'What does he think he is, a king or one of them Egyptian fellows who had a tomb the size of a mountain?'
'Something like that,' said D. A. 'He's got two casinos in there, three parlors for high-stakes poker, and a lounge where he gets the top stars to come in and perform. I think it's Perry Como this week. He even had Bing Crosby one week. Oh, it's the nicest place between here and St. Louis and here and New Orleans. It's a peach of a place. There ain't no place like it anywhere.'
'He's doing well, ain't he?' said Earl, watching the place carefully, as if laying plans for a night attack.
'Let's camp here for a bit and see what we can eyeball.'
They found a bench on their side of Central, and watched the show progress, as the slow train of limos each dropped off a matched set of swells. It seemed to be some kind of swell convention. Even Earl in his new blue suit felt underdressed.
'Now let me tell you a little story about where the Southern comes from. In 1940, a bridge washes out above little Rock, over the Arkansas. So the payroll for the big bauxite operation at the Hattie Fletcher Pit that comes down from Chicago won't be rolling that way, that once. Instead, Alcoa ships the money to Tulsa, and from Tulsa to the nearest railhead, which is Hot Springs. One shipment only, while they're shoring up that bridge over the Arkansas. These payrolls is special, down here in the South?see, in 1940, nobody has checking accounts, so it's got to be all cash money. Over $400,000.
'Anyhow, she rolls into the train yard here at Hot Springs late one Friday night, and fast as you can say Jack Sprat, five very tough cookies hit the train in the yard. They know which car is the mail car and everything. They blow the lock with some kind of specially built bomb device, and climb in. One of the guards pulls a gun, and they shoot 'em all down. Tommy guns, four men shot to death in a second. There's four large vaults in the mail car and they know which one to blow open with nitro; they're out and gone with the payroll in less than three minutes. Of course the HSPD can't get its cars over here for love nor money; by the time the State Police get a team in it's practically the next morning, and even when the FBI joins up, whoever done it is long gone. Of course they throw up roadblocks, and roust local law enforcement in three states, and put bulletins on the radio and round up all the known armed robbers and shooters in those same three states. But that job was too slick for any local hoods. I don't think Johnny Dillinger himself could have done such a tiling, and of course the manhunt don't turn up a damned thing. They just foot away as slick as you can imagine. A Marine like you ought to admire it, Earl: it was a commando raid.'
'They had to have inside info,' said Earl.
'Clearly they did. Now here's the point: two weeks later, Owney Maddox buys the old Congress Hotel, tears it down, and begins to build on this here Southern Club. Where's he get the money? From outside sources? I don't think so; anyhow, Becker can't find no business records and the deed is entirely in Owney's name. Maybe he's tired of sharing with the big boys, maybe he don't want to be tied to them, maybe he sees an opportunity to take die town over lock, stock and barrel. Of course nobody can prove a thing, but there's four widows and a bunch of orphans who got nothing for the deaths of their husbands, except maybe a nice letter from the railroad. And Owney got the Southern Club.'
'I hate the kind who pays others to do die killing.'
'Well, well, well,' said D. A., checking his watch. 'Yep, right on time. Back from a nice steak at Coy's. Yes, sir, there's the man himself.'
Earl watched as the darkest, fanciest car he'd ever seen pulled down the line of limos. A Negro in livery came out with a whistle, and stopped traffic, so that the car could slide in without having to wait in line.
'It's a bulletproofed '38 Cadillac,' said D. A. 'It's the biggest in Arkansas. Probably this side of Chicago.'
The car was $7,170 worth of black streamline, with its teardrop fenders and its gleaming silvery grille and the white circles of its tires. It was the Fleetwood Town Car Series 75, absolute top of the Caddy line, its V-16 engine displacing 346 cubic inches, its dark sleekness and rakish hood ornament suggesting a hunger to get into the future. The car slid directly to the place of honor, and immediately two more liveried black men rushed out to open the door for Mr. Maddox.
'Just in time for Perry Como,' said D. A.
Owney got out, stretched magnificently, sucked in a breath of smoke from his cigarette holder, and ran his other hand over his slicked-back hair. He wore a creamy dinner jacket.
'He don't look so tough,' said Earl. 'He looks kind of fancy.'
'He's British, did you know that? Or sort of British. He came to this country when he was thirteen, and now he puts on airs and calls everybody Old Man and My Dear Chap and Ronald Colman shit like that. But it's all a con. He was running a street gang on the East Side when he was fifteen. He's got a dozen or so kills. He's a tough little monkey, let me tell you.'
Hard to match that description with what Earl thought was a toff, a glossy little fellow who paid too much attention to the way he dressed.
Owney leaned over gallantly, put in his hand, and took a long, silvery limb from a lady, and bent to escort her out of the car. She bobbed, then popped up in clear view.
'Now there's a dame,' said Earl. 'That is a dame.'
'That is, that surely is,' said D. A. 'Now ain't that the goddamndest thing? I know that one and I bet I know our next guest.'
The woman stepped sideways, smiling, filling the night with the dazzle of her lips. She was all dessert. She was what all the gals wanted to be, but never could quite make it, and what all the guys wanted to sleep with. Her hair was an auburn cascade, soft as music.
'What's her story?' asked Earl.
'Her name is Virginia Hill. She's a mob gal. They love her in Chicago, where she was special pals with some of the wops that run that town. They call her the Flamingo, she's so long and beautiful. But again, don't let the looks fool you. She's a tough piece of work from the steel towns of 'Bama. She came up the hard way, through the houses. She's a hooker, or used to be one, and she's been around the life a long time. She's twenty-eight going on fifty-eight. And now, the last player. Now, ain't this interesting.'
Yes, it was. The third person out of the car was toasty brown, like some sort of football athlete or other kind of ballplayer. He wasn't in a tux at all, but some kind of tan linen, double-breasted, with a yellow handkerchief and a pair of white shoes on. His shirt was storm blue and he wore a white fedora. A cigar was clutched between his teeth, and even from across the street the tautness of his jaws suggested great strength. He radiated something, maybe toughness, maybe self-love, maybe confidence, but some other thing, well off the normal human broadcasting spectrum.
'Who's the punk?' asked Earl.
'That's Benjamin Siegel. Better known as Bugsy, but not to his face. He's a handsome nutcase from the East Side of New York, very connected to the top guys. He was sent out to L. A. a couple of years before the war, where he's been running the rackets and hanging out with movie stars. But it's very damned interesting. What the hell is he doing here, visiting with Owney Maddox? What are diem two birds cooking up, I wonder? Bugsy didn't come here to soak his ass in the vapors, I guarantee you.'
The three celebrities exchanged an intimate little laugh and pretended to ignore the gawkers around them, those who felt the power of their charisma. Abreast, they walked up the steps and into the nightclub.
Earl watched them disappear. He squirmed on the bench, feeling a little dispirited. It seemed so wrong, somehow: all those boys dead in the shithole reefs of the Pacific, for 'America'; and here was America, a place where gangsters in tuxedos had the best women and the swankiest clubs and lived the life of maharajahs. All that dying, all that bleeding: Owney Maddox. Bugsy Siegel.
'Man,' he allowed, 'they dress too pretty. Would be a pleasure to git them all dirty, wouldn't it?'
'That's our job,' said the old man. 'You and me, son. Don't believe they allow no tuxedoes in jail.'
Chapter 7
Virginia was in a foul mood, not in itself an unusual occurrence, but this morning she was well beyond her usual bounds of anger, 'When are they going to get here?' she demanded.
