bullets would start flying. Sixty grand a year and fringes was nice. But breathing had it beat all to hell.
And Peggy? I wouldn’t be taking her home. That was the best bet of the night.
I spent the evening moving through the crowded casino, posting myself here and there, watching the dealers and croupiers, not spotting anything untoward; nor did any dips seem to be working the room tonight. Maybe the word had got around.
Shortly before midnight the Hollywood guests-Sonny Tufts and the rest of the luminaries-trooped out through the lobby, shaking hands, smiling, flash bulbs popping, Siegel lording over it all with a big shiteating grin. He was in the white dinner jacket again, tonight, with a pink carnation in his lapel, like that first night on the S.S. Lux. (Speaking of which, earlier that night I noticed Tony Cornero, looking gray and defeated, standing at one of the craps tables, looking for some luck. I doubt he found it.)
Raft and Siegel were bidding the stars goodbye, limos waiting outside to drive them to the nearby airport, where the chartered Constellation would wing them home. Standing near Siegel was Peggy, wearing an off-the- shoulder emerald green taffeta cocktail dress with a flamingo-shaped jeweled brooch. She looked very chic, short black gloves, hair piled high, tight curls framing her sweet face. God, it’s annoying still loving a woman after it’s over.
I was down in the casino, but well within viewing range. I wondered where La Hill was keeping herself. She’d been playing chemin-de-fer earlier, looking opening-night lovely in her white crepe formal gown, aglitter with gold sequins. And an hour ago or so I’d seen her in the bar, in a not untypically sloshed condition, buying the “best champagne in the house” for a honeymooning couple-using a thousand-dollar bill to do so. She’d moved on, latest stinger in hand, and left the $900 change on the bar. She was known to be a good tipper, but the bartender had nonetheless paged Siegel to pick up the dough.
I assumed Ben had tracked her down and deposited her in their penthouse suite. He would not want her at his side on this big night, not that drunk. Maybe Peggy was chosen as Ginny’s stand-in, so the boss would have a lovely woman at his side as the Hollywood crowd was bid fond farewell.
They were just going out the door, Tufts and all, photographers following on their heels (a fortunate break, as it turned out), when trouble came from the other direction, through the lobby, entering from the patio. At the very moment, so luck would have it, that Siegel was slipping an arm around Peggy’s waist and leaning over to give her a peck on the cheek.
Virginia Hill, legs swishing in the expensive crepe gown, saw this and was rolling inexorably toward them, bumping patrons out of the way like bowling pins. Her face was distorted by drink and anger.
I moved through the casino-floor crowd up the five steps to the lobby.
I was just in time to see Tabby attack with both clawed hands, her painted nails like ten scarlet knives. First she snatched the jeweled flamingo off Peg’s breast, tearing the taffeta, and hurled the bauble at Siegel, Then one hand scratched Peg’s face, viciously, leaving trails of red behind, and the other grabbed a handful of that curly hair and yanked.
Peg yelped and a stunned, silent crowd looked on, fascinated. This was better than the Christians versus the Lions.
Siegel was momentarily frozen as his two girl friends went crashing to the lobby carpet. Virginia sat on top of the dazed Peggy and smacked her with a small hard fist, twice, and then Peggy fought back, grabbing onto Virginia’s dress and ripping, exposing a breast. Then they were rolling over, biting and gouging and punching, Peggy screaming, Tabby growling.
We pulled them apart, Siegel yanking Virginia back roughly, and me cradling a shaking, stunned, bleeding, bruised Peggy in my arms; Peg was a tough cookie-she wasn’t crying. But she was badly shaken, and clung to me, without exactly knowing it was me, I think.
Siegel slapped Virginia Hill. It was a hard, ringing slap, and she looked at him, covering her exposed breast with one hand, with big eyes and a hurt expression that had nothing to do with the pain of the slap.
“You ain’t no fuckin’ lady,” he told her.
“Ben…”
Siegel swallowed, suddenly aware of the many eyes upon him, the awful silence around him; only the casino sounds, and even they seemed hushed, continued.
Quietly, under his breath so that only those nearest by could hear, he said to her, “You made me look like a bum.”
Trembling now, she covered her mouth with one hand, the other hand still protecting her breast, and with a rasping cry, she rushed out.
He looked after her with a scowl. Then he faced his public. He couldn’t cover for such a disaster; there was no dazzling smile to pull out of somewhere, no crack about “no cover charge, folks.” Just an angry and, somehow, hurt Ben Siegel.
Slowly, the crowd went back to entertaining themselves. The photographers came in from shooting the departing stars, not knowing they’d missed anything.
Siegel turned to Peggy, who I had up on her feet, now. Her hair had come undone; she looked generally undone, actually. He touched her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” he said, his voice soft now, seeming genuinely to care.
“I–I think so.”
He put his hand on her shoulder, gently. “Maybe we oughta get you to the hospital. Have you checked up.”
“It’s not that serious, Ben. I’m just…embarrassed.”
“Sure you are.” He smiled a softly wry smile. “Who isn’t?”
She managed to smile back at him, despite the caking blood on her cheek.
“Nate,” Siegel said to me, “why don’t you drive Miss Hogan back to the Last Frontier. She needs some rest.”
“Sure,” I said. “If that’s okay with Miss Hogan.”
She nodded, smiled bravely.
Siegel patted her cheek-the unbloodied one-and gave her a warm smile. His blue eyes seemed almost to twinkle. Fuck him, anyway. I had more hair than he did.
I walked her out to the Buick I was using. Guided her by the arm; just being helpful. Strictly business. Siegel’s gopher. Until tomorrow, and the hell with this noise.
We drove in silence; it wasn’t far.
I walked her to her room.
She paused at the doorway, her back to me. “Thanks, Nate.”
“Are you okay, kid?”
“Not really.”
“I’d offer you some company, but I don’t think you really want any.” Not mine, anyway.
“No…I don’t. But thanks. Thanks for not rubbing it in.”
“That’s okay.”
“You said all along she was dangerous.”
“She is dangerous. It could be a gun next time.”
She nodded. “I know. I’ll be careful.”
“Do that, would you?”
She went in, and I walked away.
Then she called out to me. “You could see I was right, though, couldn’t you?”
“What?”
“He doesn’t love her. He hates her. It was me he was concerned about.”
Right. That’s why he had his gopher drive you home.
“Sure, baby,” I said, and walked on out.
When I got back to the Flamingo, Siegel was sitting in the bar. It was not his usual wont to hang out there, nor was it his wont to drink a double Scotch. He was doing both.
“Rough,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. He gestured to the stool next to him.
I sat. “How’s Virginia?”
