“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.”