3
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!"
4
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."