by David Bishop
“I wanted to approach you last night, but I didn’t want to appear to be the masher you imagined. So, in the end, my way with words failed me. Instead, I watched your image blur as you disappeared into the fog.”
She leaned forward, her forearms bracing the thigh of her crossed leg. “I’m Callie … Calandra, but no one calls me that. Hampton is my last name. Now, we’ve met and you’re not a masher.”
It was not exactly the formal introduction upon which society relies, but enough to clear the way. I had been accepted, pending her further review. I raised my glass, she matched my motion. We each nodded, and then sipped, our swallows synchronized as if guided by a metronome.
“Tell me, Callie, what it is that has brought you such sadness.”
“It shows?”
I nodded, adding a small grin, reassuring, not humorous.
“It’s my sister, my younger sister. Not that I’ll tell you my age, but she is twenty-two. Her name is Frances, Frances Hampton. She’s missing.”
“Have you gone to the police?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They’re no help. You see, my father is Stephen Hampton.”
She said her father’s name like it fully explained why the police had turned a deaf ear to her plight. I knew who her father was; it was my job to know. I also understood why the police had stonewalled. Not why they should, but why they did. Stephen Hampton ran a successful modest-sized manufacturing business. He was out of favor with the LAPD.”
“Why do you think the police won’t help?” I asked to learn her take on the why.
“I’m guessing you know my father is a supporter of Clifford Clinton, the man who owns Clifton’s Cafeterias and heads up CIVIC. You mentioned CIVIC in your column the other night. Harry Raymond, whose car was just blown up, worked for CIVIC. Oh,” she said, realizing she had drifted a bit in her reply. “The police took down the information on a missing person’s report, but they were just going through the motions, shuffling papers. As it turned out, letting my father know that with him supporting CIVIC they would not be there for him.”
“When was that?”
“Nearly a month ago, I think it was April third, something like that. I have the exact date at home.”
I started to open my mouth, but stopped when she shook her head.
“No,” she said, explaining the shake of her head. “We have not heard from the police. Not even once. Two weeks ago I went back to the station to ask about their progress in finding my sister. They said they had no record. That I had never filed a missing person’s report. Rather than argue, I filed a new request that they look into my sister’s disappearance. Yesterday, I returned and was again told they had no file, that I had never reported my sister missing. It’s very disappointing to find the police will further endanger my sister in order to strike back at my father for his modest efforts to help rid the city of crime and corruption. A job which, in truth, should be the work of the police force not Mr. Clinton, my father, and a few other citizens who care.”
She touched the corners of her lips, first one and then the other. Her fingers trembled slightly. Then she chugged the last of her Irish.
Moving as little as necessary, I poured her another measure of Irish and added to my own. “No word whatever?” I asked. “Not from Frances? From a kidnapper? Threats that your father should back off his efforts in support of Clifford Clinton? Nothing?”
“Nothing. We’re worried sick. I’ve contacted everyone I know who knows Frances. No one has seen her.”
“Tell me about her. Hobbies, work, interests, men in her life, even vices, whatever comes to mind.” I hated to forgo the view of her legs, but I moved to the other end of the couch from where she sat, taking along a small pad and a sharp pencil. She re-crossed her legs, sending her top gam in the direction away from me.
“Frances is a good girl. A little too modern perhaps… . No. You can’t help if I’m not honest with you. Frances is a bit wild. She likes bad boys, likes the excitement. She’s gorgeous and she likes loitering in and around the clubs downtown. She has this thing for gangsters, real ones or the guys who play them in the movies.”
“Many of those clubs offer illegal gambling. Does she gamble?”
“No. She drinks and flirts. Dates some of the men she meets there. She wants to be in pictures and reads that movie stars hang out in those places. She fantasizes about making that magic contact, getting a screen test, and all the rest. The stuff dreams are made of. Also, the gambling ships. You know.”
I nodded. “Which places does she frequent?”
“The Trocadero. Cocoanut Grove, La Conga, The Brown Derby, a few others.”
“Which few others? The places your sister liked, she probably still likes. Tell me all of them.”
“The Cinegrill. That’s all that comes to mind… . Oh, The Club Alabam.”
“Alabam, the black club?”
“Yes. She likes their music. She says, ‘The Alabam is pretty upscale.’ ”
“She’s right. The Alabam is the swankest black club in town, maybe in the country. Any others?”
“She once mentioned a place called Hollywood’s Famous Door. I think that was the name, something like that. I don’t know where that one is.”
“It’s on Vine.”
“Do you think you can find Frances? Will you help?”
“Some girls get found. Some don’t. Some don’t wanna be found. You should know I can’t drop everything. I’ve got a column to feed. It feeds me. But some inquiries can be done at the same time. I haunt those clubs to hear things and make contacts. I’ll ask around. I know a lot of people in those nightspots: owners, managers, even some regular patrons.”
“Also, Mr. Cornero. I understand he owns some of the ships. Frances has gone out to them several times. Probably more often than I know about. Young people rarely confide fully in adults, even older sisters. I know she wanted to get to know Benjamin Siegel. They say he’s lifelong friends with George Raft, my sister’s favorite actor. She was hoping … you know.”
“Sure. Two more things: how do I reach you—day or night? Also, do you have a picture of Frances that you can leave with me?”
She reached into her purse and gave me a paper on which she had written her address, home phone, the number where she worked, and her father’s home and work phone numbers.
“I’ll fill Daddy in. He’ll be so grateful. You can reach him or me whenever. Your calls will always be taken.” She then reached back into her purse and handed me a picture. “This is Frances.”
I whistled low. “She is beautiful.”
“Yes,” Callie said.
“Too,” I added. Callie blushed. “Frances has an unusual hair color,” I said, “red and thick, curly, and wonderful eyes and skin. Does she wear her hair that way all the time?”
“Frances mostly wears it loose with waves or curls, maybe pinned up in one style or another. For a woman, hairstyles can also be influenced by whether or not she plans to wear a hat. That day, Frances had just washed her hair and liked the way it looked when it dried. I asked and she said okay so I took the picture. I hunted for another picture, but this was the only one I could find. We had dozens, but somehow all of them were gone. Father and I both looked. We don’t understand what happened to them. We checked everywhere. Nothing else was missing, only the pictures of Frances, except for this one which I had in my bureau.”
“We can’t solve that part of the mystery now. Let’s get to what you haven’t told me. How wild is Callie? This is important since it contributes to where I’ll look and who I’ll ask. You said no before, but does she have a gambling problem? Drinking? Drugs? You said she likes bad boys. What about other women? Negro men … or women for that matter? I’m not trying to shock you or insult Frances. It’s just the more I know, the better I can judge where to make inquiries. Whether or not I should include the popular fluff bars in town which are known for what’s called twentieth-century sex.”
Callie had continuously shaken her head as I tossed out the various blemishes on human behavior.
“No, Mr. Kile. My sister is wild about men. Not crazy wild. She likes dangerous ones. She drinks, but has no problem with it. When she goes into the various backrooms to gamble it’s because the man she is with wants her on his arm.”
“You said Frances is twenty-two, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know that when we find her, assuming we do, we can’t force her to do or not to do anything. Within the law, she’s free to be with whomever she chooses and to act as she wishes, the same as you and me.”
“Of course. Mostly my father and I just need to know she’s all right… . At the very least, that she’s alive. Sure, Daddy and I hope to make her see the bad end she could be heading for. Please help me find her. That’s first.”
I nodded. “Anything else?”
“Nothing which comes to mind. If I think of more, may I call you?” I nodded and gave her my card I reserve for friends apart from business. It carried my phone here at the office and at home, but no address. “Oh, she has a young cat, name of Puss. I think Puss is as worried as I am. The cat keeps waiting at the points in the house where she would frequently encounter Frances. The rest of the time Puss wanders around looking in rooms, out the window, seems to be searching. Sometimes Puss just looks at me, like I should know. Maybe I should, but I don’t. Father and I are in the same boat as Puss the cat.”
“What else?”
“Your fee.” She again reached into her purse. “I can pay you—”
I put up my hand.
She stopped speaking. Her mouth open just enough to show the coloring of her tongue, teasing the edge of her teeth. She moved her lips as if she might say something, but did not.
“Callie, I don’t need your money. I make a good living, quite a good living actually. I’m alone. I don’t need it.”
“Then why are you offering your help?”
“Let me give it to you straight. You know I’m attracted to you. You knew that before you came to see me. This will give us a chance to get to know each other. I wish it were under better circumstances, but nonetheless it will. No obligations on your part. I’m not talking about you compromising yourself. I’m talking about an opportunity to know you. Whether anything more than that occurs will be up to you.”
“I take it your interest must be purely physical? I mean, you don’t know me.”
“I observe people for a living. I know more than you might think. But tell me more about yourself.”
“Where should I start? What do you want to know?”
“In the newspaper business, we have a saying, “Sum it up.”
She looked down a moment or two, then up and directly at me. “I’m a simple girl, really. I like to cook and care for people I love. I’m easily distracted by stimulating book covers, chocolate, kittens, warm cookies, and trains. I particularly like trains when I’m on them with people I love.”
“Summed up better than some reporters I know. Now, let’s get back to what we were discussing. If you don’t develop an interest in me, I’ll still help you. That’s no conditions here, okay?”
“Okay, Mr. Kile.”
“Matt.”
“Okay, Matt. Thank you. I want to go with you while you look for Frances.”
“You work?”
“For Daddy. I’ve already cleared it with him. He wanted to go, but he knows he’d be recognized by some of the men you’ll see and they’d clam up.”
“I agree about your father, but your coming along is not a good idea either. The places … the people I’ll be talking with.”
“I want everything done to find Frances that can be done. I’ll recognize some of the people Frances knows. This will make it harder for those people to stonewall you. If we actually see Frances, I’ll recognize her no matter how she’s done up. You may not, given that the picture you have isn’t how she always looks, particularly when she dolls herself up to go out.
“If you get talking to someone for your column who you think isn’t opening up because of my being there, give me the high sign. I’ll go to the powder room and then wait for you by the door. It’s also possible some of your sources may see you differently if you show up with what they might call a doll on your arm. I’ll try to dress the part… . Look, if we find her … when we find her, I’ll be the best person to reason with her. Daddy issues orders. Frances and I talk … some anyway… . Please.”
“We’ll try it. See how it goes. But I’ll pull the plug if I think you’re cramping my style. Agreed?”
“Agreed, Matt.”
Chapter Six
Over the next two nights, Callie and I hit a few clubs. And, like she had said, she dressed for the part. Each night her outfit pulled off a perfect marriage of sexy and classy—not an easy achievement. There was no smuttiness in the woman. Not in public anyway. In private I didn’t know, but hoped to find out. To my way of thinking, during intimate private times there is no such thing as indecent. My concerns about taking her along while I hit the spots soon disappeared. I was noticed more often than usual. Lots of men and even a few women, who usually hung back and nodded or smiled, now came over to say hello and be introduced. The accompanying conversation let me pick up a few morsels for my column. Callie was good for my business as well as my ego.
We neither found Frances nor anyone who knew where she was. A few mentioned having seen her last night or last week. No one remembered exactly where. The people had been club hopping with drinks at each stop. The particular club where they had seen Frances lost in their floating memories. Two of the women said Frances had been with a gorgeous guy, well dressed, with an air of keep-your-distance. No one who saw her had spoken to her. The two women had no clue as to the identity of the gorgeous guy. However they made noises and wiggles like they wish they had.
The first night I noticed a man in one of the early clubs where we stopped. I saw him again in the last nightspot we hit. The sound his shoe taps made against the hard surface flooring first drew my attention. I saw him twice more during our second night of clubbing. He stayed at a distance. Sometimes he sat alone at a table in the corner. Other times at the bar when it provided a mirror in which he could see our table. The tell was his eyes. He didn’t look around. He just watched us. I didn’t mention him to Callie.
In part, we spent those evenings getting better acquainted. I didn’t push it. Still, we had clearly started the process of knowing one another. We seemed to be hitting it off, but we kept the focus on finding her little sister. We showed the picture around and got a lot of comments. “She’s a Hot Toddie.” Another said, “I love her lamps.” A third said, “She’s a real sweet patootie.” All slang of the day for a good looking dish. The Hot Toddie had been what the recently murdered actress Thelma Todd had been called. Several commented on her unusual red hair. The women mentioned her skin and the distant look in her eyes.
The “sweet patootie” comment had been made by a guy I knew as Raker, a recently retired croupier from one of Mickey Cohen’s illegal casinos.
“I heard some dame named Frances was Johnny Breeze’s current moll.” Raker had lowered his voice when he said Johnny Breeze, as if Breeze’s name traveled on some private sinister whisper. “But I never laid eyes on her.” Raker went on to say he had no clue where to find them. “You know Breeze,” he added after a minute. “He moves around like his name. In his business he avoids being predictable. He don’t stay at no club more than an hour, if that long.”
When Raker left, Callie asked me what business Johnny Breeze was in.
“He’s a gunsel, freelance. He’s reputed to have done jobs for Ben Siegel, Bugsy, as he’s called by some when he isn’t around. And Mickey Cohen, Siegel’s second in command who maintains some rackets independent of Siegel. Raker’s mother is Sicilian so he has loose connections with Dragna and some of the eastern crime families. Siegel and Cohen are both Jewish. Breeze has a rep for getting it done and is pai
d well for doing it.”
“Why don’t the police arrest this Johnny Breeze?”
“You’ve got a lot to learn about this town, Callie. Ask your father. City Hall and the police department are in tight with the mobs. I even heard a story I could never corroborate that Johnny Breeze bumped off a guy for one of our former Chiefs of Police. You got a taste of the connection when the police sloughed off the missing person’s report you filed on Frances.”
“Did you print it? The killing for the chief of police, I mean.”
“Not without corroboration. Until I get that, it’s one man’s word against another. That makes it little more than a rumor and that was not the kind of story I felt comfortable reporting as a rumor. Maybe someday I’ll get that confirmation and I’ll run it then.”
New York D.A. Thomas Dewey holds a Warrant for Ben Siegel. Our D.A. Buron Fitts is Cooperating.
Yesterday, L.A authorities, in cooperation with the New York district attorney, raided the Beverly Hills home of the flamboyant Benjamin Siegel. Siegel was not at home. Later, Ben Siegel called the L.A. papers to say, “Hey, if New York D.A. Tom Dewey wants me I’m right in his back yard, New York.”
Early this morning I was tipped that Ben Siegel and a friend, the Countess di Frasso left for Rome and the home of the Countess’s husband. Siegel left Mickey Cohen, his protégé, in charge of his various L.A. business operations which some call rackets. The tip included that Siegel might meet up with his childhood pal, the actor George Raft before heading back to the States.
Mickey Cohen is on the rise after gobbling up all that Siegel could teach him. The lessons included things as varied as dressing better, including wearing some cashmere. Mickey, who never graduated from elementary school, has hired a tutor to teach him how to speak correctly. He also put on an accountant and my sources report that he’s going to start paying his taxes, including filings for back years. It would be fascinating to know which business activities he will use to cover his ill-gotten gains, or if he’ll just underreport. The Mickster is said to change his suits two or three times a day, wash his hands several times every hour, and eat ice cream and pastry with every meal. Now, I ask you: if that ain’t Hollywoodesque what is? Mickey Mouse and Mickey Cohen, two very different fellas, are both a part of our Hollywood scene.
