The syndicate, p.18
The Syndicate, page 18
Abe stared at his feet and shook his head. The very idea of talking to the press had bothered him immensely from the get-go and Craine knew allowing Conroy to be here made him uncomfortable. “It wasn’t on our orders,” he growled. “Period.”
“So what if this wasn’t sanctioned? There are a dozen reasons why they could have had him killed.”
Craine had been silent up until now, poring over files, trying to separate them into piles. For the first time he lifted his head and said, “Actually there are usually five reasons people commit murder.”
He had their attention. The room went quiet. Craine held up an open hand and counted them off. “Money, jealousy, revenge, protection or because you’re being paid to do it. And that last one circles round to the others.”
The other two stared at him and then at each other. They waited for Craine to explain.
“Money,” he said, holding up the first finger. “Everyone assumes Siegel was killed because he was overspending on The Flamingo and owed his investors money. But if that’s the case then we’d know about it because the investors would have needed Lansky’s buy-in.”
Conroy glanced at Abe. “You’re both making a huge assumption.”
“Agreed, but we can’t return to it until the others have been ruled out. Which leads me to jealousy. That is, Siegel’s other partner in the trade: Dragna.”
“Jack Dragna? The gangster?”
“Dragna’s wanted Siegel’s business for years,” Abe said, looking at Conroy suspiciously. “The race wires have huge value.”
It would be easy not to credit Abe with much of a brain, but he had experience Craine and Conroy didn’t have and with that came a level of knowledge that was crucial to this investigation. Craine only hoped he wasn’t keeping things from them.
“But would he risk killing Siegel and taking what’s his without approval from the New York syndicate?” Craine asked. “I’m not sure.”
Conroy spoke up. “Who else? Chicago?”
“Wilson told me they were interested in Vegas years ago,” Craine said.
Abe was steadfast. “There’s been no war between Chicago and the L.A. or New York syndicates for ten years. And their leaders are all in prison. Even if they did send muscle to L.A. to kill Siegel, Dragna would have heard about it. You saw how quickly they knew we were in town.”
“That doesn’t preclude the possibility.” When Abe looked at her blankly, she said instead, “They could have still done it.”
As Abe mulled that one over, Conroy said, “What about revenge?”
“William Wilson,” Craine said, counting off another finger. “Siegel strong-armed him into selling his shares at a price Wilson had no say over. But again, I’m not convinced.”
“Would a newspaper guy really have the stones to kill a mob guy?” Abe said. He had a point. “What about his girlfriend, Virginia Hill? Maybe she got tired he was sleeping around.”
“She’s still a suspect,” Craine said, nodding. “But I don’t buy this as a crime of passion. And either way, she was out of town. So even if it was on her orders, we still need to find the shooter. And we still need to find the missing girl.”
“I’ve got a lead on the shooter’s car,” Conroy said. Both men looked at her like she’d struck oil. “You were right. The F.B.I. are hiding something. Witness gave a partial description. I’m speaking to the D.M.V.”
“And I’ll speak to Harvey,” Abe chimed in. “Remind him we need Charlie Hill.”
Craine nodded, satisfied. Every lead counted. This felt like progress.
Conroy stirred. “So what are we left with?”
Craine held up his thumb. The fifth and final. “Protection.”
“I don’t get it,” Conroy said. “Protection from what?”
“What if Siegel was killed because someone was worried about what he knew? We have someone ransacking Siegel’s office. Someone willing to cover his tracks by killing us. And because of what?”
He passed invoices and receipts from the Extras Union between them. It had taken him hours to decipher exactly what they related to, but he wanted to demonstrate evidence.
Abe said, “What are these?”
“Payments from all the major motion picture studios,” Craine explained. “Monthly bank transfers made directly into Siegel’s account at the union. He then used that money to subsidize building The Flamingo.”
“Because he was over budget?”
“Exactly. The paper trail isn’t clear, but it’s clear enough.”
“I don’t follow,” said Conroy.
“What if Siegel wasn’t killed over Vegas? What if he was killed because he was strong-arming the studios into paying him off? Say, for example, he’d picked up the reins from Frank Nitti and the Chicago Outfit.”
Conroy frowned but she was nodding. “It’s the same trick they tried years ago. Paying off union heads to avoid strikes. Ever since Nitti killed himself and his associates went to prison, the studios have had major union troubles.”
Craine chimed in. “So maybe Siegel stepped in and decided to extort the studios himself. They pay him to get the unions back in control. He uses that money to fund The Flamingo, knowing he’s way over budget and under pressure to complete from his investors.”
Conroy said, “What you have here—this demonstrates the sphere of their influence. If they’re getting payoffs from studios, it’s not only Wilson they had leverage over. Siegel had several of the most powerful figures in Hollywood under his thumb.”
“But why kill him?” Abe said.
Craine noticed Conroy tilt her head back. She ran through her train of thought. “Hoover has asked the F.B.I. to investigate commun-ism in Hollywood. Maybe whoever was paying off Siegel suddenly got cold feet. Maybe they were worried the F.B.I. would realize what was happening. The timing isn’t coincidence, there are private H.U.A.C. hearings this week.”
Abe looked confused. “Hew-ack?”
“The House Un-American Activities Committee,” Conroy explained. “They’re looking at communist penetration in Hollywood studios. The whole town is riled up about it. The studio heads are all under intense scrutiny by the F.B.I. Mayer and Warner are being questioned at the Biltmore Hotel as we speak.”
“Today?” Abe asked, and Conroy nodded.
“So the studios have reason to want Siegel out of the way,” Craine said. “Which means that one of the major Hollywood studios could have arranged for Siegel to be killed,” he added with finality, saying what they were all thinking.
Conroy looked at Craine. “What you’re suggesting is very . . .” There were several words she could have said but didn’t. Contentious. Foolish. Dangerous.
“I know,” he said. “I’m not sure if this is the end of the string. Or the beginning of it.”
Were men like Jack Warner and Louis Mayer above killing a man? Craine wasn’t so sure. But he needed to find out.
The situation had shifted on its axis. They were no longer looking at Siegel’s connections to Las Vegas or the criminal underworld as motive for his murder. They were looking at his ties to the motion picture industry.
Chapter 23
Louis B. Mayer was still ruminating over his divorce. Over what it had cost him to lose a wife, emotionally, professionally and financially. He was dwelling on the check he’d signed over to Margaret—the most expensive divorce settlement in history—when the chairman addressed him for the second time.
“Mr. Mayer,” the chairman repeated, “I asked whether you have observed any communist infiltration into the motion picture industry since you’ve run M.G.M. Studios?”
Mayer’s attorney nudged him. “Mr. Mayer?”
Mayer blinked and realized where he was. “Sorry, can you repeat that again for me?”
“Mr. Mayer, I’ll remind you that this committee has the support of F.B.I. Director Hoover, who strongly believes that motion picture labor groups have been infiltrated, dominated or saturated with the virus of communism. I’m asking you whether you believe this to be true?”
Mayer cleared his throat and addressed the panel with his rehearsed answer. “Like others in the motion picture industry, I have maintained a relentless vigilance against un-American influences, and to the best of my knowledge I can’t speak of any communist infiltration.”
In a closed hearing at the Biltmore Hotel, Louis Mayer was facing a subcommittee of the House Un-American Activities Committee. An anti-communist fervor had swept the country and now it was aiming its sights at Hollywood. They’d been quizzing Mayer for almost two hours.
The chairman went on with his questions: “Several studios including yours have faced mass picket lines from the unions, which according to the stated intent of their leaders were designed to prevent by physical force anyone from entering the studios. Would you say that is an accurate assessment?”
“Yes, it is.” Actually it was an understatement. Disney workers dressed as Mickey Mouse were picketing picture houses. Strikes at Paramount and Warner Brothers had broken out into full-scale riots. Mayer had used his own studio police force to break apart strikers only this week and then had his publicity team stop it from reaching the press.
“And have you encountered the same problems at M.G.M.?”
Mayer chose his words carefully. “We have faced only minor strike action in the past.”
The jowly chairman asked, “Would you say strike action at M.G.M. was less problematic than at other studios?”
Mayer leaned forward and poured himself a glass of water. The Biltmore was where they typically held the Academy Award ceremonies each year, but this meeting had been held in one of their wood-paneled meeting rooms. He was seated at the end of a long, polished table directly across from the stenographer. He wondered if she was noting down how many gulps of water he was taking.
“Yes.”
“And why do you think that is?”
Mayer wasn’t sure how to answer. In truth, he’d brokered a Faustian pact with a certain underworld figure to ensure M.G.M. wouldn’t face continued strike action. Frustratingly, that partnership had come to an untimely end last Friday.
“It would be difficult for me to say,” he answered vaguely. “We cannot be responsible for the political views of each individual employee. And yet I do believe that M.G.M.’s values have always been inherently American.”
The panel of three looked at each other, unsatisfied.
The hearing was interrupted by the door at the back of the room opening. Whitey Hendry, head of M.G.M.’s security, came in. He handed Louis Mayer a folded piece of paper; on it was a simple note scrawled in pen.
Room 736.
The man had scribbled his surname below.
Craine.
Mayer let out a deep sigh. So it was true: the prodigal son had returned.
Mayer whispered something to his attorney, who took the opportunity to address the committee: “This hearing has been in session for two hours,” he said. “My client would like to request a short break.”
Mayer shut the door very quietly when he entered, as if someone was asleep.
To Craine, Louis Mayer wasn’t simply the head of the largest movie studio in the world. Their relationship was personal and complex. When City Hall had Craine act as their Hollywood liaison, it was Mayer who Craine worked with most often. Craine’s own father had died when he was young and for a long time he looked for mentor figures. Louis Mayer was one of them.
Craine’s wife Celia was an M.G.M. star and Mayer had always been there for them, the doting uncle who furthered both their careers, inviting them to family parties, helping them buy a house and even sending his own private doctor when Michael contracted measles as a child. So naturally, Craine had spent years trying to pay him back in some way, looking for his approval. It was like his self-esteem was factored around pleasing him.
But like his real father, there was a lot unsaid between the two men. When Celia became addicted to opiates, Mayer suddenly and without warning canceled her contract. She’d killed herself a few days after, and with Mayer’s encouragement, Craine had pretended to the public that it was an accident. That she’d overdosed and slipped in the bath. He’d never forgiven himself. And he’d never forgiven Mayer either.
“You look tired, Louis,” Craine said when Mayer entered the hotel room. “Is it H.U.A.C. or the strike action that’s wearing you down?”
Louis Mayer didn’t take a seat, almost as if doing so would commit him to actually being here in this moment. If I stand here, I can deny ever being in this room, his body language said.
“These are closed hearings. It’s not public knowledge I’m here.”
“And yet I know.”
It wasn’t a coincidence that Craine had chosen a hotel suite. He could have gone to Mayer’s house or even his office at M.G.M. But he wanted to meet Mayer in no man’s land. Somewhere he wasn’t comfortable.
“I can’t talk long,” Mayer said. “They want me back this afternoon. I told them I had a lunch meeting with Jimmy Stewart. Seems to be the only man in Hollywood not on their shit list.”
Even in older age Mayer was not a quiet individual. Bombastic. Animated. Colorful. But somehow he didn’t seem himself. Like the fire in his eyes had petered out.
“I heard a rumor you were back,” Mayer went on. “I didn’t really believe it. ‘No,’ I said, ‘Jonathan Craine is retired to the middle of nowhere raising pigs.’ ”
Mayer noticed the sheaves of paper Craine had left on the bed. They were upturned but it didn’t stop Mayer from staring at them.
“Do you know why I’m here?”
“If I knew why you were here I probably wouldn’t have come.” Mayer stood square to face him. His hands were by his sides in tight fists. “I suppose some studio is scared their writer or actor is getting thrown under the bus. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re back on payroll.”
“This isn’t about the hearings. I’m not working for any studio or the L.A.P.D. I haven’t worked for them in years.”
Mayer’s eyes wrinkled, struggling to suppress his surprise. He almost looked relieved. “You have my attention, now what do you want?”
Craine got to the point. “A New York businessman called Meyer Lansky asked me to find out who killed Benjamin Siegel.”
“Lansky asked you to look into Siegel’s murder?”
Mayer looked somewhere between perplexed and amused. He had the advantage, and he enjoyed it.
“The head of the New York mob asked the pig farmer to find out why his man in California was killed?”
“The press are pointing fingers at his organization. Lansky doesn’t want the attention. Particularly from the F.B.I.”
A frown split Mayer’s brow in two. “Did he seriously believe you were once one of L.A.P.D.’s finest? Even before the war you could hardly call yourself an investigator, Craine. You were a journeyman policeman at best. Now you’re the underworld’s best boy.”
Craine had no intention of rising to Mayer’s bait. He’d be happy to suspend his ego as long as Mayer kept talking.
“They’ve asked me to find out who killed Siegel. That’s all.”
“Then why am I talking to you in a hotel room, Craine, when downstairs I’m supposed to be in a hearing that threatens to arrest half the actors and writers on my lot? I’m Julius Caesar, turning to face down my enemies before they can stab me in the back. Bugsy Siegel is hardly top of my agenda.”
“No, but it’ll be top of their agenda when they see your name in the Herald this week.”
Mayer waved his hand in the air. “I didn’t associate with Siegel,” he said evasively. “I didn’t invest in his Vegas ventures and I never went to his hotel.”
“But you did know him. Very well.”
Mayer glanced at the bed. “You have something—lay it out. I have nothing to hide.”
Craine turned over the papers, revealing a sample of the account files he’d found at Siegel’s office. Mayer scrutinized them, his short fingers pushing them over the bedcovers. It wasn’t his shoulders that fell but his whole body.
“It’ll never make the press. City Hall won’t touch me.”
“Maybe. But would the committee like to know that you were paying off Bugsy Siegel for years to avoid union trouble?”
Some silences were hard to read. Not this one.
“I told you, this is a closed hearing.”
“And yet there are photographers and reporters lining up outside the hotel. Besides, rumor is they’ll be public hearings in a few months. Paying off the West Coast press is one thing. But the fourth estate isn’t so easily swayed in New York and Washington.”
Mayer gave Craine a sulky look. “What is it you want to know? Siegel—he was a gangster. A mob man. What does it matter who killed him? I didn’t.”
“There are people out there who want to know who killed their friend. And so far, I’d say this here is enough to give you motive for doing so.”
“Bullshit.”
“You were paying off Siegel to keep your unions quiet. If H.U.A.C. ever found out, Hoover would personally close down M.G.M. It’s enough.”
Mayer tested the bed with both hands as if to sit on it, but didn’t. He was unstill.
“It wasn’t like that,” he said. “After Frank Nitti killed himself, Siegel must have been in my office two weeks later. I had no intention of doing business with him.”
“But you did.”
The older man exhaled. “Everyone is worried about the communists. I needed a way of keeping my unions stable. This hearing—it’s only the beginning. Like you said, it’s going public and it’s going national.”
“I’ve spoken to Billy Wilson.”
“Then you know what the Enquirer has been saying. And it’s got H.U.A.C. in a stir. Now their attention is on the studios. It’s not about the pictures. None of my productions could ever be labeled red propaganda. But they want public figures to make examples of.”
“Your stars?”
Mayer nodded, raking his hand through thinning hair. His face tilted away into memory. “The morass we’ve found ourselves in. It threatens to shut us down completely.”
“So Siegel offered a solution?”
