Mick had taken my advice-he now had an armed bodyguard, courtesy of the state of California. His retinue of a Dwarf or two also accompanied him, of course, just minus any artillery. Once or twice, Niccoli had been with him-he’d just smiled and nodded at me (and Didi), polite, no hard feelings.
On Tuesday night, July 19, I took Didi to see Annie Get Your Gun at the Greek Theater; Gertrude Niesen had just opened in the show, and she and it were terrific. Then we had a late supper at Ciro’s, and hit a few jazz clubs. We wound up, as we inevitably did, at Sherry’s for pastries and coffee.
Fred greeted us as we came in and joined us in a booth, Didi-who looked stunning in a low-cut spangly silver gown, her brunette hair piled high-and I were on one side, Fred on the other. A piano tinkling Cole Porter fought with clanking plates and after-theater chatter.
I ordered us up a half-slice of cheesecake for Didi (who was watching her figure-she wasn’t alone), a Napoleon for me, and coffee for both of us. Fred just sat there with his hands folded, prayerfully, shaking his head.
“Gettin’ too old for this,” he said, his pouchy puss even pouchier than usual, a condition his natty navy suit and red silk tie couldn’t make up for.
“What are you doing, playing host in the middle of the night?” I asked him. “You’re an owner, for Christ’s sake! Seems like lately, every time I come in here, in the wee hours, you’re hovering around like a mother hen.”
“You’re not wrong, Nate. Mickey’s been comin’ in almost every night, and with that contract hanging over his head, I feel like…for the protection of my customers…I gotta keep an eye on things.”
“Is he here tonight?”
“Didn’t you see him, holding court over there?”
Over in the far corner of the modern, brightly-lighted restaurant-where business was actually a little slow tonight-a lively Cohen was indeed seated at a large round table with Cooper, Johnny Stompanato, Frank Niccoli and another of the Dwarfs, Neddie Herbert. Also with the little gangster were several reporters from the Times, and Florabel Muir and her husband, Denny. Florabel, a moderately attractive redhead in her late forties, was a Hollywood columnist for the New York Daily News.
Our order arrived, and Fred slid out of the booth, saying, “I better circulate.”
“Fred, what, you think somebody’s gonna open up with a chopper in here? This isn’t a New Jersey clam house.”
“I know…. I’m just a nervous old woman.”
Fred wandered off, and Didi and I nibbled at our desserts; we were dragging a little-it was after three.
“You okay?” I asked her.
“What?”
“You seem a little edgy.”
“Really? Why would I be?”
“Having Niccoli sitting over there.”
“No. That’s over.”
“What did you see in that guy, anyway?”
She shrugged. “He was nice, at first. I heard he had friends in pictures.”
“You’re already under contract. What do you need-”
“Nate, are we going to argue?”
I smiled, shook my head. “No. It’s just…guys like Niccoli make me nervous.”
“But he’s been very nice to both of us.”
“That’s what makes me nervous.” Our mistake was using the restrooms: they were in back, and to use them, we’d had to pass near Cohen and his table. That’s how we got invited to join the party-the two Times reporters had taken off, and chairs were available.
I sat next to Florabel, with Niccoli right next to me; and Didi was beside Cooper, the state investigator, who sneaked occasional looks down Didi’s cleavage. Couldn’t blame him and, anyway, detectives are always gathering information.
Florabel had also seen Annie Get Your Gun, and Cohen had caught a preview last week.
“That’s the best musical to hit L.A. in years,” the little gangster said. He was in a snappy gray suit with a blue and gray tie.
For maybe five minutes, the man who controlled bookie operations in Los Angeles extolled the virtues of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s latest confection, aided and abetted by Irving Berlin.
“Can I quote you in my column?” Florabel asked. She was wearing a cream-color suit with satin lapels, a classy d with a hard edge.
“Sure! That musical gets the Mickey Cohen seal of approval.”
Everyone laughed, as if it had been witty-me, too. I like my gangsters to be in a good mood.
“Mickey,” the columnist said, sitting forward, “who do you think’s been trying to kill you?”
“I really haven’t the slightest idea. I’m as innocent as the driven snow.”
“Yeah, but like Mae West said, you drifted.”
He grinned at her-tiny rodent teeth. “Florabel, I love ya like a sister, I can talk to you about things I can’t even tell my own wife.”
Who was not present, by the way.
“You’re in a neutral corner,” he was saying, “like a referee. There’s nothin’ I can do for you, except help you sell papers, and you ain’t got no axes to grind with me.”
“That’s true-so why not tell me what you really think? Is Jack Dragna behind these attempts?”
“Even for you, Florabel, that’s one subject on which I ain’t gonna spout off. If I knew the killers were in the next room, I wouldn’t go public with it.”
“Why not?”
“People like me, we settle things in our own way.”
She gestured. “How can you sit in an open restaurant, Mick, with people planning to kill you?”
“Nobody’s gonna do nothin’ as long as you people are around. Even a crazy man wouldn’t take a chance shooting where a reporter might get hit…or a cop, like Cooper here.”
I was just trying to stay out of it, on the sidelines, but this line of reasoning I couldn’t let slide.
“Mickey,” I said, “you really think a shooter’s going to ask to see Florabel’s press pass?” Cohen thought that was funny, and almost everybody laughed-except me and Cooper.
Several at the table were nibbling on pastries; Didi and I had some more coffee. At one point, Niccoli got up to use the men’s room, and Didi and I exchanged whispered remarks about how cordial he’d been to both of us. Florabel, still looking for a story, started questioning the slender, affable Neddie Herbert, who had survived a recent attempt on his life.
Herbert, who went back twenty years with Cohen, had dark curly hair, a pleasant-looking grown-up Dead-End Kid with a Brooklyn accent. He had been waylaid in the wee hours on the sidewalk in front of his apartment house.
“Two guys with .38s emptied their guns at me from the bushes.” Herbert was grinning like a college kid recalling a frat-house prank. “Twelves slugs, the cops recovered-not one hit me!”
“How is that possible?” Florabel asked.
“Ah, I got a instinct for danger-I didn’t even see them two guys, but I sensed ’em right before I heard ’em, and I dropped to the sidewalk right before they started shooting. I crawled onto the stairway, outa range, while their bullets were fallin’ all around.”
“Punks,” Cohen said.
“If they’da had any guts,” Herbert said, “they’da reloaded and moved in close, to get me-but they weaseled and ran.”
Fred came over to the table, and-after some small talk-said, “It’s almost four, folks-near closing time. Mind if I have one of the parking lot attendants fetch your car, Mick?”
“That’d be swell, Fred.”
I said, “Fetch mine, too, would you, Fred?”
And as Rubinski headed off to do that, Cohen grabbed the check, fending off a few feeble protests, and everybody gathered their things. This seemed like a good time for Didi and me to make our exit, as well.
Sherry’s was built up on a slope, so there were a couple steps down from the cashier’s counter to an entryway that opened right out to the street. Cohen strutted down and out, through the glass doors, with Neddie Herbert and the six-three Cooper right behind him. Niccoli and Stompanato were lingering inside, buying chewing gum and cigarettes. Florabel and her husband were lagging, as well, talking to some woman who I gathered was the Mocambo’s press agent.