Neon Mirage

by Max Allan Collins

  Former LAPD lieutenant Quinn, looking in his tux like a tan but sickly penguin, came up to me and smiled and asked how I was doing. He’d been trying to be friendly ever since we tangled. I hadn’t gotten rough with him again, because I was pretty sure the pilferage had stopped. My spot checks of boxes I marked (and I’d marked some every day) indicated such, anyway.

  Quinn assayed the casino. “Think my boys’ll find any dips workin’ the room?”

  “If they can’t, they couldn’t find their ass with two hands.”

  He couldn’t resist some sarcasm. “You really think there’s gonna be a ‘whiz team’ in the woodpile?”

  “That’s the surest bet you could make here tonight.”

  And I moved away from him. I don’t mind your average crooked cop; I used to be one myself. But a guy like Quinn gives corruption a bad name.

  I walked out on the patio, which was lit in a soft-focus way by more red and blue spots spotted around. Around the pool, as if sunning in the moonlight, were various young women, all of them lovely, shapely, in bathing suits, mostly two-piece, lounging on the chaises. These women were in Siegel’s employ, although in what capacity exactly I couldn’t say. They’d been posing around the pool all week, for cheesecake photos for the wire-service boys. I knew some of these bathing beauties doubled as cigarette and change girls. Only a few were waitresses, from the lounge; the dining room was served exclusively by waiters, in tuxes, natch. (Siegel had drilled the waiters himself, until they worked with the precision of a Marine platoon.)

  One of these women sunning in the moonlight, one who had not done any cheesecake posing earlier in the week, worked as Siegel’s confidential secretary.

  “You look like a movie star,” I told Peggy.

  She was wearing a dark blue two-piece.

  “Thanks,” she said. Her reply was a little chilly. But then so was the air; it wasn’t cold out, but if I had a quarter for every erect nipple around this pool, I could’ve fed a slot machine till midnight.

  I got down on my haunches next to her. “But isn’t this a little beneath a businesswoman like you?”

  She looked down her nose at me, smiling with no warmth. “I don’t think so. Ben wanted some pretty girls to sit around the pool tonight, and I think I qualify, thank you.”

  I pulled up a lounge chair. “Sure you do. I just thought you might have played a slightly more conspicuous, more important role in this grand event.”

  She seemed to be studying the red and blue lights as they shimmered on the water in the pool.

  “Certain parties wouldn’t have liked that,” she said.

  “And yet, at the same time, by sitting here in your near altogether, you’re sort of thumbing your nose at ‘certain parties.’ I like that. You still got some of that Chicago fuck-you spirit. The desert air hasn’t dried you out entirely.”

  Sadness tightened her eyes. “You hate me now, don’t you?”

  I shook my head, smiled a little. “No. Are you still angry with me?”

  She gave me a quick, burning look. “I should be. You had no right getting…” I think she was about to say “so personal,” but reconsidered, since that was absurd on the face of it. She just let her thought trail off and looked out at the pool again.

  She was referring to a short conversation we’d had, in a Last Frontier hallway the second day of my stay, in which I had said to her as follows: “I don’t know if you’re sleeping with Siegel or not—but if you are, take my advice: don’t, at least not when ‘Tabby’ is in town.”

  “Is that right?” she’d coldly said.

  “That’s right. But if you can’t help yourself, do it on the sly, and be goddamn careful.”

  “Really?” Anger bubbling.

  “Really. That cunt is capable of murder, you know.”

  For a moment I’d thought she was going to slap me; but she just glared at me, tightly, and stalked off. We hadn’t talked since, except occasional polite, meaningless dinner table conversation, when Siegel held court nightly at the Last Frontier’s restaurant and, in these last pre-opening days, at the Flamingo dining room, where we had a few trial meals. Pretty good, too. Siegel’s French chef knew his stuff.

  “Look,” I said. “I know it hasn’t been easy having me around. Anyway, I know it hasn’t been easy for me to be around…”

  She looked at me and her expression softened; I could see in it the ghost of her love for me. And I wondered if it haunted her like it did me, at all.

  “I’ll be going home soon,” I said. “Probably Monday, after this grand opening weekend’s dead and gone.”

  “Why did you take the job, Nate?”

  “Money.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Come on, baby. You know me better than that. Name something that matters to me more than money.”

  She turned away and looked out at the pool. I thought maybe her lower lip was quivering. Maybe not.

  I stood.

  I was just going when she said, “I think you stayed to keep an eye on me.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “You…you think you’re protecting me, don’t you?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “You’ve been keeping an eye on me. I know you have.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  She looked at me. “You really think Ginny’s dangerous, don’t you?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No. She’s all mouth. Big mouth. Ben can’t stand her.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “He’s just putting up with her.”

  “Why’s he doing that?”

  “She has her hooks into him. Monetarily. She has money in this place, you know.”

  “So does George Raft, but Siegel isn’t sleeping with him.”

  She looked away again. At the pool. “You know how tight she is with Ben’s people back East.”

  “You mean gangsters? Is that what you think, he’s putting up with her, because she’s the darling of the syndicate? Maybe he keeps her around because he knows that she’s spying on him for them—and that lets him control what she reports back.”

  “Well, doesn’t that make sense?”

  “It’s bullshit. She was a courier for those guys; they trusted her. And they used to lay her, most of them, but now she’s Ben’s girl, and that’s all she is. You’re kidding yourself. Why don’t you go back to Chicago where you got family and friends?”

  “Nate. Don’t…”

  “I’m not talking about us. I’m talking about you. About putting a life together for yourself, a real life that isn’t the ersatz Hollywood your dreamboat’s trying to turn this desert into.”

  She gestured around us with one hand, smiling wryly. “I think he’s done pretty well.”

  “Tonight it looks like it. Looking at these palms and terraces and this swimming pool, sure. But you know better than I how wrong this is going.”

  She swallowed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  I pointed over to the hotel building. “He didn’t make it, did he? His personal deadline. That hotel isn’t going to be open for weeks—maybe months. He had to book rooms at hotels all over town, when people called for reservations.”

  “So what? You saw those crowds in there. The casino’s open. The restaurant. The showroom.”

  “He’s not going to make any money on the restaurant; like he says, it’s strictly a come-on. Nor the showroom—he’s spending thirty-five grand a week on Cugat and Durante and the rest. Top-name talent don’t come cheap. So it’s all riding on the casino—and these opening-night type crowds aren’t going to hold up. Not even on opening night.”

  “And why not?”

  “Aren’t you listening? Aren’t you paying attention? He didn’t get the hotel open in time—the Flamingo drew people in, but those people are staying at other hotels, most of them at the Last Frontier and the El Rancho Vegas, which have their own casinos. The other hotels are close to all those open-door casinos downtow
n. People gamble where they’re staying, Peg. They may come to the Flamingo for an hour or two every day while they’re in town, but they’re going to do most of their gambling where they’re staying. That’s basic.”

  She was shaking her head no. “He’ll make a go of it. You wait and see.”

  “I don’t know. You notice that little guy he’s been talking to?”

  “Mr. Lieberman?”

  “That’s right, only it’s Lansky. Meyer Lansky.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Isn’t he…a gangster?”

  “Isn’t Rita Hayworth a woman? I don’t think his being here is a good sign.”

  “Maybe it’s a show of support.”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think Ben has much time left to make a go of this place. He’s sunk six million bucks of mostly mob money into the Flamingo, and I have a hunch the boys want some results, fast. They want to see that Ben’s running this place to their satisfaction.”

  “You think that’s why this…what is his name?”

  “Lansky.”

  “You think that’s why this Lansky is here. Checking up on Ben.”

  “Possibly. Possibly warning him. They’re partners. They go way back.”

  “You almost seem…worried about Ben.”

  “I like the guy. Don’t ask me why. By all accounts, he’s a murderer and a narcotics trafficker, among other niceties, including he’s in my ex-fiancée’s pants. I oughta hate him.”

  She winced at my remark about her pants, but was expressionless when she said, “But you don’t.”

  “No. I kind of admire his chutzpah. And maybe he’ll pull this stunt off. Maybe. But I’m not waiting around to see. I’ll be in Chicago before you know it.”

  “I love him, Nate.”

  “You fall in love a lot, don’t you, kid? Me, it doesn’t come quite so easy.”

  “I’m not going back to Chicago with you.”

  “Well, here’s my advice, then. Stay out of Siegel’s bed. Tell him you’ll get back in, when Virginia Hill’s out of his life. Tell him you aren’t prepared to play side dish to her main course.”

  “You’re cruel.”

  “Not as cruel as you, and you aren’t even trying. Do what I said, and maybe you can hang on to your job here. Siegel does seem to respect you for your mind as well as your body. Be a career girl, if you want. You just might be in on the ground floor of something.”

  “Why do you…why do you still care about me?”

  “I haven’t the faintest fucking idea,” I said, and I went back into the casino.

  Where Ben was in his element. He was shaking hands with guests (those who weren’t in plaid jackets, anyway), and on his arm was Virginia Hill, looking resplendent in her thirty-five-hundred dollar flaming orange-red gown; a diamond necklace caressed her bosom, and who could blame the lucky rocks? She seemed in her element, too, tapping back into her days as the belle of the social ball, when she was posing as an Arkansas heiress. Gone, for the moment, was her disdain for Siegel’s pastel dream castle. Here was a beautiful woman, charming, funny, and so very desirable. The psychopath was hiding.

  I stayed away from her. I saw Lansky two more times that evening; in both instances he was speaking, off to one side, with Moe Sedway.

  My pickpocket school graduates did all right. They stopped one whiz team, and two single-handers. They followed my suggested procedure and did not confront the dips till they had left the premises; that prevented any nasty embarrassing scene within the facility itself.

  As I suspected, the crowd thinned out early, for a joint that never closed. People headed back to their own hotels, where they’d probably gamble some more before retiring.

  A little after 3 a.m., I found Siegel in the small main counting room off the casino. Boxes of money were on the table before him. He and the top pit boss were counting the take. But I could see from Siegel’s fallen face that something was wrong.

  “This is impossible,” he said, ashen.

  The pit boss shrugged.

  “I’ll, uh, report in later,” I said.

  Siegel looked at me with the expression of a man who has been struck in the back of the head with a plank.

  “We’re down almost thirty thousand,” he said.

  “What?” I said.

  “We lost tonight. How the fuck does the house lose?” I didn’t know.

  But the way Siegel’s luck had been running, I wasn’t surprised he’d found a way.

  “The place ain’t exactly hoppin’,” George Raft said, lighting up a cigarette as he viewed the moderately attended casino floor from the slightly raised perspective of the lobby. It was early Friday afternoon, and Raft had just arrived from Hollywood; he’d driven over in his shiny cobalt-blue Cadillac, only it wasn’t so shiny after the desert had been at it for seven hours. He was wearing a dark blue sportshirt and a lighter blue jacket and seemed tired; his hair was slicked immaculately back, but the rest of him looked slightly out of focus.

  “Come evening it’ll be jammed again,” I said. “Without the hotel open, days are bound to be slow.”

  He nodded. “How’s Benny holding up?”

  “He’s a little frazzled. This morning he chewed out some poor customer who had the bad judgment to go up and call him ‘Bugsy.’”

  “Ouch,” Raft said.

  “And, too, he was down thirty grand last night.”

  Raft gave me a disbelieving look. “Down?”

  “Yeah. Partly it’s the pros from downtown coming in and playing smart. That includes his supposed pal Gus Greenbaum.”

  The gregarious, fleshy Greeenbaum ran the Arizona branch of Trans-American for Siegel.

  “Even the savviest gamblers are still up against house odds,” Raft said. “What’s really going on?”

  “I think I know,” I said. “I’m just not ready to spring it on Siegel yet.”

  Raft nodded again. “Where is he? I got more bad news for him.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, I’m going to make myself scarce…”

  “Too late. Here he is.”

  Siegel was striding through the casino, wearing a tux with a red carnation; he was beaming, gladhanding, putting on a good front, but just the way he walked was a tip-off. This guy was teetering.

  But he grinned widely at seeing Raft and said, “Georgie! Georgie, how are ya? Thanks for coming,” pumping his old friend’s hand. He didn’t seem to notice how forced Raft’s smile was.

  “Let’s talk,” Raft said.

  “Fine!”

  “Private, someplace.”

  Siegel shrugged. “Sure.”

  “I’ll see you guys later,” I said.

  “Naw,” Siegel said, “Georgie and me got no secrets from you, Nate.” And, Raft staying dutifully at his side, Siegel eased his arm around my shoulder and walked me to his small office behind the hotel check-in counter.

  Siegel’s desk was cluttered with notepad notes to himself; there were four phones, making it look more like a hole-in-the-wall bookie joint than some big shot’s office. The pink plaster walls were decorated with framed photos of Ben and his Hollywood pals, chief among them Raft, including a portrait of the two of them smiling at each other after Raft stood up for his childhood chum in court.

  Behind the desk, Siegel leaned back in his swivel chair and lit up one of his Havanas. Normally the health-conscious Bug only allowed himself one a day; the last several days I’d noticed he was going through them like he was chain smoking Camels.

  Raft took a chair across from Siegel while I stood in the corner, next to a signed, framed Cary Grant 8 by 10 glossy.

  Siegel pointed at me with his pool cue cigar and showed off his patented dazzling smile. “I oughta put you in my will, Georgie, for introducing me to Nate, here. He’s just about the most valuable guy I got around this joint.”

  I swallowed. I didn’t know whether to say aw shucks or go screaming into the desert.

  “He’s straightened out my pilferage problem overnight. He’s turned those fla
bby ex-flatfoots on my private police force into something like a real security staff. You used to be a dip, didn’t you, Georgie? Well, don’t try it around here—Nate’s got his boys trained to spot ya. Nate doesn’t know it yet,” he confided in Raft, as if I weren’t there, “but I’m going to offer him a permanent position.”

  I said, “I’m flattered, Ben,” and let it go at that.

  Raft said, “Hear you had quite a turnout last night.”

  Siegel gave with a magnanimous wave of his cigar. “Jam-packed. Couldn’t ask for better.” His expression darkened momentarily. “We had a bad run of luck at the tables…” And then he brightened, or pretended to. “…but the house odds’ll turn that around.”

  If he was counting on that, he was making a mistake, at least potentially so. Sure, assuming his tables were straight, the odds would even out in the house’s favor; that was a tide that would inevitably turn. But as over-extended as he was, his bankroll might be expended before said tide came in.

  “Everything’s set for tomorrow night,” Siegel said. “I chartered a TWA Constellation to bring your pals down, and anybody that doesn’t want to fly can come by train, at my expense.”

  “Ben,” Raft said, shifting in his chair, “we got a little problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “A few people can’t make it.”

  “Like who?”

  “Well. Like almost everybody.”

  Siegel’s face went expressionless; and then it began to burn.

  Raft seemed very uncomfortable. “It’s not easy for me to tell you this, Ben.”

  “What’s the matter with those jerks? Since when don’t Hollywood wanna come to a big party?”

  Raft shrugged, tried to find something to say, couldn’t. It was very strange seeing George Raft nervous; it made me at least as uncomfortable as he was.