CHAPTER 7
The TWA Constellation gleamed blinding white in the sharp February air as Kathryn’s mother pulled her beaver coat tighter around her shoulders. “Where are we?” Francine asked. “Burbank? Look at all those lemon trees past the runway. Should I have brought warmer shoes? If it’s this cold here, what will New York be like? I’ve been living in California so long that my blood is thin. They say it happens, you know.”
Kathryn let her mother prattle as they crossed the tarmac. She knew it was only nerves causing her verbal dysentery. This trip is an olive branch, she reminded herself. She’s still miffed at not being invited to my wedding.
Kathryn’s protests that it was a last-minute justice of the peace ceremony failed to soften her mother’s testiness. So when Kathryn heard about Howard Hughes’ inaugural nonstop flight from Los Angeles to New York, she figured she could knock off a couple of canaries with one stone.
She was glad she could give her mother such a special experience, and probably would have still brought her along even if Hughes had returned any one of the myriad calls or telegrams she’d placed over the past two months. But he hadn’t, so here they were.
As they reached the bottom of the rollaway stairs, Kathryn heard a woman sneeze behind them.
“Excuse me!” It was Paulette Goddard in a knee-length chinchilla. “I grew up in weather like this, but BRRRR! How we stood it, I don’t know!”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Francine said.
Kathryn made a round of introductions when Burgess Meredith, Goddard’s husband, joined them, and then he swept them into the plane, saying, “Ladies, I think we’ll be more comfortable inside.”
The cabin held ten rows of four seats—mustard upholstery on the left, olive green on the right—separated by a spacious aisle. William Powell and Cary Grant were already aboard and sipping martinis.
“Gentlemen!” Kathryn exclaimed, accepting kisses on the cheeks from both men. “It’s only ten o’clock in the morning.”
“Ah,” Powell exclaimed, “but it’s one p.m. in New York.”
“Also known as martini o’clock,” Grant said. “At least it is at the Palm Court in the Plaza, which is good enough, isn’t it, Beatrice . . .?”
Kathryn’s Reds in the Beds character was as committed to the Communist cause as she was to drinking her way through every bar south of Mulholland Drive. “You know what I’m looking forward to the most? How New Yorkers are capable of talking about something other than that grubby little book.”
William Powell warned her not to get her hopes up, and pointed out that Reds was now in the top ten best-selling books nationwide. She threw him a weary look; he took the hint and introduced her and Francine to his wife, Diana, and Veronica Lake. Lake only had eyes for Alfred Hitchcock, who’d come up the stairs behind Paulette and Burgess. The director preferred his blondes icy, and Lake could play it cool better than anyone. This was her chance to make an impression. Cary Grant was about to start shooting a Nazi spy thriller with him, so she asked him to introduce them and leave the rest up to her.
When the movie-star-handsome face of Bugsy Siegel appeared in the doorway past Hitchcock, Kathryn dropped abruptly into her seat.
Howard Hughes’ PR department had worked tirelessly to inform America that TWA could fly from one coast to the other without stopping to refuel, thereby slicing hours off the journey. Much had been made of the celebrity passenger list for this inaugural flight and the catering provided by Dave Chasen from Chasen’s Restaurant. But at no time had Siegel’s name been mentioned. If it had, Kathryn would not have tried so hard for an invite. How would she avoid him if he wanted to talk about the Flamingo Club?
At the end of the war, Gwendolyn blabbed about the fledgling casino to Siegel in the hopes that he’d muscle his way in and shove Kathryn’s boss to the curb. But Wilkerson ran out of money and construction had stopped, so she thought Siegel hadn’t taken the bait. Unless, Kathryn now wondered, he was biding his time until Wilkerson was even more desperate. Siegel was seated four rows up and across the aisle. A conversation seemed inevitable.
When Howard Hughes appeared at the front of the cabin, Kathryn waved, trying to catch his eye, but he only stopped to nod at his famous passengers before disappearing into the cockpit.
When an air hostess announced they would be taking off shortly, Francine went rigid as a store window mannequin, gripping the armrest and shutting her eyes.
“You’ll be surprised how smooth the takeoff is,” Kathryn said.
“Let’s talk about that after we’ve left the ground.” Francine swallowed her last word whole.
The four engines revved to life, drowning the cabin in a thunderous roar. The aircraft plunged forward; Francine held her breath. Kathryn slipped her hand over her mother’s and gave it a squeeze. “We’re going to be here for nine hours,” she said over the engine drone. “You’ll have to start breathing sometime.”
* * *
As soon as Hughes announced they were free to move around the cabin, a number of passengers got up and started chatting, Dom Perignon and beluga caviar in hand. Kathryn stayed in her seat, watching the crew duck in and out of the cockpit. After an hour, she asked a hostess if Mr. Hughes would mind a visit.
“I don’t know,” she said, “it’s mighty crowded in there. The cockpit is built for three men and not much else.”
“Maybe just the briefest of chats? I’m writing a four-page spread in the Hollywood Reporter.”
The girl said she’d see what she could do, and wound her way to the nose of the aircraft, then reappeared shortly and told her Hughes would meet her outside the cockpit in five minutes. That was just enough time for Kathryn to recruit Cary Grant to hold Francine’s hand. If anybody could charm her mother’s nerves away, it was him.
“But remember,” Cary told Kathryn, “he’s crashed a couple of planes in the last few years, and it’s affected his hearing. You’ll have to speak up over all this noise.”
Edward G. Robinson and Diana Powell were talking with Veronica Lake, who was sitting next to Bugsy Siegel. When Kathryn saw Siegel peer out the window, she squeezed past Robinson and reached the cockpit door just as Hughes was coming out.
He’d always been tall and gangly, but he was more gaunt than when she saw him last year. Still, he’d retained enough of his baby-face appeal. He seemed pleased to see her, but made no effort to greet her with a kiss. She moved nearer to his good ear.
“So you are talking to me, then?” she asked. Hughes frowned, clearly puzzled. “I’ve been leaving messages and sending telegrams, but you’ve ignored me.”
He shook his head. “Been preoccupied with flying nonstop coast to coast, is all. Until I actually pulled it off, I didn’t have time for much else. You’re one of many people I’ve been neglecting, if that makes you feel any better.”
Kathryn made a deliberate show of reaching up and smoothing down her hair so he could see the charm bracelet he gave her a few months back. It was a thank-you gift for talking Melody Hope into getting rid of the baby he’d unintentionally fathered; Kathryn had arranged an abortion with a trusted doctor and saw to it that nobody was the wiser. The bracelet was solid silver, with nine letters that spelled out HOLLYWOOD. He smiled.
“Did you wear that for my benefit?”
She pulled at the cuff of her houndstooth jacket. “I put it on whenever I wear this. It goes so well.”
He glanced at the closed door behind him. “I can’t be away from the cockpit too long.”
“Do you remember that day in La Rue when my boss pitched you his casino idea?” He nodded. “And do you remember pointing out an FBI agent—”
“Did Hoyt talk you into becoming an informer?”
She snorted. “I wasn’t given much of a choice.”
He bent at the waist, leaning his ear closer to her. “You’ll have to speak up.”
“I’m kind of stuck,” she half-shouted, and hoped that the Constellation’s four engines drowned her out in the
main cabin. “I need your help.” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Veronica Lake’s blonde hair catching the cabin light. She was huddled at the front of the cabin with Hitchcock now, paying Kathryn no attention.
“What sort of help?”
“I was hoping you might know someone else who works for them,” Kathryn said. “Put in a good word for me, maybe? Pull some strings and get them to back off?”
“I see.” Hughes gave no indication that he would—or could—help her out.
“You mentioned how you and he tangled over something during Prohibition,” she persisted. “Perhaps if you knew something I could use?”
He shook his head. “We made up. We’re good now.”
“But you said you hated him.”
“That was before I wanted Yvonne de Carlo. She was filming in British Columbia, so I flew up to woo her. This was before the end of the war, so I had to break all kinds of regulations. Got myself in a whole heap of hot water over it. I was sitting in a bar in Prince George—”
“I thought you didn’t drink.”
“Did I say I was drinking? At any rate, he walked in. We were the only two guys in the place, so he came over, sat down next to me. Turns out I made a bunch of assumptions I shouldn’t have about that situation down in San Diego. I apologized and he accepted so graciously that I asked if he could help me out of this jam I was in with the Office of Civilian Defense. He said he’d see what he could do, and he did it. I was wrong about that guy. He’s a decent son of a gun.”
Kathryn stared at Hughes. And they think women are fickle. “So he’s the FBI agent with a heart of gold?”
He grinned. “Your Mr. Hoyt ain’t all bad.”
“He’s not my Mr. Hoyt!”
“I’ll see what I can do.” A twinkle lit up his eyes. “Can you do something for me?”
Kathryn nodded.
“Do you know Lana Turner?”
“Not personally. Why?” He raised his eyebrows as though to say, Why do you think?
Bette Davis had co-chaired the Hollywood Canteen with John Garfield, and he had just finished filming The Postman Always Rings Twice at MGM with Lana. “I know somebody who knows somebody.”
He smiled the goofy smile of a teenager in love. “See what you can do.” He swiveled toward the cockpit door, then turned back. “Your boss, do you know where he is? Today, I mean.”
“Should I?”
Hughes took a step closer to her, his mouth now inches from her face. “According to a well-placed source”—he jutted his chin toward Ben Siegel— “your boss is meeting with Meyer Lansky.”
Meyer Lansky was as notorious a mobster as Lucky Luciano, but he rarely left the East Coast. “Meeting with Lansky? For what?”
“He needs a million bucks to finish his Flamingo Club and he’s gone to the mob for it.”
Kathryn pressed her hands against the wall behind her, feeling the engine throb through her fingers and up her arms to encase her ribcage. “Why would he do such a thing?” She spoke softly, but he must have read her lips.
“Because he’s desperate.”
“He’s nuts!”
“Desperate and nuts are not mutually exclusive.”
CHAPTER 8
The week leading up to the Academy Awards ceremony was always one of the busiest of the year for upscale department stores like Bullocks Wilshire. With so many hats, furs, jewelry, shoes and matching handbags in demand, the store was a frenzy of activity—until the day after the awards, when it became as deserted as a ghost town.
Gwendolyn absently polished her counter’s glass top, lulled into the slow rhythm of post-Oscar season. The perfume and lingerie girls had already drifted back to their own stations after an hour of dissecting the Best Actress upset and speculating about why Joan Crawford didn’t show up to collect her Oscar for Mildred Pierce. There was nothing left for Gwendolyn to do but daydream.
On slow days such as these, Gwendolyn fantasized about her own store. In her mind, she painted the walls pale coral with cream trim and installed matching light fixtures. She designed the signage—currently she favored a typeface she’d seen in a Life magazine article about the Paris subway. She calculated the balance of styles she’d sell—fifty percent formalwear, thirty percent daywear, and twenty percent sportswear; and deciding whether or not to carry shoes (no), perfume (maybe), and gloves (definitely).
In her daydream, Oliver’s friend had identified the lighthouse in the postcard and she’d tracked down Linc. He’d written back and enclosed her three thousand, and she’d found the most darling little store on Hollywood Boulevard where the rent was affordable, and the landlord was a doll. But in reality, it had been four months since Oliver wrote to his pal, and he still hadn’t heard back. Oliver told her not to give up—“He could have taken a missionary post in Africa or China”—but Gwendolyn’s candle of hope had long since burned out.
She returned the polishing cloth to its drawer and pulled out the miniature feather duster. The necklaces and pendants in her counter were high-quality paste that weighed less than their authentic cousins upstairs, so dusting them still required an especially light touch. She was sliding open the back wall of her cabinet when she heard the Wilshire door’s brass handle hit the marble wall with a crack that echoed down the central hall. A dozen heads shot in the direction of the sound to see who’d make such a fuss, but only Gwendolyn’s ducked out of sight.
She hadn’t seen Bugsy Siegel since the day peace in the Pacific was declared. When the news came over the radio that the Japanese had surrendered, Gwendolyn was in the middle of laying out a false trail intended to keep Siegel off Linc’s tracks once and for all. She made a break for it amid the clamor, but Siegel caught up to her. Cornered, she pulled out her only ace: Kathryn’s boss’ plan to build a casino in Las Vegas. She thought for sure he’d take the bait and leave her alone, but it looked like he was coming for her.
Still crouched behind her counter, she heard knuckles rapping on the glass. She arranged her face into the neutral façade that shop clerks adopt whenever a prospective client is on the verge of choosing something inappropriate. She stood up and feigned surprise.
“Oh! Hello.”
With his fists perched on his hips, he scowled at her. She’d seen this expression several times before, but the one he wore now seemed hesitant, as though he was still mulling over his options.
“Are you here to buy some jewelry?” she asked. “Because if you are, this here merchandise is phony. The classy stuff is upstairs.”
He was having trouble standing still, almost as though he was in a stiff breeze. Benjamin Siegel was known for his meticulous appearance. His obsidian black hair was always combed with the same precision he tied his necktie, wore his suit, and chose his shoes. His tiepin always complemented his cufflinks, and his pinkie ring was buffed to a high shine. But not today. The gunmetal gray suit was neatly pressed, but his tie was a garish raspberry, and he’d pinned it with gold, not silver. His nails were ragged and he needed a shave.
He’s drunk. In public.
Gwendolyn took a tiny step backwards, but immediately saw her error as Siegel leaned on her counter and slapped the glass with both palms.
“I sent an associate to Uruguay,” he said. “Specifically to San Gregorio, where a pathetic excuse for a lodging house called Hotel Los Medanos sits on Lago Rincón del Bonete. And guess what he found—or didn’t.”
Gwendolyn lowered her voice. “I told you that day in the Zephyr Room—”
“What you told me,” Siegel cut in, his voice now catching the attention of everyone within a hundred feet, “was that you’d bet your last dime that I’d find Linc in that hotel. Guess what. Nobody at Hotel Los Mierda has ever heard of Lincoln Tattler. So I’m here to collect.” He laid his hand on the counter, palm open. “Your last dime, if you please.”
She studied his palm and decided that even drunk, Ben Siegel was far too aware of his image to risk doing anything drastic.
“Surely Linc was just
a tiny cog in your machinery,” she whispered. “Why are you so keen to track him down?”
“Everything’s falling apart.” His words came out slurred as his eyes lost their focus. “My casino in the desert.”
“Billy Wilkerson’s Flamingo?”
“It’s my place, y’understand? They’ll have my head if it doesn’t work out.”
“I seriously doubt Linc can help you with that.”
Siegel nodded slowly. “Oh, he can help, all right. And he knows why. Tell me where he is. I ain’t leaving till you do.”
“You think he sends me regular telegrams?”
Siegel licked his lips. “Yeah, I do.”
“That ocean liner schedule and map of Uruguay were all I had to go on.” Gwendolyn glanced around, hoping someone would come to her rescue, but everybody steered clear of her counter. She caught sight of her boss, but he was keeping his distance. Her hands started to shake. As casually as she could, she started to fan herself with the ostrich feathers in her duster and forced herself not to blink. “If the people at that hotel never heard of him, then I’m all out of guesses.”
“I don’t believe a single word coming out of that luscious kisser of yours.”
“You’re Ben Siegel,” she said, forcing the words out. Her voice sounded raw and guttural, which she hoped would work in her favor. “I hardly think it would be in my interest to lie to”—she almost called him the biggest mobster on the West Coast, but thought better of it— “the likes of you.”
He shot out his left hand and gripped her wrist; his fingernails dug into her flesh. “You’re coming with me.”
“I DON’T—” She stopped when she heard her own voice bounce off the marble wall. “This is where I work. Please don’t—”
He stepped around the corner of her counter. “I don’t give a pile of pigeon shit where we are.”
“Please don’t.” She tried to tug her arm away, but he jerked her toward him.
Reds in the Beds Page 5
