Fifteen

While Gene Was in Vegas: Chris Long Returns

It was eight P.M., and Eddie Cornell had been sitting at the bar in Revells since a little before seven, knocking back double shots of tequila (from which he derived no pleasure) and chain-smoking Marlboros. In that time he’d maintained a brooding calm, breathing in and out through his nose, occasionally making a little grunting sound, while he listened to Patti Page sing ten straight songs on the jukebox. Chris Long was an hour late, and Eddie decided to give him until eight-thirty—no, make that nine— and if he had not arrived by then he was out the door.

(Although he was routinely late himself, Eddie treated tardiness in others with unreasonable anger, which was definitely a liability if you were a vice cop—as he once was—or a homicide detective, his current job with the L.A.P.D. Capturing bad guys required infinite patience, especially if you relied upon information supplied by snitches, who were notoriously undependable when it came to showing up on time for meetings, if they showed up at all. To Eddie, however, Long was not merely an informer but also a versatile con man and quite possibly a murderer, who had received a free pass on the streets only because he was useful to someone like Eddie and the people Eddie knew, both inside and outside the department.)

Eddie, his nerves strained, looked up and saw his pale heavy face in the mirror behind the bar, a face that discouraged levity and inspired fear. Then he lifted his chin and changed his expression to something more cheerful, knowing that he would be willing to wait all night for Long, if that’s what it took to find out if he was telling the truth.

“This is it,” Long had told Eddie that afternoon, when he called him at home. “This is what you’ve been waiting for.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Long.”

“C’mon, man! This is real. I know this chick. She was there. She was center-stage.”

“It isn’t real until you’ve seen the film.”

“Fuckit then. I’ll go somewhere else.”

“There is nowhere else to go,” Eddie had said, after a shade of hesitation, indicating that he’d heard Long’s threat and dismissed it. “Everything in this area goes through me.”

“Look, Eddie—”

“My piece is half.”

“Forty percent.”

“Half.”

A long silence. Then: “Okay, Eddie, it’s a deal.”

“Meet me at Revells at seven. And fuckin don’t be late.”

The “Tennessee Waltz” came on the jukebox and Eddie glanced down the bar. Clyde Phoebe was drawing a stein of beer for a thin black man with a sallow complexion. He was wearing a cheap leather jacket and a fancy gold Rolex that was probably fake.

Eddie said to Clyde, after the song ended, “Did you ever dance with her?”

“Dance with who?”

“Guess.”

Clyde flicked Eddie a look that suggested annoyance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Sure you do. Miss Patti Page, the singin’ rage.”

Clyde put the stein of beer on the bar in front of the black man, who said, with a little giggle, “Come on, boss, tell us the truth. Did you dance with her or not?”

Clyde looked at the black man disapprovingly for a few moments, paying special attention to the surgical scars above his eyes, then he limped back to the register. “Ain’t none of your business, Jimmy,” he said, after he rung up the sale. “Ain’t neither of your business.”

The black man was now looking at Gene. “Clyde still in love. Ain’t that something?”

Eddie nodded slightly, agreeing in silence. Then, as he watched the black man drain half his beer, he felt a sudden change of awareness. Jimmy. That was it. His name was Jimmy Hilton, and he’d been a boxer in the fifties, a slender welterweight who went undefeated in his first thirty-two fights. Gene remembered sitting ringside on the night Jimmy fought Felix Escobar, the pride of East Los Angeles, knocking him out cold in the eighth round with a devastating left hook.

Eddie said, “I saw you fight Escobar.”

The black man looked at Eddie for a long time, his eyes showing puzzlement. “Escobar, huh. You were there?”

“Ringside. I was sitting with Jack Havana and Carl Reese.”

“You bet on me?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Then you made a bundle.”

The fight was fixed, Carl Reese told Eddie ten minutes before the bell sounded for the first round. Escobar’s contract was owned by Jack Havana, and Hilton’s career was guided by Joe Monument, a black loan shark from Detroit, Hilton’s hometown. Monument was the front man for the Trapani crime family, specifically Joe Carbo, the gangster who controlled boxing on the East Coast. In his next bout, Hilton fought Kid Gavilan for the title. Hilton was brutally beaten over fifteen rounds, surviving six knockdowns to go the distance.

Eddie rocked back and forth on his bar stool with his eyes closed, drawn into himself, trying to remember the year of the Escobar fight— 1956 or ‘57, he wasn’t sure. Either way, he was only a couple of years out of high school and already on the take.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie said softly, shaking his head when he felt a tiny flutter next to his heart. Then he opened his eyes and ordered another drink, hoping to quench this moment of inarticulate sorrow.

At Los Angeles High School, Eddie was an all-city football player, a lean, vicious linebacker who was recruited by Notre Dame, Ohio State, and every major university on the West Coast. He was even more highly sought after than Jon Arnett, the speedy halfback from Manual Arts who went on to star for U.S.C. and later, professionally, with the Los Angeles Rams.

“Fuck school. I hated studying. And I always wanted to be a cop,” Eddie told Gene after they had worked together for a while, their partnership held together more by their mutual anxieties than any intertwining trust. “I was tough, relatively bright, and I had a passion for justice. It was a good fit.”

Eddie played it by the book for his first two years on the force, and he was even cited for bravery twice, the second time for the arrest of Lenny Simic, a Peeping Tom and serial rapist who was terrorizing the residents of Hancock Park, a fancy residential district that was located a few miles east of downtown. Responding to the report of a prowler, Eddie spotted Simic kneeling in a flower bed outside a house on Mansfield and Sixth, a Tudor mansion owned by the actress Rhonda Fleming. With his right hand he was holding a small pair of high-powered binoculars to his eyes, raptly staring through a downstairs window, while he used his left hand to satisfy his ferocious lust.

“When I told him to put up his hands, he dropped the binoculars and just stared at me like he was in a trance, continuing to yank on his dick until he shot his wad. When he came, it was like he pissed this long silver rope. It was fucking unbelievable,” Eddie told Gene. “I was so weirded out that I didn’t see him pull the knife. Fucker cut all the tendons in my bicep before I could take him down.”

Gene later learned that Lenny Simic had died in the back of the ambulance taking him to Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital. The official cause of death was a massive cerebral hemorrhage produced by blunt-force trauma to the head. Apparently Eddie beat Simic to death, the first of three people he would kill on the job, in circumstances that were later described as suspicious.

The arrest got heavy play in the newspapers, and with this publicity Eddie emerged as something of a celebrity around town, sought out for interviews on radio and television. At city hall, when Police Chief Parker awarded him the medal of valor, he extolled Eddie’s exploits as a school-boy athlete and called him “a homegrown hero and a model policeman, a young man I would be proud to have as a son.”

And it was during this time, when Eddie was on paid leave, recovering from the deep wound in his arm, that he met Carl Reese at the Ambassador Hotel. Singer Julie London and comedian Shecky Greene were appearing at the Coconut Grove, the hotel’s famed nightclub, and Eddie had received complimentary tickets to the dinner show, courtesy of William Morris, the talent agency that represented the grateful Rhonda Fleming. Reese was dining at an adjacent table. Sitting with him were two women around twenty, maybe even younger, and in both their faces was the element of boredom, a studied indifference that was used to hide their cunning and their desperation.

Eddie’s date that night, Stephanie Kohler, worked for Art Morales, a bail bondsman with an office in North Hollywood. Eddie had met her at Jimbo’s, a piano bar on Lankershim, and he’d fucked her that first night on the fold-out couch in her overheated living room.

Between shows, Carl Reese tapped Eddie on the shoulder. “Just want to shake your hand. That fucking prick Simic got what he deserved. Excuse the language,” he said to Stephanie, who smiled and rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ve heard a lot worse,” she asserted confidently. “I work for a bail bondsman.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t think you recognized me.”

Eddie looked at Stephanie, reacting with surprise. “You two know each other?”

Stephanie continued to smile, a smile that now held some pride. “Mr. Reese sends Art some clients now and then.”

“I operate a few clubs,” Reese explained, and the women with him were now both glaring at Stephanie, unhappy that his attention had become divided. The boredom on their faces was gone, replaced by something hard and more aggressive. “Sometimes things come up.”

Minutes before Shecky Greene took the stage, Frank Sinatra entered the Coconut Grove, looking sleek and carefully groomed. Actress Ava Gardner was hanging on his arm, gazing straight ahead as she walked across the dance floor, keenly aware that she was the most desired woman in that smoky room. Also in their party was Darryl Zanuck, the president of Twentieth Century Fox, Zanuck’s current girlfriend, a pretty young woman with tan, smooth skin and silver hair, and two massive bodyguards, both with expressions that were professionally blank.

“Frank’s here,” Carl Reese said, and the women sitting with him followed his gaze. Whatever gloom was in their dull faces instantly disappeared, and their eyes now gleamed with the thrill of possibility. “Be good and I’ll take you over after the show.”

Halfway through his act, Shecky Greene stopped to introduce the many celebrities who were sitting in the audience. Jockey Johnny Longden was there that night and so was Betty Grable and her husband, bandleader Harry James. When Shecky pointed to Frank Sinatra, the audience roared and Ava Gardner urged him to stand up, which he did a little reluctantly, his shyness in this moment enhancing his boyish charm.

“Ava’s gorgeous,” Stephanie said. “Isn’t she, Eddie?”

“Yeah. She sure is.”

“I bet you dream about screwing her,” Stephanie said, as the applause began to die. “I would if I were a guy.”

Eddie was momentarily caught off guard. Before he could think of a response, Shecky Greene said, “We have a special guest here tonight—a cop who’s a real hero. Most of you have read about him in the newspapers or heard him being interviewed on radio and TV. His name is Eddie Cornell.”

The audience “oohed” and “aahed,” and once more the applause began to build as Shecky Greene stepped off the stage, the spotlight following him as he made his way through the packed house. When he came to Eddie’s table, Shecky’s face was filled with admiration.

“Go on, Eddie. Stand up,” Stephanie squealed joyfully. “They want to see you.”

The audience cheered as Eddie rose to his feet. “Eddie Cornell. Here he is,” Shecky Greene shouted into the mike. “One hell of a cop. Listen to them, Eddie. They love you. Go on, say something!”

Eddie took the mike and waited proudly while the audience grew quiet. Then, with a modesty that seemed unexaggerated, his slick black hair picking up the light, he said, “I just want to thank everyone for being so nice the last few weeks. Especially Miss Rhonda Fleming, who invited me here tonight.”

Shecky Greene said, “She wanted to be here in person, Eddie, but she’s shooting a picture in Mexico.”

“What I did wasn’t special,” Eddie said, his impulse now to tell the truth, but only part of it. “Cops I work with do things just as brave every day of the week, so I feel a little strange being singled out. And I’ll be a lot more relaxed when this whole fuss is over.”

Shecky Greene took back the mike. “Eddie, before you sit down, would you like to introduce your pretty date?”

“Yes, I would,” Eddie said, and Stephanie pushed her chair back and stood up, smiling shyly while her heart pounded with excitement. “Her name is Stephanie Kohler.”

Shecky Greene leaned in and gave Stephanie a peck on her flushed cheek. “Come on,” he said, giving both Eddie and Stephanie an appreciative look. “Let’s give these two kids another round of applause.”

After the show, Carl Reese excused himself and Eddie watched him stroll confidently through the quietly murmurous crowd, acknowledging people with a wave, a handshake, or sometimes a pinch on the cheek. When Frank Sinatra saw him approach, he quickly stood up and clasped Reese’s shoulders before he pulled him into an embrace. It seemed to Eddie that Sinatra’s face contained some odd joy while Reese whispered softly in his ear.

One of the women at Reese’s table, looking at Sinatra with an expression of mindless sexual craving, said, “What I wouldn’t give for one night with that man.”

“Wouldn’t that be heaven?” said her friend, her smile both childish and sly. “We’d give him a time that he’d never forget.”

“For fun and for free.”

“As long as he sang just one song.”

The women laughed together as Sinatra returned to his seat. Reese, now grinning contentedly, his left hand resting comfortably on Ava Gardner’s elegant neck, reached across the table to shake Darryl Zanuck’s hand.

Eddie said, “That guy knows everyone.”

“Everyone that matters,” said Stephanie.

“Did you screw him?”

Stephanie lifted up her glass of champagne and paused for a second. “No, Eddie. I didn’t.”

“Have you ever fucked a celebrity?”

“Just you,” she said, half-jokingly. “Any more questions?”

“Nope. That’s about it.”

“Good.”

“For now.”

In a few moments the maitre d’ appeared in front of Reese’s table. He was tall and skinny, with an authoritative manner and sad-looking eyes. In a quiet voice, as if not to embarrass them, he told the two women that a limousine would be arriving shortly to take them home.

“Home? What do you mean?” one of the women said. “We’re with Carl. We’re all going home together.”

“He was going to introduce us to Frank,” her friend said, her eyes swinging toward Sinatra’s table, which was now unoccupied.

“I’m sorry. I’m merely passing along what I was told,” said the maitre d’, looking at the two women patiently but also cautiously. “I’ll notify you when your driver is in front of the hotel. Come with me,” he said, turning to Eddie and Stephanie. “I’ve been asked to escort you backstage.”

Carl Reese was sitting in a deep armchair by the door inside Julie London’s dressing room, drinking scotch out of a tall glass. Balanced on his knees was a plate piled high with cold cuts from the sumptuous buffet. The curvaceous singer and ex-wife of actor Jack Webb was seated on the couch with her legs crossed at the knee, sharing a joint with Frank Sinatra and James Bolden, the black drummer in her band.

“I saw Frank sing for the first time in Chicago,” Julie told Bolden, her speaking voice almost as soft and sexy as her singing voice. “He was working at Johnny Roselli’s place on Wabash. I was appearing across town at the Carlton.”

“I backed up Dinah Washington at Roselli’s,” James Bolden said.

“But now you’re backing me,” Julie London cooed, patting him on the thigh. “Right, James?”

“That’s right, Julie.”

Frank Sinatra smoothed his hair with a pocket comb and stood up to make another drink. His eyes looked tired, and the bright light in the room gave his complexion an unhealthy sheen. “Ava said she was sorry she couldn’t stay for the second show. She’s got an early call tomorrow.”

“She’s a gorgeous broad,” Julie London said. “Better than you deserve.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Frank said, holding up his glass.

“And not just her face is perfect, either. Tits. Ass. The whole package,” Julie London said, and the room was quiet for a second.

Then Carl Reese said, “But she can’t sing like you, sweetheart.”

“I’ll trade my voice for her face any day.”

“Never,” Frank Sinatra said. “You’ve got gold in those pipes.”

“I’d rather have men fight over me than listen to me.”

“Bullshit, Julie. I know you better than that.”

“You don’t know me at all, Frank.”

The maitre d’ knocked twice on the dressing room door, and one of Sinatra’s bodyguards ushered him inside. Trailing behind him, looking eager but uneasy, were Eddie Cornell and Stephanie Kohler.

Rising to his feet, Carl Reese said, “Well, look who’s here. Come on in, you guys. Make yourself at home.”

Eddie’s eyes were wide as he gazed around the room, and for what seemed a long time he didn’t speak. Finally, after the maitre d’ retreated into the hallway, Eddie stepped forward and stuck out his hand. “It’s really an honor to meet you, Mr. Sinatra.”

“Thanks. But you’re the big cheese tonight,” Frank Sinatra said, before he dropped Eddie’s hand and shifted his attention over to Stephanie, who leaned forward to show off her cleavage.

“And this is Miss Julie London,” Carl Reese said.

“As you can see,” Julie said, looking a little annoyed at being ignored, “we’re smoking some Mary Jane.”

James Bolden stood up. He looked tense. “I think I better be goin’ now.”

Frank Sinatra snagged Bolden by the wrist to stop his progress toward the door. “Sit down, James. Relax,” he said, making eye contact with Reese. “This kid’s cool, right?”

Reese gave Sinatra a wink. “He’s cool. Right, Eddie? You’re not on duty tonight.”

Eddie glanced at Stephanie and wondered whether she saw the guilt in his face. “No,” he said, trying to laugh off his nervousness. “I’m not on duty.”

Eddie smoked his first marijuana cigarette that night in Julie London’s dressing room, becoming so high and disoriented that he recalled only random fragments of the events that followed. He remembered shadowboxing with Sinatra, a slapfïght that nearly got out of hand, until both of Sinatra’s bodyguards quickly and skillfully wrestled him to the floor. In his memory somewhere was Julie London singing “Cry Me a River,” but he didn’t remember seeing her show, only hearing her sultry voice. Also, there was a period of time—an hour, two, three, he couldn’t tell—that he had no memory of at all, just a shameful silent darkness. But he knew that somewhere toward the end of the night everyone piled into Sinatra’s limousine and drove to a home in the Hollywood Hills.

Carl Reese was already there when Eddie arrived, sitting out by the lighted pool with Jack Havana and B-movie producer Max Rheingold. A girl with bright red pubic hair and even redder nipples was in the pool swimming laps naked, and Stephanie quickly threw off her clothes and joined her.

On a patio filled with couples dancing, Eddie tried to dirty-boogie with a black woman wearing silver lipstick and a detached smile on her strong face. After a few clumsy steps, he tripped and fell, cracking his forehead on the corner of a white wrought-iron table set with food. He was unable to stand, and blood ran down his cheek from a deep gash above his right eye. The actor Nick Adams and another man carried him into a guest bedroom, where his wound was dressed by one of the bartenders, a pretty girl with long, straight, white-blond hair and thin gold bracelets on each wrist.

Before he passed out, Eddie thought he might have kissed her, but he wasn’t sure. The next morning he woke up and lay motionless for several minutes with his eyes closed, trying to remember where he was. When he raised his arm to scratch his cheek, he heard the sound of birds and felt someone’s breath tickle his neck.

“A woman was sleeping next to me,” Eddie told Stephanie when he called her at work. “At first I thought it was you, but when I opened my eyes I saw that her hair was darker and cut short. She was laying on her side, facing the wall.”

“I hope you had fun with her.”

“If I did, I don’t remember.”

“What a shame.”

“What about you?”

“What about me, Eddie?”

“Did you have a good time?”

“What a silly question. I had a great time.”

When she didn’t elaborate, Eddie waited a few moments before he asked her how she finally made it home. She said she begged a ride from a guy named Herb Stelzner, a record producer she knew from Jack’s Sugar Shack, a rockabilly club in Van Nuys where she occasionally hung out, playing darts and quarter pool. Of course, Stephanie left out the end of the party and the twenty minutes she spent upstairs in a locked bedroom with Frank Sinatra and Carl Reese.

“What about you?” she said. “How did you get back to your car?”

“I had to call a cab. I was late for my shift. I’ll probably be written up.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, well . . . No big deal.”

There was a short pause before Stephanie spoke again, and her voice seemed strangely formal. “Check in with me later in the week. Okay?”

Before he hung up, Eddie said he was worried about some of the things he’d done the night before—that by using drugs and openly carousing with known racketeers, he might have compromised his future as a cop.

“Relax, Eddie. This is Hollywood. You were having fun,” she told him, responding with some amusement. “That’s all you were doing.”

But looking back, Eddie knew that the night at the Coconut Grove was the night that everything changed. The door to another life was opened, and he stepped through it without hesitation, unaware that he was entering a world of treachery and multiple contradictions, of desperate and single-minded men, where it was always cold and darkness ruled.