When he got to his car, Hickey’s watch read eleven-forty. He wheeled a U-turn and headed west, made a right on Pacific Coast Highway, cruised past Lindbergh Field and a mile of armaments factories, turned left on Barnett. At the gate to the Marine Recruit Depot, where gangs of jarheads used to line up for taxis to speed them downtown or to Tijuana the last time Hickey’d driven this road, now only a pair of young women shoved baby carriages. Near the Loma Theater, an old haunt of his and Madeline’s, he swung onto Rosecrans and headed downhill. The gate guard at the Naval Training Center had forsaken his post and marched to the curbside bus bench, where he rousted a sailor who lay sleeping.
At the foot of Dickens Street, he parked at the curb, three slots down from a silver Chrysler limousine—a machine Charlie Schwartz would own—next to the loading zone in front of Luisa’s Seafood Mart.
A tattooed Negro carried bags of Guaymas shrimp over his shoulder into the rear of a wholesaler’s truck. Hickey sized up the market and walked around to the rear, to a covered patio where tables and benches overlooked the sport-fishing dock and the pier of a yacht club. Women in bathing suits or scanty sundresses posed over cocktails along the yacht club end, opposite Charlie Schwartz and his companions.
Charlie’s boys could’ve been identical twins except that one was gaunt while the other looked bloated. Both were sun-tanned, with freckles like squashed pinto beans and with thick carrot-colored hair that grew to within an inch of their eyebrows. The skinny one wore a checked sport coat. The other, in shirtsleeves, had his tie loosened, dangling like a neckerchief.
From afar, the gangster spotted Hickey. He reeled back a few inches, recovered, and folded his hands underneath his chin.
“Tom,” he called out, as if they’d never exchanged a harsh word. As if Hickey hadn’t knocked off Charlie’s top gun and Charlie hadn’t vowed to wreck Hickey’s life. “You gotta try the clams. Say, Colin, go hustle up another plate of clams. Plant yourself, Tom.”
As Hickey sat down, the fat twin rose, light as a ballerina. “What’re you drinking, chum?”
“Coke. In a bottle.”
Schwartz lifted his hand, holding a cigar, from where it had hung at his side. He puffed and let the smoke seep out between his teeth. His skin still looked jaundiced. His greasy black hair had gone monk bald in the middle. The mauve polo shirt, loose around the shoulders, appeared cinched at his middle. His voice sounded shallow, as if he possessed no lungs but carried all his wind in his mouth. “Come down off the mountain to see your kid? Or you just get homesick?”
“Aw, Charlie, you been keeping tabs on me.”
“Sure. I don’t wanta lose touch with the old crowd.”
“You’re not still planning to get even, huh?”
“Hey, you think I’m the kind to hold a grudge?” He tapped his forehead. “Naw. I’d have to be loony after all this time. Say, what’s this I hear you been working for Harry Poverman?”
“Harry a buddy of yours?”
The gangster shrugged and cracked a little smile. “Same ol’ inquisitive bastard. Ask a simple question, he spits one back at you.” He’d focused on the center of Hickey’s face, as though he were a student of noses, avoiding the eyes. He bent over his plate, dug a clam out of the shell, and slurped it. “Harry and me got mutual friends. What brings you to the tropics, Tom, business?”
“Yep. Same as ever. Nosing around in other people’s affairs.”
“That include mine?”
“Could be. I’m remembering how…fatherly you got with Cynthia Tucker. And didn’t I hear about you taking her sister out for strolls? Hell, Charlie, you’re like part of the family. Seems to me you would’ve got her sprung by now. I mean, there’s not a chance she torched Johnny Sousa and Laurel’s place. Everybody knows that, even the cops.”
Schwartz devoured another clam, his jaw quivering as though it tickled going down. “You think I own the cops?”
“Who knows? It’s not my town anymore. Maybe Angelo Paoli bought ’em. Came in with a higher bid.”
“Paoli’s a featherweight. Got chased outta Jersey, tail between his legs.”
Hickey nodded. “Want to hear my surmise?”
“I do,” the skinny twin muttered scornfully.
Schwartz gave his boy a scowl. “Go on, Tom. Paddy don’t wanta miss a thing.”
“See,” Hickey said, “I expect the cops are toying with Cynthia to keep from having to fool with Mickey Cohen. The way I hear, Cohen sent Johnny Sousa down to butt in on Angelo’s race-book action, only Mickey got suspicious that Sousa was playing both hands, doubledealing him with Paoli. So Mickey had him popped and fried.”
The gangster chortled. His belly rattled the table. “This is rich. Your idea or the cops?”
“Everybody’s. The thing is, the cops don’t care to know which one of Cohen’s stooges likes to play with matches. You know, who the hell’d wanta bring the guy in? Only some kid thinks he’s the Lone Ranger, maybe. Besides, a mobster whacks one of his own, who loses?”
The fat boy returned with a plate full of clams, slid them in front of Hickey, and wedged into the chair beside his brother. “They’re outta Coke.”
“Get him an ice tea, then,” Schwartz growled, pinching his eyes shut as if his patience had finally gotten overwhelmed. “What’s this about Mickey? Hey, Mick don’t need to play any games down here. Mick’s got his hands full in LA. He’s a pal of mine. I know how he thinks.”
Leaning back, lifting his hat to scratch his head, Hickey assumed his most bewildered pose. “You’re telling me Sousa and Cohen weren’t associated?”
“Naw. Try those clams.”
Hickey picked up a fork, toyed with a clam, set the fork down. “Maybe I’m a little outta touch. Yeah, now I see. The best thing I can do is, you being sweet on Cynthia, and on top of that a magnanimous guy—”
The redhead named Paddy snorted and wheeled his face toward the docks as though to cover a laughing fit.
“Magnanimous. I like that.” The gangster pursed his lips and nodded contemplatively. “So what are you talking…you could do what?”
“I got a plan,” Hickey said.
“Spill it, then.”
“You bet. I’m gonna turn the job over to you, Charlie. You get her sprung, I don’t ask who torched Laurel’s place. I retreat back into the mountains.”
Schwartz lowered his eyes, which had narrowed to a squint, and tried to cover his vexation with a wink, a grin, and a glance at a peroxide blonde careening on high heels as she chased a pigeon along the dock. Turning back, he smiled grimly. “You forgot to say ‘or else.’”
“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Hickey stood, tipped his hat.
“Or else what?”
“Just I’ll be disappointed. Get her loose. Today, Charlie. Meantime, I’ll keep nosing around.”
He met the fat boy bringing his tea, accepted the glass and took a swallow, then set it on an empty table and strolled out of the place, grinding his teeth, knowing he should’ve held his cards closer to the vest. He should’ve played dumb, at least not accused Mickey Cohen. Except he only knew two ways to fight. Shrewd, cautious, laying back with his guard up, waiting for an opening to jab. Or throwing the big punch every chance, which left you wide open. One way was sensible. The other could get you a first-round knockout. It could land him at home by tomorrow.
In the car he stuffed his pipe and fired up, stared at the dashboard, and thought about Wendy. Right now, after lunch, she was probably in the armchair by the wood stove, reading the Isak Dinesen book Claire had given her. For two years, most every day, she’d sat reading, the dictionary at her side, determined to grasp each word. Trying so heroically to make Tom proud of her.