The Property of a Lady (52 page)

“Sixteen of which are the Oriconnes’,” Giorgio said softly.

O’Hara watched him, waiting for what was to come next. Rico was easy to read; dark hair, soft eyes, short and plump, a real nice gentle family guy. Just look at today’s party for his daughter. What real bad guy could throw a bash like this? The place was crowded with family and friends, young people and little kids—babies even—running around the sun-dappled lawns and drinking lemonade beneath the shade trees. No liquor was ever served at
Oriconne’s house. But Giorgio was another matter. He was of middle height with a kind of spindly thinness, slick black hair, and a whiplash mustache. His sharp dark eyes missed nothing; one penetrating glance from Giorgio’s shadowed orbs and you knew he had memorized every detail—and that he would never forget.

Giorgio always seemed to O’Hara like a man waiting for the action to start. He was never still, he fidgeted silently from foot to foot, chain-smoking nervously even at a nice relaxed affair like this. And he had heard there was no woman in Giorgio’s life—not since his wife died a few years back; fell off an ocean liner on her way to Italy, they had said.

Of course there had been some speculation about suicide. What need had a person like that to end her own life? Hadn’t she everything a woman could ever want? Money, jewels, furs, houses? And a faithful husband? At least, no one had ever
caught
Giorgio with another woman so his innocence must be assumed. They said having no kids was the great sorrow of her life. I mean, an Italian woman with no kids is like strawberries without sugar—a little tart, a little acid—and it was known that Giorgio had envied his brother his happy family life with his half-dozen children. Still, it left Giorgio an unknown quantity and one O’Hara was careful not to rile.

“Why you do this to us, O’Hara, huh?” Giorgio said in his quiet, husky voice. “We were good to you, treated you like family. Then you try to take our business away.”

O’Hara puffed on his cigar, coughing on the smoke. “Sure, and there’s enough out there for us all, Giorgio,” he said with a nervous grin. “Everybody in the world wants to go to a nightclub—yours, mine—what’s the difference?”

“Money,” Giorgio said softly, “a lot of money.”

Rico’s voice was suddenly cold as he said, “Me and my brother have discussed the situation, O’Hara. We have decided that in future you should buy all your liquor from
us. Our rates, to an old friend, like you, will be reasonable. You know our system, how it works. Our men will contact you Monday for your first order.”

“And by the way,” Giorgio added, his tobacco-hoarse voice almost a growl, “there will be a premium to pay. Twenty-five percent. We reckon that’s the least you owe to put matters straight between you and the family.”

O’Hara’s eyebrows shot up. Giorgio was talking a lot of money here: 25 percent on top of his orders meant 25 percent less in his pocket and 25 percent of his profits in the Oriconnes’. “I’ll think it over,” he said, grinding his cigar into the immaculate turf.

Rico raised a finger to summon a white-jacketed servant. He pointed to the cigar stub, and the man removed it immediately. “Don’t think too long, O’Hara,” he said, taking him by the elbow. “And now, why don’t we join the party? It’s almost time for Graziella to cut her cake.”

Sure enough, the brothers’ man had shown up the following Monday, and sure enough, O’Hara had placed his order, but it was for only half the amount he needed. The rest he got secretly from a dozen small suppliers who were happy to have his business at favorable rates, and he reckoned he had cut the Oriconnes’ 25 percent down to 121/2. Even though that stung him, it was a small price to pay to keep them quiet. Their liquor arrived like clockwork every Wednesday night at four and was unloaded into his cellars swiftly and silently. The Oriconnes had always run a smooth operation.

That had been six months ago and now he was thinking of opening in Chicago. He had heard of some great premises on the south side, big enough to crowd ’em in but small enough to keep it exclusive. He had learned quickly that big numbers were not important, because when you charged top dollar you could make the same profit with half the outlay. King O’Hara had earned himself the reputation of being a smart operator.

His building and contracting business in Smallwood
Hills, New Jersey, was going more slowly. For some reason he was having difficulty getting the proper permits, but he knew it was all a matter of time and finding the right payola deal. He could wait.

The only bad news in his life had been Missie’s running off and marrying the German baron. He still dreamed about her at nights—or rather days, for his whole life was reversed. He got up at six in the afternoon, showered, shaved, had his breakfast of corned beef hash and five cups of coffee in his smart penthouse suite atop the new Sherry Netherland Hotel. Then he might catch the latest Broadway show, always with some pretty girl on his arm—usually one from the upper social classes who adored his Irish blarney and his rugged redheaded good looks, as well as his newfound reputation as a “King” in bed. But none like Missie. She was a classier dame than even the richest and classiest of society women. Missie was a true lady, and he still loved her even though he damned her in his dreams.

After that it was dinner at a smart restaurant and on to the club, the place where he truly felt like a king. He enjoyed the turned heads as he entered his little kingdom, he enjoyed having celebrities vie to catch his eye, or his smile, or a word or two, and he enjoyed choosing whose table he should grace with his charm and jokes and presence each night. All in all, he was a very happy man. If it was not for Missie.

He wasn’t a man who gave much time to reading journals, and it was a few months after the event that the headline about Arnhaldt’s death caught his eye, as his cellarman unwrapped a newspaper from around the latest batch of alcohol, bought from rum runners in Bermuda.

He read and reread it, but there was only a brief mention of Arnhaldt’s marriage to the Ziegfeld beauty and the fact that his son inherited everything. And where did that leave Missie? he wondered. Alone and penniless again? Anger burned in his heart as he remembered the pain and
anguish of her desertion, but he knew he would still do anything for her. He guessed he was just a sucker after all. A sucker in love.

It took a team of private detectives exactly a week to uncover the fact that the young Baroness Arnhaldt had flown the coop only months after her marriage and that no one knew where she was, especially her husband, who had spent a fortune on wild goose chases, even as far as South America, trying to track her down. And also the fact that he had been living openly with the Countess Gretel von Dussman even before Missie had left him and that Eddie Arnhaldt had not left his young wife a single pfennig.

“I don’t care what it costs,” O’Hara told the detectives, just as Eddie must have, “find her.”

“Give us a clue at least,” they begged. “I mean, if Arnhaldt with all his money couldn’t find her, how d’ya expect us to?”

“Try Ziegfeld,” he said, “try Madame Elise, try Rivington Street.” He thought for a minute and then said, “Try Rosa Perelman and Zev Abramski.”

They drew blanks with Ziegfeld and Elise but found out soon enough that both Abramski and Rosa had gone to Hollywood. And it took another month of hard work to find that no one had ever heard of a Zev Abramski in Hollywood but that Rosa Perelman was running a boardinghouse on Fountain Avenue.

O’Hara immediately put on his hat, caught the Twentieth Century Limited to Chicago, where he conducted a little business and signed the lease for his new club, then took a Pullman on the next afternoon’s Limited to Los Angeles.

He found his reputation had preceded him. He was welcomed personally by Mrs. Margaret Anderson, the manager of the Beverly Hills Hotel, and shown to her best pink stucco bungalow set amid lush lawns and flower
beds. He showered, changed, slicked back his wet red curls, hired a chauffeured car, and set off to find Rosa.

As they drove he stared around at the roads that petered out into flat fields and citrus groves, at the palm trees and the jungly hills baking in the sunshine and the bare, glowering mountains beyond. He took in the pretty Spanish houses, the few stores, and the unfinished look of the place and knew it wasn’t for him. “B’jaysus,” he commented to the driver, “a man could go crazy here. What d’you do for amusement of an evening?”

“Most folks is in the movie business,” the driver said glumly. “It’s an early rising town and early to bed. All they do is work—them that has work, that is. The rest of ’em sits around in casting offices—hoping.”

No town for a nightclub, O’Hara thought. Or was it? Maybe everybody went to bed early because there was nowhere else to go?

“Here’s Fountain, sir.” The driver turned into a quiet tree-lined street. “Rosemont’s ’bout the middle here.” He stopped in front of a white three-storey house. The sash windows were flung open to the fresh air and clean cotton curtains blew in the faint breeze; the windowpanes sparkled and a couple of pretty blond girls sat reading on the front porch. And next to them, sprawled in the shade, was Viktor. O’Hara’s heart almost burst with relief and love—if the dog was here, Azaylee was there.
And so was Missie
.

A tall, actorish-looking man strolled from the hall, surveying him as he stepped from the car and walked up the narrow path. “Sorry, old fellow,” he said in a crisp English accent, “but the ‘No Vacancy’ sign is right there on the gate. Though I must admit, with that car and a driver, you could do a bit better for yourself than Rosemont.”

“And what’s wrong with Rosemont?” O’Hara demanded defensively. “If it’s good enough for Rosa Perelman it’s good enough for anybody.”

The man nodded. “I meant that you are obviously not
just anybody—like the rest of us. In other words, you look like a man in gainful employment.”

“That I am,” O’Hara said proudly, “as well as an old friend. King O’Hara’s the name.” He held out his huge fist and shook the man’s hand enthusiastically.

“Marshall Makepiece,” the man said, dropping his British upper-crust voice and lapsing back into everyday American.

“Are you really King O’Hara?” The twins gasped in unison.

Their voices were suitably awed and O’Hara grinned. “I sure am, and I’m delighted to meet two such beautiful girls. If you’ll forgive me saying so, shouldn’t you be in the movies? With eyes as innocent as yours, you’ll make Mary Pickford look like a barmaid.”

The girls blushed and Makepiece laughed. “Lilian and Mary are the next stars-to-be. The rest of us are just hoping.”

O’Hara nodded. “And the lady proprietor? Where would she be now?”

“Who’s asking for me?” Rosa appeared suddenly in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. “Give only a look.” She gasped, her eyes almost jumping from her head. “It’s Shamus O’Hara from Delancey Street.”

“And if ever a man was glad to see a woman it’s me,” he exclaimed jubilantly. “You’ve cost me a small fortune, Rosa, hidin’ away in Hollywood like this. It took a team of detectives a month to find you.”

Her shrewd eyes assessed his beaming face and she sighed. “It’s not me you’re searching for though, is it, O’Hara?”

He mopped his forehead with an immaculate white pocket handkerchief. “Sure, and I’ll have to confess it’s Missie I’m after,” he said anxiously. “I’m hoping she’s here with you, Rosa, and not with Zev Abramski.”

She shrugged. “No one knows what’s become of that mystery man. He sold his business and left for Hollywood
with no forwarding address and that was that. It’s a small town; I guess by now I would have heard if he was the big success.” She looked O’Hara up and down again while the twins and Marshall watched interestedly. “You look like a man come into a fortune himself,” she commented, inspecting his dapper tailored suit, his tan-and-white spectator brogues, his blue silk shirt with a darker blue striped tie. “What happened to the shamrock suspenders and the old tie holding up your pants?”

“I can afford better now,” O’Hara said, waving his arms expansively. “Would you be stallin’ me then, Rosa?” he said impatiently. “I’m a man with a mission and I need to find Missie.”

“Come inside and take a seat,” she said, turning away, “I’ll go and get her.”

O’Hara’s heart was pounding.
She was going to get Missie!
He wondered suddenly if she had changed—after all, she was a married woman, a widow now … she had become used to money, servants, anything she wanted…. He sat staring at his big hands, waiting.

“O’Hara?”

He looked up and met her eyes, those same innocent, deep-violet eyes that had captured his heart an age ago.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” she said, coming toward him smiling.

He stood up, holding out his arms, waiting for her to walk into them. And as he held her to his chest, feeling his heart beat next to hers, he knew he need not have worried. Missie hadn’t changed. She would never change. She would always be the girl he loved.

Magic Movie Studios were located north of Hollywood Boulevard on a dirt track off Cahuenga Avenue, and though they were one of the smaller and newer outfits in town, the freshly painted studios and Spanish-style stucco offices had an air of prosperous solidity that told you they were no fly-by-night operation. The two great barnlike studios were in full production night and day now that they had the new klieg lights, and a third studio was in the process of construction. There were two street sets on the back lot, one city and one western, and Magic had three female stars: Mae French, sultry, sexy, and glamorous; Dawn Chaney, petite, girlish, and innocent; and Mitzi Harmoney, cute, curly-haired, and a comedienne. The two male stars were Ralph Lance, a sophisticated, romantic Englishman, and Tom Jacks, rough, tough, and a terrific horseman.