch. Jonas was working on a fifth of bourbon.
"Exactly how many women do you think you have to fuck?" Jonas asked Bat. He was as furious as Margit had warned he would be. "I don't give a goddamn how many, but I'd think you could keep your fingers off mine!"
"Who's yours?" Bat asked coldly.
"You goddamned well know who's mine. I tell you this — you touch Angie, and you're out on your ass: fired, disinherited, and I won't ever want to see you again."
"Let's draw a line," said Bat, lifting his chin and half grinning. "Angie's yours, Toni's mine, and all the rest of them ... may the best man win."
"You saying I have to compete with you?" Jonas asked indignantly. He shook his head. "No way, boy. No way. If I tell you to leave Margit alone, you'll leave her alone. Because I say so!"
"Don't ... count ... on it."
"Oh? Well, maybe we'd just better call it quits right now and have done with it. I wish I understood just what the hell you think you are."
"I'm your son," said Bat. "Did you give up on Rina just because your father said to? That's not the story I've heard. He had to marry her himself to— "
"Quit talking about my father! You don't know anything about my father!"
"I'm told I'm like both of you," said Bat quietly.
"My father died in 1925. Who could have told you anything about my father? Only Nevada, and Nevada never had a chance to talk to you much."
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