Cold Desert Sky

by Rod Reynolds

  Praise for Rod Reynolds:

  ‘There are echoes of Chandler in washed-up journalist Charlie Yates’s terse, cynical narration but this is more than a mere pastiche: it’s subtle, original and enthralling.’ Jake Kerridge, Sunday Express, on The Dark Inside

  ‘Although Rod Reynolds set the bar extraordinarily high for himself with his debut novel, The Dark Inside, it’s fair to say that his second book more than lives up to the promise of its predecessor … Smart plotting, immaculate research, a tersely precise style and a protagonist with a touch of the knight-errant about him add up to pitch-perfect American noir.’ Laura Wilson, Guardian, on Black Night Falling

  Cold Desert Sky

  ROD REYNOLDS

  For Dawn and Michelle

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  DECEMBER 1946

  No one wanted to say it to me, that the girls were dead. But I knew.

  Maybe the desperation showed on my face. No one wants to disappoint a zealot when he’s coming at you, demanding answers and looking for a sign that his search isn’t futile. The ninth day since they went missing, and every street rat and lowlife I could collar told me just enough to get me off their back: no clue/they probably split town/I’ll ask around. Walked out thinking they’d soaped me and that I didn’t know how this would end, the same as ever – two broken bodies in a funeral home or some godforsaken alley in this bullshit City of Angels.

  Sunlight came at me between two buildings; late afternoon, already low in the sky – winter’s touch on an otherwise bright day. I bought a newspaper from a vendor, leaned against the wall and pretended to skim the headlines, front and back. I’d already been through it for real that morning, found no mention of them. Now it was just cover to scope the diner across the street. The joint was a corner dive on North La Brea, name of Wilt’s, nothing going for it save for the pretty broad dressed in Mexican getup out front, peddling the brisket special and looking like she’d sooner be someplace else.

  Most everything I’d done so far was conducted in the hours of darkness; this was the first daylight meet I’d risked. Not my choice, but short notice was Whitey’s condition when we’d arranged it that morning. Whitey Lufkins – a lifetime losing gambler who stemmed his losses turning snitch for anyone with enough green. I knew him from my stint at the LA Times when he was a bottom-rung stop for every legman looking for street talk. Now that same street talk held that he was in over his head with his bookmaker – and his readiness to meet suggested it was true. He didn’t know it’d be me on the other side of the table, though; caution came first. Whitey thought he was seeing a private dick on the missing girls’ trail; I had to ask Lizzie to make the calls to set it up, and she played the dispassionate secretary without much call for pretence.

  I was early but I spotted Whitey through the window, already inside. I stayed where I was, waiting and watching, looking for anything out of place. It was automatic now, had been since we returned to LA three weeks before.

  I’d felt it as soon as we set foot back in the county, and Lizzie the same. It’d taken less than a day to confirm that Bugsy Siegel was searching for us. Buck Acheson, my editor at the Pacific Journal, was the one to break the news; a rushed call from a payphone on Wilshire the day we got back, Buck saying he’d picked up on it a week before, while Lizzie and I were still upstate. His voice, his words – he played it all as low key as he could in the circumstance, but his sign off was resounding: ‘I’m pleased you’re back and your job’s still yours if you want it, but Charlie, it’s best if you stay away from the offices for now.’ Buck wasn’t one to worry for himself, so the meaning was clear: don’t make it easy for him to find me.

  The city that used to be mine, and now I couldn’t move for looking over my shoulder.

  I let five minutes go by. Whitey fidgeted with his cup and checked his watch twice. Two men left the diner but no one else went in. About half the tables were occupied, more seated along the counter. No one that worried me on first glance, but who the hell knew any more? After Hot Springs. After Texarkana—

  Whitey checked his watch again, looked ready to bail. I cracked my knuckles and crossed the street, went inside. He was facing the door, saw me as soon as I did. He had a pallor about him, where the name came from, but worse than I remembered and accentuated now by pockmarks on his cheeks. He made to get up then stopped himself halfway, caught in two minds. I slid in opposite him.

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Have a seat.’

  He glanced around as if looking for his real guest, then slid down the backrest, realisation dawning. ‘You a gumshoe now, or am I a mark?’

  ‘How’ve you been, Whitey?’

  ‘Better than you, what I hear.’

  I sat back, a glance over his shoulder, wrong-footed by the remark. ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘You don’t need me to tell you. It’s on your face.’

  ‘Make like I’m dumb.’

  ‘You must be. Being in town when he’s looking for you.’

  I shrugged. ‘I’m not a hard man to find.’

  ‘You ought to reconsider that.’

  I traced a line across the table. ‘I didn’t come here to talk about Bugsy Siegel.’

  ‘No?’ He showed real surprise. ‘Hard to believe you got bigger troubles.’

  ‘How’s your luck with the horses?’

  He set his cup down on the Formica. ‘Some days are better than others.’

  I took my money clip out – two tens and a twenty wrapped around a wad of ones to pad the roll. ‘I’m looking for information on a couple women. Hollywood-dreamer types.’

  He made a point of not looking at the cash, a stool pigeon in a fraying suit clinging to the remnants of his pride. ‘I don’t know Hollywood from dirt.’

  ‘They were fresh off the bus. They were living in a boarding house in Leimert Park. Nancy Hill and Julie Desjardins.’

  He half-smiled. ‘Julie Desjardins from Kansas – sure. Real names?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘These are the missing dames your woman called me about?’

  I nodded. ‘They’ve been gone more than a week.’

  ‘Were they turning tricks?’

  My arms tensed.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘How else would I hear anything about a couple starlets?’

  I closed my eyes and flattened my free hand on the table again. The question was a fair one. ‘The names mean anything to you or not?’

  ‘Not. But you must’ve figured that
, so my guess is you want me to ask around.’

  I peeled a ten off.

  He shook his head, held up two fingers. I breathed out through my nose and peeled the other one off.

  He rolled them tight and pocketed them. ‘What are they to you anyway?’

  It was Lizzie’s question to me, word for word. I gave him the easy answer. ‘It’s for a story.’

  ‘Still working that side of the street. On whose dime?’

  I didn’t like the question and on reflex I checked the window. A Packard with blue trim cruised by. The vendor across the way hawked his papers. Nothing to see. Whitey picked up on it.

  ‘Would you quit it?’ He was snapping his fingers to get my attention back. ‘Harder to come by a paycheck these days is all; one of you’s got green to spend, I want to know who else does.’ He pocketed my money. ‘You have photographs of them?’

  I shook my head, not sure what made me lie. Something about wanting to protect innocents from the likes of him. If that’s what they were.

  ‘How do you know they didn’t just pack up for home?’ he said.

  ‘You ever hear of any that did?’

  He stuck his bottom lip out, thinking. ‘Give me something to go on at least.’

  I drummed the tabletop absently, weighing what to share. ‘December third was the last time their landlady saw them. Alice told her they were—’

  ‘Who’s Alice?’

  I looked away. My wife’s murdered sister; one of the trio of dead that seldom left my thoughts. Blood on my conscience. ‘Nancy. Slip of the tongue.’

  He kept staring at me, his face a question, but I ignored it. It irritated me that Alice’s name meant nothing to him – even knowing there was no reason it should.

  ‘Nancy told their landlady they were headed for an audition at TPK Studios. They never made it. I can’t find any trace of them since.’ Not the full story, but enough for him.

  He thought for a moment. ‘They owe the landlady?’

  ‘Two weeks’ worth.’

  He nodded along as I said it. ‘Sounds to me like they didn’t get the gig and they ran out on the rent.’

  I opened my hands. ‘Maybe. Doesn’t mean they left the city, though. I’d still like to know.’ It came off weak even as I said it, such optimism long since dissipated.

  He pushed his cup aside. ‘I’ll see what I can do. How do I contact you?’

  ‘You’ll hear from me.’

  He stood up and straightened his jacket, taking his time and surveying the diner and the people along the counter. Then he looked down at me, setting his finger on the table. ‘You’re right to be scared, you know.’ He tapped it as he spoke. ‘Do yourself a solid and don’t be calling him Bugsy no more. He favours Benjamin.’

  As he walked away, a sick feeling came over me. It was the way he said it, the regret in his voice. The question about who I was working for suddenly haunted me; it’d spiked me because I was worried he was looking for dirt on me to sell. It came to me the other way now, exactly as he’d said it: he wanted to know who else he could tap for coin – if I wasn’t around.

  A black coupe pulled up outside – slow, as if it’d been waiting nearby. On the street, Whitey glanced at it and kept walking, head down, and I realised for sure what was happening. I closed my eyes and damned myself, wished it all away, couldn’t figure how I’d slipped up. I looked again and saw two heavies climb out, one I recognised as a Gilardino brother, long-time Siegel foot soldiers.

  I ran to the payphone on the wall, shoved a dime in and dialled Buck Acheson’s number.

  The other hood waited on the kerb while Gilardino came through the door, drawing sideways looks from the counter staff, eyes to the floor when they recognised him. He started towards me.

  Acheson answered. ‘Buck – get hold of Lizzie, tell her to run right now.’

  ‘Charlie? What’s …’ He cottoned. ‘Hell, he’s found you—’

  CHAPTER TWO

  I rode in the back, Gilardino next to me, the other man taking the wheel. Neither had showed a weapon, but they didn’t need to – they wouldn’t be on the street without one. I squeezed my right hand in my left and tried to keep my breathing steady. I pictured Lizzie at the motel now, someone from the manager’s office fetching her for Acheson’s call, her grabbing the bags and disappearing.

  ‘Where’re we going?’

  The driver ignored me and flicked the radio on. We travelled north until we came to Sunset, made a left onto Hollywood Boulevard and kept going, passing the colonial-style mansions and Angelo’s Liquor, palm trees overhead. At the Bank of America billboard, heavy traffic reduced our speed to a crawl, spooling out the tension in my guts; the music on the radio sounded so loud and so raw it seemed to come from inside my head.

  Eventually we turned onto a side street and came to a stop outside the rear of a property that must have fronted the Boulevard. Gilardino climbed out and beckoned me. The driver hit the horn and after a few seconds, the back door of the place opened, a man I couldn’t make out standing in the shadows. The driver stayed behind the wheel, eyeing me in the rearview.

  I stepped out of the car and looked around, bad flutters in my chest. It was a hundred yards back to the main street. Gilardino must have read my thoughts because he put a hand on my shoulder, making me flinch. He steered me towards the doorway.

  The man inside pointed with his thumb. ‘Go inside, Yates.’ His accent was from New York – sounded like Queens or Brooklyn.

  As I came closer, I could make out his face – Moe Rosenberg. Siegel’s right-hand man.

  I stopped dead, scuffing loose concrete underfoot. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his face, a thundering sound in my ears, everything rushing towards me even as I froze.

  Gilardino pushed me from behind and I started moving again, stilted movements made on reflex. I could hear my own voice screaming in my ears, telling me to run, to do anything to sidestep this, that if I went through the door I was dead and so was Lizzie.

  ‘I didn’t kill William Tindall.’ Siegel’s representative in Hot Springs; it was all I could think to say, knowing they were wasted words.

  Rosenberg nodded. ‘I know. We’ll talk about it inside.’

  I heard the car take off behind me. Gilardino hustled me through the doorway and I stepped into the darkness and hesitated while my eyes adjusted. I looked at Rosenberg – thin hair on top, just a few strands combed back over his pate; sunken eyes, a roll of skin creeping over his shirt collar.

  We were in a short corridor, a naked bulb overhead giving off little light. Rosenberg walked in front, to what looked like the door to a meat locker. He rapped on it; there was the sound of a heavy bolt sliding and then it opened. I could smell cigar smoke waft out. Rosenberg went in and I followed, Gilardino backstopping me. Nowhere to run.

  As I stepped over the threshold, someone smashed their fist into my stomach.

  Someone pulled my hair to straighten me up. Now I saw Bugsy Siegel to my right, just as he punched me again, harder, driving the air out of me. I tried to cover up, but they took my arms.

  He laid his shots in – right, left, right, left. Siegel was a blur, clenched teeth, his necktie flying wildly.

  He hit me one more time. They let go of my arms and I fell to my knees, spluttering spit and bile. He kicked me prone and kicked me in the side, then stood back, panting.

  I lay still, the tiled floor cold against my cheek, clutching my stomach and gasping for air.

  Rosenberg said something I didn’t catch to the others.

  Someone pulled me up and pushed me against the wall. Gilardino. The other two stood in front of me. Rosenberg had a cigar in his hand now and I focused on the tip, glowing orange in the murk.

  Siegel pointed his finger in my face, still breathing hard. ‘The trouble you’ve caused me.’

  He slapped me, a heavy ring breaking the skin on my cheek. I lurched sideways and had to brace myself on a table. He stepped away, shaking his hand like he’d hurt his wrist. Pain
ran up and down my abdomen from his blows; I steeled myself for more and swore to myself that I’d buy Lizzie as much time as possible to get away.

  ‘Sit him down.’

  Gilardino dragged a wooden chair against the wall and I lowered myself onto it. I eased my head back against the bricks, still trying to get some air into my lungs.

  Siegel threw a glass of water over my face. ‘I want you listening.’

  It ran down my throat and neck and onto my collar. I drew my sleeve over my eyes and looked at Siegel. He was wearing a black-and-white checked jacket over a white shirt and patterned necktie. He had hooded eyes and his hair was pomaded back but with strands out of place over his forehead now.

  ‘Hot Springs is worth a mil-nine per annum to my organisation,’ Siegel said. ‘Bill Tindall had that place ticking over more than a decade.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘You said that already. It don’t excuse it.’

  I touched my cheek, felt the laceration. The room was cramped and had no windows. There were three small restaurant tables pressed together along the length of the left-hand wall, a heavy ashtray and an open bottle of wine on one. There was another door opposite, closed. ‘What do you want?’ I said.

  ‘I want you nailed to a fucking tree with your throat cut.’

  Just try to breathe. ‘It was Teddy Coughlin sold Tindall out. He was working against him. Against you—’

  ‘That cocksucker is not your concern.’

  A bargain I’d made with Coughlin, not to rat him if he left us in peace – up in smoke as easy as that. To no avail.

  Rosenberg drew on his cigar. Siegel went to one of the tables and took up a half-filled wine glass. He watched me over the rim as he took a gulp. The room was silent while he did, then he put it down, rushed over and gripped my face, pushed it to the side and against the wall, his finger in my eye. ‘Don’t you eyeball me, Yates. I can’t stand the fucking sight of you.’

  He pressed harder, leaning his weight in, my neck feeling it was about to snap, his finger against my teeth. I let out a cry of pain.