I sat forward. “What in hell…?”
“Got my ass yanked right off. The order came from upstairs-way upstairs.”
“No! Old Man Hearst?”
“William Randolph himself. Seems the girl’s father, George Bauerdorf, is a close friend of the Old Man’s, and Bauerdorf doesn’t want his daughter’s death, and her loose ways presumably, splashed all over the papers again, further soiling the good family name. Then there’s the Dagwood situation.”
“Arthur Lake, you mean-Dagwood in the movies. He knew Beth Short. That I’ve heard.”
“That’s right. But have you heard this, cutiepie? Lake knew the Bauerdorf girl, too. Met both murdered girls at the Hollywood Canteen.”
My eyes were about to roll out of my head, again. “Shit, is Dagwood Bumstead the Black Dahlia slayer?”
She laughed, once, pointing at me with the cigarette in hand. “Exactly the headline everybody wants to avoid. Lake has an alibi, and I’ve spoken to him-he’s a harmless, good-natured semilush. But he’s also married to the niece of Marion Davies…”
“Hearst’s mistress.”
“That’s right. Hearst doesn’t want Dagwood’s name dragged through the mud, and he doesn’t want the Bauerdorf family to suffer through any more nasty publicity-their daughter’s tragic death was enough, after all.”
“And so you’re off the Dahlia story?”
She sighed, pretended to smile. “Starting tomorrow, I’m sitting at my desk with my embroidery hoop and needle. Nothing else on my docket… so, Nate, if there’s anything I can help you with, why not? Just don’t bother taking Dagwood and the Bauerdorf murder to Jim Richardson… the one man Jim doesn’t cross is Hearst.”
Aggie had a cocktail-a stinger-and I had another Coke, still with no rum. My head was spinning enough from Aggie’s revelations.
Finally, I got around to what I’d brought her here to ask her: “What do you know about the accused Mocambo robbers?”
“Well,” she said, with a shrug, “four of them have been arrested-first, this Bobby Savarino and that Hassau character. Then a couple days later, Al Green and Marty Abrams. But it’s a bigger group than that-probably another half dozen stellar citizens in that gang.”
“It’s a heist crew?”
“Yeah, they pull down medium-size scores all over town. Operate out of Green’s bar and grill on North McCadden-the McCadden Cafe, it’s called. Green is short for Greenberg, by the way-you oughta ask Mickey Cohen or your pal Ben Siegel about him… He’s an old Murder, Inc., guy from back East.”
“What do you make of Savarino’s yarn about being approached to hit Cohen?”
Wincing, she shook her head. “I don’t know what to make of it… and he clammed up, almost immediately. Are you trying to make some connection to the Dahlia?”
The waiter delivered the check and I took it.
“You’re not on the story anymore, Aggie-remember?”
She reached across the table and patted my hand. “Whatever this is really about, Nate… good luck.”
I didn’t say anything-Aggie Underwood had a nose for news. I was just glad she was my pal-and off the Dahlia case.
Before I left the Derby, I ducked into a phone booth and called Fred Rubinski. I wanted him to get out his black book of celebrity addresses and set up a meet for me.
“Orson Welles?” Rubinski said.
“That’s right-Martians have landed.”
“He’s shooting a picture at Columbia, with his wife, only they’re kinda shut down, ’cause of the strikes. I’ll try to track him down.”
“Today, if possible. This afternoon.”
“And Orson Welles will just drop everything to talk to Nate Heller?”
“You did a job for Welles a year or so ago, didn’t you, Fred?”
He drew in a surprised breath. “Yeah-how did you know that?”
“Who do you think referred that aging Boy Wonder to you?”
“You do get around, Nate. Orson Welles-what do you want from that crazy egomaniac?”
“Not a screen test,” I said.
Spitting distance from the busy business district of North Highland Avenue, on a dead-ending side street just off Yucca, stood a freestanding stucco building with a gravel parking lot in back.
Mine was the only car in the lot, and a sign in the door said CLOSED — OPEN AT FOUR.
But through the front window, between the neon beer signs and the painted letters spelling out M c CADDEN CAFE, I could see-cutting through shadows cast by the blades of ceiling fans-a tall, cadaverous guy in an apron going around the room, cleaning off tables with a rag. He had a cigarette going, and moved with a pronounced limp.
I knocked on the front door, hard enough to rattle it, peering around the CLOSED sign, and the skinny guy saw me, and scowled and shook his head, yelling, “Can’t ya read, buddy?”
But apparently he could, numbers anyway, because when I held up a fivespot to the glass, he limped over- twig-thin but towering-and unlocked the door, poking his pockmarked face out at me.
It was a long, narrow, high-cheekboned Indian-ish face, with brown eyes peeking out of slits, a wide yet pointed nose, and a balled, dimpled chin. His hair was dark brown and widow’s peaked and greased back, and his breath reeked, as if he’d puked last week and hadn’t brushed his teeth since, a notion their yellowish tobacco- stained hue affirmed.
“What do you want for that fivespot?” he asked, his voice as reedy as he was.
I had to look up at him-he weighed about as much as a box of kitchen matches, but the bastard must have been six foot four. “Just want to ask a few questions.”
Somehow those slitted eyes slitted further. “Cop woulda showed me a badge not a fiver. Reporter?”
“My name’s Nate Heller-I’m a private detective, doing backgrounding for the Examiner.”
An Adam’s apple worthy of Ichabod Crane bobbled. “What did you say your name was?”
“Heller. Nate Heller. This fivespot has a brother, if you give me a little time.”
Frowning in thought, and temptation, he said, “I gotta clean up ’fore we open again-lunch hour was a friggin’ zoo. And I got prep to do in the kitchen-I’m the cook, you know. This about that Short girl?”
“Yeah. Was she a customer here?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “You got a double sawbuck in that pocket of yours?”
“I might, if you have something worth that much.”
He swallowed and the Adam’s apple bobbled again. “I don’t want my name in the papers.”
“It won’t be-you’re what they call a ‘confidential source.’ ”
Heaving a sigh, he said, “Okay… come in.”
He locked the door behind us and pointed to one of the booths along the left wall. The McCadden Cafe wasn’t exactly the Brown Derby-the walls were knotty-pine, the bar with stools was at the right, the serving window onto the dinerlike kitchen was straight ahead, tables with no cloths and mismatching chairs were scattered about the central area. Like a fat man in a colorful coat, a jukebox squatted in front of the window. The air was about an even mix of stale beer and tobacco smoke, and the floor was piss-yellow, scuffed, cigarette-butt-burned linoleum.
My instinct: any heist gang operating out of here would be smalltimers. On the other hand, maybe this was just a clever front.
He brought both of us beers and sat across from me in the knotty-pine booth. The apron was food stained and under it was a threadbare blue-and-white-striped shirt, sleeves rolled up, and faded dungarees.
Then, suddenly, startling me, he thrust out his knobby hand, saying, “Arnold Wilson, Mr. Heller.”
I shook his hand-his grip was surprisingly strong, if slimy.
“Pleased to meet you, Arnold. Ex-serviceman?”
The acne-damaged face beamed as he nodded. “Got the gimpy leg in the Pacific. Friggin’ Jap bayonet.”
Obviously his proudest moment.
“I was in the Pacific myself. Marine.”
