"Did you ever employ Al's services?" Eagle asked.
"I did, but not his most extreme services; that came later and was not my doing. There was a gangster-a mafioso, you'd call him today-named Chick Stampano, who worked for Ben 'Bugsy' Siegel, and he loved going out with movie actresses. He also loved beating them up, and that made me very angry, especially when he became a threat to Glenna."
"What did you do about it?"
Barron took some money from his pocket and handed Eagle a hundred-dollar bill. "I wish to retain you to represent me as my attorney."
Eagle smiled. "All right," he said, putting the money in his pocket, "I'm your lawyer, and attorney-client confidentiality is in full effect."
"I confronted Stampano, more than once, and finally, I beat him up pretty good. He reacted by taking it out on Glenna. At that point, I was ready to call Al Moran and employ his most extreme services, but I didn't."
"What did you do?"
"Left no other alternative, I went over to Stampano's house with a gun, and when he came out the door with his own gun, I killed him."
"Wow," Eagle breathed.
"Then, by previous arrangement, I joined the navy. It was summer 1941, with Pearl Harbor still to come. Clete Barrow had been killed at Dunkirk the year before, and I was about to be a wanted man. After flight training-I was already a pilot-I served out my hitch in the Pacific, and came home and married Glenna. Eddie Harris and a couple of my friends on the police force had arranged for the Stampano killing to remain unsolved."
"That's quite a story," Eagle said.
"There's more," Barron replied. "On our wedding day, in 1947, we received an over-the-top floral arrangement from Bugsy Siegel, and Eddie Harris took that as a threat. Siegel was, apparently, still angry at me for killing one of his proteges. Eddie didn't tell me about this until years later, when he was dying, but what he did was call Al Moran. Al took a Browning automatic rifle over to Virginia Hill's house-she was Siegel's girlfriend-then he sat outside and fired a burst through a window at Bugsy Siegel."
"Are you kidding me, Rick?" Eagle asked. "I thought the Mafia killed Siegel after Virginia Hill stole a lot of money from the Flamingo casino."
"That's what the preponderance of opinion was at the time," Rick replied. "But Al Moran killed Siegel for Eddie Harris, who did it for Glenna and me."
"And who else knows this?"
"Certainly not Glenna, and you should never mention it to her or anybody else while either of us is alive. Eddie Harris is dead, so now only you and I know. And Al Moran, of course. He's still alive."
"And why are you telling me all this, Rick?"
"Because Al, although he's retired, has two sons, who still run his gun shop, and they are known by a select few people to perform the same services Al did."
Eagle didn't say anything.
"From what I've heard of your present circumstances, it may not be possible, in the end, to deal with your wife in the conventional manner, through the courts." He handed Eagle a card. "Should it come to that, call Al; his number is on the back of my card. Tell him I sent you."
The women were approaching from down the hall, chatting loudly.
Eagle took a sip of his drink and stood up for the entrance of the women. "I don't believe it will ever come to that," he said quietly, "but thank you, Rick, for your concern."
Eagle put the card into his pocket.
Forty-eight
ON THE FLIGHT TO SAN DIEGO, VlTTORIO WAS LEAFING through a copy of Vanity Fair, when he came across an article about West Coast spas, which included a long description of La Reserve, in La Jolla. There was a good deal written about the spa's reputation for privacy and seclusion, and it occurred to him that he was not going to be able to just walk into the place and take a look around for Barbara.
He picked up the airphone at his seat and called La Reserve.
"Good afternoon, La Reserve," a British-accented woman's voice said.
Vittorio made an effort to sound charming. "Good afternoon," he said. "I'm on an airplane to San Diego right now, and I read the Vanity Fair piece that included your spa. It sounds just wonderful."
"I assure you it is, Mr…"
"Breckinridge, Victor Breckinridge," Vittorio replied. It was an alias he sometimes used when traveling, and he had documents and a credit cart to support it. "I wonder if you might have a room available tonight?"
"For how long, Mr. Breckinridge?"
"Let's say two nights, but if I can get my business done in an expeditious fashion, I might be able to extend my stay."
"Let's see, the only thing we have available right now is Willow Cottage, one of our smaller units. The rate is eight hundred dollars a night, not including meals or services, of course."
Vittorio gulped, but he was, after all, paying with Barbara's money. "That sounds perfect," he said.
"And what time may we expect you, Mr. Breckinridge?"
"I should think in the late afternoon."
"May I schedule a massage for your arrival? Say, six o'clock in your cottage?"
"Thank you, yes."
"We'll look forward to greeting you in the late afternoon," the woman said.
"Good-bye."
Vittorio called a rental car company and asked what luxury cars were available. He booked a Jaguar.
AFTER LANDING AND GETTING the Jaguar, Vittorio drove into La Jolla, a place he had never visited, and looked for an upscale men's shop. He could hardly walk into La Reserve dressed in his usual black outfit, looking as though he was about to scalp somebody. He found a Polo/Ralph Lauren shop and bought a lightweight jacket and some colorful polo shirts as well as a dress shirt and tie. He asked directions to La Reserve, then, dressed in his new clothes, he arrived there at half past five.
A bellman whisked his luggage away and directed him to the desk in the sitting room, where a handsome, middle-aged woman sat. "Good afternoon," he said, "I'm Victor Breckinridge. We spoke on the phone earlier today."
"Of course, Mr. Breckinridge. Please have a seat, and let's get you registered. My name is Mrs. Creighton."
"How do you do?"
Shortly a slender young man appeared at the desk and was introduced as Mr. Wilson. He conducted Vittorio to Willow Cottage, where his luggage awaited him. The cottage, although small, was lavishly decorated and very comfortable.
"And, Mr. Breckinridge, your masseuse, Birgit, will be with you shortly. You'll find a robe in your closet."
Vittorio gave the young man fifty dollars, then got undressed and waited for Birgit to appear. When she did, she was breathtaking: tall, blond and with a fetching Nordic accent. She immediately put him at his ease, and soon he was facedown on her folding table, being kneaded into total relaxation.
But it was when she turned him over on his back that her work rose to a new level, as did he. By the time she was done, it was eight o'clock, and Vittorio couldn't make a fist.
She helped him sit up, and he reached for his money, taking his time riffling through the bills. "Birgit, I used to know a woman who came here named Barbara Eagle. Do you know her?"
"Of course," Birgit said. "She's here now, but under the name of Barbara Woodfield. She gave strict instructions to Mrs. Creighton that she was no longer to be called Mrs. Eagle; something about a divorce, I think."
Vittorio peeled off a hundred and pressed it into her palm, holding her hand. "And which room is she in?"
"She's in Pine Cottage, I believe. Thank you so much, Mr. Breckinridge. Have you booked a dinner table for this evening?" Birgit asked. "Shall I do it for you?"