'Have another cigar, kid.'
'Don't mind if I do.'
Frenchy turned the lighting of the cigar into high drama. He sucked, he puffed, he drew the fire into the long, harsh tube of finest Cuban leaf, he watched the glow, he got it lit fiercely, and finally he expelled a huge cloud which rotated, Hiroshima-like, above his clever young head.
'If Fred Becker stops another train robbery and if he nabs the team that did it and that's the team that did the first robbery and he gets convictions on them, by God, then he's a national hero. He's the next governor. He's won what he wants to win. See, he only sees the gambling crusade as a vehicle. He doesn't believe in it a bit. It's just leverage to get him to the next level.'
Owney appraised the young man. He had the gangster thing. Mad Dog had it. Bugsy had it. The Dutchman had it. It would change over the years to something mellower and deeper, into a strategic vision. But now, raw and unalloyed, this handsome upper-class boy had it in absolute purity: the ability to see into a situation and know exactly how to twist it, where to apply force, where to kill, how to make the maximum profit and get away with the minimum risk.
'So,' continued Frenchy, 'what you have to do is find some way to plant the possibility that another train robbery's being set up. That Johnny Spanish has been seen in town. Becker will go for it like crazy. He'll go for it fast and recklessly. That's his character, his defining characteristic, that ambition. He'll order Parker and Earl to intercede. He has to. They're the only men he's got he more or less trusts. You've got him. Only, when he lunges for the big prize, it's just bait concealing a hook, and you get him right through the gills. You lure the team into that railyard, and hammer it good.'
He sat back, took another huge puff on the cigar. The smoke curled around his face, and he took a sip of the Scotch whiskey, but not too much, for he didn't want to blur his sharpness.
'I think he will make a fine agent,' said Johnny Spanish. 'He's pure Black and Tan, a night rider with a cunning for the devil's work.'
'Why, that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me,' said Frenchy, only partially ironic. He felt suddenly something he had never felt before: that he was home. He belonged.
But Johnny went on. 'See, he's got so much upstairs, but in the end, he's a brick shy in the realm of experience.'
'What's wrong?' asked Frenchy.
'A night ambush's a devilish hard thing to pull. I've been in dozens so I know. You get your own boys all mixed up with the other fella's. Everybody's shooting at everybody else. Then, you've got a big space like that railyard, with lots of room for maneuver, and it gets even more mixed up. And to put a final ribbon on it, see, they're wearing those damned vests, so they're not going down. By Jesus, boy, you've thrown the babe out with the bathwater. You've got to lure them into a contained area so there's telling what's them and what's us. That, or figure a way to let us see in the dark.'
The smile began slowly on Frenchy's face. It flamed brightly, gathering force and power, becoming a ghastly apparition on its own. His smugness was so radiant it became a force of illumination almost on its own. He gloated like a man mightily self-pleased to discover that he'd arrived exactly where he intended all along.
'Old man,' he said. 'Consider this.' He reached into his pocket and removed a page clipped from the June 1945 Mechanix Illustrated. He unfolded it and gently put it on the desk before them.
UNCLE SAM CAN SEE IN THE DARK read the headline, above a picture of a GI clutching a carbine with what looked to be a spotlight beneath the barrel and one of the new televisions mounted atop the receiver, where a telescopic sight might otherwise go.
'It's called infrared. You beam them with a light they can't see. Only you can see it, through that big scope. They're in broad daylight, only they don't know it. You can hit head shots, and to hell with the vests. You pop a few of them, and the rest turn and run. You litter the place with carbine shells and you vacate. I can get you hundreds of carbine shells. Your police are there in seconds, report no sign of another outfit and that the raid team panicked in the dark and shot the shit out of each other. They're clowns, who's not to believe it? Since you control the cops, nobody will ever work the forensics. Hey, is it swell or is it swell?'
The phone rang.
'Goddamn!' said Owney, reaching for it.
'With Mr. Maddox's connections, it can't be too difficult to get a hold of a couple of these gadgets. You set up on a boxcar. The raid team comes into the yard. Bing-bang-boom! It's over.'
'Yeah?' said Owney, into the receiver. 'Goddammit, this better be impor?'
His rage turned to amazement.
'Be right there,' he said. He turned back to his confederates.
'You work it out with him,' he said. 'You guys are a team, I knew that from the start. Tell me where to go to get those units and you'll have them next week. I've got to run.'
'What's going on, boyo?' asked Johnny Spanish.
'A babe has just shown up and she'll talk only to me.'
'Ah, Owney, many's the fine fella who's been undone by a lass. You wouldn't be that kind, would you now?'
'Not a chance. But this one's different,' he said, closing the door. 'It's Virginia Hill.'
Chapter 40
'I hate to fly,' said Virginia. 'It hurts my butt. I hate those little johns. I hate it when you're stuck next to some joe who wants to tell you his life story.'
'Virginia,' said Ben, 'you have to do it.'
They were in the lounge at Los Angeles International Airport, sipping martinis. It was a very deco place, all chrome and brushed aluminum, filled with soaring models of sleek planes. Outside, through an orifice now being called a 'picture window,' planes queued up to take off on the long tarmac. They were silvery babies, their props buzzing brightly in the sun, most with two motors, some few with four. They looked, to Ben at least, like B-17s taking off for a mission over Germany, not that he had ever seen a B-17 or been anywhere near Germany while the shooting was going on.
Virginia took another sip of her icy martooni. The gin bit her lips and dulled her senses. She had to pee but she couldn't find the energy. Her breasts were knocking against her playsuit top, as if they wanted to come out and play. The drink made her nipples hard as frozen cherries. Her brassiere cut into her gorgeous mountains of shoulders. One shoe had slipped half off her foot. Every man in the joint was staring at her, or rather, at parts of her, but that was a necessary condition of her life. Ben's pal, a tough little mutt named Mickey Cohen, lounged nearby, as a kind of sentry. He sent out such vibrations of protective aggression that none would approach, or even admire too openly. Mickey looked like a fire hydrant on legs.
Airplane! Virginia Hill went by train, in her own stateroom, on the Super Chief or the Broadway or the Century or the Orange Blossom Special! Elegant Negroes called her 'Miz Hill' when they served her Cream of Wheat in the morning, tomato aspic in the afternoon and steak in the evening, all with champagne. It was so nice. It was the way a lady traveled.
'Now tell me again what you're supposed to do.'
'Oh, Christ,' said Virginia. 'Ben, I am not stupid. I know exactly what to do.'
'I know, I know, but humor me.'
'Ah. You bastard. Why do I put up with this shit?'
'Because of my huge Jewish pretzel.'
'Overrated. You might try kissing me a little first, you know. It's not always so good when we try and do it in under ten seconds.'
'I look at you and I just can't wait. When you get back, kisses, presents, dinner, champagne, petting. I'll pet! I swear to you on my yarmulke: petting!'
'You bastard.'
'Please, Virginia. I am so nervous about this.'
