The syndicate, p.13
The Syndicate, page 13
There was a tenet in journalism that Conroy had always adhered to. ‘If your mother says she loves you, check it out.’ It meant that reporters should treat all leads with a degree of skepticism, no matter if the source seemed trustworthy. She remembered her old editor drilling it into her: double-check everything; verify what you can; act with caution.
And here was the dilemma. The City Editor had asked her to ignore the investigation into Siegel’s murder and focus on his ties to Hollywood and the underworld. But her best access was through Craine, and he’d bargained with her.
Whether she trusted he could meet the terms of their deal or not, she knew she had to follow up on any leads she had if she was ever going to get the inside scoop on Wilson. Assuming, of course, that Craine was connected enough to speak to a Hollywood tycoon like William Wilson in the first place.
Chapter 17
Before he’d had a son of his own, William Wilson had endured endless friends’ children’s parties. The trick was to treat them as work social events. You arrived as late as politely permissible, bought the little princess Chutes and Ladders and played good ol’ Uncle Willie as best you could. Then you mimed your best to “Happy Birthday”, clapped when the cake came out and promptly hit the gin fizz so you could talk to such-and-such from the studio about who was fucking who in Tinseltown.
But recently all those friends seemed to have disappeared. He’d had children late in life, that was true, but you’d think those years of service would have counted for something. Now here he was, hosting a hundred screaming juveniles for his son’s birthday and hardly an old pal to be seen.
Wilson was sipping at a cola in the kitchen, feeling sorry for himself. Behind him, his young bride was hiding from his ex-wife by icing a birthday cake she’d spent all morning baking. Managing ex-wives was something of a skill of Wilson’s, a byproduct of having so many. Four, at last count.
“Fonda make it?” he said, loitering but not helping.
“He sent a lovely card,” she said, to appease him. “Said he’s filming down in Mexico.”
“Mexico? I heard he was in Ciro’s two nights ago. What about Flynn?”
“It was his birthday yesterday. Besides, you really want Errol here?”
Wilson sighed and got himself another cola. It wasn’t simply having children later, of course. In addition to several supper clubs, Wilson owned Hollywood’s biggest trade newspaper, The Hollywood Enquirer. A few months ago he’d listed a handful of screenwriters he considered ‘un-American’ in his paper, given a few other names to Hoover’s boys of Hollywood players he suspected of being communists. He thought he was doing a service for his country. But then suddenly he found himself with more enemies than friends. People like Burt Lancaster, Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall used to come to his clubs all the time. Now they wouldn’t even answer his calls.
“This H.U.A.C. thing has gotten out of hand,” he said, stepping out of the way as his wife pushed candles into the icing. “Everyone’s getting their noses out of joint.”
“Well, honey, some people aren’t as American as you are.” She frowned. “Is that another cola? You’ve had three already.”
Seven, but who was counting.
Wilson walked back into the garden. Two dozen children were swarming around the fountain. Cost him a fortune, this party. Three clowns, a magician and an elephant he’d borrowed from the Tarzan set. Wilson thought the elephant rather suited his garden, with its grand cupola, Roman columns and palm trees. A little lavish, but then again, so was the house. It had 25,000 square feet of living space. A dozen bedrooms and as many bathrooms. A dining room capable of seating up to eighty. He was pretty sure he had the most opulent house in Los Angeles. Or at the very least in Bel Air.
His son was standing alone, watching two other boys throw elephant shit at each other. He looked up at him with a frown on his face.
“Hey, kiddo. Having a good time?”
“I guess.”
“Your stepmother made you a cake.”
“Mom made me a cake.”
Wilson looked over to the other end of the garden. His ex-wife’s cake had three tiers and Dumbo marzipan figurines. It was a work of art.
“Well, let’s do both. When your mother leaves, we’ll bring out the other one. But let’s keep that between you and me.”
His new wife came outside, loitering at the doorway.
“Billy. Billy,” she hissed.
She better not bring out that cake, Wilson thought. “What is it, sweetheart?”
“There’s a man at the door, wants to see you.”
“Cary?”
“No, not Cary. I don’t know him. Security let him in. Says he’s an old acquaintance.”
Wilson’s ears pricked up. He didn’t have acquaintances. He had people he liked and people he didn’t like, and the feeling was usually mutual. Rarely did someone fit into a middle category.
“What acquaintance?” he said when he’d reached the kitchen.
Wilson looked past the door to see a silhouette of a man hovering in his marble hallway. He exhaled sharply.
“Hello, Billy,” said Jonathan Craine.
Wilson didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
They talked in Wilson’s study, a double-height open space styled like an opera house. A pair of red velvet thrones overlooked the garden, but Wilson sat them away from the window. Evidently he didn’t want anyone to see them talking.
“Sorry to disturb you at home,” Craine said, sitting down. “Birthday party?”
Wilson had poured Craine a drink but it would sit there untouched.
“My son’s,” Wilson replied, before adding somewhat proudly, “we have an elephant.”
Craine had been to parties here years ago. The French-inspired interior was decorated throughout in white and gold; the exterior was modeled after an eighteenth-century palace. Everything was gilded. Nothing about it was subtle or tasteful.
“So, you’re on a farm now. I didn’t know. Figured you for a shut-in. You and Howard Hughes sorting peas and wiping each other down with tissues up in the Hills. You enjoying country life?”
Craine tried hard not to react. He couldn’t tell Wilson about Michael. Knew he couldn’t mention the circumstances that led to him being here. “Suits me,” was all he said.
“Staying in town long? Come down to The Troc for dinner sometime. We can gossip about old times.”
“I’m passing through.”
“I forget, it was your wife who was the social butterfly. You were always more of the reclusive moth. Shame. I was out with Cary and Errol a few weeks back. You hear about Judy Garland? Apparently she’s gone crazy. Walked off The Pirate half-way through filming. Now she’s in a sanatorium. What a hoot.”
Wilson almost seemed glad to talk to someone from the glory years. When Craine was working as a fixer, Wilson was usually at war with one of the studio heads. Which meant that Craine was like the middleman between the Hatfields and the McCoys.
Craine didn’t waste time getting to the point. “I need your help, Billy. Benjamin Siegel was murdered a few days ago. I wanted to ask you about it.”
Craine let the silence settle. He was trying to see how he’d react. Whether he could sense him panic.
“You working for the L.A.P.D. again?” the press baron said, running a finger along his waxed mustache.
“No. A third party.”
Wilson frowned. “So if you’re not working for the police,” he asked, “who sent you here?”
Craine was hesitant to answer but knew that Wilson wouldn’t cooperate otherwise.
“Siegel’s business partners.”
This seemed to take Wilson by surprise. “So, you’re the New York crime syndicate’s emissary?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“Semantics, Craine. You’re working for them. Their little errand boy.”
William Wilson spoke to everybody the same, which was to say badly. When Craine didn’t answer, he said, “My, my, what circles you’re moving in now. I preferred the old Craine. The Hollywood bogeyman. You know Errol Flynn would tell little ingénues stories about you before tucking them into bed at night.”
Craine let him speak. You didn’t need to interrogate Wilson. You simply allowed his enthusiasm to get the better of his discretion.
“How is old Lansky? Let me guess, he told you he was in the leisure and hospitality business. He give you that little speech about being a businessman? They act like bean counters but they still carry knives in their socks. I assume he ordered Siegel dead personally.”
“They didn’t kill him. Despite what the press are saying, the people I’m working for believe that someone else is responsible.”
“Please. Mob men kill each other. It’s their favorite pastime.”
“But that didn’t stop you going into business with Siegel, did it? You’re hiding your involvement, but I know you had shares in The Flamingo. I hear you had a falling-out over it. Someone might think that was enough to find motive.”
Wilson looked up. “Are you here to ask me questions or sling ridiculous accusations?”
“All I want to hear is your side of events.”
Wilson could see Craine studying him. “I didn’t kill him, Craine. But I won’t deny we were involved together.”
“Then tell me how. Start from the beginning.”
After several sips of cola, Wilson explained that before the war he’d decided to build a casino resort in Nevada. An avid gambler, he wanted somewhere he and his Hollywood pals could go and entertain themselves without repercussions from the police. Air travel was cheaper; air-conditioned cars and better roads meant driving out to Vegas for the weekend suddenly didn’t seem so ridiculous.
“I sell a few clubs,” he said, playing with his soda bottle, “put up a million, but it’s not enough. Not for real quality, you know? Not for the first time in my life, the banks won’t lend to me. So I’m out looking for investors and Siegel approaches me. He’s interested, he says. We have lunch, we talk. I know he’s ‘from New York.’ ” Wilson stressed the three words more than he had to, patting the air with his hand. “I’m not an idiot, I knew he came with baggage.”
“But that didn’t put you off? After everything that happened, Billy.”
“Don’t preach to me, Craine. I’m familiar with intimidation and violence. Chicago were the ones that expressed interest in Vegas in the first place.” Wilson rubbed his knees. He was referring to his involvement with Chicago racketeers before the war. It started a chain of events that led to Craine leaving Los Angeles and Wilson narrowly surviving being thrown off a hotel balcony by Outfit hoodlums. “Took me a year to walk after what they did to me. I’m lucky I’m here to tell the tale.”
Wilson exhaled. There was a hint of regret in his tone. “I was desperate, and Siegel seemed legitimate. Says he has money, and he does—he comes good. I keep one-third of The Flamingo and retain control over construction. Siegel takes another third and the rest comes from his friends in the right places. They’re silent partners.”
Wilson sighed dramatically. Craine finished his sentence for him. “Only soon they’re not so silent.”
He nodded. “When I build something, it’s to budget. But what does Siegel know about building hotels and casinos? Soon he’s asking for all this ridiculous stuff: ‘Move that wall here,’ he says. ‘Has to be like this.’ Except he’s not asking, is he?” Wilson shook his head. “Siegel, he’s a loon. Once he’s decided he wants to be involved in hotels, it’s all he wants.” Wilson looked outside. Craine saw two French poodles and an Indian elephant running loose across the garden. “No one is as dogmatic as a convert,” he grumbled.
“Did you ever meet his girlfriend?”
“You mean Virginia? Of course! She was stealing from the hotel fund. Probably still is.”
Craine shifted. This was news. “How much?”
He shrugged. “Thousands. Hundreds of thousands.”
“You know for sure?”
Wilson was enjoying the opportunity to gossip. “I know for certain money kept going missing from the budget. I know for certain she was off to Switzerland every month with more suitcases than she needs for a weekend. Oh, she’s an absolute darling is Virginia. And now she’s disappeared. Probably knew she was on the list.”
Craine had previously ruled out Virginia Hill. But this changed things. He wondered if Conroy or Dragna could help him get in contact.
“What happened with the hotel?”
Wilson rubbed his eyelids. “The hotel. Christ. Do you know why they call him Bugsy? Because he was crazy as a bed bug. When he got mad, he would shout and scream and God only knows what. Next I hear he’s fired all of my men and torn up the blueprints. Then he needs even more money. Wants to buy my third, cut it up and sell it on.”
“When was this?”
“This is a year ago, last June. I go into a stockholders’ meeting with my attorney, and we have it out. He tells me he’s buying my shares at half their worth.”
“This conversation. Where did it take place? Vegas?”
Wilson shook his head. “Siegel had an L.A. office where we would meet. It wasn’t under his name but a company within a company within a company.”
“You remember where it was?”
“Even remember what it was called. ‘Nevada Projects Corporation.’ Bradbury Building in Downtown. Told you these mobsters like to pretend they’re real businessmen. A ‘corporation.’ Ridiculous.”
Craine made a note of the address. It was a well-regarded commercial building on South Broadway. Not the type of place he expected a mobster to set up a business, even if it was a front. Conroy hadn’t mentioned it. Neither had Dragna or the press. It was a lead he needed to follow up on.
“What happened next?”
“Next?” he exclaimed. “Next he was threating to kill me.”
“He said that?”
“He said enough. I walk out. I leave my attorney to it and give him my shares. I take a plane to Paris and have a few weeks away from the whole thing.”
“You let the syndicate take it away from you.” Craine left it as a statement of fact and not a question.
Wilson’s face turned as red as a firecracker. “He threatened to kill me, Craine.”
Wilson had reason enough to kill Ben Siegel. He’d strong-armed him into selling his shares. He’d ruined his Vegas dream. But Craine wasn’t sure he was the type of man to go through with it.
“You know the F.B.I. might consider this motive for you to kill him.”
“Maybe they will, but I didn’t. Sure there were times I wanted him dead, but I could never do something like that. Say what you like about me, Craine, but I’m not a murderer. The gangsters kill each other, I don’t.”
Craine nodded. He had gleaned enough information to know that Wilson’s guilt was doubtful. He was right—it took a certain type of person to order murder, and despite his faults, Wilson wasn’t built like that.
Craine was about to leave when Wilson said, “I always wondered if Siegel might get killed. In many ways I’m glad I got rid of The Flamingo when I did. But then . . . I was so close, Craine.” Wilson sighed, lost in his own soda-induced reverie. “It wasn’t just a casino. I could have had a whole town. A city. I believed in what we were trying to do.” He sighed. “People laughed at us but Benny and I, we shared a vision.”
Ten minutes later, with no more information to glean, Wilson walked Craine down his two-hundred-yard driveway to a set of gaudy gates. It seemed like a gesture of friendship, but maybe Wilson simply wanted to make sure he’d left.
“I don’t envy you. You’re on a hiding to nothing, Craine.”
Craine didn’t need reminding of the stakes involved. He’d been tempted to tell Wilson about Michael, but he knew publicizing it might only put him in more danger. Particularly with a tattler like Wilson.
The security guards he’d known from years back were still working there. They opened the double gates. Abe’s dusty Mercury was parked at the end of the cul-de-sac. This was the most exclusive of districts and he’d told Abe to drive around for thirty minutes so people didn’t call the Bel Air police to have the car removed.
“Appreciate you talking to me,” Craine said.
“Figure I owe it to you. I said a few things about your wife when she died. Things I regret—”
“Printed them, too.”
“Then it’s the least I can do. Besides, bet you a thousand bucks you never find out who pulled the trigger.”
“I don’t gamble,” said Craine.
Wilson scratched his mustache again and smiled with big teeth. “I think that’s maybe why you and I never really got along.”
Chapter 18
Tilda Conroy had never been to Linden Drive before Siegel’s murder. Had barely been in Beverly Hills other than for parties she used to go to when she was young enough to be invited. Her usual milieu in crime reporting—drug murders, auto wrecks and robbery-homicides—tended to stay south of Santa Monica Boulevard.
She was hoping the affluent of Beverly Hills would be forthcoming with information on Benjamin Siegel but suspected they wouldn’t want their names associated with a mob death. The houses here were like small castles. The owners were prominent surgeons, oil tycoons and the Hollywood elite; they were probably never too happy to have found themselves living on the same road as a notorious criminal in the first place.
She parked further down the street and canvassed door-to-door.
No one answered at the house next to Siegel’s, 808.
809 were away in Palm Springs when Siegel died.
The couple at 812 heard the shots but didn’t get out of bed until they heard sirens.
The woman at 811 changed everything.
She was maybe late twenties, willowy, with milk-white skin and fine blond hair recently cut. Everything about her clothes and look was intentional. She had a bandage across her nose, and ushered Conroy inside before she could even say why she was here. By the time Conroy had explained that she was writing an article on the murder of her mob boss neighbor it probably seemed rude to turn her out.
