beautiful woman, charming, funny, and so very desirable. The psychopath was hiding.
I stayed away from her. I saw Lansky two more times that evening; in both instances he was speaking, off to one side, with Moe Sedway.
My pickpocket school graduates did all right. They stopped one whiz team, and two single-handers. They followed my suggested procedure and did not confront the dips till they had left the premises; that prevented any nasty embarrassing scene within the facility itself.
As I suspected, the crowd thinned out early, for a joint that never closed. People headed back to their own hotels, where they’d probably gamble some more before retiring.
A little after 3 a.m., I found Siegel in the small main counting room off the casino. Boxes of money were on the table before him. He and the top pit boss were counting the take. But I could see from Siegel’s fallen face that something was wrong.
“This is impossible,” he said, ashen.
The pit boss shrugged.
“I’ll, uh, report in later,” I said.
Siegel looked at me with the expression of a man who has been struck in the back of the head with a plank.
“We’re down almost thirty thousand,” he said.
“What?” I said.
“We lost tonight. How the fuck does the
But the way Siegel’s luck had been running, I wasn’t surprised he’d found a way.
“The place ain’t exactly hoppin’,” George Raft said, lighting up a cigarette as he viewed the moderately attended casino floor from the slightly raised perspective of the lobby. It was early Friday afternoon, and Raft had just arrived from Hollywood; he’d driven over in his shiny cobalt-blue Cadillac, only it wasn’t so shiny after the desert had been at it for seven hours. He was wearing a dark blue sportshirt and a lighter blue jacket and seemed tired; his hair was slicked immaculately back, but the rest of him looked slightly out of focus.
“Come evening it’ll be jammed again,” I said. “Without the hotel open, days are bound to be slow.”
He nodded. “How’s Benny holding up?”
“He’s a little frazzled. This morning he chewed out some poor customer who had the bad judgment to go up and call him ‘Bugsy.’”
“Ouch,” Raft said.
“And, too, he was down thirty grand last night.”
Raft gave me a disbelieving look. “Down?”
“Yeah. Partly it’s the pros from downtown coming in and playing smart. That includes his supposed pal Gus Greenbaum.”
The gregarious, fleshy Greeenbaum ran the Arizona branch of Trans-American for Siegel.
“Even the savviest gamblers are still up against house odds,” Raft said. “What’s
“I think I know,” I said. “I’m just not ready to spring it on Siegel yet.”
Raft nodded again. “Where is he? I got more bad news for him.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I’m going to make myself scarce…”
“Too late. Here he is.”
Siegel was striding through the casino, wearing a tux with a red carnation; he was beaming, gladhanding, putting on a good front, but just the way he walked was a tip-off. This guy was teetering.
But he grinned widely at seeing Raft and said, “Georgie! Georgie, how are ya? Thanks for coming,” pumping his old friend’s hand. He didn’t seem to notice how forced Raft’s smile was.
“Let’s talk,” Raft said.
“Fine!”
“Private, someplace.”
Siegel shrugged. “Sure.”
“I’ll see you guys later,” I said.
“Naw,” Siegel said, “Georgie and me got no secrets from you, Nate.” And, Raft staying dutifully at his side, Siegel eased his arm around my shoulder and walked me to his small office behind the hotel check-in counter.
Siegel’s desk was cluttered with notepad notes to himself; there were four phones, making it look more like a hole-in-the-wall bookie joint than some big shot’s office. The pink plaster walls were decorated with framed photos of Ben and his Hollywood pals, chief among them Raft, including a portrait of the two of them smiling at each other after Raft stood up for his childhood chum in court.
Behind the desk, Siegel leaned back in his swivel chair and lit up one of his Havanas. Normally the health- conscious Bug only allowed himself one a day; the last several days I’d noticed he was going through them like he was chain smoking Camels.
Raft took a chair across from Siegel while I stood in the corner, next to a signed, framed Cary Grant 8 by 10 glossy.
Siegel pointed at me with his pool cue cigar and showed off his patented dazzling smile. “I oughta put you in my will, Georgie, for introducing me to Nate, here. He’s just about the most valuable guy I got around this joint.”
I swallowed. I didn’t know whether to say aw shucks or go screaming into the desert.
“He’s straightened out my pilferage problem overnight. He’s turned those flabby ex-flatfoots on my private police force into something like a real security staff. You used to be a dip, didn’t you, Georgie? Well, don’t try it around here-Nate’s got his boys trained to spot ya. Nate doesn’t know it yet,” he confided in Raft, as if I weren’t there, “but I’m going to offer him a permanent position.”
I said, “I’m flattered, Ben,” and let it go at that.
Raft said, “Hear you had quite a turnout last night.”
Siegel gave with a magnanimous wave of his cigar. “Jam-packed. Couldn’t ask for better.” His expression darkened momentarily. “We had a bad run of luck at the tables…” And then he brightened, or pretended to. “…but the house odds’ll turn that around.”
If he was counting on that, he was making a mistake, at least potentially so. Sure, assuming his tables were straight, the odds would even out in the house’s favor; that was a tide that would inevitably turn. But as over- extended as he was, his bankroll might be expended before said tide came in.
“Everything’s set for tomorrow night,” Siegel said. “I chartered a TWA Constellation to bring your pals down, and anybody that doesn’t want to fly can come by train, at my expense.”
“Ben,” Raft said, shifting in his chair, “we got a little problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“A few people can’t make it.”
“Like who?”
“Well. Like almost everybody.”
Siegel’s face went expressionless; and then it began to burn.
Raft seemed very uncomfortable. “It’s not easy for me to tell you this, Ben.”
“What’s the matter with those jerks? Since when don’t Hollywood wanna come to a big party?”
Raft shrugged, tried to find something to say, couldn’t. It was very strange seeing George Raft nervous; it made me at least as uncomfortable as he was.
Siegel gestured to the framed photos around him. “What about your buddies at MGM? Joan Crawford, Greer Garson, Spencer Tracy, Ronald Colman?”
“Ben. Look. Old man Hearst passed the word around the studios. He’s against the whole idea of stars coming out here for this-everybody’s been told to stay away.”
Siegel slammed a fist on his desk and his framed photos rattled. “That lousy cocksucker! What’s he got against me?”
“I don’t know, Ben.”
“It’s that fucking Louella Parsons. She’s always on my ass. Calls me a gangster, in print!”
