by Rod Reynolds
He broke off and looked at Gilardino. ‘Kill him.’
Gilardino pulled a pistol and put it to my head. I flinched away—
No gunshot came.
I opened my eyes, Gilardino still standing there, the barrel an inch from my skull.
Siegel waved him off and put his hand in his pocket. ‘You remember how you feel right now.’ He stared at me from under those heavy lids, head tilted forward, his mouth ajar. ‘That’s how far you are from dying here on out. No matter where you are, you ain’t more than a second from a bullet. My say-so.’
I righted myself slowly in the chair and stretched my neck. Through the frenzy in my mind, I realised he was saying he wasn’t going to kill me then.
He shook his head in disgust and turned to Rosenberg. ‘I’m gonna choke him myself, I gotta stand here any more. Lay it out, then turf him.’ He looked at me. ‘I have to bring you back to this room again, you won’t see out the minute, you understand?’
Before I could find my voice, Gilardino slid the bolt and opened the door and Siegel breezed. When the door slammed shut again, it felt like I took my first breath in minutes.
Rosenberg set his cigar down in the ashtray and filled a wine glass with water. He stepped over and handed it to me, Gilardino looming next to me.
‘Ben’s given to theatrics but don’t let that fool you,’ Rosenberg said. ‘He won’t hesitate, you give him reason.’
I set the water on the floor, a rattle as it touched the tiles – tremors in my hands still. ‘You’ve made your point. What do you want?’
He paused over the ashtray. ‘Don’t sass mouth me. Don’t get brave on account of Ben leaving.’
I broke his stare, sickened that he’d called my number so easily.
He opened an envelope I hadn’t noticed on the table and took out a large photograph, held it up. It was a headshot of a young man, smiling at something in the middle distance off camera – a professional job. He had slicked hair, trimmed short, with strong features and a cleft chin. This town, a shot like that, had to be an actor. He passed it to me. ‘You know him?’
I shook my head, looking at it. Rumours of Siegel’s involvement with the studios were well known – off-ledger financing at last resort rates, sway over labour contracts, muscle for strong-arming the unions. None of it proven, all of it likely.
‘His name’s Trent Bayless. His working name, anyway. He’s been in pictures for Universal and Jack Warner – strictly B-stuff so far, topped out as third-lead, but he’s got the goods to move up.’
I looked up from the photo, waiting for the payoff.
‘He’s also a queer with a bent for muscle-boys and a lax attitude to privacy.’
An extortion racket, Bayless the target. I couldn’t see my part yet, but it was likely the only reason I was still alive. ‘What’s this got to do with me?’
‘Which outfit you work for now?’
‘I don’t.’
Gilardino shot him a look and straightaway I knew the lie was a mistake.
Rosenberg cast his eyes down and passed his hand over his mouth. ‘Which outfit?’
But I didn’t need the full picture to realise he needed me, and the thought buoyed me. The pain eased off just a little. ‘Blackmail – that’s what this is?’
‘This is you working off what you owe.’
Which outfit? – I got hip to his question. ‘You want me to be your mouthpiece.’ I shook my head. ‘You’ve got the wrong man. My newspaper will never run a smear story.’
‘Then you better convince him to pay.’
I stared at him, not understanding.
‘This is your gig,’ he said. ‘You talk to him, explain what needs to get done.’
I focused on his face, squinting in the gloom. ‘You want me to front your shakedown racket?’
‘Ben wants ten grand from Bayless, by Wednesday. Otherwise you run the story.’
‘That’s three days.’
He reached into the envelope and stopped. ‘You want I show you the pictures we got? He’ll pay in three hours.’
I shook my head, disgusted that I’d already slipped into negotiating for more time, as though it were any other goddamn deadline.
He held it up. ‘Copies are in here, same with his address. We want him to pay, so lean on him hard. Don’t swoon for any sob stories – he’s got a sugar daddy in the county that keeps him in champagne, so he can raise the gelt.’ He dropped it in my lap. ‘But if he won’t pay, you write the story. You make it good and you make it stick.’
There was a note of urgency in the way he said it that seemed out of place. But already my thoughts had run ahead, to the only way this could wind up for me. ‘And then what?’
‘It’s barely started yet, concentrate on the job at hand.’
‘There are more, though. To follow, I mean.’
He held out his cigar, as if thinking whether to answer, then let go of the breath he was holding. ‘We wouldn’t go to this trouble just for ten grand, no.’
Confirmed what I thought: a pawn at their disposal. Dead when they were through with me. Three days to get out from under it.
He motioned for me to get up, Gilardino at my arm. ‘We’re through. Vincent’ll see you out. Come back here at midday on Wednesday and bring good news. Do I have to spell out what happens if you screw around?’
‘No.’
‘Then all I’ll say is if you fuck this up, won’t be just you sees a bullet – but it’ll be you goes last.’
CHAPTER THREE
Lizzie cracked the motel room door when I knocked. When she saw it was me, she threw it wide and wrapped her arms around my neck. I gathered her close and held her. She started to sob gently. After a moment, she said, ‘We can’t go on living this way.’
It’d taken four hours to get to her after Rosenberg let me go. We’d put the escape plan in place the day Acheson told me about Siegel – telling ourselves we’d never have to use it. No more pretending that we could get on with our lives as normal. There wasn’t much to it – as soon as Lizzie got a call to run, she was to find a new motel, take a room and then call her cousin in Phoenix, telling her alone where she was. The thinking being if no one in LA knew her whereabouts, then Siegel couldn’t squeeze me or anyone else to get to her.
Gilardino had manhandled me back out the same way he brought me in and tossed me into the parking lot. Still trembling, I’d followed the street up to Hollywood Boulevard, circling around the block until I came to the front of the property. Turned out to be an Italian joint name of Ciglio’s; it was a known mobster haunt, I should have figured it sooner.
From there I’d taken three different cabs across the city, making sure they weren’t following me. It wouldn’t have made sense after the scam they’d laid out, but my fear of leading them to Lizzie overruled logic. Only when dusk fell and I was certain I had no tail had I made the call, finally making it to Lizzie’s motel in Inglewood after nine.
Lizzie broke the embrace first. ‘Was it Siegel?’
I nodded and she sat down on the bed, her face in her hands. I dropped Rosenberg’s envelope on the table and took a seat next to her, put my arm around her waist. I took the room in – off-white walls, hard-wearing carpet, swirls of colour to hide the stains. A window looked out over the street, the hulking North American Aviation plant looming in the distance. The two bags we lived out of were set on the patched-up sofa, and the folder I was looking for, the one holding my notes on the disappearances, was there too.
She dropped her hands and looked at me. ‘I’ve been going out of my mind. What happened?’
‘The man I went to meet ratted me out.’
She held my gaze, waiting for me to continue. I told her all of it, ending up with the blackmail racket on Trent Bayless. By the end she was shaking.
‘This is madness, Charlie. I can’t—We can’t go on like this.’ She stood up and walked halfway to the window. ‘What are we supposed to do?’
I pushed my hair off my forehead. ‘I don�
��t know yet. My only thought was to get to you.’
‘I could wring that man’s neck. If he were here right now … My god, I never thought I could speak that way and mean it.’
‘I need to pay a visit to this Bayless. Try to warn him off.’
She looked uncertain. ‘What about the police? Are you sure we shouldn’t involve them?’
‘We settled this, I thought? Siegel owns the cops. Besides, what could I say? As far as it looks to the law, as of right now, I’m the shakedown artist.’
She put her hands on her hips. ‘What if we were to leave?’
I glanced at my folder of notes on the sofa, not meaning to, but my first thought in response. ‘We can’t.’
She’d seen me look and she traced the line of my gaze to where the folder lay. ‘Why not?’ Daring me to say it.
‘I can’t give up on them.’
‘It’s been over a week and you’ve got no leads, Charlie. What more is there to do?’
‘Those girls didn’t just vanish.’
‘No. They either left the city, or—’ She stopped herself, not wanting to say what we both already knew.
She came over to me and put her hand on my cheek, probing the cut there gingerly. ‘You can’t change the past.’ It was trite and she knew as much, closing her eyes, frustrated at not finding the words. ‘If wishing could make it so, I’ve done enough of that for both of us. You can’t hold yourself to blame.’
‘That’s not why I’m doing this.’ I looked up at her.
‘You’re only fooling yourself if you believe that.’
I took her hand from my face and held it, the conversation a retread of one we’d had a dozen times already, nothing new to be said and yet a resolution more urgent now. After a moment she slipped her fingers from mine and pointed to the envelope on the table. ‘What’s that? Photographs?’
‘Yes.’
She shook her head, disgusted. ‘Such cowards. To not even do their own dirty work.’
I took the envelope before she could pick it up, as if letting her touch it was to taint her. I opened the top and looked inside for Bayless’ address. As I thumbed the contents, I couldn’t help but glimpse the grainy black-and-white shots inside and it made me feel complicit. There was a piece of paper folded over at the bottom; I fished it out and saw that it was what I was looking for – an address near Echo Park. I looked at my watch.
‘Do you think you should see a doctor?’ she said.
I shook my head. ‘They just worked me over. I’ll be fine.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
I stood up and opened our bags, looking for a clean set of clothes.
‘What are you doing?’ she said.
‘I need to fetch the car from where I left it this afternoon.’
‘Now?’ She looked at the slip of paper in my hand, recognised it for an address. ‘Please don’t say you’re thinking of going to see this man now.’
‘They gave me three days, is all.’
She fell silent but I recognised the expression, knew she had more to say.
‘Speak your mind,’ I said.
She opened her mouth and closed it again. Then she said, ‘If your mind’s made up then you should go, there’s no sense drawing this out. But I want to come with you.’
I stopped what I was doing and looked up from the bag. ‘Come with me? Out of the question.’
‘I can’t sit here on my own again wondering. Please. I’m safer with you, and you could use my help.’
I took a shirt out of the bag and made for the bathroom to clean up.
‘I can help you soften the blow,’ she called after me. ‘Think about the message you’re going there to deliver; it’s like you said earlier, he could think you’re the one threatening him.’
Lizzie came to the doorway.
I ran the faucet and splashed water on my face. ‘I can live with him thinking I’m against him. I can’t live with you being in danger.’
‘Tell me where I’m not in danger now.’
‘Right here.’ I dabbed my face, leaving a watery bloodstain on the threadbare towel. ‘Tonight you’re safe here. I’ll be back before you know it.’
She looked at me in the mirror. ‘Every time you walk out that door, I wonder if I’ll see you again. This is killing me. Do you know what I was doing earlier when Mr Acheson called?’
I held her gaze in the reflection.
‘I was writing down addresses for all the hospitals in the city – to carry with me. So I’d have somewhere to look for you if we got separated and I got the call to run. That’s how I spend my days now.’
I turned around and took her face in my hands and touched my forehead to hers. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not saying you’re at fault.’
‘Close the curtains, lock the door. I’ll be back in a couple hours.’
‘And then?’
I kissed her on the lips. ‘We’ll figure this out for good.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Trent Bayless’ address was a two-storey Victorian at the top of a low hill in Angelino Heights, just east of Echo Park Lake. The timbers of the lower half of the house were stained a dark green, the upper storey clad in matching shingles. A single gangly palm rose from behind the house, painted silver by the moonlight.
There were lights on in the upper rooms, shrouded by drapes. I sat outside for a time before I went to his door, brooding over what I would say. There was a temptation, small as it was, to tell him to pay. I felt bad for the kid, but his problems were his own. Except that they weren’t, they were wrapped up in mine now; and if I helped Siegel and Rosenberg extract so much as a cent out of him, then I was an accomplice. My conscience wouldn’t accept that.
So the way I saw it, he had to run. The consequences of that were bad for me, but they meant to kill me anyway, somewhere down the line, so whether he paid or not, it was just a question of how long I had. Better to have Bayless out of the way and all the risk on my shoulders.
I rapped on the door three times. After a moment the porch light above me came on and then Bayless opened up. The photograph was a good likeness – even with his hair out of place, there was no mistaking him. He had on a purple dressing gown that was an inch short in the sleeves. He cinched the neck against the cool night breeze.
‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Yates, I need to talk to you, Mr Bayless.’
‘About what? Do you know what time it is?’
‘I’m sorry, but this won’t wait. Ben Siegel sent me.’
He recognised the name, but his face didn’t register any trepidation at hearing it. ‘I’m not acquainted with Mr Siegel, I think there’s some mistake.’
I held up the envelope. ‘He’s acquainted with you. Can we talk inside a minute?’
Bayless glanced around the street behind me, looking embarrassed at my being there. ‘I’m not in the habit of inviting callers in at this hour. I’d like you to leave.’
‘I can’t until we speak. And this isn’t a conversation you want to have on your doorstep.’
He shifted his weight, showing nervousness for the first time. ‘I think I’ll decide that. What is this about?’
‘Siegel’s about to shake you down. There are photographs in here. Can we go inside?’ His face drained of colour and it gnawed at me enough I had to look away.
‘I’m not one of Siegel’s men,’ I said. ‘I’m here to try to help you. Come on, open up.’
He stepped back from the doorway, the actor in him reaching for composure, the tension in his movements betraying the truth.
I crossed the threshold and waited for him to lead me into a small parlour, one of the walls covered with behind-the-scenes shots from movie sets: Van Nuys airport doubling for somewhere in Arabia, identifiable by its Art Deco radio tower; two lovers on a Parisian street, the photographer’s angle revealing it as a set on a back lot. I couldn’t see Bayless in any of them.
‘I’ll get to the poi
nt. Siegel has compromising photos of you.’ I set the envelope down on the glass coffee table in the centre of the room. ‘I haven’t examined them.’
He looked at it and away again just as quickly.
‘He wants ten thousand from you by Wednesday, otherwise he’s going to expose you.’
‘What?’ His eyes flicked around the room. ‘This is … I have nothing to—’
‘Save it. If that was true, he wouldn’t have sent me.’
‘You grubby little man.’
‘I’m not here to turn the screw. But you have to understand this is serious.’
He picked up the envelope and opened it. He pulled the contents halfway out and looked through the first few images, bug eyes locked on them. ‘This can’t …’
‘Is there someplace you can go to, outside of Los Angeles? Out of California, if possible.’
He lowered himself onto a leather Chesterfield on the other side of the table, the envelope next to him, its contents face down, halfway spilling out. ‘Leave California?’
‘That’s your best move.’
‘My best move? My life is here. I’m an actor, where would I go?’ He threw his hands up, stopping himself. ‘Christ, what am I thinking discussing this with you?’
‘I want to help. I’m only here because Siegel would kill me if I didn’t come. But I’m not telling you to do as he says, I’m telling you to run.’
He gripped his head in his hands. ‘What is—Who are you? What’s your part in this?’
‘I’m a reporter – the messenger. I have no part. Siegel wants me to—’
‘A reporter?’ He looked up, sliding forward in his seat. ‘This has nothing to do with Benny Siegel, does it? You’re a hack for a scandal rag.’
‘I write for the Pacific Journal. Go look me up. I don’t want anything to do with this but Siegel’s got me over a barrel.’
‘What sort of a barrel?’ His eyes strayed to the pictures next to him.
‘That’s not important.’
‘That’s a hell of a line to take. You stand there and tell me I’m being blackmailed and I should run, but you won’t take your own advice. If there’s truth to any of this.’