Trent Bayless’ address was a two-storey Victorian at the top of a low hill in Angelino Heights, just east of Echo Park Lake. The timbers of the lower half of the house were stained a dark green, the upper storey clad in matching shingles. A single gangly palm rose from behind the house, painted silver by the moonlight.
There were lights on in the upper rooms, shrouded by drapes. I sat outside for a time before I went to his door, brooding over what I would say. There was a temptation, small as it was, to tell him to pay. I felt bad for the kid, but his problems were his own. Except that they weren’t, they were wrapped up in mine now; and if I helped Siegel and Rosenberg extract so much as a cent out of him, then I was an accomplice. My conscience wouldn’t accept that.
So the way I saw it, he had to run. The consequences of that were bad for me, but they meant to kill me anyway, somewhere down the line, so whether he paid or not, it was just a question of how long I had. Better to have Bayless out of the way and all the risk on my shoulders.
I rapped on the door three times. After a moment the porch light above me came on and then Bayless opened up. The photograph was a good likeness – even with his hair out of place, there was no mistaking him. He had on a purple dressing gown that was an inch short in the sleeves. He cinched the neck against the cool night breeze.
‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Yates, I need to talk to you, Mr Bayless.’
‘About what? Do you know what time it is?’
‘I’m sorry, but this won’t wait. Ben Siegel sent me.’
He recognised the name, but his face didn’t register any trepidation at hearing it. ‘I’m not acquainted with Mr Siegel, I think there’s some mistake.’
I held up the envelope. ‘He’s acquainted with you. Can we talk inside a minute?’
Bayless glanced around the street behind me, looking embarrassed at my being there. ‘I’m not in the habit of inviting callers in at this hour. I’d like you to leave.’
‘I can’t until we speak. And this isn’t a conversation you want to have on your doorstep.’
He shifted his weight, showing nervousness for the first time. ‘I think I’ll decide that. What is this about?’
‘Siegel’s about to shake you down. There are photographs in here. Can we go inside?’ His face drained of colour and it gnawed at me enough I had to look away.
‘I’m not one of Siegel’s men,’ I said. ‘I’m here to try to help you. Come on, open up.’
He stepped back from the doorway, the actor in him reaching for composure, the tension in his movements betraying the truth.
I crossed the threshold and waited for him to lead me into a small parlour, one of the walls covered with behind-the-scenes shots from movie sets: Van Nuys airport doubling for somewhere in Arabia, identifiable by its Art Deco radio tower; two lovers on a Parisian street, the photographer’s angle revealing it as a set on a back lot. I couldn’t see Bayless in any of them.
‘I’ll get to the point. Siegel has compromising photos of you.’ I set the envelope down on the glass coffee table in the centre of the room. ‘I haven’t examined them.’
He looked at it and away again just as quickly.
‘He wants ten thousand from you by Wednesday, otherwise he’s going to expose you.’
‘What?’ His eyes flicked around the room. ‘This is … I have nothing to—’
‘Save it. If that was true, he wouldn’t have sent me.’
‘You grubby little man.’
‘I’m not here to turn the screw. But you have to understand this is serious.’
He picked up the envelope and opened it. He pulled the contents halfway out and looked through the first few images, bug eyes locked on them. ‘This can’t …’
‘Is there someplace you can go to, outside of Los Angeles? Out of California, if possible.’
He lowered himself onto a leather Chesterfield on the other side of the table, the envelope next to him, its contents face down, halfway spilling out. ‘Leave California?’
‘That’s your best move.’
‘My best move? My life is here. I’m an actor, where would I go?’ He threw his hands up, stopping himself. ‘Christ, what am I thinking discussing this with you?’
‘I want to help. I’m only here because Siegel would kill me if I didn’t come. But I’m not telling you to do as he says, I’m telling you to run.’
He gripped his head in his hands. ‘What is—Who are you? What’s your part in this?’
‘I’m a reporter – the messenger. I have no part. Siegel wants me to—’
‘A reporter?’ He looked up, sliding forward in his seat. ‘This has nothing to do with Benny Siegel, does it? You’re a hack for a scandal rag.’
‘I write for the Pacific Journal. Go look me up. I don’t want anything to do with this but Siegel’s got me over a barrel.’
‘What sort of a barrel?’ His eyes strayed to the pictures next to him.
‘That’s not important.’
‘That’s a hell of a line to take. You stand there and tell me I’m being blackmailed and I should run, but you won’t take your own advice. If there’s truth to any of this.’
‘I can’t run. Besides, if it wasn’t me he’d only send someone else.’
‘How noble of you to come then.’
‘The photographs are right there. You think I took them? Get serious. That is days or weeks of surveillance work. You want to get hot at someone, maybe you should think about who put Siegel on to you in the first place.’
He bristled, his gaze losing focus, and I wondered if it was because he had a culprit in mind.
‘This is too much. Where the hell am I supposed to find ten thousand dollars?’
Rosenberg’s line about a sugar daddy was too vulgar to broach. ‘You’d think of paying?’
‘What choice do I have? I have to consider it, don’t I?’
I spread my hands. ‘In my experience, if you pay once, they’ll come knocking again.’
‘Well, that would keep you in a job, at least.’
I looked away, enough truth in the slight that it landed. I made to go. ‘I’ve told you what I think. I know this is a lot to take in and I’m sorry for your troubles, truly.’
‘And now he pities me. Take it down the road, pal.’
I went out into the hallway.
He called after me. ‘Did you even try to talk Siegel out of this?’
I stopped by the front door, noticing the framed shots of Los Angeles lining the wall and up the staircase. He appeared in the doorway. ‘Of course I did, but they had a gun to my head.’ But as I said it, I tried to think back to that room, think if I did even try to refuse. As futile as it would have been.
‘You’re a real hero, aren’t you?’
The spite in his words provoked thoughts of Nancy Hill and Julie Desjardins. Of all the killings I should have prevented – Ginny Kolkhorst, Jeanette Runnels, Bess Prescott. And Alice Anderson. The one I should have saved. The guilt that walked everywhere with me, like a shadow.
Even now, by staying in the city I was exposing my wife to danger, trying to make things right for myself. A selfish man with selfish motivations, forever trying to outrun himself. And now a kid actor in another man’s dressing gown calling me out from the moral high ground. I turned the door handle, wanting the night to swallow me up.
‘Wait.’
An unseen clock ticked, filling the silence.
‘Please.’
I ran my hand over my mouth and turned to face him again.
‘I don’t … What the hell am I supposed to do?’ He sat down on the staircase. ‘Look at me, I’m so unglued I’m asking you for help.’
I bowed my head, hands on my hips, trying to think of something to say. ‘Maybe I could speak to Siegel’s men, try to buy you some more time.’
‘What use is that? If I had a year I couldn’t raise that amount.’
‘Then we’re back to where we started. You take off.’
He shook his head as if that would make it all go away. Then he focused on me again. ‘Tell me why you aren’t running. If that’s the smart move.’
I watched him, saw the hope in his eyes that I had some remedy. ‘I told you, I don’t have that option. There are matters I have to take care of. Here, in the city.’
‘So you’re working your debt off, is that it?’ He spoke over me before I could deny it. ‘Then you can speak to Siegel, maybe I can do something for him too. Instead of the money?’
I felt Siegel’s finger in my eye, against my teeth; the tightness in my chest that came with the certainty that he’d kill me when this was through. ‘That’s the last thing you want. Being in his debt.’
‘No. This is the last thing I want.’ He glanced towards the parlour doorway, where the photographs still lay.
‘I’ll talk to Siegel, see if I can get him to lay off, but for Christ’s sake don’t get your hopes up. Take my advice and start packing.’
I turned and opened the door, the fear in his eyes too much of a mirror of my own.