Two miniature spotlights strafed the facade of Ciglio’s, sweeping across the gold lettering of the restaurant’s name. I cruised by it and parked the car on a side street a block away. I left the key in the ignition and climbed out. ‘If I’m not back in an hour—’
‘Just see that you do come back.’ Lizzie blew me a kiss and slid behind the wheel.
I tracked back along Hollywood Boulevard, awash with cars, lights and the early evening dinner crowd. The Boulevard had been dressed for Christmas – bells, stars and candy canes strung on wires across the roadway, fake Christmas trees topping the streetlights. I couldn’t remember if it was like that before, or if I just hadn’t noticed.
I went into the restaurant and straightaway the maitre d’ was on me, asking for my reservation. A face that didn’t fit.
‘I’m not here to eat. I’m looking for Mr Siegel.’
His expression ran to impassive at the name. ‘Mr Siegel isn’t joining us tonight.’
Stock answer. I drew close. ‘What about the back room?’
‘Sir, you’ll have to come back when you have a reservation.’ He gestured to the door, feigning disinterest, but I’d caught him glance at a heavy sitting at a table near the back.
‘What do you say I go take a look myself.’ I moved past him and started towards the kitchen.
He came after me and the man near the back stood up as I approached. He stepped in front of my path. ‘We have a problem here?’
‘No problem. Tell Siegel Charlie Yates wants to see him.’ Eyes were on us now, the diners at the surrounding tables turning to look. I went to barge past the man, but he corralled me with his arms. I tried to brush him off. I heard a fork drop somewhere, clanking against a china plate.
He started to muscle me back towards the door, pinning my arms to my sides, me struggling against him. ‘Get off me—’
‘Keep your voice down.’
‘SIEGEL – GET OUT HERE.’
There were two of them on me now, suited, wrestling me towards the street but trying not to make a scene, so I kept resisting, knowing if they got me outside all bets were off. ‘SIEGEL.’
I heard a new voice and suddenly everything stopped. They let me go; I gulped a breath and saw Moe Rosenberg standing behind them. Hand by his side, he pointed with one finger. ‘Walk.’
He turned and went the way he’d pointed, towards the kitchen. I stepped between the two hoods and trailed after him, every head in the place following me. The pianist started playing again.
Rosenberg pushed through a swing door into a white tiled kitchen with a half-dozen chefs at work. He went through another door to the side and then we were back in the room they’d beaten me in. It was empty apart from us.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he said.
‘I need to talk to Siegel.’
‘If he’d seen what you just pulled you’d be dead already.’
‘Enough with the threats—’
‘I’m telling you straight. He’d have dragged you out the back and done you himself. You got no clue how bad he hates you.’
I stabbed a finger in his chest. ‘Then it’s a goddamn shame he needs me so much, isn’t it?’
He took a step back, glanced at his shoes, looked up with dead eyes. ‘He needs you like he needs crabs. It’s only me talked him down this long.’
‘Am I supposed to be grateful?’
‘Why are you here, Yates?’
‘I’ll talk to the organ grinder, not the monkey.’
He spat in my face.
The shock made me recoil. I put my hand to my cheek, wiped the saliva away, trembling, scared worse than a punch.
He scratched the corner of his eye with his forefinger. ‘Every time you open your mouth you make me regret keeping you alive. What do you want?’
I stared at him, wanting to turn tail, his show of power having its effect. I wiped again with my sleeve, trying to still my tremors. ‘I saw Trent Bayless. He’s not worth your trouble, lay off him.’
He was shaking his head even before I finished. ‘No.’
‘He’s a kid. You said the money’s what you care about, he can’t raise it. Shake down someone else, there are easier targets to knock off.’
‘As easy as that? The kid’s a fruit with a line to some deep pockets. He made his bed.’
‘What will ruining him achieve? It leaves you back at square one. There must be a hundred bigwigs you can squeeze who’ll cough up the green.’
‘You’re smarter than that. You concentrate on your part and we’ll take care of the rest.’ He unfolded a white napkin from a table and tossed it to me. ‘I told you not to swoon for any sob stories.’
‘You son of a bitch.’
‘He pays by Wednesday.’
He stepped to the door leading to the rear exit and slid the bolt. ‘Don’t come back here again without an invite. I won’t blab about you showing up, but word will get back to Ben anyway.’
*
I hit the street feeling like a piece of dirt under another man’s sole. I steadied myself against a streetlight, wondering if I’d expected any other outcome.
A dirty adrenaline propelled me. I crossed the street and ran back to the Boulevard and found a payphone. I dialled the operator and asked to be connected to Bayless’ line. He answered, slurring his words.
‘It’s Charlie Yates.’
‘Mr Messenger. I’d say it’s a pleasure to hear from you, but …’
‘I just talked with Siegel’s men. They won’t budge.’
‘You did what? I never asked for you to do me any favours.’
‘I’m trying to help. But what I said the other night – it’s over. Now’s the time to take off.’
‘Goddamn you. And what happens then? You move on to your next poor chump and I’m left looking over my shoulder.’
I thought about Lizzie, wanted to tell him I was leaving too, right then. But I couldn’t make it ring true in my head. ‘I won’t write the story. I don’t know what they’ll do then but it won’t be safe for either of us.’
He snorted. ‘They’ll kill us both is what.’
I had no retort.
He said nothing for a moment and it sounded like he took a drink. Then, ‘You’re spineless. Tell yourself what you will, but you’ll bend whichever way they want in the end. I’ll take care of myself. Don’t try to contact me again.’ He hung up.
I let the receiver hang by my side, feeling as though I’d been cut loose from the city around me.
I moved off slowly, working out what to say to Lizzie, angling for another twenty-four hours, a last-ditch effort to find Hill and Desjardins. I passed a movie theatre, a line of teenagers out front, and remembered the tip about a girl resembling Desjardins working a joint on Fairfax – one last straw to grasp at. I made it to the end of the block and turned onto the side street where I’d left the car.
I stopped and looked, double-checking the street sign. Lizzie and the car were gone.