by David Bishop
I expected that Callie would confirm this dame with Breeze was Frances. Why else would he have wanted to keep the picture of Frances? I had also remembered two locked cases in their room at the Roosevelt, heavy-duty cases which were also just plain heavy.
So, far I knew two things, I was falling for Callie and we had quite different opinions of her little sister. Callie saw Frances as a wayward young girl fascinated with the danger that comes with chasing bad boys. Me? I was starting to see Frances as more like a leaf blowing from one gutter to the next.
Being with Johnny Breeze meant Frances was in a major gutter. He wouldn’t have her with him unless she was actively helping him.
* * *
I got home, opened the mail, paid a few bills, took a dip in the pool, poured three fingers of the Dew over ice and started working on my next column.
Bad Happenings in the City of Angels
Bad things happened this week in our booming metropolis, the same bad things that happened last week. That happened last year and the year before that. Only difference, this week they happened to different people. Hope none of them were you or yours.
Right this minute, the law dogs are hunkered down planning how to sink Tony Cornero’s new luxury gambling ship the S.S. Rex. Not sink it literally, just figuratively. It’s long been common knowledge that the guardians of the rest of us, or those who purport to be our guardians, want all the gambling ships gone. So, they are certainly opposed to Tony’s new bigger and better floating casino. Frankly, on this matter the law and the underworld are substantially in agreement. With the demise of the gambling ships, the politicians get to polish their images as saviors of the rest of us, from ourselves. The mobsters will then get your gambling business once the ships are not getting a piece of the gambling pie. Realizing that almost none of us ask the politicians to save us from ourselves, the mob has the better angle and the bigger benefit from this.
Why is it that anyone who wants to gamble onshore has no trouble finding the bookie joints and gambling dens that the police can never seem to locate? Curious, ain’t it?
Rumors say the underworld has offered to help Tony The Hat Cornero with protection from the law dogs, but Tony The Hat wouldn’t play ball. Cornero’s position continues to be what he has said many times before: Beyond three-miles offshore there is no California state or local law, only federal and there is no federal law whatsoever against gambling. Hence, Mr. Cornero figures his ships are legit, at the very least not illegit.
We are left with this fascinating question. Why is the law so hellbent on stopping Tony Cornero from offering gambling on the high seas where there is arguably no legal prohibition, while those same staunch protectors of the law continue to be lax and disinterested in putting a cork in the hundreds of gambling dens that reside in our own neighborhoods where it is unquestionably illegal?
Here’s a disclosure. One I’ve made before. Tony Cornero and yours truly are pals. We have been all our adult lives. Nonetheless, the truth on this speaks for itself.
Nothing new on Detective Eddie Kynette and the two other members of the LAPD on trial for the attempted murder of Harry Raymond, the PI for the CIVIC organization. It’s all in the news reports, and as long as they give it to you straight on the front page, I won’t waste your time reading what you have already read there.
Fats Waller’s opening night, tomorrow, is sold out. Call Dave’s Famous Door for availability for his other performances.
Good night Mr. and Mrs. Los Angeles and all the gambling ships at sea… . Good Luck, Suckers. Matt Kile
* * *
An hour later I fell asleep awash in images of making love with Callie in the hard sand, the surf licking our toes.
Chapter Fifteen
The next day, May 13th, ten days after Tony opened the S.S. Rex for business, D.A. Buron Fitts, carrying a gambling warrant, assembled a boarding party and sailed out to the Rex in several small boats. Tony, more about brains than brawn, wasn’t ready for a shootout. He let himself be taken prisoner, along with 50 of his crew. He was immediately freed on bond.
* * *
When I got to Callie’s place I told her about getting in Breeze’s room at the Hotel Roosevelt. She listened quietly. I pulled out my notepad and read her the brand of lipstick and perfume I had jotted down while inside that room, also the dress labels.
Callie lowered her eyes and nodded. “Frances uses those brands. So she is with this killer, this murderer. No more doubt.”
“We haven’t seen her with him so there may be a glimmer of doubt, but, I admit, not much. Still, the town is filled with gals who use those same cosmetics.”
Thirty minutes later, Callie and I got to Dave’s Front Door. We arrived an hour before time for the opening act of Fats Waller’s first performance. I wanted to be sure we got the seats along the wall that I had reserved with a double sawbuck. We also hoped that we would be there to see Frances arrive, maybe without her seeing us, at least not right off.
We took our seats, ordered a bottle of champagne, and settled in to watch the crowd arriving and spreading out. This early, the seating area looked a bit lumpy with heads and shoulders sticking up here and there. Over time the open spaces filled in with more and more heads and shoulders until the lumpy look smoothed out, the place nearly full with people of varying heights and widths. A few empty tables remained, some of those impressively surrounded with velvet ropes. The top-shelf swells hadn’t arrived, the folks with enough money to get preferred parking and choice seats roped off for their arrival.
Mickey Cohen arrived with a lady whose fingernails looked freshly done, LaVonne likely. Then I saw someone I hadn’t been looking to see. He had somehow slipped in without my noticing him. Carter Mitchum, the former cop, current PI who had stopped at the curb the night Johnny Breeze had stitched up the side of my car; the man with whom I had drunk and talked at King Eddie’s Saloon a few weeks back. I thought I had seen everyone come in, but not Carter who sat alone near the door to the kitchen. He could have slipped in that way. Mitchum was good. I give him that. Why was he here? Did he know something I didn’t? Or is he just another Waller fan? Time would tell.
Callie suddenly grabbed my arm. Well, she already had her hand on my forearm, but now she squeezed, hard, desperate like, pulling herself forward in her chair. “Matt!” she whispered emphatically, leaning toward me. “It’s Frances. There she is. Going toward that roped off table. She’s here. Oh, my God… . Do you see her? She’s here.”
After all the nights, all the visits to the “in spots,” we had found Frances. And as we feared, Frances was with Johnny Breeze. The host led the couple to the last reserved table. He clipped open the velvet rope and re-hooked it behind them.
“Sit back, Callie.”
She struggled against my hand which I had on her shoulder. “Remember our agreement,” I said. “I’ll pick when we approach her. We agreed that would likely be after the show. This isn’t the right time. Trust me. Sit back. Enjoy the show. Let your sister enjoy the show. You don’t want them to bolt.”
“I’ll just go over and say hello. Say it’s good to see her.”
“Callie. No. I approach people in public places all the time. Not always friendly people. We agreed I’d make that call.” I kept my hand on her shoulder, slid it down onto to bare upper arm and held it firmly.
She remained rigid.
“Damn it, Callie. You’ve worked too hard to get to this point. Don’t screw it up now.”
She relaxed some, a little more, and then she sat back. Right then, the three-piece group that backed up Fats Waller on the piano came out. The lights dimmed. Callie sat stiff but kept herself under control, her eyes riveted on her sister.
I glanced at Frances now and again. She was dressed stylishly in a sleeveless dress of some shiny material. A long string of pearls hung loosely around her neck, a small hat crowning her red hair. When I saw her come in, I knew Frances was the same woman I saw leaving the hotel, the black hair she featured had been a
wig. Tonight, her red hair was curled.
Then Fats Waller came out in his standard white shirt, vest, and tie, but no coat. He sat down on the piano bench. The seemingly ever-present white cigarette held captive in the left corner of his mouth, just south of his pencil thin mustache. His dark felt wool bowler sitting jauntily on his head.
Fats smiled and made a few remarks to let us all know he could do more than just tickle the ivories. Then he officially opened the show, his fingers dancing across the keys. First he played, If you Got to Ask, You Ain’t Got it. Followed by Ain’t Misbehavin’, and This Joint is Jumping. And by then the joint was jumping. Fats was an excellent piano player, a decent enough singer, and a show-stopping entertainer. During most of that session, Frances, at least when I glanced her way, kept her head still but her eyes were frozen on Callie, her hand playing with her pearls. She tugged on them gently. She twisted them on the string which kept them gathered around her neck. Finally her hand slid down slowly toward her waist.
Fats effortlessly moved into a medley of The Jitterbug Waltz and Keepin’ out of Mischief Now. His backup players took a more obvious role in a couple of instrumentals. Then there was an intermission.
“Now, Matt, now? Can I go talk to Frances now?”
Before I could give her much of an answer I felt a presence. A changing of the light as it fell across our table. I looked up to see Johnny Breeze standing in front of me. Beside him, off to one side, Carter Mitchum stood close enough to hear and watch Breeze. A quick glance let me know Frances had stayed in her seat.
“What the hell you doing here, Kile?” Johnny demanded with a not too subtle snarl.
“Bringing my girl to see Fats Waller,” I said innocently. “Likely, the same reason you’re here, Mr. Breeze.”
At that moment, the surrounding of our table increased. Mickey Cohen walked over with a big smile. LaVonne, the woman I assumed to be LaVonne, on his arm.
“Hello, Kile. Good to see you, my friend. I envy you, getting paid to write these man-about-town pieces. What a life. I’m in the wrong racket.”
LaVonne laughed. Then she moved around behind me to lean in and introduce herself to Callie. “I’m LaVonne, honey.” I heard her say. “Mickey tells me he absolutely adores your escort, this Matt Kile. We both love his column and read it every time. He’s a real cutie isn’t he?”
Callie smiled. “He sure is, LaVonne. I understand he and your man are regular ice cream buddies.”
“That’s what Mickey tells me. You’ll need to come with him next time. I’m a one-scoop girl, but Mickey has me hooked on the stuff.”
“Johnny,” I said, “Fats is heading back onstage so you’ll need to get back to your chair. Please tell Frances that her sister here will want to meet with her for a few minutes after the show.” I smiled.
“I think we can arrange that,” Cohen said. “Can’t we, Johnny? And, Matt, don’t worry. I’ve got a few boys outside just to see you won’t be interrupted. Now we better take our seats. Enjoy the second half, Johnny.” When Mickey said things like that, he had this little shit-eating grin that confessed to his having been sarcastic.
Breeze’s eyes narrowed. He stared at Mickey Cohen, but didn’t say anything. It was clear he didn’t like Cohen poking his nose into something Breeze considered a personal matter. Cohen held the gaze, his eyes locked on Breeze’s eyes. Both men’s jaws tight, their faces without expression. Fats Waller and his group were now back onto the stage. A moment later, Breeze turned from Cohen and headed back to his table. Cohen had too much muscle behind him and Breeze knew it.
Fats was wound up and running full out in less than a minute. He opened the second half with There’s Honey on the Moon Tonight, then On the Bumpy Road to Life, and But Not for Me. The show went on with vocals and instrumentals for another half hour. Then Waller closed the show with one of my favorites, Your Feet’s Too Big.”
It was a wonderful show. As it ended, we finished our second bottle of champagne. I motioned to our waiter, who looked toward the side door. Our waiter didn’t move, but the manager came over. I asked for our bill.
“Your tab has been picked up by Mr. Cohen.”
I glanced toward the Mickster and gave him a wave, sort of like the wave I’d seen Gary Cooper use in the movie, The Plainsman. He nodded—Mickey, not Cooper who wasn’t in attendance. Then Mickey’s boys came in and stood on each side of the door. I recognized Joe Sica, the gunsel who had called me to meet with Mickey the first time. He had been at Mickey’s Haberdashery when I had first arrived. Joe’s brothers Frank, Alfred, and Angelo, all known faces on the crime beat, were standing with Joe. They all worked for Cohen, maybe under some sort of family plan. The A’s, Alfred and Angelo, stood on one side of the front door, Frank on the other side with Joe.
Johnny Breeze put his hand on the arm of Callie’s sister, acknowledging he had been outflanked, letting her know they would not be walking out immediately. Cohen had blessed the meeting of the sisters and Breeze knew it would not be wise to try and leave before that meeting took place. Breeze was likely not afraid of Cohen one on one, but Breeze was a loner and Cohen had a squad of his men. In any event, if Breeze didn’t go along with what Cohen had orchestrated, he would be on the outs with a significant portion of the local mob.
In another fifteen minutes the place had cleared out of the people who came only to watch Fats Waller. This left our table, Mickey and LaVonne’s, Mickey’s associates near the door, Breeze and Frances, and Carter Mitchum still sitting by the entrance to the kitchen. Carter motioned to the manager who, after speaking briefly with Mitchum, had his staff step into the backroom. By then Fats Waller and his musicians were nowhere to be found.
I stood. Callie stood and took my arm. I could feel her shaking as we walked toward Frances who stayed seated and did nothing to suggest she was happy to see her sister.
“Mr. Breeze,” I said, “please join me outside for a cigarette. Let’s give the sisters a chance to share family talk a while.” He hesitated. I put my hand on the back of his chair to pull it out. Johnny didn’t move until Cohen looked at him with raised eyebrows. We stepped out into the lot. Alfred Sica followed us out.
* * *
“Frances. Oh, God, I’m so glad to find you, to know that you’re all right.”
“Why wouldn’t I be all right? I’m with my man. Apparently, you’re with your man, so what’s the big deal?”
“Your man is a killer, a hit man, a goon. He murders people, Frances. You can’t get involved in that stuff.”
“Mind your own business, Sis. You do what you want. Well, I’m doing what I want.” Frances picked up her glass and drank what little remained in the bottom.
“Daddy’s worried sick. He knows who you’re with. He’s not sleeping well. Neither of us is to tell the truth.”
“And you were always one to tell the truth, weren’t you, big sister?”
“Frances, this is not a sister’s argument. We’re talking about your life. Your freedom. Staying out of jail. Running around with this Breeze fella will get you … nothing you want.”
“How do you know what I want? With Johnny life is a thrill a minute. Lots of money. Lots of excitement. Johnny’s not afraid of anything, of anyone.” Frances then picked up the half-full glass on the table in front of where Johnny had sat and drank it down.
Callie shifted in her chair and reached over to touch her sister’s arm. Frances pulled away. “Apparently, Johnny’s afraid of living an honest life without hurting other people. Afraid to love and support you in a way that will keep you safe and respectable.”
“You were always holier than thou, weren’t you, Sis? You were always better than the next person, better than me. Better than anyone we knew. I’m sick of your attitude. Sick of your judging me.”
“Frances, come home with me now, tonight. We can work it out. Dad will do whatever we need to help. Before it’s too late. Before this mobster gets you killed or arrested. Please, Sis. You need to come home.”
“I a
m home, Callie. Being with Johnny is home. Whatever life we have, however long it lasts will be my life. Johnny’s smart. We’ll do fine, better than fine. He knows the angles. We won’t always be in the rackets. It’ll work out. You’ll see.”
With that, Frances stood up, turned, and headed for the door to the parking lot.
* * *
Breeze and I had gone outside when Callie sat down with Frances.
Once outside, I got right to it. “Johnny, there are lots of molls in this town. Why spoil a fresh young girl like Frances?”
“Not your business, Kile. But the fact is we love each other. It’s that simple. Now let’s talk about something else.”
I reached into my pocket and took out a pack of Old Gold cigarettes and extended them toward Breeze.
“I won’t smoke those, Kile. Didn’t you hear what just happened?” The blank look on my face read no, so Breeze explained his meaning. “Old Gold is the sponsor for the Artie Shaw band show on radio twice a week. Old Gold banned Billie Holliday and demanded the band’s white singer, Helen Forrest, sing all the songs.”
I threw the pack of Old Golds on the ground. Breeze smiled and offered me one of his Chesterfields. “You know none of these are any good for us,” he said. “The German Reich is doing an exhaustive study on the effects of smoking. I’ve got a connection on their committee. He says the results are overwhelmingly conclusive and their report, due out next year, will prove it. Smoking is the blame for most cancers of the lips, tongue, mouth, jaw, esophagus, windpipe and lungs, all along the body’s smoke alley, as the researchers refer to it. My friend tells me the study will nail down that secondhand smoke is also very dangerous for nonsmokers.”
