The Big Nowhere

He staked the Harris house out, learning that A

Mal segued from his brother to Da

“You’ve more stomach for this work than I expected.”

Dudley was right.

Mal picked up a handful of empty shells, hurled them at nothing and drove home to the Shangri-Lodge Motel.

Chapter Twenty

Mickey Cohen’s hideaway was SRO.

The Mick and Davey Goldman were working on a new nightclub routine, a .12 gauge pump substituting for a floor mike. Joh

So far, boring Commie jive:

The De Haven cooze and Mort Ziffkin traded clichés about overthrowing the “studio autocracy”; Fritzie “Icepick” Kupferman had a Teamster file clerk tagged as a UAES plant—they’d been spoon-feeding him only what they wanted him to hear for weeks now, letting him run the lunch truck across from the Variety International line. Mo Jahelka had a hinky feeling: UAES pickets weren’t fighting back when shoved or verbally provoked—they seemed smug, like they were biding their time, even old lefty headbashers maintaining their frost. Moey seemed to think UAES had something up its sleeve. Buzz had padded the statements so Ellis Loew would think he was working harder than he was, feeling like a nice, tasty Christian in a lion’s den, waiting for the lion to get hungry and notice him.

Joh

Mickey Lion.

Joh

Mickey Lion, this bamboo bungalow his den.

Buzz put away his notepad, taking a last look at the four names Dudley Smith had called him with earlier: Reds to be background-checked, more shitwork, probably more padding. Mickey Lion and Joh

The comedian had some schtick ready. “A guy comes up and asks me, ‘Mickey, how’s business?’ I tell him, ‘Pal, it’s like show business, there is no business.’ I make a pass at this ginch, she says, ‘I don’t lay for every Tom, Dick and Harry.’ I say, ‘What about me? I’m Mickey!”

Buzz laughed and pointed to the picture of Audrey, eyes hard on Joh

Goose egg from Joh

More nothing. Mickey said, “Shvartzes I don’t need, shvartzes I don’t trust. What do you get when you cross a nigger and a Jew?”

Buzz played dumb. “I don’t know. What?”

Mickey sprayed laughter. “A janitor who owns the building!”

Joh

“You don’t trust anybody, Mick.”

“Yeah? How’s this for trust. February eighth at the haberdashery, my deal with Jack D. Twenty-five pounds of Mex brown, cash split, food and booze. All my men, all Jack’s. Nobody heeled. That is trust.”

Buzz said, “I don’t believe it.”

“The deal?”

“The nobody heeled. Are you fuckin’ insane?”

Mickey put an arm around Buzz’s shoulders. “Jack wants four neutral triggers. He’s got two City bulls, I got this Sheriff’s dick won the Golden Gloves last year, and I’m still one short. You want the job? Five hundred for the day?”

He’d spend the money on Audrey: tight cashmere sweaters, red and pink and green and white, a size too small to show off her uplift. “Sure, Mick.”

Mickey’s grip tightened. “I got a storefront on the Southside. County juice, a little sharking, a little book. Half a dozen ru

“The ru

“Everything tallies, but the daily take-in’s been short. I pay salary, the guys enforce their own stuff. Short of shaking down the guys, I got no way to know.”

Buzz slid free of Mickey’s arm, thinking of lioness larceny: Audrey with a hot pencil and a wet brain. “You want me to ask around on the QT? Get the squad boss at Firestone to shake down the locals, find out who’s bettin’ what?”

“Trust, Buzzchik. You nail who’s doing me, I’ll throw some bones your way.”

Buzz grabbed his coat. Mickey said, “Hot date?”

“The hottest.”

“Anybody I know?”

“Rita Hayworth.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, trust me.”

“She red downstairs?”

“Black at the roots, Mick. There’s no business like show business.”

His date was for 10:00 at Howard’s spot near the Hollywood Bowl; Mickey and Joh

Audrey answered the door, slacks, sweater and no makeup. “You said you didn’t even want to know where I lived.”

Buzz shuffled his feet, making like a swain on a prom date. “I checked your driver’s license while you were asleep.”