“Army.” He shook his head, grinning. “Best time of my life. Listen… bein’ as we’re both vets and all… to be honest, I don’t know if I got a double sawbuck’s worth for ya, about Beth Short.”
Interesting that he referred to her as “Beth” and not “Elizabeth,” as the papers were wont to do.
“Let’s start with her being a customer, Arnold. When was that?”
He had a gulp of beer-with that Adam’s apple, it looked like he was swallowing a baseball-and he shrugged. “Well, calling that kid a ‘customer’ is maybe stretching it. I don’t remember her ever spending a dime in here, except maybe on the jukebox-she had a way of finding some guy or other to buy her a Coke or a sandwich or both. She thought I made the best grilled cheese sandwiches anywheres-see, my secret is, I grill a couple slices of tomato right in there with the cheese-”
“When was she frequenting this place?”
“In the fall, though there was this stretch, around October, when she was back East or something. See, she lived right here in the neighborhood.”
“Where in the neighborhood?”
“Two places-around August, September maybe, she was in this hotel over on North Orange; then in November she was at the Chancellor Apartments, over on Cherokee.”
I sipped my beer. Smiled. “Arnold-okay I call you by your first name?”
“Sure, Nate.” He raised his beer glass to me, then had another gulp. “One vet to another, after all.”
“Arnold, was Beth Short a pro?”
“Naw, she wasn’t hooking. Al-the proprietor-he wouldn’t put up with that… Al likes to steer clear of the cops.”
If Al Greenberg and Bobby Savarino were using the cafe as their heist crew’s clubhouse, that made sense.
“But it didn’t hurt,” Wilson was saying, “having a good-looking piece of tail like that sitting on a bar stool. Wasn’t exactly bad for business.”
“One guy was buying most of her drinks, though-right, Arnold?”
The Adam’s apple bobbled again. “You mean Bobby.”
“That’s right-Bobby Savarino.”
Thin lips twitched in the ravaged mask of his face. “I don’t think I should get into that.”
“For that double sawbuck, Arnold, I really think you should.”
A big bony hand pawed the air dismissively. “Bobby was filling her with all that Medal of Honor bullshit-dago bastard, he was never even overseas! But good-looking guy like him, line of bull like that… hell, he gets more ass than Sinatra.”
“I understand he’s a married man.”
Wilson shook his head, disgustedly. “Yeah, with a nice wife, nice- lookin’ wife, kid on the way… I like Bobby, man. I mean, he’s a regular joe, but, shit-that’s friggin’ low.”
“Did Beth Short know Bobby was married?”
“Not at first… and Bobby told her he wanted to marry her, too. Can you believe this, before she found out he was married, they were engaged for a while-he even gave her a ring.”
“A diamond?”
“Yeah. Bobby’s connected to these jewelers-ice is never no problem for the group.”
“The group?”
Wilson paused, his deer-in-the-headlights expression indicating he’d spoken too freely. But he continued, anyway, saying, “Yeah, uh-the McCadden Group. It’s a bunch of guys that hang out here at the cafe.”
Sort of like the Elks or Kiwanis, except for the part where they went out on heists with guns.
“What happened to her diamond ring?”
Wilson shrugged. “I heard she hocked it. She was raising money.”
“Do you know why?”
“I dunno… I think maybe she had Bobby’s bun in her oven.”
“Fertile fucker, isn’t he?”
“Yeah. He’s a fucker, period-but I like the guy, don’t ask me why… Listen, she wasn’t in here since November, first week of December at the latest. I mean, you could ask Henry’s wife, her and Beth were tight… Maybe she could tell you something.”
“Henry’s wife? Mrs. Henry Hassau, right, the guy who was arrested with Bobby?”
Now Wilson knew he’d spoken too freely. “Oh-so you know about that.”
“It was in the papers. It’s no secret, Arnold-or that your boss Al Greenberg is in county lockup, too.”
Too casually, he said, “Yeah, for that Mocambo robbery.”
“How tall are you, Arnold?”
The slitted eyes blinked, several times. “I dunno. Six four maybe.”
“Funny-that’s just how tall the witnesses said one of the thieves was. He had bad acne scars, too.”
Wilson thrust out a big hand, palm up. “Let’s have the double sawbuck-I’m through talkin’.”
I gave him a pleasant smile. “Look, Arnold-I have no interest in turning your skinny ass over to the cops… By the way, how the hell did they miss you, if they’re arresting guys left and right out of this joint?”
The Adam’s apple jumped again. “I was in San Francisco for a week. Al called me and asked me to come watch the joint while he was in stir. He’ll be out soon-the Ringgolds’ll post bail.”
“The Ringgolds. And who are the Ringgolds?”
The eyes widened and rolled and he shook his head, apparently pissed at himself. “I already said too much… How about that double sawbuck?”
“There’s a Ringgold Jewelry Store in Beverly Hills, isn’t there? Wouldn’t happen to be the jewelry store whose display merchandise at the Mocambo got taken in that robbery?”
A shooing hand waved the air. “You better get on outa here, now-I got work to do ’fore four.”
So the Mocambo heist had been primarily an insurance scam: steal jewelry for its owners who can claim the loss and keep the stones. I wondered how many other jewelry robberies the McCadden Group had pulled for the Ringgolds. This little heist crew was definitely more impressive than these meager surroundings.
“Arnold, a whisper from me in Harry the Hat’s ear would land you in the cell next to your boss.”
Wilson jerked back, almost hitting his head on the wooden booth. “Are you threatening me?”
“I wouldn’t do that, Arnold-you and me, fellow vets and all. But this conversation-this private conversation, which goes no further than just the two of us-ends when I say it ends. Understood?”
He sighed. And nodded.
I swirled the last of the beer in its glass. “I just want to ask you a question-simple question, obvious question, that just happens to be one nobody’s asking…”
I looked right at him-hard.
“Arnold, do you think Beth Short was murdered to send a message to Bobby?”
Wilson didn’t answer right away, and when he did, it was pitiful: “How would I know?”
“Just looking for an informed opinion, Arnold.”
Words tumbled out: “Bobby was blabbing to the cops and the papers about Jack Dragna trying to muscle him into hitting Mickey Cohen. Next day, Bobby’s girl friend turns up dead in a vacant lot in Dragna’s backyard with her mouth slashed, informer style. What the fuck do you think?”
“You think Dragna did it?”
Wilson shrugged one scarecrow shoulder. “Had it done. Who else but Dragna?”
Dragna was the answer I kept coming up with, myself.
“Arnold, I don’t get this. Why would Jack Dragna go to Bobby Savarino to do this?”
Wilson shrugged both shoulders this time. “Maybe ’cause Bobby was friends with the Meatball.”
Benny the Meatball Gamson was a renegade bookie who had been bumped off, not long ago, reportedly at Mickey Cohen’s behest.
“Still,” I said, “why would a savvy mob boss like Dragna try to enlist the help of somebody in Al Greenberg’s gang?”
“Which don’t make sense to you,” Wilson said, nodding, “because Greenberg is an East Coast guy and a crony of Ben Siegel’s, whose boy Cohen is.”
“Yeah!”
