The syndicate, p.12
The Syndicate, page 12
“A week? Jesus.” Judy Garland’s latest picture The Pirate was already delayed and over budget. She’d been ill for 100 filming days out of 135. Gene Kelly had the potential to be a big star, but Mayer knew they had a bust on their hands if they couldn’t get her to finish her scenes.
“I heard press were outside the hotel. Why didn’t our security take her through the back?”
“They weren’t there. She was taken out by a medical team and the hotel staff,” Hendry said hesitantly. “All our men are occupied with strike action at the gates.”
Mayer sighed and ran a hand over his bald spot. “We have the H.U.A.C. hearing tomorrow. Make sure this doesn’t hit the press. Any of it.”
“Sir, something else.” Hendry glanced at the projectionist’s booth and lowered his voice. “Clark Gable told me he saw Jonathan Craine earlier. He was talking to George Raft on the studio lot.”
Mayer paled. Jonathan Craine. After eight years he’d thought that he’d never hear from Craine again. The man who blamed Mayer for his own wife’s suicide. The man who’d shot dead his closest confidant. The man who’d tried to destroy everything Mayer had spent his career trying to build.
“Craine? Are you sure? Was Gable drunk?”
“Sir, Gable was adamant.”
Mayer ran a finger round his collar. He felt a little sick.
“Who’s he working for? I thought we buried the story about George Raft and Siegel being friends.”
“The Herald didn’t follow suit. It’s in the public domain.”
Mayer slapped his legs. Clark Gable’s wife Carole had died in a plane crash a few years ago and Gable had never really got over it. He’d turned to drink. Mayer couldn’t be sure he wasn’t seeing things.
Mayer balled his hands into fists. “Find out whether what Gable told you is true. Talk to George Raft. And for God’s sake, if it is then I want to know what the hell Jonathan Craine was doing on my lot.”
Chapter 16
Tilda Conroy was at her desk, battling paperwork, ignoring memos from the copy editor that she needed to turn her articles in.
Most mornings consisted of going through her own notes on citywide homicides and trying to decide what was interesting enough to warrant typing up. The crime desk managed obituaries, too, but Alice usually wrote those. Alice also scoured national court cases and flagged anything of interest to Conroy that might make a good story. Between them they usually wrote a thousand words a day.
Every day repeated itself. The story you handled yesterday disappeared completely and then you started again.
Conroy had never had a problem with getting her stories on the page, but the briefing earlier had shaken her. She’d barely typed a single word since she’d got back to the office. While she wasn’t sure if Craine was telling the truth about the third witness at Siegel’s house, there was a distinct lack of noise in this case that still bothered her.
Alice was typing up Conroy’s shorthand notes from the police press briefing. Conroy hadn’t told her anything about the anonymous girl yet.
“Alice,” Conroy said quietly, “did the police release any of the witness statements on the Siegel case? Neighbors on Linden Drive?”
“Not that I’ve seen.” Alice stopped typing. She looked around to check no one was watching. “Friend of mine at Central told me the witness statements were never typed up by the steno pool.”
“Really? Why not?”
She shrugged. “Were told not to. Any notes taken by uniforms or the primary detective were handed straight over to the F.B.I.”
Conroy thought about that. The murder of Benjamin Siegel had the hallmarks of a major case. And yet the police and F.B.I. seemed to be doing all in their power to make it disappear. No special detail of detectives assigned. No regular statements to the press. No uniformed patrols canvassing every street within a mile.
Conroy checked over her shoulder and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Alice, at the press—”
“Speak up. Can’t hear you.”
Conroy made a face and brought a finger to her lips. “Inside voices, Alice.”
Alice rolled her eyes. “Oh, Lord.”
They bickered, but the two women had learned to rely on each other. Despite being her senior, Conroy had a lot of respect for Alice. She had hands-on experience on the crime desk of the Associated Negro Press in Chicago. Conroy had hired her as a clerk on the crime desk because she didn’t just want someone to type up her notes, she wanted someone with an investigative mind. They both knew that Alice was overqualified. But they also knew that opportunities for black women on a white newspaper were almost nonexistent.
She beckoned Alice closer. “Alice,” she said quietly, “after the press briefing I spoke to Captain Henson. He said that there were two people at Siegel’s house that night. Allen Smiley and Charlie Hill.”
“So?” Alice mouthed.
“So,” said Conroy, glancing in both directions, “I also spoke to Jonathan Craine last night. He was adamant there was a third person at the house with them. A woman.”
It was Alice’s turn to pull a face. “You going to trust that guy Craine over Captain Henson? And what were you doing meeting him?”
“He called me.”
Alice looked at her with a troubled expression. “I don’t trust this Craine. After he came in, I asked around. You know who he is, right? Used to be married to that actress Celia Raymond. Rumor is he killed her.”
Conroy knew full well about Craine’s wife. It was one of her first assignments, a sensationalistic piece for some yellow rag. She’d been younger then and foolish with it. She didn’t have the journalistic integrity she had now, and the repercussions of her actions had always stayed with her. It was something she’d never truly forgiven herself for.
“I know what happened with Celia Raymond,” she replied, not wanting to talk about it. “And he definitely didn’t kill her.”
“Well then, he covered up her suicide. And he killed those mob men.”
“Enough gossiping, Alice.” Conroy could feel herself going red. “He also helped bring Frank Nitti in front of a grand jury. The Chicago extortion trial. That was him, too.”
“Well,” said Alice, “all I know is before that he used to work as some kind of fixer for the studios. Took payoffs to get charges dropped. Corrupt cop. I don’t trust him one bit.”
As she spoke the phone rang and Alice picked it up. “Crime desk.” A pause as Alice made a dramatic face. It’s him, she mouthed.
“Why hello, Mr. Craine,” she said with exaggerated courtesy. “Very nice to hear from you. Let me see if she’s here.”
Alice was shaking her head like this was a bad idea and Conroy should absolutely not take the call.
“Pass it over.”
No way, Alice mouthed.
Conroy held her hand out and Alice reluctantly gave her the phone.
“This is Conroy.”
No introduction. “Did you speak to Henson?” Craine asked.
Conroy demurred. “I’m sorry, but there was no third witness. Henson said so.”
“He’s wrong,” Craine said.
Conroy was starting to think Alice was right. “Mr. Craine, you’ve got nothing to corroborate—”
“Charlie Hill had a woman with him. Smiley confirmed it.”
Conroy stopped. This changed things. Alice was fixing her with a glare, so she twisted her chair sideways and spoke quietly into the receiver.
“You’ve spoken to Allen Smiley?”
“I’m with him right now.”
“Tell me exactly what he said.”
“He said Charlie Hill was there that night with a girl but that the F.B.I. took her away before the police got there.”
Maybe Conroy wasn’t sure she trusted Craine, but she couldn’t pretend she didn’t think he was on to something either.
“Okay,” Conroy said, “let’s meet.”
Alice puffed out her cheeks and shook her head. She picked up her coffee and left. She didn’t offer Conroy one.
They met at Herbert’s Drive-In Restaurant on the southeast corner of Beverly and Fairfax. It was Conroy’s suggestion, probably because she didn’t want to be seen with Craine in a public restaurant. Or maybe in her own way she felt safer in her car. A lone woman meeting a strange man. He couldn’t argue with that.
The building was easy to find. A twenty-foot pylon said HERBERT’S in vertical letters. The drive-in was circular so cars could park around its neon-ringed roofline. Diners were supposed to remain parked and eat inside their cars. Abe drove them there, arguing all the way that Craine shouldn’t be telling the press any more than he had to. But somehow his protests seemed empty. Craine knew this investigation had his attention.
When Conroy’s car pulled up she motioned for Craine to get in. Abe remained in his Mercury. In the back seat Allen Smiley was sleeping off the worst of his hangover.
A server in a red striped shirt and white paper cap came over and they ordered coffees. They sat in awkward silence until the server came back with their order.
“I didn’t realize who you were yesterday,” Conroy said, pouring several sugars into her coffee. He counted four.
Craine had several reputations. He wasn’t sure which one she meant.
“The Chicago extortion ring,” she went on, blowing on her cup. “I followed it to trial. A justice in the Beverly Hills court told me it was the catalyst for a serious shift. Major criminal players went to jail. Frank Nitti killed himself. Then afterward, you disappeared.”
Craine didn’t say anything. It was never something he felt particularly proud of. “I got the ball rolling, that’s all.”
“I’ve been covering stories in and around the Hall of Justice for most of ten years. We need more police like you.”
He sipped at his own coffee. “I don’t remember seeing you. Surprised we haven’t met before.”
He thought he saw her flush red but it might have been the heat. She shifted in her seat and changed the subject.
“The L.A.P.D. have said they’re working alongside the F.B.I., but when I got to the crime scene on Friday it was pretty clear Agent Redhill was running things.”
“Who else was there when you got there?”
“Primary detective and a few uniforms. Captain Henson and the Chief of Police arrived not long after I did.”
“Chief came out?”
“Everyone came out. District Attorney was there not long after. High-profile name like Siegel gets killed, it puts City Hall into a tailspin. Los Angeles is booming. No one wants it to be seen as a turbulent crime city like New York or Chicago.”
There was a fly in the car and it was buzzing across Craine’s face, desperate to get out. He knew the feeling. He opened the window an inch and the fly escaped. Across the parking lot Abe’s Mercury was still there. He was conscious of the time.
“Your interest in Siegel. Is it the murder? Or something else?”
Conroy thought about that before answering. “I cover a lot of homicides and court cases. More in a month than I could count. With Siegel’s murder, I have the chance to really get into the story. His connections to the underworld. The nationalization of crime. I believe The Flamingo Hotel is part of a bigger plan. A hotel casino built by a range of investors to turn Las Vegas into a mob city. But I think Siegel went over budget, and so his New York financiers killed him. He owed them money.”
Their intentions weren’t aligned. Craine wanted to solve the case; she wanted to report on the mob, something at odds with his employers. He glanced toward Abe’s car and knew he had to be careful what he told her.
“Let’s assume Siegel’s New York connections are not directly responsible for his death,” he said tentatively. “Who else do you think might be involved?”
She pursed her lips. “He had hands in so many businesses. There’s a potter’s field out there. Besides, in the end it won’t even matter who is credited with the fatal shot. The shooter is probably a satrap. There’s someone bigger behind this.”
It didn’t make Craine feel any better. It could be absolutely anyone in America, she might as well have said. “What about Virginia Hill?” he asked.
Conroy nodded. “His girlfriend? No, she’s been in Europe the last week. No one’s heard from her, but while she could have ordered someone to assassinate her boyfriend, it doesn’t really ring true.”
Craine felt the same. He’d already ruled out a crime of passion. But he still wanted to talk to her.
“I’m going to talk to Billy Wilson,” he said. “Allen Smiley told me he was an investor in The Flamingo Hotel.”
This seemed news to Conroy. She rested the coffee cup in her lap.
“The owner of The Hollywood Enquirer was involved with Ben Siegel?”
“Appears so.”
Conroy stared at the window for a beat. “Wait a second. To connect a man like Wilson to Ben Siegel is huge. I’ve spent years working on this. Most people think that crime rings are little rackets. Wily gangsters running gambling dens and bordellos. But if a Hollywood mogul is partnering up with a mobster, it shows how much they’ve scaled up, how rooted they are in the system.”
Craine had always known that different mob groups—syndicates—had existed in American cities. He’d dealt with the Chicago syndicate directly. But the idea that they had consolidated their power outside of their own cities and begun to take over America—to nationalize—this was an entirely new concept, even to him.
Craine looked sideways at the Mercury again. He was beginning to think Abe was right to be wary. Getting Conroy involved was drawing too much attention.
“You’ve published articles?” he asked.
She rolled her tongue around her gums instead of saying no. “My editor feels that now is the moment. To use the Siegel case to highlight how deep this runs. Wilson’s involvement helps me prove that they’ve tried to legitimize. That it’s not a racket, it’s an organization.”
“Do you have any proof of this?”
“Stories from different people. All secondhand. Nothing corroborated or substantiated enough that I can print. That’s where you come in.”
“I have to be careful.”
This time it was Conroy who glanced over at the Mercury.
“How affiliated with them are you? I don’t understand your role, Craine.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t go into it.”
“How do I even know we’re on the same side?”
“You don’t,” he said. “But I’d say it’s pretty clear we have common interests.”
The rebuff frustrated her. She took a gulp of coffee. “For whatever reason, you can access people I can’t. Smiley. Raft. Wilson. I’m looking for sources on Siegel’s ties to the underworld and it seems to me you might be able to help.”
“In what way?”
Conroy considered what she was about to say, sipping at her coffee before continuing: “You share with me everything you find out. In return, I’ll keep you across police briefings and any new information relating to the investigation. Are we in agreement?”
Craine thought about this, but there wasn’t much to argue with. In truth, he needed her help more than she needed his. Anyone with her resources was an invaluable asset.
“Okay,” he said, “but you’ll not mention myself or anyone I’m associated with by name unless they say so.”
A pause, then, “How can I trust you’ll fulfill your end of the bargain?”
Craine wound down the window. He waved toward Abe’s Mercury and the big man got out and went to the passenger door. When he opened it, Smiley stepped out, using his hands to protect his eyes from the sun.
Conroy squinted. “Allen Smiley?”
To say Abe had been less than enthused about Smiley talking to a reporter was an understatement. But on this Craine had been adamant: they needed Conroy onside. Smiley would talk to Conroy about the night of Siegel’s death and nothing else. But he’d tell her everything he knew about the shooting. It was the only way they could persuade the reporter to share information with them.
Craine got out and held the door open for Smiley to get in next to Conroy. “Consider this a gesture of mutual cooperation,” he said.
Conroy spent most of the afternoon typing up her notes from her conversation with Allen Smiley.
The first challenge had been persuading Smiley to talk in the first instance. Naturally, he was intimidated by talking to a national newspaper in connection with a major murder story. He’d also been given warnings by Craine and his associate. But Conroy had made a human connection and he responded to it. She told him it was his opportunity to tell his side of the story, knowing that any minute the police could change their minds and list him as a primary suspect. If anything, refusing to talk might implicate him later.
Smiley was strung out, seemingly coming off a drugs binge. He was emotional and difficult, hesitant to go into too much detail about Siegel’s Vegas plans; he also refused to mention anyone by name. Even when Conroy probed him about names she already knew—Lansky, Jack Dragna—he was coy. And while Craine had explained to him the principles of ‘off the record’ and ‘reporter’s privilege,’ Smiley made her repeat over and over again that his name wouldn’t be used in any of her articles.
So instead they agreed a few basic ground rules. Everything he told her was off the record and anonymous, meaning he couldn’t be directly quoted or named. He would be a confidential source.
For the most part, Smiley’s story offered little she didn’t already know and when it came to the missing woman, his descriptions were vague and unhelpful: She was young . . . pretty . . . She seemed nice enough . . . all these kids look the same to me.
But before she dropped him off at a taxi rank, Smiley told Conroy something that stuck in her mind. He said that when the uniformed police first arrived on Linden Drive there were neighbors on the street. One of them was screaming that she’d seen the shooter drive off. Seen the man running down the street, even.
This bothered her. She remembered what Alice said about the steno pool not typing up witness statements. But how could the police ignore this?
