don’t look so tough,” said Earl. “He looks kind of fancy.”
“He’s British, did you know that? Or sort of British. He came to this country when he was thirteen, and now he puts on airs and calls everybody Old Man and My Dear Chap and Ronald Colman shit like that. But it’s all a con. He was running a street gang on the East Side when he was fifteen. He’s got a dozen or so kills. He’s a tough little monkey, let me tell you.”
Hard to match that description with what Earl thought was a toff, a glossy little fellow who paid too much attention to the way he dressed.
Owney leaned over gallantly, put in his hand, and took a long, silvery limb from a lady, and bent to escort her out of the car. She bobbed, then popped up in clear view.
“Now there’s a dame,” said Earl. “That is a dame.”
“That is, that surely is,” said D. A. “Now ain’t that the goddamndest thing? I know that one and I bet I know our next guest.”
The woman stepped sideways, smiling, filling the night with the dazzle of her lips. She was all dessert. She was what all the gals wanted to be, but never could quite make it, and what all the guys wanted to sleep with. Her hair was an auburn cascade, soft as music.
“What’s her story?” asked Earl.
“Her name is Virginia Hill. She’s a mob gal. They love her in Chicago, where she was special pals with some of the wops that run that town. They call her the Flamingo, she’s so long and beautiful. But again, don’t let the looks fool you. She’s a tough piece of work from the steel towns of ‘Bama. She came up the hard way, through the houses. She’s a hooker, or used to be one, and she’s been around the life a long time. She’s twenty-eight going on fifty-eight. And now, the last player. Now, ain’t this interesting.”
Yes, it was. The third person out of the car was toasty brown, like some sort of football athlete or other kind of ballplayer. He wasn’t in a tux at all, but some kind of tan linen, double-breasted, with a yellow handkerchief and a pair of white shoes on. His shirt was storm blue and he wore a white fedora. A cigar was clutched between his teeth, and even from across the street the tautness of his jaws suggested great strength. He radiated something, maybe toughness, maybe self-love, maybe confidence, but some other thing, well off the normal human broadcasting spectrum.
“Who’s the punk?” asked Earl.
“That’s Benjamin Siegel. Better known as Bugsy, but not to his face. He’s a handsome nutcase from the East Side of New York, very connected to the top guys. He was sent out to L. A. a couple of years before the war, where he’s been running the rackets and hanging out with movie stars. But it’s very damned interesting. What the hell is he doing here, visiting with Owney Maddox? What are diem two birds cooking up, I wonder? Bugsy didn’t come here to soak his ass in the vapors, I guarantee you.”
The three celebrities exchanged an intimate little laugh and pretended to ignore the gawkers around them, those who felt the power of their charisma. Abreast, they walked up the steps and into the nightclub.
Earl watched them disappear. He squirmed on the bench, feeling a little dispirited. It seemed so wrong, somehow: all those boys dead in the shithole reefs of the Pacific, for “America”; and here was America, a place where gangsters in tuxedos had the best women and the swankiest clubs and lived the life of maharajahs. All that dying, all that bleeding: Owney Maddox. Bugsy Siegel.
“Man,” he allowed, “they dress too pretty. Would be a pleasure to git them all dirty, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s our job,” said the old man. “You and me, son. Don’t believe they allow no tuxedoes in jail.”
Chapter 7
Virginia was in a foul mood, not in itself an unusual occurrence, but this morning she was well beyond her usual bounds of anger, “When are they going to get here?” she demanded.
“I called them. They will get here as fast
“He’s British, did you know that? Or sort of British. He came to this country when he was thirteen, and now he puts on airs and calls everybody Old Man and My Dear Chap and Ronald Colman shit like that. But it’s all a con. He was running a street gang on the East Side when he was fifteen. He’s got a dozen or so kills. He’s a tough little monkey, let me tell you.”
Hard to match that description with what Earl thought was a toff, a glossy little fellow who paid too much attention to the way he dressed.
Owney leaned over gallantly, put in his hand, and took a long, silvery limb from a lady, and bent to escort her out of the car. She bobbed, then popped up in clear view.
“Now there’s a dame,” said Earl. “That is a dame.”
“That is, that surely is,” said D. A. “Now ain’t that the goddamndest thing? I know that one and I bet I know our next guest.”
The woman stepped sideways, smiling, filling the night with the dazzle of her lips. She was all dessert. She was what all the gals wanted to be, but never could quite make it, and what all the guys wanted to sleep with. Her hair was an auburn cascade, soft as music.
“What’s her story?” asked Earl.
“Her name is Virginia Hill. She’s a mob gal. They love her in Chicago, where she was special pals with some of the wops that run that town. They call her the Flamingo, she’s so long and beautiful. But again, don’t let the looks fool you. She’s a tough piece of work from the steel towns of ‘Bama. She came up the hard way, through the houses. She’s a hooker, or used to be one, and she’s been around the life a long time. She’s twenty-eight going on fifty-eight. And now, the last player. Now, ain’t this interesting.”
Yes, it was. The third person out of the car was toasty brown, like some sort of football athlete or other kind of ballplayer. He wasn’t in a tux at all, but some kind of tan linen, double-breasted, with a yellow handkerchief and a pair of white shoes on. His shirt was storm blue and he wore a white fedora. A cigar was clutched between his teeth, and even from across the street the tautness of his jaws suggested great strength. He radiated something, maybe toughness, maybe self-love, maybe confidence, but some other thing, well off the normal human broadcasting spectrum.
“Who’s the punk?” asked Earl.
“That’s Benjamin Siegel. Better known as Bugsy, but not to his face. He’s a handsome nutcase from the East Side of New York, very connected to the top guys. He was sent out to L. A. a couple of years before the war, where he’s been running the rackets and hanging out with movie stars. But it’s very damned interesting. What the hell is he doing here, visiting with Owney Maddox? What are diem two birds cooking up, I wonder? Bugsy didn’t come here to soak his ass in the vapors, I guarantee you.”
The three celebrities exchanged an intimate little laugh and pretended to ignore the gawkers around them, those who felt the power of their charisma. Abreast, they walked up the steps and into the nightclub.
Earl watched them disappear. He squirmed on the bench, feeling a little dispirited. It seemed so wrong, somehow: all those boys dead in the shithole reefs of the Pacific, for “America”; and here was America, a place where gangsters in tuxedos had the best women and the swankiest clubs and lived the life of maharajahs. All that dying, all that bleeding: Owney Maddox. Bugsy Siegel.
“Man,” he allowed, “they dress too pretty. Would be a pleasure to git them all dirty, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s our job,” said the old man. “You and me, son. Don’t believe they allow no tuxedoes in jail.”
Chapter 7
Virginia was in a foul mood, not in itself an unusual occurrence, but this morning she was well beyond her usual bounds of anger, “When are they going to get here?” she demanded.
“I called them. They will get here as fast
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