The Devil May Dance

scientist. She pursued facts, and she thought the dances around obtaining them were nonsense. Even if she did make a fine dancer.
“That’s a complicated question,” Goode said. “I mean, take the world of nightclubs that he grew up in. Can’t really make it without some shadiness, whether the artist knows it or not. Then, of course, for about a decade he’s been a two-percent owner in the Sands.”
“Bugsy built the whole town,” Charlie noted.
“Precisely,” Goode said. “So nothing too crazy there. The real juiciness happened in Cuba in ’47!”
“What happened in Cuba in ’47?” Margaret asked.
“I am constantly amazed at how effectively he had this buried,” Goode said, shaking her head. “This is why he punched Lee Mortimer in the nose, because of the big Cuba exposé.”
She looked at Margaret, who shrugged.
“So 1947 was before Revolución cubana, obviously. Sinatra was with Tommy Dorsey’s band. He flew to Havana with a buddy from Hoboken who just happened to be Al Capone’s cousin. They checked in at the Hotel Nacional and later that night were photographed eating and drinking with various known members of the Mob, including Lucky Luciano.”
“Wow,” said Charlie. “But maybe they just ran into them?”
“No way, José,” Goode said. “Luciano got out of prison but was banned from the U.S., so he called for all the bosses across the country to meet him in Havana to make him capo di tutti capi, the boss of bosses. Lansky, Costello, Three Finger Brown, and on and on.”
“Handsome Johnny and Wassy were drinking and gambling with us,” Margaret observed. “By that measure, someone could raise suspicions about Charlie and me.”
“Hm,” Goode grunted as she swerved out of her lane to pass a poky Nash spewing exhaust. “That’s pretty much what Frank said. ‘It was all just a coincidence, right place, wrong time, took me a couple days to realize what was going on, didn’t wanna be rude or ungracious to the fellas buying me drinks.’ More to it than that, of course. When Frank was trying to get out of his contract with Dorsey, Lucky spotted him about fifty Gs. So Frank’s trip to Havana was a way of paying him back—sing for his friends, drink with them, carouse; mobsters like celebrities as much as any of us do. That’s what Lucky says, anyway. There was also a rumor that Frank brought a suitcase full of unmarked bills for him. But who knows—hey, that’s my house!” Goode pointed out Margaret’s window to a nondescript two-story home that sat behind a line of palm trees. She’d been driving east on Sunset for a while now. “I’m in the basement. I rent from a nice family. Hospital executive and his wife, two kids.”
“Hollywood Nightlife must put you in touch with all sorts of characters,” said Margaret, thinking about Violet.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she replied. “Think about all the young things who flock to this town desperate for a speck of stardust. Then add a whole bunch of unscrupulous gangsters and the goniffs who run Hollywood—fat old men with insatiable appetites.”
“What can you tell me about Itchy Meyer?” Margaret said. “I saw him at the Daisy with my niece Violet, who ran away from home earlier this year.”
“Ugh,” Goode said. “He’s grotesque. He’s the perfect example of how power works in this town. He’s got millions of dollars and a government and law enforcement structure built around protecting the industry rather than the girls.”
“Do you think you might be able to help us track down my niece?” Margaret asked, unable to keep the rising fear out of her voice.
Goode shrugged. “I could try,” she said. “Tomorrow when I’m sober, call me and give me all the particulars.”
She paused to light yet another cigarette, then said, a bit too casually, “Say, what do you think about Chris Powell getting whacked? Do you buy that it was over gambling debts? Folks I know say he wasn’t really known for big bets, though he played the horses.”
“Um, I’m not sure,” Charlie said.
“We never met him,” Margaret added, put off by Goode changing the subject.
“I know he and Frank almost got into a jam about a broad, but I doubt that had anything to do with this,” Goode said. “Frank doesn’t have rivals killed—he just ruins their careers. Or ices ’em out. Like he did with Lawford after he heard he’d taken Ava to dinner. Then, of course, Lawford married a Kennedy, and Frank forgave him ’cause he loves Jack. And the rest is history.”
“Meehan told me and Lawford that Powell’s eyes had been shot out,” Charlie said. “Some Mob thing so you can’t have an open casket.”
“I mean, over gambling debts?” Goode said. “Kill the golden goose and chop off its head? Doesn’t make sense.”
“None of it makes sense, right?” said Margaret. “Killing Bugsy Siegel—”
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Goode said. “By the time Detective Meehan is done with it, the whole job will be blamed on a hobo the cops shanghai hopping a freighter in Bakersfield. That’s his job, Meehan, to clean it all up.”
With the famous Hollywood sign looming above them, Goode pulled over to the side of Canyon Lake Drive, essentially deserted at this time of night, and cut the engine.
“Have you ever seen it up close?” she asked, nodding up at the sign. She opened her door and Charlie and Margaret followed her out. Surrounded by mountains, desert, and mansions, they felt like they were in a new world, a place where riches were being amassed and anything was possible. The moon lit the sign better than a Hollywood stage manager could have dreamed, and it was easy to feel the mysterious allure of the city around them as they gazed up at it.
“Ever hear of Peg Entwistle?” Goode asked, taking a deep drag on her Lucky Strike.
“I don’t think so,” Charlie said.
“Broadway actress, came out here in the 1920s,” Goode said. “Gifted. It was said she inspired Bette Davis to go into theater. Costarred with Bogie. Cast in a picture called