JC2 The Raiders (48 page)

"If you're not offended by my asking, I won't be offended if the
answer's no," said Bat.

"I'm not offended. I expected you to ask, sooner or later.
Everybody does. It's just that I don't think it's a good idea,"
she said.

"Why?"

"Your father. He'd be furious. Wouldn't he?"

"Well, in the first place, he doesn't have to know. In the
second place, he doesn't own you. Has he told you he loves you? Has
he asked you to marry him?"

She shook her head.

"So ... " said Bat. He tossed back the last of his wine.

Margit turned her hand over, palm up, and closed her fingers around
his hand. "All right, Bat," she said. A faint but playful
smile came to her face. "I guess a girl can never have too many
friends."

They coupled on the couch, and when that proved too constricting,
they rolled off onto the thick carpet and finished there, too
fervently involved to interrupt long enough to get up and walk to the
bedroom. He was enervated when they were finished and was astonished
at how exuberant it left her. She scrambled to her feet and
pirouetted around the living room of his suite. Bat watched her,
fascinated. He'd never before had sex with a girl who shaved her
crotch. She shook her head, tossing her ponytail around, and then she
sat down on the couch beside him.

"Do you have any Old Bushmill's?" she asked. She had
acquired a taste for the Old Bushmill's Irish whiskey Jonas had
introduced her to and always ordered it for her before-dinner drinks.
"I feel like a drink."

"I'm a lecherous seducer," he said. "I ordered a
bottle put on the bar, expecting to get you up here and break down
your inhibitions with alcohol."

He poured two drinks, on the rocks.

"To next year," he said, lifting his glass.

"To next year," she agreed.

"It will be a great year," he said.

For a moment Margit stared thoughtfully at him, then nodded and
lifted her glass again.

"The
Margit Show
," he mused. It
had been his suggestion that the show they were putting together be
called that instead of the
Margit Little Show
.

Bat sat down beside her on the couch and drew her into his arms. He
put a hand on the soft bare flesh of her genital lips and gently
fondled them. Margit sighed contentedly.

The dressing rooms backstage at the Ocean House in Miami Beach were
not as posh as the ones at the Nacional or those at the Flamingo in
Vegas. Glenda had a shower anyway, and she stood under a refreshing
stream behind a canvas curtain in a rusting steel cubicle. Amelia
hovered outside the curtain with a huge bath towel, knowing that her
star would have to dry herself and begin to dress in the close
presence of two men.

John Stefano sat on a wooden chair — there was no couch —
puffing on a big cigar. Sam Stein sat on another chair.

"Hand me in a drink, Amelia. Jeez Christ, hand me in a Scotch!"

Amelia put aside the towel and stepped to the makeup table, where a
bottle of Black and White waited. They had no refrigerator in this
dressing room and no ice, but she had learned that Glenda was more
interested in the Scotch than in ice or soda, and she poured a shot
of the liquor into a water glass. She shoved the glass past the
curtain, and in a moment Glenda shoved it back out, empty.

"What brings you to Miami Beach, John?" Glenda asked.

"Nothin' special," said Stefano.

She turned off the water and flipped back the curtain. For an instant
Stefano stared at her naked, until Amelia covered her with the towel.
As she dried herself, Amelia tried to keep herself between her star
and the eyes of the men. She handed her a pair of panties and a bra,
both simple white underwear, and Glenda pulled those on and came out
into the room.

"Thank you, Amelia," she said.

Amelia knew that was an invitation to leave the room.

" 'Nothin' special,' huh?" said Glenda. She sat down at her
makeup table and poured another drink. "Good."

"Let's don't kid around," said Sam. "John is upset
about the Edna Trotter piece."

"Part of the game," said Glenda dismissively. "Nobody
can control the gossip hens."

"Pictures," said Stefano. "Not only pictures but a
tape. It wasn't supposed to happen. Hotel security was supposed to—
"

"Well," she interrupted. "I didn't
let
it happen. It's not my fault that— "

"Makes no difference whose fault it is," said Stefano
darkly. "What? Thirty, forty newspapers. Then picked up by fifty
more, plus magazines. It damaged our investment in you."

"What do you mean by that?"

Sam explained. "It's like I warned you, Glenda," he said.
"You've killed yourself for television."

"Fuck television," she snapped. "I was sick of that
Pollyanna bullshit."

"There is more damage," said Stefano.
"You were in demand for the best rooms in the best hotels in the
hemisphere ...
because you were a television star.
Now—
" He turned down the corners of his mouth and turned up his
palms. "Now you're just another broad that sings and dances and
recites an off-color monologue."

" 'Just another broad.' I'm just another broad? Glenda Grayson
is just another broad?"

John Stefano stood. "We made a deal," he said. "We
said there'd always be a booking for you, and there will be. We're
not dumping you, understand. You'll be working. But the very big
rooms aren't interested in you right now. Maybe sometime."

Stefano stood and put a hand on her bare shoulder. "How 'bout
dinner after the second show?" he asked.

Glenda glanced at Sam, who nodded almost imperceptibly. "Okay,"
she said. "Why not?"

"See you later, then," said Stefano. He left the dressing
room.

"
Sam!
Has it come to this?"

Sam Stein stood and put a hand on her shoulder. "My bet's still
on you," he said softly. "We've got to work on the act."

She looked up into his eyes, tears in hers. "Don't tell me to
start playin' the little old lady in the modest cocktail dress, who
tells jokes about her husband and kids and stuff that happens at the
supermarket. Sam, for Christ's sake! We had a thing goin' before the
Cords came along and before the goddamned Mafia came along— "

"Don't speak of Stefano as Mafia," Sam warned her. "Don't
talk that way."

"Which one of the Cords shot me down?" she asked. "Which
one planted the story with Edna Trotter?"

"I don't know."

"If I thought it was Bat, I'd kill him! I swear to God I would!"

Bat walked through the casino of the Havana Riviera, led by Meyer
Lansky and towering over the little man. Both wore tuxedos. Lansky
continued to insist he was only the food-service manager of the
hotel, but the deference paid him by staff and gamblers alike belied
his self-definition.

"You don't gamble, do you, Bat?"

"Not like this."

"Don't start," said Lansky somberly.
"Look at these people. This is an honest casino, but some of
them are going to drop fortunes in here tonight. And you know why?
They're
addicted
to it."

"There are other ways to gamble," said Bat.

"Yeah. I'm a gambler myself. So are you. So's your father. The
thrill of the risk. I mean, risking more than you can afford. Do you
mind if I drop a personal note into this conversation?"

"Shoot," said Bat.

"What you're doing is dumb. You think your father is not going
to find out you've brought Margit Little to Havana?"

"Who's going to tell him, Meyer?"

"Not me. You can be sure I'm not gonna talk. But the pilot, the—
"

"I've got it covered," said Bat curtly.

"You
think
you have," said
Lansky. "But confess something. The thrill of taking her to bed
is nothing compared to the thrill of knowing you're bedding down your
father's— "

"Margit is not his," Bat interrupted.

"Try telling
him
that. But don't tell
him I helped you."

"If he finds out, I'll say we stayed at the Nacional."

Lansky led Bat to his private dining room, with a window overlooking
the show room. In half an hour he would go up and bring Margit down
on a private elevator. He wanted this half hour to talk with Lansky.

"I'll get right to the subject, Meyer," Bat said when they
were seated at a small round table for four, covered with thick white
linen and set with heavy silver and delicate china.

Meyer Lansky poured Chivas Regal for Bat. He lit a cigarette for
himself and held it under the table, trying to keep the smoke from
rising to Bat's nostrils.

"I'm going to do you a favor, and I'm going to ask you one,"
Bat went on.

"A good way of doing business," said Lansky.

"I think so. You are not going to like what I have to tell you,
but please believe me that I know what I'm talking about. You're an
American— "

"A Pole," said Lansky.

"An American," Bat repeated. "And so is my father. But
my mother is Cuban. And I ... Well, I am American, now. But I know
Latin America. I know something about Cuba."

"You are going to tell me," said Lansky, "that these
... unwashed ones in the mountains are about to come to Havana and
overthrow the government."

"Make yourself a fallback position, Meyer. That's what I'm
telling you. You are going to need it."

"I know you believe this," said Lansky.

"You think his niece wouldn't know?" Bat asked.

Lansky shrugged. "Anyway, there is no fallback position for me.
Everything I've got is invested in this place."

"There's a job for you with us, if you need it. Look. At least
be sure you can get out. There will be shooting."

Lansky nodded. "I am grateful for the warning," he said.
"Now what is it I can do for you?"

"I want to show you some photographs," said Bat. "I
want to know who the man is." He reached into his jacket pocket
and pulled out a small envelope of snapshot-size pictures. "Know
him?"

Lansky frowned over the pictures. "How'd you get these?" he
asked.

"My father arranged it. I'm not exactly sure how."

"A hooker," said Lansky. "The guy must have been with
a hooker."

Bat nodded. "Do you know who he is?"

Lansky crushed his cigarette. He closed his eyes. "I know who he
is. Is he involved in something?"

"He met with Jimmy Hoffa and Morris Chandler a couple of weeks
ago. Chandler, incidentally, is really Maurice Cohen."

"Right. A small-timer. But— " Lansky stopped and
jabbed at the photographs with a finger. "This guy is not a
small-timer."

"You know him?"

"I've met him. I don't like what he does, and I wouldn't want
you to think he's a friend of mine."

"What does he do, Meyer?"

"He's a killer, what they call a hit man. I don't know his name.
They call him Malditesta. You understand the reference?"

Bat thought for a moment, then nodded. "Shooting a man in the
head is called giving him a major headache."

"I will trust you with some information the FBI would very much
like to have," said Lansky. "Please don't think I speak
from firsthand knowledge. What I tell you is hearsay. It was
Malditesta who killed Albert Anastasia. I tell you so you'll know
what kind of man you're dealing with."

"It's been called the perfect hit," said Bat.

"Right. He walked into the barbershop, emptied his gun into
Anastasia, dropped the gun on the floor, and walked out. These
pictures you got of him are probably the only pictures ever taken of
him, that he didn't want taken. I bet the cops showed the barbers a
thousand mug shots. None of them was Malditesta. He's never been
arrested."

"Who is he?" Bat asked. "I mean, what's his cover?"

"I don't know who he is. I doubt six men in the country know his
real name or how to get in touch with him."

"Suppose
you
wanted to get in touch
with him," said Bat. "Could you?"

"I don't want to get in touch with him."

"Suppose you did."

"I'd have to talk to somebody. Carlo Gambino maybe. Vulcano ...
The dons don't like killing anymore, and they try to avoid it. But
when they decide they have to get rid of somebody, Malditesta is
their man. He charges a heavy fee, but he never fails. Or so they
say. I'd guess he's failed sometime."

"The secret of that might be that he only takes the jobs he
knows he can do," Bat suggested.

"That's a thought."

"If he met Hoffa and Chandler, that means— "

"You or your father," said Meyer Lansky grimly.

Bat sat down in the living room of his father's suite atop The Seven
Voyages. Having judged his father's mood, he poured himself a heavy
drink of Scotch. Jonas was working on a fifth of bourbon.

"Exactly how many women do you think you have
to fuck?" Jonas asked Bat. He was as furious as Margit had
warned he would be. "I don't give a goddamn how many, but I'd
think you could keep your fingers off
mine!
"

"Who's
yours?
" Bat asked coldly.

"You goddamned well know who's mine. I tell you this — you
touch Angie, and you're out on your ass: fired, disinherited, and I
won't ever want to see you again."

"Let's draw a line," said Bat, lifting his chin and half
grinning. "Angie's yours, Toni's mine, and all the rest of them
... may the best man win."

"You saying I have to
compete
with
you?" Jonas asked indignantly. He shook his head. "No way,
boy. No way. If I tell you to leave Margit alone, you'll leave her
alone.
Because I say so!
"

"Don't ... count ... on it."

"Oh? Well, maybe we'd just better call it quits right now and
have done with it. I wish I understood just what the hell you think
you are."

"I'm your
son
," said Bat. "Did
you give up on Rina just because your father said to? That's not the
story I've heard. He had to marry her himself to— "