The syndicate, p.30
The Syndicate, page 30
“You were complicit. We both were. You see, you say this isn’t personal. And yet your actions speak to the contrary.”
Her poise wavered. “My interest is satisfying public interest . . . Proving that a national crime syndicate dominates major American industries. For that I need Craine’s release. His inside knowledge is critical.”
“Such self-assurance. Making a difference. Doing the right thing. I applaud you, Mrs Conroy. But you should know, the syndicates operate through large-scale intimidation and corruption. The cost of paying off enforcement officials is simply absorbed as a necessary expense. No one is going to stop America being the biggest roulette wheel on earth simply because you write about it in your little paper.”
Wilson was patronizing her. She wanted to lash out. To get angry. But she didn’t. She remembered what Alice had said. Choose your battles.
“Mr. Wilson,” she said as coolly as she could, “I’ve laid out my offer. Now do we have an agreement or not?”
The mogul put the bottle on his desk and rotated it. “Let me liaise with Louis Mayer. If he’s onside, as you say, we can speak to City Hall. We’ve had our differences in the past but there’s mutual interest here. And we’re stronger together.”
“And the article?”
Wilson ran a finger along his pencil mustache, like a gambler counting his chips. “I’ll tell you everything I know,” he said. “I’ll show you how the sausage is made: account details, contracts, whatever you want.”
“And you’ll let me quote you by name on condition that I do not mention your own investment?”
“That is the condition. Don’t forget it.”
“One thing is keeping that information from the general public. But the F.B.I. are a different matter. They might use this as an excuse to come at you.”
“They won’t.”
Something in his voice said he was hiding something.
“They already know about your mob connections?”
He nodded. “Hoover’s priority is communism, not crime syndicates. He’s going to launch a crusade against the red beachhead, a blacklist across the industry for anyone with communist sympathies.”
“And you are part of that plan?”
Wilson spoke proudly, ever the patriot: “What was once gold has tarnished. It’s my duty as an American to purge the industry of the red threat and return it to the halcyon days before it’s too late.”
For all his flag-waving, Conroy was under no illusions: the elite worked for naked self-interest. She was trying to assemble his reasoning as he spoke. “No,” she said. “Hoover has agreed he won’t touch you so long as you support his anti-union purge. You’ve made a deal with the devil.”
Wilson smiled that Cheshire cat grin of his. “Oh, Mrs Conroy, don’t be surprised,” he said. “I signed so long ago the ink’s already fading.”
There was a hiss and a pop as he opened another cola.
Chapter 41
After the agents left the room, Craine allowed himself to fall asleep. He’d done his duty and the rest was simply protocol. He hadn’t been charged. Any minute now he’d be released and this ordeal would almost be over.
His mind wandered, dropping deeper into unconsciousness. They weren’t dreams as much as fleeting images. First Michael. Always Michael. A vision of the night guard. But then Harvey’s wife, dead on the carpet. The horror of his two young children. The pistol on the bedroom floor. Harvey’s rifle.
And soon Craine found himself opening his eyes with five words on his lips. “Why would Harvey kill them?”
Not his motive for killing Siegel. His family. As a father, Craine couldn’t understand how Harvey could ever kill his own children. Couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t picture it.
Redhill had taken his case folders with him but the photographs remained spread out like a tablecloth of horror. No doubt Redhill’s intention was to instill disgust, so Craine didn’t change his mind.
Using one finger, Craine began grazing over the photos. The bodies of the children were hard to look at but also hard to analyze. Blood pools and body positions had been distorted by their location in the closet.
He circled round to the glossies of Harvey’s wife. Not the gore but the body. Something about the photographs bothered him. This is something, Craine thought, looking again at the pictures and trying to commit them to memory. This is something that doesn’t make sense.
Redhill’s technique had been no different from Craine’s when he was a detective. He’d proposed two alternative explanations for the crime, one incriminating and one giving him an exit. And yet even in his tired and confused mind, Craine couldn’t help but ask why Redhill would have an army of agents spend sixteen hours trying to get him to confess to a crime he inwardly knew Craine didn’t commit.
Something subtler was in play. This interrogation wasn’t about getting Craine to confess to Harvey’s murder. It was about wearing him down. To guide his attention away from the circumstances surrounding Harvey Sterling’s death. A smokescreen.
Craine was still running through the photographs when Redhill entered with one of his juniors.
“Horrific,” Redhill said when he saw Craine staring at them. “Makes you wonder what kind of cruelty man is capable of, doesn’t it?”
Redhill moved the photographs to one side and placed down green discharge papers and a two-page statement with elements of Craine’s interview, a formal declaration that needed to be signed by Craine in order for him to be released.
Coding in the left corner corresponding to the case file. A stamp on the top said ‘AUTHORIZED PERSONS ONLY.’ An appendix included the full transcript from the tape recording. Thumbing through the pages, Craine noticed that it only began with him explaining that Harvey Sterling was guilty. The endless interviews where Craine had been accused were omitted, as if that was never even posited.
Redhill held up the face sheet and put it down on the table with a pen. He took a seat. “Sign here. Initial the other pages.”
Craine looked at the pen and hesitated.
“It’s over, Craine. I appreciate you’ve found yourself in some kind of predicament but now that’s come to an end. I don’t know your stake in this, but you wanted to find Siegel’s killer and you found him.”
“Are you going to release this to the press?”
“We’ll do our due diligence and follow the necessary protocol. But we’ll take care of this quietly.”
A bureaucrat’s answer. Noncommittal.
“What about Abe?”
“He’s going to be held. Conspiracy to murder.”
“Wait—why?”
“If it’s not this, it’ll be something else. Doesn’t exactly have your pedigree. As far as the Bureau is concerned, Ballistics matched the bullets from his Savage to the Bradbury Building. I’m Old Testament, Craine. I’ll be happy only when he’s in San Quentin facing the rope.”
“I don’t have to sign this,” Craine said. “I’ve not been charged. You have to release me within twenty-four hours. That’s in forty minutes’ time.”
“District Attorney has given me an extension on both of you due to Abe’s previous arrests. Thirty-six hours. You won’t be out until after midnight tonight.”
Craine’s heart sank. He looked at Redhill intently.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. You want to keep me as an ally, you’ll sign the fucking papers, Craine.”
Craine noted the profanity. Redhill had never sworn or lost his temper before. Something Craine was doing bothered him immensely.
Redhill collected the photographs and had begun slipping them back into their red envelope when there was a tap at the door and the junior agent opened it a crack.
The voice from outside wasn’t clear but the word ‘urgent’ came through. So did the words ‘District Attorney.’
The young agent stepped into the corridor to find out what was going on. The door shut with a metallic click.
Craine and Redhill both turned as they heard raised voices. The door opened and the junior agent returned. He leaned down and whispered something in Redhill’s ear.
“Who?”
Craine saw him mouth the D.A.’s name.
“Stay here.”
Redhill’s chair scraped back as he went outside.
“You,” Craine said to the junior agent when the door had shut. “When were these photographs taken?”
The junior agent didn’t reply. Craine couldn’t hear much from outside the room. But he could make out the back of Redhill’s head through the narrow mesh-glass hatch in the door.
“It’s a straightforward question. All I’m asking is when these photographs were taken. You need to check with your boss for a straightforward question?”
The young agent looked at the door, then at Craine. “About twenty minutes after we arrived.”
“And the techs took all of these photographs at the same time? Within, say, an hour of each other?”
He glanced at the door again, then nodded. A second later, and Redhill entered.
“Get his cuffs off,” Redhill ordered the young agent testily. To Craine he said, “Looks like you still have friends in the right places. Your lawyer is outside.”
Craine didn’t reply. His lawyer?
“I can’t stop Dragna from paying off the right people. But as far as I’m concerned, you’re done here. I don’t want to see you in Los Angeles again.” He held up Craine’s statement. “You want your boy out of danger, you’ll sign it.”
Even though Craine’s mind was leaden, his memory wasn’t so hazy that he’d forgotten whether he’d told Redhill about Michael. The inquisitor had made one crucial mistake.
“How did you know my son was in danger?” he asked.
Redhill’s face tipped downward. The air went out of him.
“I’m not signing anything.”
Before Craine could say anything else he was escorted out of his cell. As he was led down the long corridor, he wondered who his benefactor was and if he was striding into quicksand. But with less than twelve hours left to reach Lansky, he didn’t have time to think about it. Besides, something else was playing on his mind. Because if what he saw in the photographs was true, then his son’s life was still at risk. And there was no way he was going to survive this without more people being killed.
The sun hurt his eyes when he went outside to see the man calling himself his lawyer. Craine expected to see someone from Dragna’s entourage, but the man waiting for him was Whitey Hendry, M.G.M.’s Head of Security.
“Craine,” he said curtly. “I’m here to drive you to see Mr. Mayer. He’s expecting you.”
Craine wasn’t sure why Louis Mayer had sponsored his exit but he was grateful nonetheless. When Hendry pointed wordlessly to a limousine, Craine asked, “What about Abe?”
“Abraham Levine remains in custody. He’s yet to be formally charged, but there’s nothing we can do for him.”
Whitey Hendry opened the rear passenger door. Someone was sitting inside. The last person he expected to see: Tilda Conroy.
Chapter 42
They were heading east, but Craine wasn’t sure of their destination. Only that they’d been driving for well over an hour. Following a long series of power lines, they passed through La Puente Valley. Craine looked at Conroy’s watch. It was three in the afternoon. He had until midnight to reach Vegas.
“I don’t have time for this.” He was nervous. “I need to get to Lansky.”
“Mayer said it was important. I wouldn’t bring you here otherwise.” Conroy leaned forward. “Is it far?” she asked Whitey Hendry in the front passenger seat.
“No,” Hendry said. “Not far.”
As they drove, Conroy explained to Craine that it was Louis Mayer who got him out of custody. From what he could gather, Conroy had made several visits to men in senior positions that morning. The mechanics of what had been negotiated were confusing but Conroy seemed confident in the outcome.
This was the arrangement: the Herald had agreed with Captain Henson that they wouldn’t mention Harvey Sterling or Jonathan Craine in connection with Benjamin Siegel because City Hall wanted to push Siegel’s murder under the bed. William Wilson would provide Conroy with background on the New York syndicate in exchange for not mentioning his Vegas investments, and M.G.M. would give Jonathan Craine his freedom if Conroy wouldn’t make public their payments to studio unions under mob control.
Henson. Wilson. Mayer. All three of them had the ear of City Hall, but it was Mayer who’d brokered a deal with the District Attorney’s office to get Craine out of custody and Mayer who they were driving to see.
“Did Harvey Sterling really kill Siegel?”
Craine nodded.
“And his family?”
“It didn’t happen the way they say it did,” he said.
“What then?”
“I think Harvey was set up by the Chicago Outfit to kill Siegel.”
“Why?”
“So that Lansky would sell Siegel’s shares in The Flamingo. I think Chicago know how valuable it is, and they’re going to use the chaos surrounding Siegel’s murder to strong-arm Lansky into selling at a lower price.”
They drove in silence for a while as Conroy processed this. He thought of what Redhill had told him about Conroy all those years ago and wanted to be angry at her. Wanted to shout at her and ask her how she could ever forgive herself for chasing cheap headlines at the expense of someone’s life. But he was too tired now. He didn’t have the energy. And besides, who was he to blame someone else for his own failings as a husband? He had to take responsibility for what had happened to Celia. He couldn’t push that guilt on someone else.
Craine was struggling to keep his eyes open. “How did you know I didn’t kill Harvey Sterling’s family?”
“It was never a doubt in my mind,” Conroy said. “I knew you would never be able to kill those poor children.”
“Thank you,” he said. “For getting me out.”
Conroy stared out the window so he couldn’t see her face. “Well, I needed your help with the article,” she said impassively. “City Editor says we publish tomorrow. I’ll be following the story over the coming months. He wants the Herald at the vanguard.”
She turned to him and there was a look there. Something in her eyes, perhaps. A steely determination to see this through despite the risks.
“But you’re not going to connect Siegel to the studios? Isn’t that part of the story?”
“I needed Mayer’s help to get you out. He has leverage. That was part of the bargain.” She paused, then said, “It was worth it to help you.”
“I thought you only cared about your article?”
Conroy didn’t reply, but Craine was too exhausted to ask her what had made her change her mind. What mattered was getting to Las Vegas by tonight.
He looked around at the surrounding fields in their various shades. Mexican workers struggling in the heat as they tended alfalfa and avocados, oranges and almonds. There were houses being built everywhere, a sprawling suburb to satisfy a booming population.
When they passed a sign to Riverdale, Conroy took out a photograph from her purse.
“I did some background on Harvey. After he left New York, he worked as one of Paul Ricca’s bodyguards in the Chicago Outfit before joining the military. He was an army sniper. Served in the Pacific.”
Conroy handed him a photograph of his unit.
“Most of them died. The ones that didn’t were captured and tortured by the Japanese.”
In the photograph, Craine saw a platoon of soldiers lined up in three rows. Harvey was there on the left, his sturdy face staring into the middle distance. Beside him, Craine recognized a face he’d seen before. In Abe’s wallet. He must be Joseph Levine, Abe’s son.
Craine went to put the photograph away but there was another face that stood out. The platoon commander, front and center. Even under the helmet his face was unmistakable.
Several strands fell into place. The shifting spotlight had finally come to a stop and the figure in the proscenium was illuminated. Harvey Sterling may have been the triggerman. But Craine knew who had sent him.
Every man needed a hobby and horses were Louis Mayer’s.
He’d bought his ranch in Perris ten years ago, around the same time that Harry Warner built a racetrack, but Mayer had always been more interested in building a stable than an arena. Over the years, he’d become one of the leading breeders of stake winners in America; he developed his thoroughbreds like he developed his stars. And unlike actors, horses did what they were trained to do.
Mayer stroked the horse’s forehead between the eyes. “Hey, Busher. Easy girl, easy.”
Busher was a racing filly, one of his best, but maybe only a few seasons away from retirement. As he rubbed her chestnut neck, Mayer felt like his time was coming too. I’m an old horse not long for the glue factory, he thought to himself.
He opened the stable door and guided the horse outside. A jockey was waiting with his trainer and the two men took Busher out to the training field.
Mayer stood close to the stables as Busher took off round the track. There were no gates and no starting pistol—the jockey simply started slow and built the horse up to a gallop until Mayer could see clumps of mud exploding under her hooves.
There wasn’t a universal approach to racehorse training, but horses needed routine. The trainer would canter it four days a week, with two fast sessions under race conditions and a hard-walk on Sunday. Training was important, but diet was as crucial. Incremental gains made all the difference. But there was a line, too. You had to let the beast rest. Allow it to graze and be happy.
It was the same with actors.
Mayer had ignored his wife’s warnings, but he realized now that she was right. He’d pushed Judy Garland too hard. Dieting. Supplements. He’d turned a blind eye. He’d had a warning many years ago when Celia Raymond died, but he’d ignored it. He’d realized too late what happened if you pushed people too hard. They destroyed themselves.
Mayer heard a car engine. There was the sound of a door opening, of shoes on gravel and then Jonathan Craine was standing behind him, silhouetted in the doorway of the barn.
