Max Collins - Neon Mirage

Behind the desk, Siegel leaned back in his swivel chair and lit up one of his Havanas. Normally the health-conscious Bug only allowed himself one a day; the last several days I’d noticed he was going through them like he was chain smoking Camels.

Raft took a chair across from Siegel while I stood in the corner, next to a signed, framed Cary Grant 8 by 10 glossy.

Siegel pointed at me with his pool cue cigar and showed off his patented dazzling smile. “I oughta put you in my will, Georgie, for introducing me to Nate, here. He’s just about the most valuable guy I got around this joint.”

I swallowed. I didn’t know whether to say aw shucks or go screaming into the desert.

“He’s straightened out my pilferage problem overnight. He’s turned those flabby ex-flatfoots on my private police force into something like a real security staff. You used to be a dip, didn’t you, Georgie? Well, don’t try it around here-Nate’s got his boys trained to spot ya. Nate doesn’t know it yet,” he confided in Raft, as if I weren’t there, “but I’m going to offer him a permanent position.”

I said, “I’m flattered, Ben,” and let it go at that.

Raft said, “Hear you had quite a turnout last night.”

Siegel gave with a magnanimous wave of his cigar. “Jam-packed. Couldn’t ask for better.” His expression darkened momentarily. “We had a bad run of luck at the tables…” And then he brightened, or pretended to. “…but the house odds’ll turn that around.”

If he was counting on that, he was making a mistake, at least potentially so. Sure, assuming his tables were straight, the odds would even out in the house’s favor; that was a tide that would inevitably turn. But as over-extended as he was, his bankroll might be expended before said tide came in.

“Everything’s set for tomorrow night,” Siegel said. “I chartered a TWA Constellation to bring your pals down, and anybody that doesn’t want to fly can come by train, at my expense.”

“Ben,” Raft said, shifting in his chair, “we got a little problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“A few people can’t make it.”

“Like who?”

“Well. Like almost everybody.”

Siegel’s face went expressionless; and then it began to burn.

Raft seemed very uncomfortable. “It’s not easy for me to tell you this, Ben.”

“What’s the matter with those jerks? Since when don’t Hollywood wanna come to a big party?”

Raft shrugged, tried to find something to say, couldn’t. It was very strange seeing George Raft nervous; it made me at least as uncomfortable as he was.

Siegel gestured to the framed photos around him. “What about your buddies at MGM? Joan Crawford, Greer Garson, Spencer Tracy, Ronald Colman?”

“Ben. Look. Old man Hearst passed the word around the studios. He’s against the whole idea of stars coming out here for this-everybody’s been told to stay away.”

Siegel slammed a fist on his desk and his framed photos rattled. “That lousy cocksucker! What’s he got against me?”

“I don’t know, Ben.”

“It’s that fucking Louella Parsons. She’s always on my ass. Calls me a gangster, in print!”

“What can I say? I’ll be there.”

“Who else?”

“Lon McAllister, Sonny Tufts, Charlie Coburn…a few others.”

Siegel’s face had slowly gone from red to white. “I advertise Ava Gardner and instead give ’em Sonny Tufts, is that it?”

“Hell, I think it’s white of Tufts to show, considering the pressure.”

Siegel, calming, said, “Yeah, you’re right. I’m not gonna take it out on the ones with stones enough to show. What about Jessel?”

“He’s coming. He’s set to emcee.”

“Yeah, he can deliver the fuckin’ eulogy.”

“Ben, there’ll be enough stars to justify your advertising and everything. And Wilkerson says that all the reporters you invited are coming.”

Siegel smirked humorlessly. “After the free ride I promised ’em, you can bet on it. I sent out cases of whiskey to a couple dozen of the bastards.” Abruptly he stood, looked sharply my way. “Have you seen Chick around?”

Chick was Virginia Hill’s twenty-one-year-old brother, a nice enough kid, who was working as a robber, that is, one of the trusted hands who emptied the slot machines and hauled the bags of coin to the counting room.

“Yeah,” I said, “he’s working. If he isn’t on the floor, he’s in the counting room.”

“Get him, would you?”

I didn’t much like playing gopher to Siegel, but I didn’t much feel like telling him to go fuck himself, either. I found Chick in the counting room and hauled the boy back.

“What do you need, Ben?” he asked. He was wearing a white shirt and black pants-which was one of the two standard casino employee uniforms, the other and more common being a tux; even just the modified formal wear looked odd on Chick, who was a kid with dark blond hair, slicked back in the Raft manner, and pointed, callowly handsome features.

Siegel, still standing, dug in his pants pocket; he withdrew a wad of bills and peeled off ten one-hundred dollar bills; he scattered them on his desk like more notes to himself.

“There’s a grand,” he told the kid. “Take it and do some shopping in L.A. Get some nice presents for the reporters, the columnists. Neckties, shirts. Oh, hell, you know.”

“Sure, Ben. Should I drive, or what?”

“Naw, I want you back by tomorrow afternoon. Catch the first available flight.” He peeled off another hundred.

Chick collected the money, smiled goofily like a teenager whose dad just handed him the keys to the new DeSoto. He stood there with the money in his hands for a few moments, until Siegel rather irritatedly waved him off, and the kid slipped out the door.

“We’ll keep these reporters happy,” Siegel said. Then he put his cigar out in a tray and came out from behind the desk and Raft stood and the men went out into the lobby; I trailed behind, not having been dismissed yet.

“Let me show you the pool,” Siegel said, his arm around Raft now.

I was about to fall away, but then decided to go along. I wanted to see if Peggy was playing bathing beauty today.

Turned out she wasn’t. Just a bevy of waitresses, cigarette girls and hookers, soaking up the winter sun.

So was a guy in a tux, his tie loose around his neck.

Siegel’s face reddened again.

He broke away from Raft and went over and kicked the chaise longue, whose pale, round-faced, startled occupant sat up and looked at Siegel with wide, terror-filled eyes.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Siegel snarled.

“Just-just s-sitting here…”

“Get back to work, you bum, before I boot your ass out on the highway.”

The round-faced man looked at me and then at Raft, whom he obviously recognized but was too bewildered by Siegel’s performance to be impressed by the presence of a mere movie star.

The man could only stutter: “B-but I’m a ga-ga-ga…”

“Spit it out!”

“Guest!”

“What?” Siegel said. Taken aback.

“I don’t work here…I’m a guest.”

Raft covered his mouth but I didn’t bother. My hand wouldn’t have been big enough to hide the grin.

Siegel, very embarrassed, started brushing off the shoulders of the guy’s tux, as if it had gotten dirty, which it hadn’t. He did his best to make it up to the guy, handing him one of the same courtesy cards the newspapermen got, giving him a free ride on everything except gambling itself.

We walked back into the casino and Siegel said, “Brother, is my face red.”

Frequently.

“I guess I oughta watch my fuckin’ temper…shit! Do you see who that is?”