Heartbreak Hotel

Chapter 17

Milo said, “Our sweet old lady really was a gun moll?”

I said, “Or at least a gangster’s love interest.”

“This from a gravestone.”

“A grave she visited regularly until she grew feeble. The chronology fits. So does Hoke’s prior ownership of the hotel and Thalia’s being able to afford staying there after it was sold. He went to San Quentin but that doesn’t mean he stopped doing business, and Thalia being his outside agent explains her real estate buys. Her early knowledge about foreclosures and other bargains would’ve been perfect synergy. And when Hoke died ten years later, she could’ve inherited everything, off the books.”

“Hoke ever get out of Q?”

“Haven’t checked, yet. Wanted to call you first.”

“A gangster’s gal... even if it’s true, you see it connecting to her death seventy years later?”

“Maybe she wasn’t worried about a psychopath in her family. What if Hoke’s descendants paid her a visit and nosed around the topic of Great-Grandpa’s dough?”

“That sounds like a scary visit,” he said. “You didn’t describe her as frightened.”

“True, but if she was able to conceal a long romance with Hoke, she was an expert at hiding her feelings.”

“Hundred-year-old siren worried about Bad Seed’s bad seed,” he said. “Mr. Waters and/or Mr. Bakstrom.”

“Or the woman they’re apparently sharing.”

“Okay, it’s somewhere to go, thanks. Let’s see if San Quentin keeps decent records, talk to you later.”

Back home, I got on the computer. Nothing on Leroy Hoke beyond a mention in a list of old-time L.A. gangsters published in an academic article on policing in L.A.’s pre- and post-Parker days. The author, a history professor at the U. named Maxine Driver.

I reached her at her office.

She said, “Hoke? No one’s ever asked me about him, he was pretty obscure. Usually, they want to know about Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen.”

“Hoke didn’t make the big time?”

“From what I can gather he was up there in terms of criminality. But unlike Bugsy and Mickey, he avoided the limelight. Who exactly are you and why’re you asking about him?”

“I’m a psychologist working with LAPD. It’s a long story.”

“I’m a historian, we’re used to that. Can someone vouch for you at the police?”

“You bet.”

She called Milo, phoned me back.

“I’m free in an hour. For an hour. Pizza Maniac in the Village.”

The restaurant was a brick-walled beer joint for students, with pizza as an afterthought. I got there first, and per Maxine Driver’s instructions ordered a small white pie with mushrooms and a pitcher of Bud. The beer I got to carry to a table. The pizza was served by a distracted-looking kid just as a woman’s voice said, “Perfect timing.”

Maxine Driver was in her late thirties, tall, lithe, Asian, with a short glossy do that evoked the Flapper Era. Clinging black slacks and a matching sweater emphasized the sparseness of her frame. She toted a huge black purse. A big diamond glinted from her left ring finger.

“Dr. Delaware? Maxine.” Her handshake was strong, dry, business-like.

“Thanks for meeting me.”

She peeled off a crescent of pizza and nibbled a corner. “Good timing for dinner. My husband practices gastro at Santa Monica Hospital. Colonoscopies until eight P.M.”

She smiled. “Hope that doesn’t ruin your appetite.”

Mentioning her marital status to set boundaries? The rock on her finger would’ve sufficed. Then again, attention to detail would serve her well in her profession.

I said, “Worked at a hospital for years, no problem.”

“Which one?”

“Western Peds.”

“Kids,” she said. “I couldn’t handle seeing them sick.” She incised another millimeter. “You’re not indulging?”

“Small pie,” I said. “All for you.”

Maxine Driver laughed. “I have to remember about male appetites. David — my husband — could snarf three of these and claim he was dieting. Anyway, Leroy Hoke: I looked up my records, didn’t find much but made you a copy of what I have.”

Out of the purse came a manila envelope. Neat black lettering on the flap. HOKE, LL.

I thanked her, offered to pour her a beer.

She said, “Only if you’re having. Food’s one thing, drinking alone has a weird alkie feel to it.”

I filled two mugs. She kept working at the slice of pizza, daintily but steadily. A surgical scalpel versus Milo’s buzz saw.

When she finished chewing, I held up the envelope. “I’ll read every word but if there’s anything between the lines—”

“You want something psychological?” she said. “A personality analysis? I’m not one of those historians who think they’re Freud. But even if I was, there’s not much known about Leroy other than he was bad to the bone. A rawboned character. I guess in that way he was different.”

“From other mobsters.”

“L.A.’s scene was mostly urban — transplants from the East Coast. Mickey and Bugsy were both originally from New York, as were a lot of the guys who came out here to explore their options. L.A. was considered wide-open territory. Before Bugsy invented Vegas, everyone thought we were going to be the next Sodom. Wild Bill Parker eventually disabused them of that notion, but before he came on the scene, the organized scene was thriving. The movie business helped because there was a natural affinity between actors and bad guys. Any thoughts about that? Psychologically speaking?”

“Creative people like to see themselves as outsiders,” I said.

“Creative people and fakers,” said Maxine Driver. “That was the topic of my doctoral dissertation: posers and hangers-on attracted to the short-term gratification of crime as entertainment. My primary thesis was the more ambiguous the product, the greater the opportunity for bullshit artists and criminals to move in.”

“Mobsters at Hollywood parties,” I said.

“And vice versa. But it went beyond socializing. Dirty money was routinely laundered through production deals because the studios needed quick cash and took out short-term loans from questionable sources. The ultimate meld was a guy like George Raft, a gangster who actually became an actor.”

She smiled. “Mob-connected crooners we won’t even talk about.”

I said, “Hoke was part of that scene.”

“No, that’s the thing, he doesn’t seem to have been. In all the research I’ve done, I haven’t picked up a single shot of him at Ciro’s, not a word about his hobnobbing with the stars. When I told you he was obscure, I meant it.”

“He kept out of the public eye.”

“He certainly didn’t play to the press like the others. Nor have I found any association between him and other gangsters.”

“Lone wolf.”

“He had his own gang, you can’t pull off the jobs he’s suspected of as a solo artist.”

“What kind of jobs?”

“He was suspected of an armored car heist, kidnapping for ransom, a big-time jewel theft.”

“Suspected but not arrested.”

“His name came up in police reports but there was never any follow-up that I could find.”

“Connections other than showbiz?”

“Who knows? He did start out in Culver City and it was extremely corrupt over there — local police alerting bootleggers to raids.”

She picked up a second slice. “A few of his associates disappeared permanently.”

“Sweet guy.”

“I suppose he had his charm. They finally got him for taxes, just like Capone.”

She sipped beer. “What I find interesting, reviewing my material, is even though Leroy doesn’t appear to have associated with any other major bad guys, he didn’t inspire obvious animosity or competition. If he had, he wouldn’t have lasted as long as he did.”

“Never ratted out by anyone,” I said.

“Never shot at,” said Maxine Driver.

“Disappearing associates would help.”

“It would have discouraged loose lips but it wouldn’t have stopped one of the bosses going after him, they were utterly ruthless. Bugsy earned his nickname by being a mad-dog killer, but God help you if you called him that. He still got taken out, over in Virginia Hill’s house in Beverly Hills. Mickey’s house in Brentwood got bombed, though he survived.”

First-name basis with her subjects. The same place Milo inevitably reaches with victims.

She said, “Mickey was attacked while in prison. Survived and got released and died peacefully in his sleep. But as far as I’ve heard, no one roughed Leroy up in San Quentin. He died there.”

“Where did he hail from?”

“Oklahoma.”

“Classic Dust Bowl story?”

“If it was, he didn’t stay poor very long. His first address was in Culver, like I said. But his second address was a big house in the hills near the Hollywood Bowl. Torn down years ago — it’s all in the file.”

I said, “Maybe rural roots led him to keep his own counsel.”

Maxine Driver’s eyes widened. “Interesting you should say that, it’s another one of my themes: For all that criminals pride themselves on deviation from social norms, they’re conservative when it comes to race and ethnicity. Like the gangs of today. You get occasional racial crossover but for the most part, people stay with their kind. My family’s from Seoul and I’ve finally gotten to the point where I can study Korean gangs with detachment. Same story. People even remain loyal to their villages back in the old country. Now how about telling me why a psychologist working with the police is curious about Leroy.”

“A homicide victim might have known him.”

“That would have to be a cold, cold case.”

“A brand-new homicide,” I said.

She frowned. “Leroy died sixty years ago. Are we talking a victim who was a kid back then?”

“A young woman. Possibly a girlfriend.”

She put the pizza down. “Math isn’t my strong suit, but she’d still have to be pretty old.”

“She was nearly a hundred.”

“Wow,” said Maxine Driver. “And someone murdered her? That’s sick. Why do you think she knew Leroy?”

“She visited his grave regularly and his name cropped up in her personal effects.”

“Leroy’s girlfriend,” she said. “Well, that would be a nice bit of new data. So, what, she lasts a century and someone gets her? Bizarre. But I can’t imagine it would relate to Leroy.”

“Probably not but the cops are looking at everything. What can you tell me about Leroy’s love life?”

“Nothing. If he was married, I’ve never found a record of it. The same goes for consorting with party girls, strippers, actresses, the usual gangster thing. Was your victim one of those?”

“Don’t know, yet.”

Red nails re-tweezed the slice of pizza. “I look for interesting subjects and Leroy wasn’t until now. What can you tell me about this woman?”

“Nothing more, sorry.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Ongoing investigation.”

Maxine Driver frowned. “I’ll accept that for the moment but when the cops do close it, you need to offer some reciprocity, I want a nice juicy publication out of it.”

“Fair enough.”

“More than fair. I’m serious, going to hold you to it.”

She drank half a beer, took most of the pizza to go, said nothing when I paid.

Outside the restaurant, we shared a briefer, firmer handshake.

I thanked her again.

She said, “The way to thank me is to keep your word.”

“Promise.”

“A psychologist digging up the past for the cops, you really didn’t explain that but I’ve got to run. One thing I can tell you, Wild Bill wouldn’t have trucked with therapists. He preferred tossing mobsters off cliffs.”

“Finesse,” I said.

“Hey, it worked. He cleaned up the city and the mob never regained a foothold. There’s always a trade-off, of course. Order versus personal liberty. My priorities shift depending on the headlines.”

“Mine, too.”

She said, “I really do expect you to contact me once you’re able to be more forthcoming.”

“Scout’s honor.”

Frosty smile. “I was a Brownie. And by the way, I’m also conversant with your field. Double-majored, psych and history. Hated math, all those statistics courses for psych, so I did the humanities thing.”

She studied me. “Sounds like you’re into the inhumanities. Maybe we’ve got something in common.”