myself in side streets.
In spite of the car chase, I got to the Sunset address about ten minutes early. Instead of going right in, I found a sandwich joint with a telephone and called Sergeant Steve Seidman.
“Seidman,” I said, hearing someone in the background screaming: “It ain’t fair, it ain’t fair.”
“Speak up,” he said loudly. “We have a customer here who feels he isn’t being given proper treatment.”
“O.K.,” I said. “What can you give me on Bugsy Siegel?”
The pause was long and “It-ain’t-fair” kept on until there was a sharp crack and then it was quiet.
“Siegel got something to do with the guy we found in your office this morning?” Seidman asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. Maybe not. Can you give me something on him to work with?”
“I’m going to have to tell
“Fair enough,” I said. I held on while Seidman left the phone and turned to find a young woman in a thin coat waiting impatiently for the telephone. She shifted her legs and her coat opened, revealing a tight green sequined gown that caught the light from a Falstaff beer sign. I figured she was a show girl from one of the places on the Strip. She figured I should mind my own business and gave me a look that said so.
Seidman returned to the phone. “I’ll give you the highlights,” he said. “The file’s a few inches thick. Let’s see … born Williamsburg district of Brooklyn, February 28, 1906. Moved from small stuff to heading an east side gang, combination of Italians and Jews, stuck mostly with the Jews. Arrested in 1928 for carrying a concealed weapon. Married to Esta Krakower…let’s see.… He and Meyer Lansky headed a gang that gave Bugs his name because he wasn’t afraid of anything and the other gangs thought he was a little crazy. By the way, he doesn’t like to be called Bugs, which is why we continue to call him Bugs.”
Miss Show Business of 1939 tapped her foot impatiently behind me as if she were about to go into a routine. I imagined her breaking into song, throwing off her coat, leaping on the counter and stepping into the soup of a customer. Seidman went on.
“Feud with the Irving ‘Waxey’ Gordon mob. Lots of shooting. Siegel was almost killed a few times. One time a bomb was dropped on a meeting, and Bugsy got hit in the head by the roof, which contributed further to his ‘Bugsy’ image. Chief triggerman was a nutty little monkey named Abe ‘Twist’ Reles.”
“I’ve heard the name,” I said. Miss Show Business showed me her wrist watch. I admired it and smiled.
“Siegel came to Los Angeles five years ago. New York cops thought he had been sent here by the mob as a West Coast agent. We think he did it on his own. Likes to be seen with celebrities, good friend of George Raft. He lives at 250 Delfern. Classy neighborhood. Has the homes of Sonia Henie, Bonita Granville, Anita Louise and Norman Taurog. Siegel’s house is full of secret panels and rooms. Built them with the place, probably to dive if anyone takes another shot at him. He has unlisted phone numbers which I can’t give you.”
“I’ve already got them,” I said.
“I won’t ask how,” sighed Seidman. “It-ain’t-fair” had started up again slow, but was rising to the challenge. Seidman turned away from the phone and shouted, “Keep that guy quiet” He continued, “Siegel’s a health nut- boxing, running. Thinks he’s a real beauty. Even talks about going into the movies, but he has a big problem. He was indicted almost a year ago for the murder of Harry ‘Big Greenie’ Greenberg, a former friend who he and we thought was going to put the finger on Siegel. Case was so-so. Siegel didn’t pull the trigger himself, but we had enough to lock him up in October last year. He got out in December when the new DA, Dockweiler, decided there wasn’t a case against him.”
“Will you get your ass off that phone?” squealed Miss Show Business in my ear, breaking the illusion of culture and charm she had worked so hard to build up.
“Sure,” I said to her. “Where would you like me to put it?”
“Hey,” grunted Seidman, “I’ve got other things to do.”
“Go on,” I said, turning my back on Show Business, who kicked me in the calf and stamped out of the place. I held back a groan and listened to Seidman.
“Well, a few months ago, the New York D.A. got his triggerman Reles in a corner and he was ready to turn states and pin the Greenie murder on Siegel. Then.…”
“Reles took a dive,” I said, remembering the story.
“Right,” said Seidman, “Shortly after seven in the morning on the 12th of last month, Reles, who had been guarded around the clock by eighteen cops in the Half Moon Hotel at Coney Island, was found dead on a roof extension six floors below his room. The window of the room was open, and from it dangled a makeshift escape line made from knotted sheets and wire long enough to reach the room on the floor below.”
“But.…”
“But,” Seidman continued, “the body was so far from the makeshift line that it had clearly been thrown and had not fallen. Reles had no reason to run. He was supposedly in the safest place in the world for him.”
“You mean the cops killed him?” I said.
“I didn’t say that,” Seidman added quickly. “Someone killed him. They’ve got another guy in the hole who says he worked with Siegel on the Greenie killing, name’s Allie Tannenbaum. Case comes up in a few months, but Tannenbaum won’t be enough to convict Siegel. That’s all I can give you without an hour or two of reading, and I have a disgruntled taxpayer behind me who needs my attention. Take care, Peters. Siegel isn’t a good guy to play games with.”
I said I’d take care and hung up. Outside, the strip wasn’t really crowded yet. It was still too early for that.
The Hollywood Lounge had both an awning and a doorman, which was what you needed to be a recognized joint on the strip. The doorman looked at me lazily and polished a button on his grey uniform. Inside the door was darkness and music from a juke box. Harry James was blowing “You Made Me Love You.” I listened for a few seconds while my eyes adjusted to the interior browns. I started to make out shapes and tables. There was a small platform for a floor show, a bar with a bartender and a dozen or so tables. A man and a woman were drinking and smoking at the bar. Four men were sitting at one of the tables, talking in low tones. At a table near the stage a woman sat alone. It was Miss Show Business with the sharp shoes. She saw me across the empty room and it was hostility at second sight. I put my hands up in a sign of peace and moved to the bar. The barkeep, a wheelbarrow of a man with enormous bags under his eyes, moved to take my order.
“Mr. Siegel’s expecting me,” I said softly. “Name’s Peters.”
The barkeep grunted and waddled to the end of the bar where he picked up a phone, said something into it and nodded at the response. Miss Show Business looked darts at me. I smiled back. Her darts softened and in another few seconds they might have turned to smiles, but I didn’t get the few seconds.
The barkeep nodded at a door a few feet away from me. I said thanks, wondering what his voice was like, and went through the door. I found myself in a small hallway facing a narrow flight of stairs. As I started up, I became aware of someone standing at the top and it was a big someone. I was constantly running into big someones.
This big someone waited till I got to the top step and then made a sign with his hands that it would be nice if I raised my arms. I raised my arms and he searched me. Our eyes met and I didn’t like what I saw in his. He nodded me through a door and closed it behind me.
The room was a large office with the desk off in the corner as if space had been cleared in the middle for something. Next to the desk stood an ape of a man in a light grey suit with big lapels. Behind the desk sat a guy with even white teeth and a false smile.
The smiler, I decided, was Bugsy Siegel. He was a well-built man with a prominent nose which had taken a break and veered to the left. His dark hair was parted evenly on the left and was receding slightly. His suit was dark and his tie blue. He had a neat handkerchief in his pocket. I suddenly recognized his face.
“You Peters?” said Siegel, getting up and letting the smile drop slightly. The touch of Brooklyn was still in his voice.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I know you from somewhere,” he said suspiciously.
“The YMCA,” I said.
He snapped his fingers and looked at the ape next to him. The ape was sweating and didn’t respond.
“Right,” Siegel said easing up, “you work out there too. We never really met.”
“Right,” I said with a smile at my fellow Y member. I had seen him working out occasionally at the Y for the
