by J. L. Abramo
All I can do now is wait.
The next entry in the journal was dated more than two weeks later. Only a handful of entries followed for 1947, dealing mostly with the pregnancy, leading up to the birth of a daughter, Anna, in February 1948. Virginia had moved to Vienna, Austria and raised the child there.
After the child was born, Anna Hill became the primary focus of her mother’s journal. It became an account of the girl’s life; first words, first steps, first day of school, first signs of adolescence. Virginia Hill said very little about herself in the pages. Ben Siegel and Reginald Masters were never mentioned again.
Her final entry was on the day following Anna Hill’s eighteenth birthday.
Virginia Hill died in Vienna a few days later.
“What do you make of it,” Hank Fellows asked, after they had reached the end of the tattered diary.
“I don’t know what to make of it,” Pigeon said. “Who double-crossed who? Did Hill set Ben Siegel up, by telling him he would find Masters at North Linden on the twentieth? If Natalie Levant was Anna Hill’s daughter and she recently discovered Reginald Masters was her grandfather, did she go to Masters to claim her birthright? I’d love to have been a fly on the wall when Siegel and Sedway met with Cohen and Stompanato at the Flamingo Hotel and to have been in the car with Cohen and Stompanato when they drove back to LA. We’ll never know. They’re all dead now.”
“Reginald Masters is alive.”
“What good does that do? He would deny he ever had anything to with Virginia Hill or that he ever knew she was pregnant with what she claimed was his child,” Jimmy said. “And the suicide note doesn’t implicate him.”
“It’s extremely doubtful there was any romantic encounter. Jackson Masters may not have known who Natalie Levant really was, but she believed they were related by blood. And I can’t believe their meeting in Sacramento was accidental. Levant must have tracked Masters down and somehow convinced him to arrange an audience with Reginald Masters. I believe the suicide letter was Jackson Masters’ attempt at diverting attention from the old man.”
“That note, those were the man’s dying words. Hill’s journal is too incomplete, too ambiguous. If push came to shove,” Jimmy said, “the note would carry more weight, win the day, discourage further police investigation.”
“Maybe Anna Hill is alive; her married name could be Anna Levant.”
“Sure,” Jimmy said. “We can look her up in the Vienna phone book.”
“How about the doctor in Paris, Brandeau?”
“Do you really think he’s still alive?”
“Probably not,” Fellows said, “but we might at least be able to find out what kind of doctor he was. I can put a couple of my best researchers on it. What do we have to lose?”
The question plaguing Jimmy was what did they hope to gain?
Jimmy’s father would have answered, you hope to find the truth.
And the search for truth is a noble quest.
Noble, perhaps, but not without its complications.
Not without its responsibilities.
Since the day he first discovered the identity of the man who killed his father, Jimmy had come to recognize the dark side of truth; had learned that knowing the truth and knowing what to do with it were two very different things.
On Thursday, two days after finding the journal, Hank Fellows phoned Jimmy again.
“We’ve located George Levant, a Viennese businessman. His wife Anna passed away six weeks ago, cancer. Natalie was their daughter; she was living in New York. When she went to Austria for her mother’s funeral, Levant gave her Virginia Hill’s journal. He said his wife wanted Natalie to have it. He said he had never read it, knew nothing of its contents. I spoke with him personally. I had to tell him his daughter was murdered.”
“Horrible news to have to deliver,” Jimmy said.
“I make my living delivering horrible news,” Fellows said. “We located Brandeau’s son. He is a physician also, joined his father in the Paris practice and took over the practice when his father died in nineteen-eighty.”
“What kind of medical practice?” Jimmy asked.
“Plastic surgery,” Fellows answered.
A FLY ON THE WALL
Later that Thursday morning, a light drizzle fell on the small crowd assembled at Forest Lawn Cemetery in the Hollywood Hills. They had come from the memorial service to the gravesite where Jackson Masters would be buried.
A few opened umbrellas were scattered throughout the congregation, but most of the spectators sat unprotected, letting the gentle rain wash over their hands and faces.
A minister stood beside the casket reading verse from the Bible. A few rows of metal folding chairs had been set up nearby. Jackson Masters’ wife and his two children sat in the closest row of seats. William Masters, the former Governor of California, who less than two weeks earlier had become his party’s candidate for a seat in the U.S. Senate, sat beside the widow.
Directly behind them sat the old man, still strikingly handsome at eighty-eight. He had a full head of thick gray hair covered by an ancient Fedora, the wide brim pulled low across his brow. He also wore a full beard, neatly trimmed, as he had since first allowing it to grow during a trip to Europe in 1947. And he wore the thick framed, dark tinted eyeglasses that had long been one of Reginald Master’s most familiar physical trademarks.
William Masters stared blankly at the casket that held the lifeless body of his only son, trying to comprehend the senseless waste of such great potential.
The old man stared only at William.
In 1937, two events changed Reginald Masters’ life.
Throughout most of the previous year, Masters’ career and his home life were both overly demanding and stressful.
The studio had dumped the problem of Warner Oland into his lap. Do or die. Oland was threatening to kill the goose that laid the golden eggs, the Charlie Chan film series.
The actor’s demands for additional salary and for more artistic control, combined with his erratic temperament and behavior, had virtually eliminated the handsome profits the popular series had always earned. Oland literally held the studio hostage and it was left to Masters to negotiate its release.
Success or failure would determine his future.
At the same time, his pregnant wife was becoming very unhappy about Masters’ long hours away from their home; his distraction and inattention to her condition and her needs.
When his absence and disinterest continued after the birth of their son, Masters’ wife gave up all hope for a normal, loving family life.
In 1937, Warner Oland walked off the set of the latest Charlie Chan film and never returned. His departure opened a door that would lead Reginald Masters to unimagined power and riches.
Just a few days before Oland’s disappearance, Masters’ wife filed for divorce and left California with their four-month-old son. William. Masters never heard from his wife again.
In 1952, his former wife died. Masters gained custody of the fifteen-year-old boy and William Masters came out to California to live with the father he had never known.
The rain had stopped falling as the casket was lowered into the ground. Soon, the small crowd dispersed. The old man walked alongside his chauffeur to the car and when they reached the limousine, Jimmy Pigeon was waiting there.
“I need to speak with you, sir,” Jimmy said.
The chauffer began to move, stepping to place himself between Jimmy and the old man.
The old man stopped him with a hand gesture.
“Who are you?” the old man asked.
“Jimmy Pigeon, sir, and I need to talk with you about your granddaughter.”
“I don’t have a granddaughter.”
“Then I need to talk to you about Natalie Levant,” Jimmy said. “Virginia Hill’s granddaughter.”
The chauffer began to move again, threateningly. The old man held him off again.
“Can you come to my home, Jimmy? You may enjoy seei
ng the place, it has quite a history.”
“I’m familiar with some of its history,” Pigeon said, not very surprised that the old man had called him by his first name.
“Well, then, how about this afternoon?” the old man asked. “Can you be there at four?”
“I’ll be there.”
Nathan Archer jumped into his car ten minutes after Jimmy’s phone call and raced up to Santa Monica from San Diego. With the equipment they had used when Pam Walker met with Jackson Masters, Nate would turn Jimmy into a walking microphone. They would take separate cars. Pigeon would drive right up to the mansion; Nate would park his vehicle as close as possible without being noticed, where he would monitor every word spoken by Jimmy and the old man.
They sat in Jimmy’s office, Jimmy at his desk, Nate at Lenny’s desk, both looking up at the wall clock, waiting.
The old man stood at the sink in the bathroom off the Master Bedroom in the mansion on North Linden.
He picked up one of the large gelatin capsules he used daily to help control his cholesterol and he pulled the two halves of the capsule apart. He spilled the garlic extract into the sink. He re-filled both sides with a grainy, salt like substance from a small glass bottle, pressing as much of the substance as he could into each side and pushed the two halves together again. The old man dropped the filled capsule into his shirt pocket.
He walked downstairs to his library and he sat to wait for Jimmy Pigeon.
The old man thought about Jackson Masters.
Jackson had taken his own life, believing if he placed the burden on his own shoulders alone he could save the day. The old man could have told him it wouldn’t work. He had seen the photo of Natalie Levant in the Outlook, he knew that sooner or later someone would learn who she was; sooner or later she would lead someone to his door.
The old man had no illusions about Jackson’s motive; Jackson did not act to protect the old man. He had acted to protect his father. The man Jackson loved and admired most, the man who would likely be the next junior Senator from the state of California, William Masters.
William deserves to be protected, the old man thought as he waited for Pigeon. William was innocent. He did not know what went on in Beverly Hills before his mother died and he was returned to California. He knew nothing about Virginia Hill or Mickey Cohen or Natalie Levant or Frank Raft. But he would be tainted by the sins of the old man, possibly ruined, and that is why Jackson had tried to take it entirely upon himself. Jackson understood a father is less likely to be ruined by the sins of his son.
The old man knew what he had to do, see to it that Jackson Masters had not died in vain and save William’s reputation and future.
If it wasn’t too late.
The doorbell rang.
The old man was alone in the house. He rose from his chair in the library and he went to the front door to let his guest into the mansion. He would try his best to sell his case. He opened the door for Jimmy Pigeon, measuring the younger man as he spoke.
“Jimmy, I like a man who arrives on time. Would you care to join me for a Scotch in the library, or would you rather see the rest of the house first?”
“A drink would be good,” Jimmy said.
The old man handed Jimmy a tall, thick-bottomed glass, generously filled with twelve-year-old, single malt Scotch. The old man sipped his own drink and he sat in an armchair opposite Pigeon.
“What can I do for you, Jimmy?” the old man asked.
“Lenny Archer was my partner and my friend. He was brutally murdered by Frank Raft and Bob Tully. I need to know why he was killed. It’s important to me.”
“Why come here?”
“Because Lenny, and the others, died to keep the truth of the crime buried.”
“What crime is that, Jimmy?”
“The murder of Ben Siegel.”
“And you believe you know what happened.”
“I think I do, but I want to hear it from you. I need to know how it happened.”
“And what is it worth to you, the truth?”
“I won’t know until I hear it.”
“Then I’ll help you, and afterwards I’ll ask you to do something for me in return. Before I begin, you’ll have to turn off any recording device.”
“In that case, you’ll have to allow Nathan Archer to join us. He should hear this also; Lenny was his brother. Nathan is here, outside, listening. Can I call him in?”
“Sure,” the old man said, “go ahead.”
“Come up to the house, Nate,” Jimmy said, and then he removed the microphone from under his shirt.
A few minutes later, Nathan Archer joined them in the library. The old man fixed a drink for his new guest.
“Where to begin,” the old man said.
“Begin where Joey Adonis warned Virginia Hill that Ben Siegel’s head was on the chopping block,” Jimmy said.
Siegel sat with Moe Sedway in the casino office after Virginia Hill told him about her talk with Joey Adonis.
“Charlie Luciano wants me dead,” Ben said.
“You need to disappear, Ben. You won’t know when it’s coming, you won’t know who.”
“Virginia has a wild scheme that just might work. Can I trust you, Moe?”
“You know you can, Ben.”
“I need to call Meyer.”
“Meyer, its Ben.”
“Benny, how are you, kid?”
“Charlie Luciano is gunning for me, Meyer.”
“How do you know?”
“That’s not important. I need your help.”
“I don’t know, Benny. There’s two million missing and Luciano is very unhappy. Charlie wants you dead and he wants his half of the money back. Nothing short of that is going to make Charlie happy again.”
“I have an idea that could make Charlie happy,” Siegel said. “I’ll need Mickey Cohen and one other man to make it happen, but Mickey won’t go against Charlie unless he hears it from you.”
“What kind of idea, Ben?”
Ben told Lansky what he had in mind.
“It’s crazy,” Meyer said, “but I don’t see any other way. I guess it’s worth a shot.”
“I’ll send the two million to you with Virginia; do whatever you need to do with it.”
“Virginia has to disappear too, Benny. I’ll let her keep my half of the money, but she will have to leave the country and stay gone.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll call Mickey; tell him to meet you in Vegas. He can bring Johnny Stomp along, if you need a second man.”
“Thanks, Meyer.”
“And we never had this conversation,” Lansky said, “Good luck, kid.”
Cohen and Stompanato arrived in Las Vegas the next day and they immediately met with Moe Sedway and Ben Siegel in Ben’s office at the casino.
“If anything we say here today leaves this room,” said Ben Siegel, “we are all dead men. Meyer Lansky will see to that. Understood?”
Everyone understood very well.
“Can you buy an LA county coroner, Mickey?”
“I know just the one,” Cohen said.
Ben told them his plan.
“When?” Mickey asked.
“On the twentieth. I want the body to be virtually unidentifiable. Use a shotgun, close range, to the face. Get the coroner in right away, to ID the corpse and rush his report. I want to read it in the newspapers the next day. I want to read that Bugsy Siegel is dead. If it all plays out, you will forget Benny Siegel ever existed. LA is yours, Mickey. You’ll have to slug it out with Jack Dragna. Moe, you get Vegas. Good luck, she’s a bitch.”
Siegel paused. He looked from one man to the other, waiting for any questions. There were none.
“Try not to fuck up the house too much,” he said. “I like it the way it is.”
Jimmy and Nate followed the old man into the front room of the house.
“They made a real mess here,” the old man said. “The front window was blown out, bullet holes in nearly all of the wall
s, destroyed an Italian leather couch and covered a very expensive Oriental carpet with blood.”
“And no one ever realized who was actually killed here that day?” Jimmy asked.
“Those who knew took it to their graves. Those who didn’t, never figured it out. Brandeau did an expert job on my face and the beard did the rest. Reginald Masters and Benjamin Siegel were both very intimidating men, most people who faced them were reluctant to delve very deeply into either man’s eyes.”
“So, you became Reginald Masters.”
“Yes. Ben Siegel was dead.”
“And Virginia Hill?” Nate asked.
“I never saw her again. Lansky had been very clear about that. We both understood the consequences.”
“And Natalie Levant?” asked Jimmy.
“She suspected I wasn’t her grandfather, that I wasn’t Masters. I agreed to pay for her silence. I never ordered her killed, or the others. It was Raft, he was insane.”
“But you are responsible,” Jimmy said.
“Yes, I am. And I involved Jackson Masters and I am responsible for him also. But William Masters is innocent. He came to me when he was fifteen years old, the son of the man I had killed and replaced. The boy changed my life. I have loved him as my own. I have caused the death of his son. William is a good man, a great man and he should be spared. Ben Siegel spent his entire life never apologizing for anything, I have never pleaded for a thing. But now I beg both of you to keep history unchanged. To believe Ben Siegel died in this room forty-seven years ago.”
Siegel reached into his shirt pocket and he pulled out the capsule he had prepared earlier. He placed it between his teeth and bit down hard. “Save William,” Siegel said, and he collapsed to the floor.
Nate knelt and brought his face to Siegel’s face.
