Jimmy and Fay (2 page)

Five months later, we did Maranzano. That was tougher. Since we were working in Midtown and wanted to keep everything on the QT, Meyer and Red thought to do it with knives. But that was too risky even with four guys, and when you set out to kill a big boss like Maranzano, you make damn sure you kill him. So they had guns along with the knives. I looked the place over while Red kept track of the old guy. We weren't in a hurry until we learned that Coll was in the picture. Meyer knew Maranzano would attract more attention than Masseria—that's why he came up with the business about the hats. He got his hands on a couple of quality hats that were made in Chicago and said as much right there on the haberdasher's label, then told Red to have his guys wear them going in and to make sure to leave them in Maranzano's office. I had the boaters so nobody would remember two guys without hats leaving the building.

It was a Lansky touch. Simple and smart, and it worked. Straight off, the DA sent cops to Chicago. It didn't hurt that the legitimate business Maranzano conducted in the office had to do with getting alien immigrants into the country, and the cops decided that was why he'd been topped.

But sitting there with my coffee that afternoon, I couldn't stop thinking about the couple on the sixth floor. I couldn't get anywhere with the guy. All I could focus on was the beard and the fez. But Daphne, she was another story. Daphne was one of Polly Adler's most popular and expensive girls. I knew she was a favorite of Charlie's, and I thought she was a sweet kid. So what was she doing dressed like a secretary in Midtown in the middle of the day when she usually wore nothing at all and did her best work late at night? I figured the guy in the fez must have some exceptionally peculiar requirements in the sack. As it turned out, that was true, just not in the way I was thinking.

I didn't figure it out until somebody put the touch on Miss Wray.

Chapter Two

It was Thursday, the second of March, 1933, about 7:00 in the evening when Fay Wray came into my speak. She had another woman with her. They were both wearing overcoats and they stayed close together as they handed them over at the cloakroom and looked for someone in the crowd. Being about my height, that was tough for them, but I could tell they were worried.

I got up from my table at the back and made my way toward them through a happy bunch of Roosevelt supporters. Connie reached the two women first. Her eyes opened wide, and she stammered for a moment before she said, “Oh, my gosh, are you . . . Yes, of course you are. I can't believe this!”

It was the happiest I'd seen her in a week.

Miss Wray brightened and smiled right back at her. She leaned in, touching Connie's arm, and spoke so softly I couldn't hear what she said. Connie nodded, looked around, and waved me over. Nobody else in the joint recognized her. I thought it was pretty damn neat that she was there, but I didn't let that show.

Connie said, “This is Mr. Quinn.”

“Miss Darrow . . . I mean Miss Wray. It's an honor.”

She gave a slow cool look, not letting anything show. I didn't know what to make of it. Finally, she said, “You're not what I expected.”

Neither Connie nor the woman who came in with Miss Wray—an alert, pretty brunette—looked like they knew what she was talking about. I sure as hell didn't.

Before I could answer, she said, “Detective William Ellis asked that I meet him here. I believe some gentlemen from the studio will be joining us, too. We need to talk privately.”

Ellis? What the hell?
I asked Connie to bring a bottle of the good champagne and led the two women up the stairs in back to my office.

Now, the truth is that Miss Wray was not the first celebrity or even the first movie star who'd dipped a beak at Jimmy Quinn's. Mayor Jimmy Walker stopped in from time to time before they threw him out, and when Longy Zwillman was squiring Jean Harlow around, he brought her in. And there had been others, but it just wasn't the kind of place where anybody rushed to the phone to call Walter Winchell when a famous so-and-so showed up. Winchell dropped by from time to time, but to drink, not to find material.

And on that day, Miss Wray was not really famous. A month later she wouldn't be able to set foot on the sidewalk without somebody asking for an autograph, but not yet. You see, the movie
King Kong
had opened at Radio City Music Hall that morning, the world premiere. Connie and I were right at the front of the line. We sat with Freddie Hall, who wrote about movies for the
Times
. The three of us loved it. I thought it was maybe the best moving picture I'd ever seen, and I thought it was pretty amazing that one of the stars was in my place. Her being there somehow didn't seem to be real. But like I said, I tried to act like it happened every day.

Up in my office, the women sat next to each other on the leather divan. I cleared the newspapers from the table and sat behind my desk. Miss Wray was carefully examining everything—the bookcase, the little bar, the leaded glass lamp, the rug, the armchair. And me. There was something about the way she studied me that I did not understand. She was wearing a tweed dress and a belted jacket, the same outfit she'd had on that morning when she introduced the picture. It might have been the same clothes she was wearing in her first scene in the movie where she tried to steal the apple. She sure looked about the same as she did on-screen. Wide forehead, huge eyes, tight little mouth, but when she spoke, she didn't have that fruity, half-British accent that most people in the movies seemed to have. She sounded more normal in person. She introduced the woman with her as Hazel. Hazel still looked worried and maybe a little scared, like she was not used to being in a speak, even a respectable classy speak like mine.

Connie came in with the Dom and four glasses. I uncorked, poured, and offered a toast, “To your absent costar, the Eighth Wonder of the World.”

Miss Wray looked at Connie and asked, “Is he serious?”

“And how. He's been talking about nothing else for a week. Dragged me to the first show.”

The door banged open. Detective William Ellis shouldered through and the room seemed smaller. “Quinn,” he said, “I gotta talk to you.” Then he noticed the women and said to Hazel, “You must be the actress.”

Miss Wray, unruffled, said, “Try again.”

Ellis shrugged and said to her, “So you're the one they've got the dirty pictures of?”

Hazel shot to her feet and got in Ellis's face, “Absolutely not! She had nothing to do with that filth.”

They had my attention.

I told Connie to fetch Ellis a gin once she'd finished her champagne. She knocked it back and stopped to whisper something to Miss Wray on her way out.

Ellis settled into the armchair and said to Connie, “There'll be two lawyers from RKO here soon. Send 'em back here.”

She looked at me. I nodded.

Thinking he was in charge, Ellis held out a hand and snapped his fingers. “Let's see the pictures.”

Miss Wray ignored him. She leaned back on the divan, crossed her legs glamorously, and said, “Perhaps when the gentlemen from the studio are here.”

Connie showed them in a few minutes later, when she brought Ellis his gin.

Their names were Grossner and Sleave and they were both balding, slightly paunchy men who looked like they didn't laugh much. They wore black three-piece suits fully buttoned, and dark ties, I don't remember which color. Sleave wore the kind of glasses that pinch the bridge of your nose. Grossner was taller and wore regular glasses.

He looked around the room and said, “Given the sensitive nature of our business, I think it should be kept as quiet as possible. Miss Wray's assistant and the bar girl can wait downstairs.”

Miss Wray said, “Absolutely not. Hazel is part of this.”

I leaned back in my chair and said, “There's no reason for Connie to leave,” but she shook her head and slipped out.

After the door clicked shut, Sleave said, “We have spent the afternoon speaking with the studio in California.”

Grossner muttered, “The long-distance charges alone are going to be astronomical. Twenty-five dollars just to connect.”

Sleave paid no attention and said to Miss Wray, “We have come to a decision. If indeed the situation is as you describe it, we will
not
comply with this extortion. But we will, of course, provide you a bodyguard. He should be at the hotel when you return from the reception.”

“What do you mean?” Her voice was cold.

Sleave tugged at his vest and cleared his throat. “We have spoken to several senior executives in both the legal and production departments, and if these pictures are indeed
not
of you, then the studio has no real reason to accede to these demands. Of course, since you choose not to share the contents of these pictures, we cannot be certain. In fact, we have only your word that they exist—”

“Hazel has seen them, too. She saw them first.”

Hazel's head bobbed up and down. “Yes, they're horrible.”

Sleave didn't sound like he believed her. “So you say, but unless we can examine the material, paying six thousand dollars is simply out of the question.”

Miss Wray stared at him for a long time before she opened her purse and took out a small leather address book. She looked at me and asked if she could use the phone. “It will be long distance,” she said, looking at Grossner. “I'll take care of the twenty-five dollars.”

“Of course,” I said. The lady had brass.

She picked up the handset and said to me, “This is the private number of Merian Cooper. He directed the picture. But that was two years ago. Since then he has been promoted. Yes, Mr. Selznick was in charge of the studio while we were making the picture, but he recently resigned and now Mr. Cooper runs things at RKO.”

She looked at the book and dialed “O.” Beads of sweat popped out on Grossner's forehead.

“Operator, connect me with Los Angeles, California.”

Grossner held out a hand, pleading. “Please. We really think it best if we do
not
involve Mr. Cooper's office. That is what we have been trying to do all afternoon. I am sure we can accommodate anything you desire.”

She put down the phone. “I want this to be settled right away without so much as a whisper from Louella Parsons. I have been through this before and it will not happen again.”

Things had started that morning while she was at the premiere. Hazel was at the hotel where the studio had put them up—the Pierre. Hazel had been her stand-in on
King Kong
. They'd become friends and the studio brought her along so Miss Wray would have some company while she was promoting the picture. As nice as it was to stay at a tony joint like the Pierre, Hazel and the production manager of
King Kong
had fallen for each other, and she really wanted to go back to California to see him. She stayed at the hotel that morning accepting flowers and congratulatory telegrams and the like. She opened all the messages and kept them together in order of importance so they'd know who needed a telephone call that day or a personal letter or a signed eight-by-ten glossy.

The little package that they delivered to the room was with a bunch of telegrams. It was a thick sealed envelope. “Fay Wray—Personal” was written on the outside.

Hazel opened it and found a small book or booklet. When she opened that, a handwritten note fell out. It read: “$6,000 or we send copies to every newspaper, fan magazine, and gossip column in the city. Have the money ready in 24 hours.”

Miss Wray said, “Show it to them.”

Hazel opened her purse and took out the note. Sleave snatched it out of her hand. He quickly passed it to Grossner, who gave it to Ellis. Sleave said, “Let's see the book.”

Hazel looked at Miss Wray. She nodded and said, “It's all right. It has nothing to do with us.”

Hazel reached into her bag again and produced a thin book. She held it with her fingertips like it was white hot. As she passed it to Sleave, I could see that the cover was thick, flexible paper and
Kong
was printed on it in blue lettering.

The two lawyers did a poor job of hiding their intense interest in the book. They may have steamed up their glasses.

After they'd had their look, the taller one cleared his throat and said, “This is absolutely outrageous. Scandalous.”

The shorter one said, “It is a blatant violation of our copyrighted material, our sets and costumes.”

“No,” Miss Wray interrupted. “That's not me and those are not our sets. We didn't shoot anything in New York. It was all on the Culver City lot.”

They didn't shoot anything in New York? That surprised me. Freddie Hall had explained how they used movable models and shot one frame of film at a time, but I can't say I really understood it. I knew it must have been some kind of trick photography for the city stuff because I'd have heard about it if they'd really wrecked an El train, or if there'd been a giant ape on the Empire State Building. But I didn't think about any of that while I was watching the picture. It was only when she said it that I thought about how they did it. While I was in the theater, all of it—Skull Island, the big wall, the dinosaurs—they were real, real enough, anyway. I didn't want to think about the reality behind them. I enjoyed being fooled.

Ellis demanded the book and flipped through it quickly. Whatever it was, he'd seen worse. Or better. He went to hand it back to the lawyers, but Hazel grabbed it and jammed it into her bag.

The detective took a slug of his gin and said, “All that funny stuff there in the book has something to do with this movie, right?
King Kong
? Don't know anything about that but it's easy enough to see that it's not you in the pictures. Still”—he turned to the lawyers—“if you want to do this the easy way, pay 'em. Six thousand dollars isn't even chicken feed. My captain told me that the studio wants this handled without any official police involvement, is that right?”