Cohen hacked a laugh, and began washing his hands in the sink-apparently they’d gotten filthy in the shower. “Johnny, leave Heller and me be. We’re old friends. He saved my buddy Jake Guzik’s ass, couple years ago. Didn’t you, Heller?”
“I’ll do just about anything for money,” I said.
Soaping his hands, he said, “Johnny, ya can even let him hang on to that roscoe he’s packin’, under his arm.”
Those eyes may have looked stupid, but they didn’t miss much. On the other hand, calling a gun a “roscoe” was fairly ridiculous these days.
Stompanato nodded to me, said, “Nice meetin’ you,” and slipped out.
I stood in the doorway of the bathroom as Cohen-finally convinced his hands were clean, all damned spots out, for now-used a handheld electric chrome hair drier on his wispy locks. The drier made a small roar that we had to work to speak above.
“I hear you’re working for my pal Jim Richardson,” Cohen said, “over at the Examiner.”
“Yeah-background on the Dahlia murder.”
“Great guy, Jim. I known him since I was a kid, hustling papers at Seventh and Broadway. Jim used to let me sleep in the Examiner ’s men’s john, waitin’ for the presses to roll off on some red-hot extra.”
“Why’d Jim give you such special treatment, Mick?”
Cohen grinned at me, his hair dancing under the drier’s wind. “That was back in his drinkin’ days. Richardson was a fuckin’ lush, y’know, back then. I’d sober him up, walk him to his desk… Brother, he’s riding high on this Dahlia deal, ain’t he?”
“It’s a big story.”
“I knew her, y’know.”
“Really? News to me.”
“At the Gardens. She was workin’ there. Sweet kid. Prick tease, but really sweet… I don’t want that in the papers, understand.”
“Understood.”
His hair was dry. He shut off the drier, set it down, and selected a green vial of hair tonic and began drizzling it on. “So you busted Fat Ass’ beak, I hear.”
“You should know-he works for you, doesn’t he?”
Cohen gave me a quick glare. “Says who?”
“That’s the word on the street.”
“What is?”
“That Sergeant Finis Brown is your bag man-I figure Lansom’s running hookers outa the Gardens, and you’re getting a taste. Why not?”
This glare wasn’t quick-he held it on me and I would swear I could feel the heat. “Why not?” he growled. “Because Mickey Cohen don’t traffic in no female flesh. I don’t do that-that’s fuckin’ low, low as fuckin’ dope. You tryin’ to piss me off, Heller?”
“No. I just-”
Still frowning, Cohen returned his attention to his reflection. He put the hair tonic down and began massaging his scalp. “You just get them sleazy fuckin’ thoughts outa your sleazy Chicago conk. I’m a businessman, not no fuckin’ pimp.”
“No offense meant, Mick. So who does Brown work for?”
“Himself! He’s one of the biggest bookies in town.”
“A cop is one of the biggest bookies in town?”
Cohen hacked another laugh. “Fat Ass is the fuckin’ LAPD’s in-house bookie, Heller… and Lansom, he covers all of Fat Ass’ big bets.”
I frowned, trying to make this work. “Mark Lansom is Fat Ass Brown’s layoff man?”
Another quick glare, as Cohen began to brush his hair. “Do I fuckin’ stutter? Yeah, that’s what Fat Ass was doin’ at Lansom’s house, when you rearranged his nostrils-business with his backer… Get me my hat, would you?”
“Where is it?”
“Should be on the dresser.”
It was-a pearl-gray Borsalino that would have made Harry the Hat envious. When I reached for the lid, the bull terrier-whose corner I had neared-began to growl.
“Tuffy!” Cohen called. “Shut up, you little bastard!”
The dog stopped growling.
I handed Cohen the hat from the bathroom doorway.
Cohen put the Borsalino on-he would have looked absurd enough in the oversize sombrero, but wearing nothing but a towel…
“Listen, Heller, you mind me losin’ the towel? It ain’t no queer thing. It don’t make me no faggot ’cause I like to stay clean-it’s just, I’m just late for a meet and I gotta get myself ready.”
“Do what you gotta do, Mick.”
He removed the towel, folded it up, and set it on the counter. For an ugly little shrimp, Mickey Cohen had always attracted a good class of fine-looking women and I now knew what they saw in him.
The hairy naked little (in stature) gangster now selected a can of talcum powder from the battalion before him. He began shaking the talc all over himself, pausing now and then to put the can down and rub in the powder.
“Listen, I know all about these smalltime McCadden heisters,” he said, standing in the little snowstorm (the hat, apparently, was to protect his hair from the talc blizzard), “and Fred told me about some of your thinkin’, where this dead bimbo is concerned.”
“I can tell you one thing, Mick-it’s no sex crime. She was smiling the informer’s smile.”
“Tell me about it.” The talcum can was empty; Cohen-who looked as if he’d been dipped in flour, awaiting a frying pan-selected a new can and started the process again. “But Brown is gonna keep steering the investigation in that sex maniac direction, ’cause if his partner the Hat starts diggin’ into the Florentine Gardens, well, the Hat’s gonna find out his fat-assed partner is the LAPD’s house bookie.”
“Don’t you think Hansen must already know that?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Cohen said, shaking more talc on himself. “Sure bet the Hat knows his partner is a fuckin’ crook-but not necessarily the department’s win-place-and-show window.”
“Or maybe the Hat does know,” I said, thinking aloud, “and might relish exposing Fat Ass.”
“Either way,” Cohen shrugged, “Brown wants to keep that investigation outa the Florentine Gardens.”
“And your old pal Jim Richardson likes the sex angle better than a dime-a-dozen mob rubout, anyway-sells more papers.”
Nodding, powdering himself, Cohen said, “That’s why no paper in town has noticed that cut-up bimbo got dumped in Jack Dragna’s backyard.”
I was leaning against the doorframe. “Then you agree with me, Mick-that Dragna had this murder done, to send a warning to Savarino, to shut him the fuck up?”
The naked gangster in the Borsalino shook his head, chin wrinkling. “I do not agree, in any way, shape, or form.”
I almost fell over. “Jesus, Mickey-Jack Dragna tried to hire those McCadden boys to bump you off!”
He put down the empty can of talc, reaching for a third. “Yeah, probably. That’s just business.” He began salting himself again. “Gotta remember, Jack was the big boss in town before your buddy Benny Siegel and me got sent out here. We butted in on Dragna’s territory, no question-two Jews, yet. But Dragna couldn’t do nothin’, not out in the open, ’cause he had ties to Lucky and Meyer.”
Luciano and Lansky.
“So every now and then,” Cohen continued, “Jack tries to stop my clock, but tries and make it look like it was somebody else’s idea. But much as it would do me a favor having you go whack his wop ass, I can tell you without no doubt, Jack Dragna did not have that broad killed.”
My head was reeling. “Why do you say that, Mickey? How can you be so goddamn sure?”
Patting himself with powder, he smirked at me. “Heller, how well do you know Benny Siegel?”
