That amused him. “So the Hollywood cliches don’t apply in real life, hmmm? Well, some do.”
“How’s that?”
“Let’s just say, Jimmy Cagney, Eddie Robinson, and George Raft seem to be drawing from life.”
Well, Raft, anyway.
“By that you mean,” I said, “there really are gangsters in this wicked old world.”
“Precisely. And in this wicked old Hollywood as well.”
“Pegler told me Willie Bioff has muscled into the unions out here. And that that’s what you wanted to talk to me about.”
He nodded sagely, puffing at the pipe, getting it going. “I’m one of the people who got SAG off the ground. A three-time past president.”
“SAG?”
“Screen Actors Guild. We aren’t under Bioff’s thumb-yet. He’s been making some moves in that direction. Now, I invoke Bioff’s name, but in fact the president of the IATSE is Browne.”
“But Browne’s just the figurehead.”
“Right. Do you know a man named Circella?”
“Uh, isn’t that Nicky Dean’s real last name?”
“Yes it is. He and Bioff and Browne are all but inseparable, out here.”
“That’s bad, Mr. Montgomery.”
“Bob.”
“Bob. And if you’d call me Nate, that’d be just swell, too, but I don’t think I’m going to take this job. I hate to have taken your money and your plane ride and breakfast and all, only to turn you down, but…”
“But what, Nate?”
“Nicky Dean is an Outfit man.”
“Syndicate, you mean. Crime Syndicate.”
“Yes. He’s one of Frank Nitti’s people. And I’m from Chicago. I live in Chicago. I work in Chicago. And I can’t do either of those things, particularly the first, if I get on Frank Nitti’s bad side. It’s his town.”
“So will this be, if something isn’t done.”
I started to rise. “That’s very noble, and I hope you can do something about it. I just ain’t going to be part of it.”
Patiently, he gestured for me to sit. “Hear me out.”
“Mr. Montgomery-”
“Bob. Hear me out. You came this far, after all.”
“Well. Yeah, I did come a distance. Okay. I’ll hear you out. But I’m afraid I’ll be wasting your time on top of your money.”
He sat forward, tapped his finger on a manila folder on the little table between us. “Bioff’s got one foot in the figurative grave already. Evidence gathered by an investigator, a former FBI man whom I hired with SAG’s approval, has already been turned over to the Treasury Department.” He pushed the folder toward me. “Those are your copies.”
I picked the folder up and looked in it. Photostats of letters on IATSE stationery from Browne and Bioff both; statements from disgruntled union members; nothing much. Except for one thing: a photostat of a check made out to Bioff for $100,000. Signed by Joe Schenck.
“Isn’t Schenck…?”
“Vice president of Twentieth Century-Fox,” Montgomery said, smiling like an urbane killer again.
“How did your investigator get this?”
He shrugged. “There are rumors of a break-in at the IA offices.”
“That’s illegal.”
“So is extortion.”
I flapped the folder at him. “Is that what you think Bioff’s doing? Extorting money out of the movie executives? Selling them strike-prevention insurance?”
He shrugged again, puffed at his pipe. “It would certainly be cheaper for the studios than paying their help what they’re worth.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking around. “It’s a tough life.”
He sat up straight; bristled. “Don’t judge Hollywood by these standards. I’m a lucky, lucky man. The rank- and-file union members in this town-in whose behalf Bioff and Browne are supposedly fighting-are average working joes and janes. They deserve better than being sold out.”
“But is that little pimp powerful enough to blackmail somebody like Schenck?”
Nodding forcefully, he said. “Or Thalberg or Mayer or Jack Warner or anybody else. Remember, Bioff has under his thumb the movie projectionists, who alone can shut down every theater in every major city in the country. And a few such dark days would deliver a blow to the industry that the studios couldn’t recover from.”
“If the Treasury Department has this evidence, they should be able to prosecute Bioff.”
“Perhaps. On income-tax evasion, which is fine, but I need to show Bioff for what he is. His drunkard friend Browne is a convincing public speaker; and conditions for workers were so wretched prior to unionization that Bioff and Browne can sell the working man out and he won’t even know it.”
“So you’d like to see Bioff smeared, to keep him and Browne and the union they represent from attracting any converts. Specifically, to keep the actors out from under their greasy thumb.”
“Yes. But ‘smear’ isn’t the word.” He pointed with the pipe.
“Yeah. That’s why you linked up with Pegler.”
“Certainly. He’s a yellow journalist; a muckraker. But that’s what’s called for in this situation.”
“You have Pegler. You don’t need me.”
“I need a good man in Chicago. So does Pegler.”
“You’ve already hired a private detective.”
“He’s an L.A. man. Nate, the SAG board authorized me to spend five thousand dollars to investigate Bioff. You see, I assured them if the investigation didn’t prove that Bioff is a very sour apple, I’d personally refund the five thousand.”
“Five grand, huh? Uh, how much have you spent so far?”
“Let’s just say I’m prepared to offer you a thousand-dollar retainer, on top of the two hundred dollars you’ve already received, plus expenses, and if your daily fee eats up the thousand, I can authorize you up to another thousand.”
My mouth felt dry. “That’s a lot of money.” It wasn’t the most money I’d been offered for a case this week, but then again, unlike Eddie O’Hare, Montgomery was alive.
Montgomery gestured with his pipe, quietly convincing; he could’ve sold Ford a Buick. “You are reputed to be street-smart, where Chicago and especially the Nitti Outfit are concerned. You would in this instance work essentially undercover. Just talk to people you know, find out what you can, and prepare a confidential report for me. You wouldn’t have to appear in court. Your name would never be revealed. But the information would be shared with federal agents, the SAG board and, possibly, probably, leaked to the press.”
“And my name wouldn’t be attached to any of it?”
“Well, with one exception. We understand you once arrested Willie Bioff.”
“That’s a matter of public record.”
“It is?”
“Sure. He was convicted of pandering. I was the arresting officer.”
Montgomery smiled. “So we heard. It’s nice to have it confirmed.”
“Where did you hear all this stuff about me? How the hell did you and Pegler get a line on me in the first place?”
“Is that important?”
“Ness! Damnit, of course. You’ve been talking to Treasury agents, and your private dick’s an ex-FBI man. You asked them for a reliable, Mob-savvy Chicago private cop, and they checked with somebody they knew who’d know that sort of thing about Chicago, which was Eliot, and Eliot mentioned me. My old friend Eliot probably remembered hearing me ranting and raving about how much I hated that little fat prick pimp Bioff, remembered me saying I arrested him once and passed that along to you!”
