back. For all the money he’s got rolling in, Ben’s always short of dough.”
“Why’s that?”
“He plays the stock market, and not too damn well.”
“I thought you said he doesn’t gamble.”
“He doesn’t think of the stock market as gambling. He sees it as business.”
“Tell that to the guys who took swan dives out their windows back in ’29.”
Raft twitched a smile. “You’re telling me. Me, I stick to the ponies and craps. It’s more fun and you can now and then beat the odds.”
A broad-shouldered, slightly stocky, roughly handsome guy in a tux eased through the crowd with a rolling gait, as if the ship were riding high waves. He came up and placed a hand on Raft’s shoulder. The man was in his mid-fifties and his neatly cut and combed gray hair had traces of its original black haunting it; his eyes were slate colored and just as hard.
“Georgie,” he said, with a thin wide smile; there was some gravel in the voice. “It’s swell of you to come. Couldn’t launch this lady without ya.”
“Tony Cornero,” George said, after being a gentleman and introducing Judy the Starlet to the man, “this is Nate Heller, from Chicago. Him and Frank Nitti were pals.”
That was hardly the case, but I let it slide. Use whatever card you have to when you’re crashing a private club, I always say.
“Welcome to the Lux, Mr. Heller,” he said, lighting up at the Nitti mention, offering his hand. He had a firm grip but his hands were tapered and soft, like an artist’s. “What line you in?”
“I run the A-1 Detective Agency in the Loop,” I said.
“You know Fred Rubinski? He’s from Chicago.”
“Yeah. I’m out here to see him, as a matter of fact. We’re thinking of affiliating.”
“Fred’s a good man,” Cornero said. “He’s gonna do my bad check work. How do you like this place, Mr. Heller?”
“It’s a honey. Wish we had its like back in Chicago.”
“Well, I treat the customer right. Out of every dollar bet on the Lux, 98.6 cents’ll get returned in winnings. Try to find odds like that in Reno or Vegas.”
“Why do I think, in spite of that, you’ve got a floating mint, here?”
Cornero smiled his broad thin smile; he was clearly in his element, enjoying this grand evening. “Because I
Raft said, “Whatever happened to the old Rex? I heard you lost her in a twenty-four-hour crap game.”
Cornero nodded. “Yeah, after that bastard Earl Warren shut me down. That grand old girl went to war, eventually. The Nazis sunk her off the coast of Africa.” He shook his head, a sad expression taking momentary hold, as he considered this most heinous of war atrocities.
“You’re doing land-office business opening night,” I said. “Think you can keep it up?”
“Oh Christ, yes,” Cornero said, with an extravagant wave of the hand, happy again. “We’ll be open twenty- four hours a day. There’ll always be a full crop of squirrels to keep my ship afloat.”
“Squirrels? Is that anything like suckers?”
“Naw, my customers aren’t suckers. They’re squirrels-you know, lookin’ only for fun, entertainment. And that’s what I give ’em.” He offered his hand again and we shook again. “Mr. Heller, it’s nice to have you aboard the Lux.”
I smiled. “Always room for another squirrel, you mean?”
“Always room,” Cornero smiled. Then he leaned across the bar and told the bartender not to charge us for our drinks; Raft, incidentally, was drinking soda water with a twist of lemon.
Then the stubby broad-shouldered little guy disappeared back into his sea of squirrels, happy as a clam.
“Let’s see if Ben’s downstairs,” Raft said, edging off his stool. “Besides, we can grab a bite to eat.”
“Good idea,” I said, and I followed him and the starlet to a central stairway in the casino, leading down into a posh dining room trimmed in sky blue where the tables wore cloths and fancy place settings with dark blue napkins. The waiters were in tuxes and the bus boys were in white mess jackets, and it was like being in a fancy restaurant except that the air was a little dank. This dining room took up only half as much space as the casino above; an adjacent room, a five-hundred seat bingo parlor, took up the rest. According to Raft, the bingo parlor was used for off-track betting during the days, racing forms and scratch sheets provided free, cutting into Santa Anita’s action by paying track odds.
The maitre d’ treated Raft like a god and didn’t blink when he said he needed a table for eight for his party of three, in anticipation of the Siegel party joining us. We were led there, and sat, and ordered cocktails-well, Raft ordered soda water again-and then selected from the menu offering “cuisine by Battista, formerly of the Trocadero.” I ordered a fish platter, since it wasn’t every day I ate out on the ocean; but Raft nibbled at a small filet mignon while starlet Judy wolfed down a porterhouse that would’ve fed a South Side of Chicago family of six for a week.
We’d all decided against dessert when a pudgy, pasty-faced little man in a well-tailored dark gray pinstripe and blue and white striped tie, with an obvious underarm bulge, approached our table. The paleness of his flesh made his five o’clock shadow stand out, and he was just burly enough to make him seem bigger than he was. His nose had been broken any number of times, and a white scar stood out under his left eye; his mouth hung open, just a little, as if to say, I’m just a
“Mickey Cohen,” Raft whispered to me.
I nodded. I knew Mick from his Chicago stint; the little roughneck independent had run the biggest floating crap game in the Loop, before the war.
Cohen planted himself, smiled a little. “Hiya, Georgie.”
“Hiya, Mick. Ben here?”
“Yeah. He’s up top. He’s et already. He wants you should join him up in the casino.”
“We’ll be right up. How’d you get in with a piece on you? Cornero’s always had strict rules against hardware.”
“Rules was made to be broken,” Cohen grinned, good-naturedly. He had an edgy energy and a don’t-give-a- shit cheerfulness that would make him dangerous indeed.
“This is Nate Heller, by the way,” Raft said, gesturing to me. “Pal of mine from Chicago. Nate, Mickey Cohen.”
“Yeah,” Cohen said, squinting at me, as it dawned on him. “Heller! How the hell are ya? How’s your pal Drury?”
“Still kicking,” I said, smiling, shaking his hand.
“That Drury, some cop,” Cohen grinned. “Hates them Capone boys damn near much as me.” He gave us a little forefinger salute. “See yas upstairs.”
And he turned and went off with a bantam walk.
“That suit must’ve set him back two hundred and fifty big ones,” I said, wonderingly. “He didn’t used to dress like that.”
“He’s a regular clotheshorse now,” Raft said, matter of factly. “Ever since he got hooked up with Ben, anyway. If Ben takes one shower, Mickey takes two. If Ben gets his hair cut daily, Mickey goes twice.”
“When do these guys have time for the rackets?”
“The days out here are long,” Raft said, signing the check, getting up, putting Judy on his arm.
Back up in the casino, we spotted Virginia Hill, decked out in a clinging white suit with a big white picture hat and white gloves and lots of jewelry, emeralds and diamonds. Her lipstick was bright red, her wide mouth like an attractive wound. She was at one of the dice tables, shaking the bones in her cupped-together gloved hands, her smile white and a little crazed, cheering herself on, “Come seven, come on baby!” She hit her seven and hopped up and down like a kid dressed up in mom’s clothes.
Standing nearby, lending support but more restrained, was Peggy Hogan. She looked great, all that hair and those big eyes and cherry-red mouth; it felt good seeing her and it hurt to look at her. She was in one of those Eisenhower jackets, they called them, a square-shouldered, cream-colored crepe blouse drawn in and tied at the
