The Last Embrace (17 page)

Lily thought of the more sinister plants that dwelled in Los Angeles gardens. Pretty flowering shrubs like oleander and castor bean, with its bristling red-green leaves. She imagined a folded omelet, nicely browned with butter and topped with these diced plants, fishy chicken embryos tucked inside, tiny beaks and wings crunching between her teeth. She thought of the knob on her bedroom door in the middle of the night, the measured tread. The blood sport with the cat. Two strangled girls.

“That’s okay,” she said, trying not to shudder. “I’m craving chicken potpie. They have them at the lunch counter up the street.”

D
etective Stephen Pico walked into Vernichello’s in West L.A. and looked around. Damn, but it smelled good. The tables were filling up, platters of food sailing out from the kitchen, a waiter presenting a bottle of something called
limoncello
to men with vulpine faces who sat at a corner table, a wall mural of an Italian hill town soaring up behind them.

The mâitre d’ came up and Pico identified himself and asked to speak to Jack Dragna. The man disappeared into the back. Pico hoped he’d get further with Dragna than he had at Mickey Cohen’s haberdashery.

Cohen had set up his clothing shop along an unincorporated stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard, just over the county line. Not that he didn’t have friends at LAPD, but everyone knew he and Sheriff Biscailuz had grown up together on the East Side and were practically brothers. Mickey could be assured of peace and quiet, the LAPD left to cool its heels just across the border. Like Pico had been the other day, stonewalled by a small, ferrety guy named Shorty Lagonzola.

Soon the mâitre d’ returned and led Pico into an office where a thickset man with hair combed straight back was eating dinner on a folding table, a napkin tucked into his shirt, his eyes riveted to the television. Dragna grunted and waved an arm to indicate for the detective to sit down. He had a droopy face like a basset hound, sallow skin, a large nose, and rough, thick-fingered hands, as if he wrenched giant turnips out of the ground for a living. So this was the mastermind behind half of L.A.’s prostitution and gambling rings.

“Mr. Dragna, I—”

Dragna held up a finger. “Quiet, please,” he said with a reproachful look, then turned back to the black-and-white screen.

Pico considered turning it off, but was drawn in despite himself. The show was slapstick, funny. He wished he could afford a television. It was a helluva way to spend time. With a surge of music, the program broke for a commercial. Dragna gave a strange and melancholy sigh and turned his attention to the detective.

“You’re not one of the usual faces they send,” the gangster said. He opened a beer and called out something in Italian.

A thin young woman with black hair popped her head through the door, wiping her hands on an apron. She had the biggest shiner that Pico had seen outside the ring, blooming all yellow and purple.

Dragna snapped his fingers and said to bring Pico a beer and the woman returned a moment later with a bottle and a glass, which she placed on the TV tray. Dragna said something in Italian and the woman flinched, then reached into her apron pocket for a bottle opener. She opened Pico’s beer, then left.

“I gotta be the only wop in town who don’t drink red wine,” Dragna said. “Gives me headache.”

Pico was still staring at the door. “What happened to her eye?”

“My wife, she’s very clumsy. Walked into the cupboard door. Again.”

Pico allowed himself a moment to feel sorry for Mrs. Dragna. Then he said, “I’m here about the Kitty Hayden murder.”

Dragna’s face tightened, reminding Pico of an intelligent, aging bird of prey. On the TV, a man was extolling Chevrolet cars.

“What makes the LAPD think I know any more than what I read in the paper?”

“C’mon, Mr. Dragna, the whole city knows you and Mickey Cohen are at war. Kitty Hayden partied with two of Cohen’s men in Palm Springs last week. They’ve disappeared and she’s dead.”

Dragna turned back to the screen, where the commercial was winding down.

“We are gonna be quiet and watch Lucille Ball now. I’ll tell you whatever you want when it’s over.”

“Mr. Dragna—”

“She’s got a thing for Latin men,” Dragna said. “She married that greaser Desi, but he’s running around on her.”

The commercial ended. Dragna put down his beer and rubbed his hands together. “Here we go.”

The program resumed. It was a variety show. Miss Ball and some other actresses Pico didn’t recognize were arguing while making pies. Next thing he knew, Miss Ball got a pie in the kisser. She opened her mouth in outrage, but her expression changed as she began to taste the delicious pie.

“Mangia, mangia,”
Dragna urged the screen. “You’ll be sexy with a few more curves, Lucy. Your ass is flat as a board. Nothing to hold on to.”

Then Desi Arnaz made a surprise cameo. Dragna scowled.

“Look at that Cuban faggot,” Dragna jeered. “He doesn’t deserve a woman like you, Lucy. He doesn’t appreciate you. Drinking his rum daiquiris and playing them congas and disrespecting you. Maybe he oughta have an accident. Would you like that, Lucy?”

The skit ended with everyone sitting down happily to pie and coffee. The orchestra music surged and the credits rolled.

“I give that prick Desi six months,” Dragna told Pico. “She serves him with divorce papers, that’s when I make my move. She’ll need a shoulder to cry on.”

Pico couldn’t believe the gangster was mooning over Lucille Ball. And what? Threatening to kill Desi Arnaz in front of a detective? It had to be an act.

Pico cleared his throat. “What about your wife?”

“Annulment,” Dragna said. “The Pope is a fellow Italian and will do the right thing, once he is presented with all the facts and a donation.”

Pico hadn’t cracked the
Baltimore Catechism
in years, but he didn’t think it worked that way.

“Ever hear that redheads are the most passionate?” Dragna mused.

“It’s a dye job,” Pico said. “Now can we please get back to Kitty Hayden?”

Dragna’s eyes bugged out in disbelief. “Naw, it’s natural. Cuz she’s got the spitfire personality to go with it.” He swigged his beer. “There’s only one way to find out if it’s a dye job.”

“What do you hear about Kitty Hayden’s murder?” Pico asked.

With great effort, Dragna wrenched his attention away from hair color.

“I hear exactly nothing,” he said. “If Mickey’s men want to kill girls and each other, that’s not my problem.”

His eyes lingered over a framed publicity still on the wall:
To Jack, with fond regards, Lucille Ball.

Pico wanted to snatch it and snap it over his knee. Instead, he said, “Some British nutcase named Taunton took dirty photos of the victim. Tied up. Probably fake blood.”

“Really?” Dragna sounded intrigued.

“Have you heard anything about that?”

“No, Detective, I have not.”

“But you’ll let us know if you do? They may come up for sale.”

“Of course, Detective.”

“Who else might have wanted her dead?”

“I hear nothing. But the way that Meyer Cohen conducts his business, I am not surprised.”

“Where were you the night of October seventh?”

Dragna gave him a shrewd, appraising look and Pico realized that even if he’d ordered the hit, he hadn’t carried it out.

“I attended the
Inside U.S.A. with Chevrolet
taping at KTTV in the afternoon. Then I was here, having dinner with my wife. Then I was at Largo until three a.m., all facts to which dozens of people can attest.”

“And then?”

“And then I visited the apartment of a young lady, a very talented dancer. Would you like her name?”

When Pico nodded, Dragna scrawled a name and number on paper, folded it, and gave it to the detective.

“She’s a redhead too,” Dragna said. “Natural.”

“What does your wife think of that?”

“She thinks what I tell her to think.” Dragna grew contemplative. “I’m hoping it won’t be too long until Miss Ball is free. I told her at the taping that I’m her number one fan.”

Harry and Gadge were eating dinner at the drugstore when Lily Kessler walked in. She sat down and began reading the paper.

With all the excitement, Harry had forgotten to call her. After finishing his meal, he ambled over to renew their acquaintance.

“I remember you,” Lily said. “What happened to your eye?”

“Walked into a pole,” Harry mumbled. He glanced at her paper and saw she was reading about the Scarlet Sandal. “It’s a damn shame when something like that happens.”

Lily blinked and looked away. “I knew her. Actually, I knew her mother and her brother. He was my—”

Harry’s mouth dropped. “You knew Kitty Hayden?”

Lily drew back. “I forgot that you’re with the press.”

She crumpled her napkin and threw it onto her half-eaten chicken potpie.

“You’ve got the wrong idea about me, miss. I’m a photographer, not a reporter. Why, I took the snap that ran on the front of the
Daily Mirror
when they found the body. I was there when they brought the stretcher up.”

Lily breathed fast. “Really? Was there anything that hasn’t been reported? Markings on the body? A note?”

Harry wanted to give her an honest answer, but he figured the longer he talked, the better chance he had.

“My cop source says they’re working every possible angle.”

“Well,” said Lily, seeing through his bluster, “I’d better go.”

“Could Gadge and I walk you out?” Harry motioned to the boy. “A young woman can’t be too careful after what’s happened.” Harry paused. “Especially if she’s on her own.”

“I’m not scared,” Lily said. “There are six girls at the rooming house, plus Mrs. Potter. Safety in numbers.”

“Mrs. Potter? Kitty’s landlady? You’re living
there
?”

A vision came to him suddenly, of the dead girl’s room, the clothes slung over a chair, the knickknacks. The photo layout it might make.

“Kitty’s mother asked me to stay and take care of the arrangements. So thanks, but you and your little brother don’t have to accompany me.”

Harry and Gadge followed her out. “He’s not my brother, he’s my friend,” Gadge piped up. “Even if he did steal my red sandal.”

Lily froze. “What?”

Harry lowered his voice as they walked. “Gadge found Kitty Hayden’s missing shoe on Morton Street in Hollywood.”

Harry explained how he’d met Gadge, taken him in, and found the sandal in his knapsack. By now they’d stopped in front of a two-story house with an overgrown lawn. The door opened and a tall leggy girl walked out.

“Yoo-hoo, Lily, see you later.” She waved, striding off. “Red just made a fresh pot of coffee.”

Lily sighed. “So now you know. This is where Kitty lived.”

“Every reporter in town worth his salt has had Kitty’s address for two days now,” Harry said, pointing to several parked cars whose dashboard placards said
PRESS.

“Too bad you have to go so soon,” he added. “We’re off to Gadge’s hideout now to get the rest of his belongings.”

Lily wondered whether Harry had turned Kitty’s shoe over to the police. Pico hadn’t mentioned it. But then, he probably wouldn’t.

“Mr. Jack? Maybe I’ve been hasty. I’d like to hear more about the red shoe your little friend found.”

“Be happy to, if we could go somewhere private.” He inclined his head to the newshounds.

“I can hardly invite you up to my room.”

“Why don’t you come with us and we’ll talk in the car.”

“Didn’t you just warn me about being careful?” Lily huffed. “Now you want me to get in a car with two strangers? At night?”

Harry laughed. “Gadge is a kid, and I’m a harmless shutterbug. Dozens of people will vouch for me.”

“In seamy bars throughout Los Angeles, I’m sure.”

He shrugged. “It’s your loss.”

Lily hesitated. It was dark. It could be dangerous. There were two of them. She’d be at their mercy. They seemed like regular Joes, but so had some of the most genocidal Nazis she’d interrogated after the war. Was she being too trusting?

Lily took a deep breath. “I’ll go.”

They followed Gadge’s instructions into the hills above Sunset, and Harry told her about the button.

“You’ve got to call the police,” Lily said when he finished.

Harry gave a nervous laugh. “First I’m going to photograph everything. Then I’ll sit down with a reporter I trust and tell him the whole story so the cops can’t pin it on me.”

Lily considered Detectives Magruder and Pico. She could easily imagine Magruder being dirty, but she had a harder time with Pico. She thought of that car ride home, and a fizzy anticipation gripped her at seeing him again. And yet the two men were partners.

The night was pitch-black, the moon not yet up as they parked and hiked up into the hills with only a flashlight to illuminate the way. Lily’s fears bloomed anew. Where were they taking her? Could she trust them? By the flickering beam, Gadge led them to an abandoned stable where the ancient warm smell of animals lingered.

Harry said he’d be right back, and from the purposeful way he hiked off, Lily hoped it was nature calling, not a prelude to an ambush.

“You’re going to have to come in here with me and hold the flashlight so I can see,” Gadge said.

With a quick glance over her shoulder, Lily took one hesitant step.