The Devil May Dance

hand.
“In combat, you can’t be squeamish about using your teeth to rip off an ear or tear out a windpipe. Testicles, kidneys, temples, noses, Adam’s apples—anything.” He stared into Wayne’s eyes and saw sheer panic. “Now, I’m going to continue to act as if this is friendly,” Charlie said, “and you’re doing me—an actual veteran—a favor by getting the fuck out of here.” Charlie lowered his left hand. “Okay, Mr. Wayne?” he said loudly. “Thanks so much. You’re a pal.” He let go of Wayne’s hand.
Wayne looked around at the crowd and the photographers. And then, almost as quickly as the situation had ignited, it was defused. Wayne disappeared into the night. Charlie glanced at Sinatra, who breathed a sigh of relief and winked at him before being escorted to his car. Within seconds, all that remained were spectators with nothing to see.
Margaret got a little thrill seeing Charlie adapt himself so well to the alpha-dog environment, but the woman who’d rescued her seemed disappointed that the fight had broken up before it even began.
“Aw, that’s a shame,” she said.
“Why?” asked Margaret as the crowd began to dissipate.
“I’m with Hollywood Nightlife—I’m Charlotte Goode,” the woman said, handing Margaret a business card.
CHARLOTTE GOODE
REPORTER AND PHOTOGRAPHER
Hollywood Nightlife
6299 Hollywood Blvd
SCoops 4-8760
“I’m—”
“Margaret Marder, wife of the congressman who’s approaching us now,” Goode said.
“Well, that was weird,” Charlie said, visibly relieved as he approached his wife.
“What magic words did you use to save Frank’s life?” Goode asked.
“I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced,” said Charlie.
“This is Charlotte Goode. She’s a reporter,” Margaret said. She turned to Goode. “Why don’t we buy you a drink? You can educate us.” Someone who knew Hollywood as well as Goode might be able to help her track down Violet, Margaret thought, unable to shake how lost her niece had seemed.
“I’m not going to talk to any reporters, honey,” Charlie said.
“Oh, we’re off the record, Congressman,” said Goode, dropping her cigarette to the pavement and crushing the butt. “But given that your ride just left without you, why don’t I run you both back to your hotel? I’ll give you a little tour of the Hollywood you don’t hear much about.”
“‘They don’t worship money here, they worship death,’” Goode said. “That’s Faulkner, the patron saint of writers who come here to have our hearts broken.” She lit a cigarette with one hand and used the other to steer her beat-up blue Chevy Bel Air. Margaret had unsuccessfully tried to brush aside the fast-food wrappers that littered the front seat before giving up to focus on gripping the interior door handle. Charlotte took an abrupt and unsignaled turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard, prompting a cacophony of horns.
Margaret glanced over her shoulder to see Charlie grimacing, both hands braced against the back of her seat. She offered him a small smile of encouragement.
“So where are we headed?” Margaret asked.
“The site of a whacking,” Goode said with a grin, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth as she took a wide left.
“Whose?” asked Charlie.
“Bugsy Siegel,” she said. “Syndicate sent him here in the 1930s. He took over the rackets, got dope coming in from Mexico, and muscled in on the Screen Extras Guild. Big power there.”
“In the Screen Extras Guild? How does that work?” asked Charlie.
“Say you want a crowded street in ancient Athens for your movie,” Goode said, “or a packed coliseum. How much money do you lose if all the extras call in sick one day?”
“I remember seeing photos of Siegel popping up with Gable and Grant and the like,” Margaret recalled.
“Oh, sure, he was legit pals with a bunch of these folks—Jean Harlow was godmother to his daughter!” Goode said. “Then the studios started blocking those photos and censoring news of those friendships.”
“How did they block it?” Charlie asked.
“Traded it for dishier scoops,” she said. “Someone else gets human-sacrificed into my lava, but the news gods are appeased. Win-win.”
“Not for whoever ends up on the cover,” Charlie observed.
“Yes, not for them,” Goode agreed. “But so shall ye reap.”
She applied the brakes with more enthusiasm than Charlie would have recommended, and he lurched forward in his seat. Goode put the car in park and gestured with her cigarette across Margaret’s lap toward a white Spanish Colonial mansion, the mud-colored tiles on the roof barely visible behind a forest of palm trees. “This is Virginia Hill’s house, where Bugsy was killed in ’47.”
She put her car back in drive and negotiated a rapid U-turn. Charlie was flung across the back seat and swallowed down a wave of nausea.
“Just a few blocks away from here is where Johnny Stompanato was killed.” Stompanato, a World War II veteran, had been an enforcer for Mob boss Mickey Cohen and an abusive beau of Lana Turner until her fourteen-year-old daughter stabbed him in what was eventually ruled justifiable homicide.
“Where is Mickey Cohen these days?” Margaret wondered.
“Prison,” said Charlie. “Just a few months ago.”
“Alcatraz,” added Goode. The streets around them were changing from lush opulence to dingier commercial fare.
“For tax evasion, I assume?” Margaret asked.
“Of course,” said Goode.
“People lie,” Charlie said. “Numbers don’t.”
“Isn’t it odd that mobsters are just, y’know, hanging out with these big stars?” Margaret asked, fishing.
“Handsome Johnny even got a producing credit on a few pictures!” Goode said.
“Who?” asked Margaret.
“Johnny Rosselli,” Goode said. “Indicted with the head of the Theatrical Stage Employees Union. Racketeering. He was with you guys tonight!”
“Who?” Charlie asked.
“‘Handsome’ Johnny Rosselli and Wassy Handelman,” Goode said. “They were the two thugs with Frank tonight. Handsome and Harry Cohn at Columbia are thick as thieves. Also tight with Giancana, of course. But then, everyone’s friends with Momo.”
“Momo?” asked Margaret.
“Giancana,” Charlie said.
“Momo has tons of friends,” Goode said.
“Like Sinatra?” asked Margaret.
“Sinatra,” said Goode. “Dino…”
“How connected is Frank, really?” Margaret blurted out, looking at Charlie to gauge his reaction. She couldn’t tell in the darkness of the car, but Charlie was surprised and a bit pleased. Why not just ask? Charlie’s careers in academia and politics required finesse and diplomacy, but Margaret was a