Angel in black

8

The prints the Examiner sent by wire to the FBI were too blurred to be identifiable; but one of Richardson’s staff photographers suggested sending 8” by 10” negative blowups. Within minutes the prints were identified as those of Elizabeth Short, who had-four years before-applied for, and landed, a civilian job at an Army base near Santa Barbara, working at the post exchange at Camp Cooke.

A description derived from the job application was as follows: weight, 115 pounds; height, five feet five; race, Caucasian; sex, female; hair, brunette; eyes, blue-green; complexion, fair; date of birth, July 29, 1924; place of birth, Hyde Park, Massachusetts.

In addition, the FBI had cross-referenced an arrest in 1943, Santa Barbara, California; a minor, Elizabeth Short had been picked up for drinking in a bar where she’d been with a girl friend and two soldiers. To her description were added these telling details: an I-shaped scar on her back from a childhood operation, a quarter-size brown birthmark on her right shoulder, and a small tattoo of a rose on her outer left thigh. The girl had been sent by bus back home to Medford, Massachusetts, to be given over into the custody of her mother, Mrs. Phoebe May Short.

“Look at this little beauty,” Richardson said, gesturing to a police mug photo, side and front, of Elizabeth Short. With her dark hair tousled, translucent eyes sullenly blank, wearing none of the China doll makeup at all, under the unyielding gaze of a police photographer, she was as lovely as a movie queen’s soft-focus, airbrushed glamour portrait.

Richardson was standing at the head of the scarred wooden conference table; he and I and Fowley were in the glassed-off editorial chamber where we’d confabbed yesterday with a whole gaggle of reporters. This morning it was just the three of us.

“She does look better than in the shots Heller took yesterday,” Fowley said. Wearing a light brown checkered sportcoat and a darker brown tie with yellow horses prancing across it, he was seated to Richardson’s right and I was across from the reporter, on the editor’s left.

“A living doll,” Richardson said, managing to fix both his eyes on the photo, “or at least she used to be-and that gives us a genuine star for our ‘A’ picture.”

The editor-in shirtsleeves and suspenders-was giddy as a schoolgirl. Yesterday, when the competition’s afternoon editions appeared with the “Werewolf Slayer” story, it was two hours after the Examiner ’s extra hit the street, in a sold-out press run second only to VJ Day.

“You want us to hit Camp Cooke, boss?” Fowley asked.

“Sid Hughes is already on his way up there,” Richardson said, lighting up a cigarette, waving out a match.

“We could check out that Santa Barbara arrest,” I suggested.

“I got two men on that.” Glee was coming off Richardson like heat off asphalt. “Right now we’re so far out in front of the pack-they’re never gonna catch up. I’ve had crews out digging since five o’clock this morning, and the other papers didn’t even know Elizabeth Short’s name till they read it in our morning edition.”

Fowley shifted in his hard chair; his tone vaguely irritated, he said, “So what’s left for the first string, if you’ve emptied the bench covering every lead the FBI gave us?”

“The best lead of all… Get your notepad out, Mr. Fowley.” Richardson turned his eerie stare on me, his slow eye playing catch-up. “Nate, you’re the best interrogator in house at the moment.”

I frowned. “Gee whiz, thanks-but what are you getting at?”

His left eye was still swimming into place as he fixed his gaze on me. “Plus, you were a cop for a lot of years.”

“What’s on your mind, Jim?”

“You’ve had to break bad news before, I mean.”

I’d grabbed a bacon and eggs breakfast at a diner on my way over here; the greasy remains were turning in my stomach. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Also, you know how to work a phone.”

That was self-evident: private detectives spent most of their working day on the phone. “What the hell do you-”

“Just a second…” Richardson went to the door, opened it, and yelled for a copy boy to bring him in two phones. Then he looked at me again, one eye at a time, and unleashed a smile almost as ghastly as his gaze. “… I want you to locate Mrs. Phoebe May Short, in Medford, Massachusetts.”

“That’s the news you want me to break? Her daughter’s death?”

He strode back to the head of the table, nodding. “Unlikely she’s heard yet, unless the cops got right on it… and I don’t think Hansen even gets in till nine or nine-thirty.”

I sighed. “All right. It’s gotta be done.”

“Yeah… but gracefully… you know, let her down easy. First, tell her that Elizabeth won a beauty contest.”

“What?”

He shrugged elaborately, held his palms up. “If you just flat-out tell the poor woman that her little girl’s dead, she’s gonna go to pieces on you, Heller-you know that. We need to get all the background, before you inform her of, you know, the tragic event.”

“You are one sorry son of a bitch.”

“True, but if you don’t make this call for me, Heller, you won’t be working for this sorry son of a bitch any longer. You and Fred Rubinski will be on the outside of this case, as well as this newspaper, and you can pony up some real dough for a real press agent, which you will sorely need, considering the bad ink we will drown you in.”

“How do you sleep at night?”

“Like a dead baby. Anyway, you got the skills for this, Nate. You can do it. I know you can.”

“That show of confidence just sends me soaring. Why don’t you have Fowley here do your dirty work? He oughta be used to it by now.”

Fowley leaned back in the chair, raised his eyebrows, and his hands, like he’d just touched both burners of a hot stove.

Richardson, his left eye floating, said kindly, “He’s going to be taking notes while you work your magic.”

“Fuck you.”

“By ‘fuck you,’ I take that to mean, yes, you’ll do it.”

“Yes, fuck you. Yes, I’ll do it.”

Soon two phones on long wires had been plugged into the wall, one each in front of Fowley and me. The switchboard connected us, so that Fowley could listen in.

It took a while to track the woman down. No Medford telephone was listed for the Shorts, but by sweet-talking an operator, I was able to find my way to the next-door neighbor, who told me the Shorts rented out a flat upstairs in their house and that the flat did indeed have a phone. I got ahold of the tenant, and, before long, Mrs. Phoebe Short was on the line. I identified myself as a reporter with the Examiner.

“Why yes, I have a daughter named Elizabeth.” The voice was medium pitched and touched with a New England accent, and its pleasantness indicated that news of her daughter’s death had surely not reached her yet.

“Is your daughter by any chance in California?” I asked.

“Yes, she is. She’s been out there some while, off and on, trying to break into the moving pictures.”

Richardson was seated next to Fowley, listening in as the reporter jotted down notes; the editor’s eyes-including the slow one-lighted up like a candle in a jack-o-lantern. The Werewolf’s victim was a starlet! What more could a sleazebag editor ask?

“Mrs. Short,” I said, “your daughter has won a beauty contest out here-Miss Santa Monica.”

“Oh! How wonderful… I can’t say I’m surprised. She’s such a pretty girl-she’s won these sort of contests before, you know, starting with right here in Medford. And when she worked in the PX at Camp Cooke, during the war? She was selected ‘Cutie of the Week.’ ”

Fowley was scribbling and Richardson was grinning.

“She’s such a wholesome young woman,” the excited mother was saying. “She doesn’t smoke, or drink…”

She was just arrested for underage drinking, and had a tattoo on her left thigh.

“How long has Elizabeth been in Hollywood, Mrs. Short?”

Now a little embarrassment seemed to creep into the proud parent’s tone. “Well, you have to understand, everyone back here was always telling Elizabeth how beautiful she was, that she was born to be a movie star.”

“Is that right?”

“She dropped out of Medford High in her junior year. Of course, pursuing her acting dreams is only part of why she left school. Hard to imagine, healthy as she looks, but she’s always suffered from asthma, and other lung conditions. So that sunny weather is good for her. She’s spent some time in Florida, too.”

I didn’t want to get into Elizabeth Short’s travel habits-since they included “sunny” Chicago-so I moved the mother back to Hollywood.

“Has your daughter appeared in any movies since she’s been out here?”

“She’s had some small parts-what do they call it, when you’re in the background of a scene?”

“An extra?”

“Yes, an extra. She’s appeared as an extra.”

“Has Elizabeth always been interested in acting?”

“I’m afraid my daughter’s always been kind of movie struck,” the mother bubbled, “and I’m afraid I have to take credit, or maybe blame.”

“Are you a movie fan, too?”

“Oh yes, I’ve always loved the movies. From when they were little girls, I always took Betty and her sister Muriel to the picture show, two or three times a week. Everyone says Betty looks like Deanna Durbin, you know.”

“There is a striking resemblance.”

“Betty’s sister, Ginnie, is very talented, too, studying opera, and the two girls would just battle over the radio-Ginnie wanting to listen to that long-hair stuff, and Betty just loved the popular songs. Was there a talent competition for Miss Santa Monica? Did she dance? Betty’s a wonderful dancer.”

“Well, I wasn’t at the competition, Mrs. Short-I’m trying to get in touch with Betty. Would you happen to have her most recent address?”

“I don’t understand. If she won the beauty contest, why don’t you have-”

“We got Elizabeth’s name from the Chamber of Commerce,” I said glibly, feeling like the goddamn liar I was, “who sponsored the contest, but they neglected to give us her address, in their press release.”

“I don’t know if I have her most recent address-she was staying in San Diego, at least until two weeks ago.”

Richardson was nodding at me, mouthing, “Good, good.”

“But it doesn’t surprise me she’s back in the Hollywood area,” her mother was saying.

“Why is that, Mrs. Short?”

“Well, Elizabeth said she only went down to San Diego because of the movie union strikes-she said everything in the film industry was kind of shut down. But I know she had to get back to Hollywood before too long.”

“Why is that?”

The pride in Mrs. Short’s voice was palpable. “Betty had a screen test coming up.”

“Really? Do you know for what studio?”

“It wasn’t a studio, I don’t think. She said it was a director, some famous director.”

“Well, that’s swell. Did she say what director?”

“No-just that he was very, very famous. It’s someone she met at the Hollywood Canteen.”

“Oh, she worked at the Canteen?” Actually, I knew that already-Beth had mentioned that, and the “famous director”-but I hadn’t shared the information with anybody.

“I don’t think she did, officially. But she said she was on the list to be a junior hostess, and got meals there, free, sometimes.”

“The Hollywood Canteen, that’s a wonderful thing, supporting our servicemen like that.”

Mrs. Short laughed, lightly. “I don’t mean to speak out of school, but my daughter does have a soft spot for a man in uniform.”

“Well, a lot of girls do these days, Mrs. Short.”

“They certainly do…” And now her tone turned somber. “… Elizabeth was engaged to a major in the Army Air Corps, oh, for almost three years. But he died in action.”

“I’m so sorry. Do you, uh, happen to know where she was staying in San Diego?”

“I told you, I don’t think she’s still staying there…”

“Have you heard from her since she left San Diego?”

“Well, no-but maybe the nice people she was staying with would have a forwarding address for Elizabeth… Let me see if I can find that letter for you… Do you mind hanging on? I mean it is long distance, and this must be terribly expensive for you.”

“No, please, do see if you can find that letter.”

“All right.”

As she put down the phone, I could hear Mrs. Short excitedly telling her tenant the good news about Elizabeth winning a beauty contest in Hollywood.

“Heller,” Richardson said, “you’re doing great.”

“Kiss my ass,” I said.

“I just might, if you land that address.”

Finally Mrs. Short came back on the line, and said, “I found it! Let me just read through this letter, refresh my memory… She was working part-time at a Naval hospital in San Diego, staying with a girl friend named Dorothy French, at the home of the girl’s mother, Mrs. Elvera French-in Pacific Beach. I believe that’s a suburb of San Diego. Do you have a pencil?”

“Yes,” I said, and she read off the address.

I glanced over at Fowley and Richardson. Covering the mouthpiece, I said, “You got your goddamn address.”

“Now,” Richardson said.

“What?”

“Tell her now.”

“What a sweet bastard you are…” Into the phone, I said, “Mrs. Short, I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with you. Are you sitting down, ma’am?”

“Why, yes, I am-what is it? Is something wrong?”

“Forgive me for the pretense. I had to make sure I was speaking to the right person… that you were in fact Elizabeth Short’s mother, the right Elizabeth Short…”

“Something’s happened to her, hasn’t it?”

“Forgive me-yes. A young woman was killed, probably Tuesday night.”

“Oh God… oh dear God…”

“Her body was found Wednesday morning.”

“Do you mean… murdered? My Betty was murdered?”

“This young woman, who we believe to be your daughter, was murdered, yes.”

“Are you… are you sure it’s Betty?”

“This girl had black hair, weighed about 115 pounds, was five feet five, a lovely girl with blue-green eyes and a fair complexion.”

“That could be a lot of girls in Hollywood, couldn’t it? Did this girl have a scar on her back? Elizabeth had a scar on her back from a lung operation-she was sick with pleurisy, when she was small, and had to have a rib removed. If this girl didn’t have that, then-”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Short. She did have such a scar.”

“Oh dear… oh dear…”

She was weeping.

“Mrs. Short, I know there’s nothing I can say except that I’m sorry, and I apologize for the deception.”

Suddenly Richardson was behind me-I hadn’t noticed him move from Fowley’s side: it was startling, like a jump cut in a movie.

Clamping his hand over the mouthpiece, Richardson leaned in and whispered harshly into my ear, machine-gunning the words, “Commiserate with the woman-cry along with her-tell her the Examiner feels for her, tell her we’ll pay for the funeral, we’ll bring her and her daughters out here, all expenses paid…”

“You tell her.” I yanked the phone free from him. “Mrs. Short, once again, my sincere apologies-the city editor of the Examiner would like to speak with you.”

And I handed him the phone, got out of the chair, and gestured for him to sit.

He sat, not missing a beat as he smoothly spoke. “Mrs. Short, this is James Richardson of the Los Angeles Examiner — if you will stay on the line, we want to help you in your time of grief… please stay on the line… Thank you.” Richardson covered the receiver. “Heller, you and Fowley get your asses down to San Diego, toot sweet.” To Fowley, who was already getting up, notepad in hand, Richardson said, “Leave your notes with a rewrite man-just take the address… That a good enough lead for the first string, Bill?”

“Not bad,” Fowley said, and I followed him out of the editorial chamber as Richardson, in a voice that would have melted butter, soothed and consoled and manipulated Elizabeth Short’s mother.

As we walked through the bustling city room, Fowley said, “If Richardson can convince that dame to let him fly her out here, we can keep her away from the cops long enough to wring Christ knows how many leads out of her. The boss is something, isn’t he?”

“One of a kind,” I said.

Then I excused myself and went into the bathroom and puked up my breakfast.

The outskirts of Los Angeles blended into the bleakness of derrick-flung oil fields, which quickly gave way to vegetable farms and citrus groves. Soon Highway 101 slipped down to the ocean, whose shimmering blue beauty contrasted nicely with the brush-dotted hills of a barren coastline occasionally broken by farming and resort communities.

The morning was sunny yet cool, and the surf-level ride to San Diego-with Fowley behind the wheel of the blue ’47 Ford-was pleasant enough, considering the company.

“Some way to spend your honeymoon, huh, Heller?” Fowley said, hat pushed back, cigarette dangling, windows down, wind rushing by.

“Peg knew I was going to do a little work out here,” I said.

“Beautiful girl, you lucky bastard. Seems like a nice gal, too. Understanding, is she? About the screwy nature of what you do for a living, I mean?”

“She understands,” I said.

She’d even forgiven me, in the middle of the night, when I cuddled in next to her. And I’d forgiven her. We’d even made love again, passionately, desperately, bawling like babies when we climaxed, as might be expected from a pair of newlyweds trying to make up for the wife wanting to abort their child and a husband who’d threatened to kill her.

I’d seen Peggy off early this morning, with some flowers I’d bought at the hotel gift shop, wishing her well on day one of her first Hollywood shoot. No makeup on, turbaned, in a boyish cotton T-shirt and gray slacks, she looked goddamn gorgeous.

“Let’s not hurt each other anymore,” she suggested.

“It’s a deal.”

I gave her a big kiss and walked her to the studio-provided limo.

“So, tell me, Nate,” Fowley was saying, working his voice above the wind and the staticky sound of Frank Sinatra singing, “The Girl That I Marry”-great guy to be giving marital advice.

“Tell you what, Bill?”

“What does your partner Rubinski think about the A-1 Detective Agency falling into the biggest crime since Papa Hitler’s rubber broke?”

I grunted. “Fred thinks we better be in on the solving of this crime, if we want the right kind of publicity.”

“We’ll solve it. Hell, you don’t think the cops are gonna beat us to it?”

“No, not the way the Examiner is withholding evidence, and doling it out to the cops like a kid’s allowance.”

“Ah, you’re overstating.”

“In future I’ll strive for the subtlety expected of Examiner staffers. Anyway, Harry the Hat knows what he’s doing, at least.”

“Yeah, the Hat’s smart enough to know to look over our shoulders, you mean. But he’s the exception.” Fowley lighted up a fresh cigarette off the dashboard lighter. “Half the LAPD is in Mickey Cohen’s pocket, the other half’s in Jack Dragna’s. Besides which, these LAPD detectives are the biggest bunch of boobs this side of the Mississippi.”

“You may have heard, we have our fair share of bent cops in Chicago.”

“Ah, yes, but not idiot bent cops!” Fowley raised an authoritative finger. “There are more unsolved murders in Los Angeles per capita than any other major American city.”

“With guys like Finis Brown in the department, I’m not surprised.”

Fowley grinned over at me. “Ever hear of Thad Brown?”

“Isn’t he Chief of Detectives?”

“That’s right-Fat Ass is his brother.”

“No! Thad Brown’s supposed to be a good, honest cop!”

“That’s right, Nate. And his brother is a Mickey Cohen bag man. You figure it. Funny thing is, the uniformed officers in L.A. are pretty fair cops; it’s just the detectives that couldn’t find their ass with two hands.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, take your motorcycle cop for instance. Those cycle jockeys got a rigorous exam to take, tougher than hell. And the department encourages the uniformed boys to take university extension courses, and major in criminal science, really improve their efficiency in police work. That’s the rank-and-file… but to become a big-shot detective? There’s no definitive exam-you just get appointed.”

“Based on what?”

Fowley shrugged, both hands on the wheel. “Based on your ability to fit in with the Old Boy network of detectives, the ones that have ongoing deals with bailbondsmen and criminal attorneys. It’s the same dicks who are in Cohen’s pocket-him or Dragna.”

Cohen and Dragna again. Funny Fowley bringing them up. When I’d called my L.A. partner Fred Rubinski at home, last night-to give him the censored version of our agency’s involvement with the Examiner and the “Werewolf Slaying”-Fred had mentioned the same two notorious names.

“You may be on to something,” Fred had told me, “where the wound to that girl’s face is concerned. These cops and reporters aren’t from Chicago, like us-they don’t know how to read the signs.”

“Getting slashed ear-to-ear means you’re talking too much. How hard is that to read?”

“Well read this, Nate: that vacant lot where this girl was found is only a couple blocks from where Jack Dragna lives.”

“What? No shit?”

“None. He’s a well-known Leimert Park resident.”

Jack Dragna was the so-called “Capone of California.” Born Anthony Rozzotti, Dragna had been a typical Prohibition-era mob boss, operating bootlegging, gambling, and prostitution out of L.A.’s Italian ghetto; Nitti had done business with him in the early ’40s, when Willie Bioff and George Browne infiltrated the movie unions.

I gathered that Dragna-whom I’d never met-had resented the intrusion of Ben Siegel, a few years before, into the Los Angeles scene. East Coast mob bosses Meyer Lansky and Lucky Luciano had simply foisted Siegel upon Dragna, unapologetically muscling in on the California Godfather’s territory; and in recent months-after Ben began focusing his attention on the Flamingo hotel/casino in Las Vegas-Siegel’s L.A. rackets interests had been turned over to his former bodyguard, the diminutive, dapper, if somewhat goonish Mickey Cohen.

“Are Cohen and Dragna business partners,” I asked Fred, “or business rivals?”

“Yes,” Rubinski said. “Rumor has it Dragna is working against Mickey, but it’s all sub rosa stuff. You know Mickey a little, don’t you?”

“A little is right-I remember him from Chicago. And Ben Siegel reintroduced us a few months ago, on Tony Cornero’s gambling ship.”

“Ah, the late lamented Lux,” Fred said. “Well, you know Mick is a regular at Sherry’s. He’s an affable little guy, for a roughneck. He’d be good for you to get to know better.”

“I don’t mind Mickey Cohen frequenting your restaurant, Fred, but I’m not sure we want him for an A-1 client. We’re already trying to collect bad debts for Ben Siegel, and I’ve got enough p.r. problems over my so-called Capone/Nitti associations.”

“Cohen’s not that kind of gangster. He’s just a bookie.”

“Yeah, and hasn’t he been bumping off his rival bookies?”

“That’s none of my business, Nate. As long as they don’t go shooting up Sherry’s, what do I care?”

“What does it mean to you, Fred, a woman murdered, wearing the slashed mouth of an informer, being dumped on Dragna’s doorstep?”

“Could be Cohen warning Dragna-or maybe Dragna warning Cohen. Plays either way.”

“Maybe I do need to talk to Mickey Cohen.”

“Nate, I can make that happen.”

“Fred, I’ll let you know.”

Fowley and I had just passed Doheny Park, with its bougainvillea-terraced sea cliffs, when the reporter suddenly began sharing his insights on Elizabeth Short.

“We got the perfect Hollywood story here,” Fowley was saying, as Perry Como sang “Prisoner of Love” on the radio. “Small-town girl, beauty contest winner, comes looking for fame… gets it the hard way.”

“I’m not so sure being a movie star was her goal,” I said.

“Are you kidding? You heard her mom-this was a typical movie-struck kid, the time-honored see-her-name-in-lights, stars-in-her-eyes routine.”

“Stars and stripes in her eyes, you mean.”

“Huh?”

“Elizabeth Short had a thing for men in uniform,” I said. “You heard her mom say that, too.”

Fowley shrugged. “Yeah, well lots of would-be actresses were Victory Girls, during the war. You were in the service, right, Heller? Marines?”

“Yeah.”

“I was in the Coast Guard. Hey, it wasn’t the Marines, but we sank two German submarines on two convoys. And even that sorry Coast Guard uniform of mine-why, it was like a license to steal. I got more nookie than a Mormon on his honeymoon.”

“Is there a slide show that goes with this?”

“You know what I’m talking about; and these little Victory Girls-like Elizabeth Short-all they had to do was see a uniform, maybe a medal or two, or hear a sad tale about shippin’ out tomorrow, and they’d be on their backs, making the ‘V’ for victory-”

“That’s my point, Bill. I think this girl spent more time laying soldiers and sailors than trying to break into the movies. Everybody told her she was pretty enough to be a movie star-but maybe what she really wanted was a husband.”

“House, picket fence, passel of kiddies… maybe. We can run with that, if the Hollywood angle gets old.” He shook his head, grinned goofily. “Reminds me of this Mocambo deal.”

“Mocambo deal?”

“Yeah, the robbery at the swanky nightclub. It’s what we were playing up, before the Werewolf Slayer came dancing into our boring lives.”

“I didn’t follow that story. Fill me in.” What else did we have to do? We were gliding by the white stucco and red roofs of the Spanish Village-style city of San Clemente.

The heist had gone down a week ago, Monday, January 6. The notion of the glittering Mocambo-a prime haunt of almost every Hollywood star-being victim to an armed robbery summoned images of men with guns rushing in from (and back out into) the night, terrorizing beautiful women in furs and handsome men in tuxedos, lush surroundings echoing with harsh commands.

In reality, the job had taken place in the morning, at 10:30, a “daring daylight robbery” by three armed thieves wearing slouch felt hats and raincoats. The trio had come in the back way, rounded up four employees (three of them women) into a small office, and calmly emptied the safe of $15,000 in cash and another ten grand worth of jewelry. The cash represented the nightclub’s weekend receipts, the jewels were part of a display for a Beverly Hills jewelry store. One of the thieves stood six foot four and his face was badly acne scarred, although that description fit none of the four men the cops had recently arrested.

“The ringleader is a guy named Bobby Savarino,” Fowley said. “Three other guys got nailed, too-apparently they’re part of a pretty active heist string-the cops are looking at them for some bank robberies, too, including one where a teller got shot.”

“How did these L.A. cops you’re so dismissive of manage to make the arrest?”

“Well, Savarino and his partner, I forget his name, were brought in on some unrelated petty theft charge, and got put into a show-up, where the Mocambo witnesses made ’em.”

“This is fascinating, Bill, don’t get me wrong-but why do Victory Girls screwing soldier boys remind you of this Mocambo heist?”

Fowley grinned, sitting up, leaning over the wheel. “It’s this guy, Savarino-he’s half genius, complete idiot. When he was arrested, looking for sympathy, he tells the judge he’s a war hero-not just any kind of war hero, but a Congressional Medal of Honor winner.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! He has documents with him, too-his ‘Separation-Qualification Record,’ which states he’s the most decorated enlisted man in the ETO.”

“Has Audie Murphy been informed?”

Fowley snorted a laugh. “Get this-the documents say our armed robber was not only presented with the Congressional Medal by Harry-Ass Truman himself, he also got the Distinguished Service Cross, the Silver Star, the Bronze Star, oh hell, I forget what all.”

“And he was a phony?”

“Fourteen karat. Yours truly made a simple phone call to the War Department in D.C. They never heard of the bum.”

I laughed. “Well, I hope he got some mileage out of it before you came along and spoiled his fun.”

“I should say he did. He’s got a curvy little redheaded wife, who bought the story, and when I interviewed him, he started laughing and admitted he had his share of girl friends, too, who liked gettin’ close to a bona fide war hero… which kinda rubbed me the wrong way.”

“Since when are you against a guy getting a dishonest piece of tail?”

“Hell, Nate, even I got more conscience than this guy. I mean, Savarino’s wife-she’s a doll, and seven, eight months pregnant, to boot-and he’s out chasing quim!”

I shrugged. “He’s a thief by profession.”

Fowley sighed. “The guy does have his balls. Day before yesterday, he tries to trade the cops some info to get his ass out of jail. You shoulda heard the yarn he spun.”

“Do tell.”

“This crazy fucker claims that several weeks ago he was offered twenty-five hundred bucks to bump off Mickey Cohen.”

That snapped me to attention. “What?”

“Yeah, Savarino claims him and his partners turned these guys down… I mean, our boy Bobby may be a liar and a thief, but him and his pals ain’t no Murder, Inc.”

“Are you saying this… Savarino wants to trade the cops the names of the guys who wanted Cohen rubbed out for-”

“For consideration or leniency or whatever. Although I understand yesterday he changed his tune, clammed up, getting smart after the fact. I mean, in the first place, if somebody wanted Cohen whacked, it’s probably Jack Dragna-and why would a guy like Dragna use smalltime, nonmob guys like Savarino and his boys?”

Because Dragna was supposed to be working on the same team as Cohen, and having outsiders do the hit might protect him from the wrath of the East Coast Combination-Meyer and Bugsy and Lucky and their boys.

“And in the second place,” Fowley was saying, sending his smoked-to-the-butt cigarette sparking out the window, “what sort of idiot would try to trade info on Dragna to the L.A. cops? Don’t these clowns know half the badges in this burg are in Dragna’s pocket?”

“Maybe they don’t. Are they local?”

Fowley gave me a one-shoulder shrug. “They’re from back East originally, I guess. But they been out here long enough to get wise, surely.”

“Maybe you’re right-maybe he’s just an idiot.”

“Hey, Savarino’s a cocky, good-lookin’ guy-take a look at him-he’s in the-day-before-yesterday’s paper… check the morgue, if you’re interested.”

The morgue Fowley was referring to was not in the basement of the Hall of Justice, rather his own backseat, where he kept a stack of recent Examiner s as a sort of traveling reference file for ongoing stories.

Soon I was thumbing through the January 14 edition, where (on page three, lined against a Central Station wall) tall, dark, cleft-chin handsome Bobby Savarino grinned smugly at me, a study in underworld black: black shirt under a black sportjacket, black trousers, black curly hair, black glittering eyes. Next to Savarino was his accomplice, a little guy in a rumpled light-color sportcoat and a dark wrinkled tie loose around an askew collar: Henry Hassau, who looked like an Arab camel trader yanked out of his tent in the middle of the night, his dark eyes startled in a narrow, sharp-cheekboned hook-nosed face set off with just the right trashy touch of wispy mustache and scraggly goatee.

“From the looks of him,” I said, tapping Bobby’s matinee-idol countenance, “Savarino shouldn’t need to play war hero to get laid.”

“Yeah, he’s got the tools, all right, but he’s greedy, a regular ass bandit. Reminds me of a guy I knew in the Coast Guard-son of a bitch was hung like a…”

And as chatterbox Fowley changed the subject (if not the subject matter), and Dinah Shore sang “Shoofly Pie and Apple Pan Dowdy” on the radio, I tuned them both out.

I was busy reading between the lines of an Examiner story (BOOKIE DEATH OFFER BARED) that indicated self-styled lover-boy war hero Bobby Savarino had been threatening mob boss Jack Dragna on Tuesday…

… knowing, as I did, that on Wednesday, the very next day, a beautiful woman would be found murdered in a vacant lot, a few blocks from Dragna’s house-wearing the mark of the informer.