The syndicate, p.31
The Syndicate, page 31
“Conroy said you wanted to meet me,” Craine said. His tone had a barb to it.
“That woman can be very persuasive.”
“Should I be thanking her or you for my release?”
There was the thunder of hooves as Busher galloped past. Mayer didn’t answer Craine’s question but he said, “I appreciate you coming out all this way. I can’t be certain my telephone isn’t being tapped.”
Craine stepped into the light and Mayer got a look at him. He looked even worse than he did a few days go. Vexed, red-rimmed eyes kept Mayer at a distance. He didn’t know what Craine might do.
Craine didn’t say anything so Mayer continued: “We’re talking a lot with Hoover. I have friends at the Bureau. Helping guide me through . . .” he lifted his hand briefly “. . . all this H.U.A.C. business.” Mayer worded the next part carefully. “One of them mentioned something in passing—although there may be nothing to it. He said Agent Redhill and his team found a cartridge in the garden. They could trace it to the weapon. Military records.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“That the F.B.I. already know who killed Siegel.”
“Harvey Sterling. He’s dead.”
Mayer shook his head. “More than that. They’ve known all along,” he explained. “They knew even before Siegel was murdered.”
Mayer could see Craine processing this.
“Why?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care enough to find out. That’s up to you.”
Craine looked like he wanted to leave.
“There’s something else. When you came to me, you didn’t ask about Virginia Hill. Why is that?”
“She loved Siegel,” Craine said. “I didn’t consider her a suspect. And no one has seen her.”
Mayer nodded. “The F.B.I. know where Virginia Hill is.” When Craine looked surprised, he said, “I don’t know what she knows but I believe they’ve known where she is all along.”
“How?”
“I have a plane at Hughes Airport south of Culver City. Howard Hughes is keeping his Spruce Goose there but he lets the F.B.I. use the same airfield for clandestine operations. Part of his effort to get the War Committee off his back. Hughes told me they’re flying someone in tonight. Virginia Hill.”
This seemed to take Craine aback. Mayer saw his face look away and process what this meant.
“I need to talk to her. As soon as possible.”
Mayer said, “Don’t worry. I’ve made arrangements with Hughes. My car will take you there. Is there anything else you need?”
Behind them the horse slowed. Mayer could hear her heavy breathing.
“I have an associate,” Craine said. “Abraham Levine. He’s still being held by the F.B.I.”
“A man with his connections isn’t so easily pried away from federal jurisdiction. But I’ll speak to the District Attorney and do what I can.”
Craine was also breathing hard. “Why are you helping me?” he asked. “Because of Conroy? You could have used your influence to make sure your involvement with the mob was never made public. I don’t understand why you agreed to meet her at the negotiation table.”
Mayer had wondered when Craine would ask this. The question was still something he hadn’t fully answered himself.
“I haven’t always lived up to the values of my pictures,” Mayer said. “Many years ago, I did you a disservice. It’s not easy for me to say that.”
Craine and Mayer had never spoken about what had happened when Craine’s wife had died. Craine had agreed to work with the studio to frame his wife’s suicide as a tragic accident. It was a secret created by three men. And the third man was dead.
Their lives were so entwined in many ways, but you can’t find kinship in guilt. It only makes you resent each other more. When Mayer saw Craine he saw the hurt he had caused. The disappointment his wife had in him. But being here now, he realized he couldn’t hate this man any longer. He had to do what was right.
“You lost a wife,” he said. “And your boy—he lost his mother.”
“It wasn’t only her.” There was a hard edge to Craine’s voice. Mayer could see the anger simmering in him. “There were other people. People we didn’t do right by. I worked for you for years, thanklessly helping you as we went about destroying lives.” He took a breath. “I would have done anything you wanted.”
“And now you’re angry. Why? Because you think I didn’t appreciate what you did? You were the best. The devil’s miracle worker.” He let the words sink in before saying with the same strained breath, “But I was the devil and it was hard for me to feel good about that.”
“What do you want from me?” Craine asked. “What is it you want in return?”
“There’s no second act for me. But there is for you. Jonathan, you can accomplish something in this world. More than digging ditches in Bridgeport.”
“And do what? Work for you?”
“No. The opposite. Be the person you would have been if you’d never met me.”
It would take a long time for Craine to realize what Mayer really meant by that. It wasn’t something he could understand at that moment.
The jockey came to the edge of the track and Mayer leaned over the gate to pat his favorite horse’s neck.
He waited until the jockey had taken her for a slow walk before he said: “You asked me why I’m helping you.” He looked at Craine with a look that wasn’t an apology but that showed understanding of his situation. “I have a lot of things. There’s very little I could want for. But I lost my family. And I’ve learned, far too late, that a man is nothing without his family.”
Chapter 43
There were two guards in the hutch beside the gate to the Hughes airfield. Hendry left the engine running and spoke to them, but no money was handed over—whatever message they’d been given from above had been relayed and the very sight of Louis Mayer’s limousine seemed to have an impact. The guards picked up their weapons and left, with the barriers down and locked.
Hendry turned around and faced the back seat. He held out a small revolver with tape wrapped around the grip. “Take it,” he said. “It’s clean.”
Craine took the pistol without saying thank you.
Hendry turned to face forward. “Good luck,” Craine heard him mutter.
Conroy wasn’t staying, despite arguing in favor of it. What Craine was doing was highly illegal and he wouldn’t let her drag herself any further into it.
When he got out of the car, Craine said: “Thank you, Tilda. For everything.”
He knew she wanted to ask if he’d come back to help with her story. Her exposé on organized crime. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it, knowing that his mind was focused on Michael.
“If I speak to her, I’ll make sure Virginia Hill comes straight to you. Get the story out there. People need to know.”
Conroy’s voice was shaking. “What about you?”
He didn’t say anything, and she said: “After the Chicago trial, you left Los Angeles. What you know . . . you could help us—”
“I’m not sure I’m the right person.”
“You are. You’re a braver man than you think you are.”
He didn’t think it was true. But hearing it was what he needed right now. To be brave. To keep going. To see this through.
He went to go but she leaned over. “Jonathan, wait. There’s something else I need to tell you. Something that happened a long time ago.” Her eyes were wet and she seemed upset. Or ashamed. “About your wife.”
“I know,” Craine said. “Redhill told me.”
Her face fell. He saw tears in her eyes. “I was younger then,” she tried to explain. “Trying to make my name. I’m so sorry.”
Craine looked at Tilda and thought about everything she’d done for him. There was no part of him that felt anything but appreciation.
“We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, Tilda,” he said. “I know I have.”
Craine shut the car door and a minute later the car pulled away.
He wasn’t sure he’d see Conroy again but he knew how much he owed her. He thought about what Mayer had said, too. About having a second act. He knew then that if he came through this alive, he needed to come back. To finish what the two of them had started.
It was time to turn to face the world he’d ignored for much too long.
The airstrip had a single runway a little over a mile long. Craine waited in a hangar filled with fuel tankers and a dozen military aircraft in various states of disassembly. It was unmanned, but that wasn’t unexpected for a covert handover. There was all-weather landing equipment in an unlocked storage cupboard and he took from it what he was looking for: a landing flare.
The last of the day dissolved into dusk. Craine had been exhausted before but now he felt wired, almost sick with how awake he was. A part of him was surprised the F.B.I. weren’t here already, but maybe they wanted to be discreet, in and out as quickly as they could.
It was a strange feeling, waiting there. He had taken Mayer’s word that this plane would arrive. And every minute it didn’t was less time to get to Vegas. Even if he got into a car and left right now he still wouldn’t make it. He had put Michael’s life in the hands of the man he once held responsible for killing his wife.
And yet faith was all he had now.
He’d been waiting for over an hour when he heard the distant drone of an engine. Up above he saw the small wing lights of an aircraft descending through the clouds.
The runway was poorly lit and when the twin-engine turboprop landed, the wheels hit the tarmac hard, the plane snaking sideways slightly before the pilot gained control. It taxied toward the hangar’s apron and arced to a standstill fifty or so yards away. The propellers stopped.
The door opened and a man stepped off. He didn’t see Craine until he came out from behind the fuel tanker.
“Don’t,” Craine shouted when the man reached for his shoulder holster. He had Hendry’s pistol outstretched and was close enough now not to miss.
He gestured for the man to drop his revolver. “I’m not here to hurt you. But I will if I have to. Toss it.”
The man did as he was told.
“Empty your pockets,” Craine ordered him. When the man did so he said, “Get running. If I see you slow down I’ll shoot you in the back.”
Whoever he was he didn’t need telling twice. He took off down the runway, swallowed by the darkness.
Unaware of what was happening, a woman came out of the plane and made her way down the air-stair. Her hair was blowing in the breeze and it covered her eyes. She was on the tarmac before she saw Craine.
Craine put the pistol in his pocket. “Virginia? Virginia Hill?”
The woman held her hands together in front of her, one wringing the other. She had brown hair and a round face. “Are you from the F.B.I.?”
“No. My name is Jonathan Craine.” She didn’t say anything, but Craine could tell his name meant something to her. “You know who I am, don’t you?”
“Benny mentioned you before.”
“So you know you can trust me.”
She went to say yes, then didn’t. “I’m not sure who to trust anymore.”
“I know you didn’t kill him. I know you loved him. But I need your help to find out who did. And I promise you, you won’t be involved. Whatever you tell me is strictly between us.”
She looked around but there was no one there. Only the plane behind her and the pilot watching on in confusion.
“I can’t help you. I don’t know why you’re here—”
“I’m here because any minute now a car is going to arrive to pick you up. And inside that car will be men from the Federal Bureau. But you know that, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“When did they approach you?”
She paused before saying, “About a month ago.”
“What did they say?”
She didn’t respond, so Craine answered for her. “They told you that they knew you’d been stealing money from the New York mob. They had pictures of you. Evidence. You’d stolen thousands of dollars and put it in bank accounts in Europe, and they threatened to tell Lansky. It was blackmail.”
She was shaking. “They would have killed me. And they would have killed Benny.”
Craine stepped forward. He spoke loudly.
“Did they ask for information on Siegel? Did they ask you about The Flamingo?”
“I never knew anything about Ben’s business,” she said quickly. “He didn’t speak about it. That was all—”
Craine held up his hand and she stopped talking. “What did they ask you to do?”
“To go to Europe. And to tell them where Joyce lived. That’s all.”
“Joyce who worked for you?”
She nodded again.
“Did Benny know about the money?”
She looked away. He didn’t need to push her to know the answer was no.
“I never wanted him to go to Vegas. That hotel . . . it ruined everything. Ever since he first went to the desert, I knew it would end badly.” Virginia looked down, wiping her eyes with a trembling hand. Death was crossing off a list and her name was somewhere on it.
“The man from the F.B.I. His name was Redhill.”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
Redhill. A part of Craine knew Redhill had been involved in Siegel’s murder from the beginning.
“We don’t have very long. I need you to tell me what he wanted.”
Her eyes widened and she considered Craine.
“Hurry,” he said.
“He told me Benny was in danger and I should leave town.”
“You didn’t try to warn Siegel?”
She shook her head. “I . . . I didn’t know what they’d do.” She started crying. “I loved him. I still love him.”
“But you left him to get murdered?”
She didn’t answer at first. Maybe she’d tried to convince herself otherwise.
Virginia was in tears. “You men, with your accusations. You think I’m a traitor. Like one of those vamps in the pictures. Well, you have no idea about me. I’m a survivor. I loved Benny. But I did what I had to do to survive.”
Headlights reflected off the propeller. Craine turned to see the first glimpses of three black sedans stalling at the gate. Any minute now they’d figure out how to lift the boom and be on the tarmac. After that he’d be trapped. He knew what he had to do.
“You want protection,” he said quickly but clearly, “you tell your story to the press. Speak to Tilda Conroy at the Herald.” He said her name again slowly: “Tilda Conroy.”
She nodded but he made her repeat it back until he was sure she’d committed it to memory.
“She’ll be able to help you. You’ll need her. Now stand back until I tell you to move.”
Craine went over to one of the fuel tankers parked by the hangar. There was a series of butterfly valves and he pulled all of them in turn. He heard a hiss as the rubber gaskets came loose, then he unscrewed the end caps. Jet fuel came flowing out over the tarmac.
Without air in the tank, the flow was controllable. But the fuel was inches deep and quickly covered his ankles.
When the cars were maybe fifty yards away he closed the taps half-way so that fuel was only coming out in dribbles. By now it had spread across the tarmac in wide pools. He could see Virginia standing beside the plane watching on, dumbstruck.
Craine walked toward the cars with his hands held out. Jet fuel wasn’t flammable in the way that gasoline was. It had a much higher flashpoint. It would need more than a spark to ignite. But when it did, it was explosive.
He stopped when he reached the fringes of the fuel spill.
The three sedans slewed in different directions before pulling to a heavy stop twenty yards in front of him. The headlights were blinding but he saw figures moving in across the tarmac, shouting orders he ignored.
Craine’s eyes adjusted and he could make out F.B.I. agents sighting over car roofs with shotguns and rifles like they’d been trained. He put his hand in his pocket and gripped the landing flare.
“F.B.I.,” he heard Redhill’s voice shout through the air. “Stay where you are, Craine.”
Craine gestured to the fuel on the tarmac and held out the flare sideways for Redhill to see. “Be careful, Redhill.”
In one movement, Craine took a step forward and struck the end of the flare with the flint strike. In the bright red light, he saw Redhill’s eyes widen as he realized what was happening.
“Stand back,” Redhill shouted to his men with his hand up. “No one fire. There’s gas everywhere.”
Redhill slowly came forward until they were within speaking distance. Within shooting distance, too.
“Keep your hands where I can see them, Craine.”
Craine saw he had a pistol in his hand. His hair was tousled. He looked on edge.
“I’m getting on this plane.”
“You’re not going anywhere. Mayer can’t protect you forever.”
“Did you bring him with you?”
“Who?”
“You know who. Abraham Levine.”
“I’m not giving you anything.”
“You have him?”
Redhill looked back and signaled to one of his men. A passenger door opened and Abe was brought out, his hands cuffed in front of him. He looked like he’d taken a long day of beatings.
“You wouldn’t have brought him if you weren’t willing to hand him over.”
Redhill exhaled. Craine had read the situation as it was.
Craine nodded in the direction of Virginia. “You give me Abe, I’ll give you her.”
“You don’t get to negotiate.”
He held up the flare. “I’ll kill her if I have to.”
Redhill’s eyes were manic. “You’d never do it,” he said without conviction.
Craine held the flare up and to the side as if he was going to drop it.
The two men stood there, chests rising and falling, until Redhill turned and beckoned a hand toward the men holding Abe. The big man held his cuffs out to be unlocked, then started striding toward the plane, rubbing his wrists.
