The syndicate, p.20
The Syndicate, page 20
“What’s her name?”
He waited for a moment, then said, “Please. She’s nothing to do with this.”
“We’re not going to hurt her.”
“She’s just a kid. A sweet kid who happened to be there at the wrong time.”
“We’re not going to hurt her, Charlie. But we need her name. And we need to know how to contact her. Tell me, Charlie. Whisper it.”
Charlie Hill would tell Craine everything he needed to know. All of it without Craine ever lifting a hand against him. This was Craine’s gift. Not investigation. Confession. He didn’t hold you under the water. He swam you out to the deep and let you drown yourself.
Chapter 25
Her name was Joyce Mills and she lived in Downtown L.A. Her address was only a few blocks away from the Bradbury Building, although there was nothing to prove that wasn’t a coincidence. They’d left Charlie Hill in the comforting presence of Harvey and were speeding south down the Arroyo Seco Parkway.
“What will happen to him?” Craine asked when they’d passed through Highland Park.
“Who?”
“You know who. The kid.”
“I told Harvey to take him to the hospital.”
“He’ll be lucky if he’s still alive tomorrow.”
“Had it coming,” Abe burred.
Craine looked at him. “He didn’t do it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“He said he didn’t do it.”
“So what? Everybody says they’re innocent.”
“But nobody can lie well enough I can’t tell. Beating him to a pulp like that was never going to get you answers. At least, not truthful ones.”
Abe gripped the wheel tight in his hands. Craine heard his palms on the leather. “You can frown and quiver and curse our methods all you want, Craine, but there’s violence in you as there is in me. Don’t pretend you’re any different.” When Craine didn’t respond he said, “You know why Kastel hates you so much? Because he had an uncle once in New York. A man called Paul Kamona.” Abe didn’t need to expand on the connection. They both knew it was a man Craine had killed many years ago. “You see? Doesn’t matter who you are, there’s no telling what a man will do when his back’s against the wall.”
“It’s not the same. For Christ’s sake, Abe. He was a kid. Probably not even old enough to drink.”
Abe shook his head. “For a long time I said I’d only kill people that needed to be killed. The ones that deserved it got it, and that was that. But then you start bending the rules. And pretty soon there ain’t no rules at all. Only what needs to be done.”
They crawled past billboards telling them that a new picture called Crossfire was playing in theaters. The tagline said: Hate Is Like A Loaded Gun.
It was Abe who suggested they didn’t knock on Joyce’s apartment door. He worked out which floor was hers and instead had Craine call her apartment from a pay phone across the street.
“You speak to her,” he said. “I tend to scare ’em off.”
Craine was so apprehensive about finally finding their missing witness that he struggled to get his nickel into the coin slot.
The phone rang several times before anyone answered.
“Hello?” A girl’s voice. Soft. Young.
“Joyce?”
There was a pause and then that young voice seemed to age. “What do you want? I did everything you asked.”
“Joyce. My name is Jonathan Craine.”
“Who are you?”
But evidently Joyce didn’t want to know the answer because as soon as she said it she hung up.
Craine called again. And then a third time, and a fourth. She answered only when it was clear he wasn’t going to give up.
“If you don’t stop harassing me I’ll call the police.”
“I’m not whoever you think I am.”
“I can see you. You’re across the street.”
Craine looked up to see a set of drapes twitch.
“Meet us at Clifton’s Cafeteria in twenty minutes.”
Abe was staring up at the window. He wondered whether she could see him. “If you don’t,” he added, “I’ll tell Jack Dragna you were with Siegel the night he died. And his men don’t call in advance.”
Smiley was right about her having blond hair. What he didn’t say was how young Joyce was. Or maybe it was seeing her without makeup. She looked like a little girl. Young enough to be his daughter. And so small and fragile now she was sitting next to Abe. Craine wondered how this timid child ever came to be mixed up with a bunch of killers.
“I’m sorry but I don’t believe you,” Craine said when she’d continued to say she didn’t know anything about what had happened that night. Innocent people had opinions. They had something to say.
“I wasn’t there,” she said repeatedly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said when he kept pressing.
There were times you coerced and times you blackmailed. But it was easier to let people relieve themselves of the burdens of secrecy in their own time. He continued to ask her questions until a waitress brought them their coffee. Joyce used the opportunity to break the tension.
“I used to come here all the time when I was broke. They let you have soup for next to nothing. I hear the guy that owns it is retiring. I guess all good things come to an end, right?” When neither of them said anything, she said, “You like it here?”
Clifton’s was on old Broadway and the large cafeteria was decorated in noisy jungle motifs and giant palm trees that towered over their tables. It looked like something out of a children’s storybook.
Abe looked around. “I don’t like it here. Not one bit,” he said matter-of-factly.
Craine ignored him. “Joyce, I don’t want to push you and I don’t want to threaten you either, but we both know there are things you’re not admitting to us. We know because we spoke to Charlie Hill an hour ago and he told us you were with him the night Siegel died.”
She stared at her coffee. “You’ve spoken to Charlie?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he alright?”
Craine noticed Joyce was staring at Abe’s fists.
“He’s okay,” he said, knowing that wasn’t really the case. “Tell me why you didn’t come forward. Tell me why you’ve been hiding.”
“We spoke to the F.B.I.,” she said defensively. “We didn’t want any trouble.”
“But the press and the police are denying you were ever there. Which means someone asked you to lie. Who? The F.B.I.?”
Abe stuck his chin out, then ran his palm over it. “Was it Virginia Hill asked you to? She was the one who did it?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“Why should I tell you?”
Abe didn’t raise his voice but he threw his good arm on the table in front of her and brought his face down so it was barely a few inches from her face.
“Because we’re asking.”
Craine put a hand out. Direct confrontation wouldn’t work with Joyce. For some reason, denial had set in. Craine needed to set traps.
“When I called you from outside your apartment you said, ‘I did everything you asked.’ What did you mean by that?”
“Nothing.”
He asked her again to no response, and then Abe started exhaling loudly. He was running out of patience.
Joyce looked around to the other tables as if someone might be able to help her. Craine knew the feeling.
“There’s no one here, Joyce. This is between us.”
Joyce began to cry and he let her. There was no one to tell this girl it was alright. No one to pass her a handkerchief. She was in a dangerous scenario and she had to feel it.
“There was a man,” she began, likely knowing when she did that their conversation would end with her telling them everything. “There was a man came to see me.”
“Who?” Abe asked.
“I don’t know who. I promise I don’t.”
Craine put his hand out for Abe to let her talk. She was unraveling and he didn’t want to scare her away. “Keep going. What did he want?”
“He said Virginia would need a flight to Paris and I should book it for her. That’s it. He said she needed to leave as soon as possible.”
Abe said, “Did he give you money?”
When Joyce didn’t answer Abe’s question, Craine softened for the first time: “Joyce, it’s best you answer the man.”
“A little.” It came out as a whimper.
“How much?”
“Flights are expensive.”
“How much?”
Her eyes flicked around. Her shoulders tensed. “Two thousand.”
Abe slurped his coffee. “You buy the whole plane?”
Any money this girl made from it was of no interest to Craine. He kept on with his questions. “So you bought Virginia the ticket?”
She nodded. “I called up the airline.”
“Did Siegel know?”
“I think so. No, not at first, but then she told him she was going to Paris. Said she needed a break.”
“From Siegel?”
A tilt of the chin said yes. “He was stressed about the hotel. They were arguing. She wanted a few weeks to cool off.”
“When was this?”
Joyce thought about it. The answer didn’t come to her. “Hard to say. A few weeks ago. Maybe a month.”
“You think Virginia had him killed?”
“No, never. She loved him. Loved him with all her heart.”
Craine had investigated countless murders where husbands had killed their wives and vice versa. They were almost always sorry and they almost always said they still loved them. But Joyce seemed adamant.
“She was a little intense at times. But only because she wore her heart on her sleeve. I could never imagine her ever asking somebody to kill Benny.”
“Did you see the man again? The man who came to visit you?”
“I never met him but he called me. I’d almost forgotten about the whole thing. Or tried to. Then he calls me at home.”
“When was this?”
“Last week. Wednesday, I think. He said they knew Siegel was going to be out with friends on Friday. I should ask Charlie if we could go along, then make sure Mr. Siegel got home after.”
“He say what they were going to do?”
Her face was impassive. “I thought he wanted to come and talk to him.”
“You thought that? You really thought that?”
“Who knew? He seemed nice enough.”
“The man who called. He threaten you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Why not tell Charlie about him?”
Joyce had an injured look on her face. “I–I had been for dinner with another guy. This man . . . he had seen us together. I didn’t want Charlie to find out.”
“Who was the guy?”
“He was a writer for the studios. I thought maybe . . . I only wanted a screen test. It was dinner, that’s all. I didn’t stay with him. He turned out to be a creep anyway—”
“The man who called you. He saw you out with him?”
“This writer, he dropped me off. Tried to come up but I said I wasn’t that type of girl. Then when I got inside the telephone rang like they knew I was home. He was calling from a pay phone outside my apartment. Same thing as you guys.”
“You get sight of him?”
“It was dark. He was wearing a hat.”
“Can you describe the car?”
“Not really. I wasn’t really paying attention to the car.”
“Because he said he’d tell Charlie?”
A nod. “You have to understand. I have nothing. I used to live with three other girls, then I got my own place, but really it’s just a tiny room. That money, I didn’t spend it. It’s in a bank account—”
Joyce’s eyes were damp. Her voice wasn’t soft anymore. “Don’t tell Charlie. I like him. He’s a nice boy. I think, me and him, we could be something.”
Joyce began sobbing. “Please. I don’t want to be in trouble. I can’t go to sleep at night thinking they could be coming for me at any moment. Every time I go near a window I keep thinking they’re gonna shoot me. It’s driving me crazy.”
The check came and Abe put several notes on the table. Far more than it had cost. Craine could see this girl’s terror had had an effect on him.
“Joyce,” Craine said, “I’m going to give your address to someone who can help you.”
“No, please,” she said through tears. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Her name is Tilda Conroy and she’s a reporter.”
Abe folded his arms, unhappy about this, but Craine went on anyway. “You tell her your story and she can help you. But if I were you I’d think about leaving Los Angeles for a few days until this blows over.”
Driving back to the hotel, Craine and Abe discussed what Joyce had told them. Their instincts had been right. Whether she did it unwittingly or not, she had helped set up Siegel to be murdered.
“The thing I don’t understand,” Abe mused, “is why the F.B.I. were protecting her. Surely that tells us it was them.”
“Maybe,” Craine said. “Or does it only tell us that they know who did it? That they’re protecting someone else’s secret? Or does it tell us nothing? That they want to keep Siegel’s murder contained—stop the conspiracies before they start because no one wants Siegel’s murder investigation to be in the headlines. They want the focus to be on the Hollywood red scare.”
He ran through different possibilities but all of them had flaws. There was a certain victory in finding Joyce, but a part of Craine felt frustrated that she hadn’t brought them any closer to the killer. She was a minor player in a much larger game. She didn’t pull the trigger and she didn’t send the shooter.
When they got to the hotel, the manager waved them over from the reception desk. Craine was starting to worry that there might be another “package,” but when he came over he had a piece of paper in his hand.
“Mr. Craine,” he said politely, “a Mrs Conroy called from the Herald. She left an urgent message.”
“Thanks. She leave a number?”
“She left this address.”
The manager handed Craine a piece of paper with the hotel’s logo on the letterhead. ‘JOE’S AUTO SALVAGE, 3 P.M.’ had been scribbled in Birome ballpoint.
Chapter 26
“Our usual price is five dollars, but that depends entirely on condition. If you’ve got usable parts we can sell on then we’ll look to go for ten. I got a good eye for value.”
Conroy was making small talk at Joe’s Auto Salvage. They were walking through a vast yard of cars in various stages of decay, like a ghostly parade of a lost Armored Division. It seemed to go on for miles.
“So I can leave it here whenever I want?” asked Conroy, playing the role of interested customer.
Joe was fifty or so, with thick arms and a torso that seemed to have molded itself on the surrounding tires.
“If the paperwork’s clear. Needs to be off the books and cleared with the D.M.V.”
“And if it’s not?” Conroy probed. She didn’t wink, but she might as well have.
Joe rubbed a greasy finger up his nose. “We can probably come to a cash arrangement.”
The answer was what she was looking for but the two Dobermans running around the yard put her on edge.
“What will you do with it?”
“Depends how old they are. Your car? May look like junk but the parts are probably valuable.” Joe pointed to the crane in the background, where Conroy saw a man pulling levers. The metal claws had been lifting up automobiles and dropping them onto the car heap since she got here. “Only the worst get scrapped completely.”
Conroy said, “What if I want my car crushed?”
Joe shrugged. “Yeah. We do that. We have a shredder, too. Thing can clean disappear off the map.”
That last statement was said quietly but pointedly. It was something they did. A special service.
“Interesting.” Conroy smiled. “Joe, I was hoping you might be able to help me. It would be really helpful.”
“With your car?”
“Actually I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me. It relates to a car that was involved in a homicide a few days ago.”
Conroy took out a notepad and Joe shrank visibly. The dogs kept barking.
“Wait a second.”
“Few questions, that’s all. Then I’ll leave you in peace.”
“You from the police?”
There were reporters who impersonated detectives or officials. Despite the fact that there were no female detectives she knew of, Conroy had never felt comfortable being an impostor.
“No. I’m a reporter. I was after some information about a car that might have been brought here late Friday night or Saturday morning.”
“We get lots of cars on lots of days.”
“So you might have had someone here on Friday?”
“Possibly.”
Joe’s answers were close to monosyllabic. Maybe, he said. Maybe not, he said. It went on like this for several minutes.
“The car I’m referring to was a 1938 dark blue Nash. Do you remember it? I’ve got the license tags here we can compare.”
“What if I did? Why should I tell you?”
“Because if you don’t I’m going to tell my friends at the Detective Bureau that you’re crushing cars illegally.”
“I never said that.”
“Yes you did.” She scribbled on her pad and held it up for him to see. ‘Thing can clean disappear off the map.’ They were your words, weren’t they?”
Joe seemed annoyed with Conroy, but more annoyed with himself. He looked away when he spoke to her, as if doing so meant he could deny this conversation.
“A fella came by Friday.”
“What time was it?”
“Late, I guess.”
“Midnight late? Are you open then?”
He didn’t say anything. Conroy smiled but let the question hang in the air. People hated silences. You had to be patient and wait for them to fill them.
