Chicago Confidential

“Well, either way, we need to talk. Listen, Melvin, I’m in a world of shit. This guy Miller at Columbia has me making novelty records, trying to compete with Frankie the fuck Laine, for Christ’s sake. Then I managed to piss Mayer off and lost my movie contract. I do have a TV series coming up — CBS. That’s a good thing.”

“That’s a very good thing, Frank. TV’s the hot deal, these days.”

“Yeah, and those lousy Senate hearings are all over it! That’s what’s really got me in a vise. The feds... these fucking feds... Excuse me, Miss Palmer.”

Vera was gaping at him like she was a tourist and he was the Grand Canyon. “That’s all right, Mr. Sinatra.”

“Fucking feds,” he continued, “they’re squeezing me like a goddamn pimple.”

“How so?”

“That hick from Tennessee wants me to talk about Charley and Joey and the boys.”

The “boys” he referred to were mobsters, mostly from Chicago — like Charley, Joey, and Rocco Fischetti, Capone cousins who were high in the Outfit.

“I’ve been ducking that bastard Kefauver myself,” I admitted.

Frank was lighting up a cigarette. “Yeah, but at least you don’t have that cheese-eating Red-baiter on your butt.”

“What, McCarthy?”

He smirked. “Yeah, I’m not just a gangster, you know — I’m a Red!”

“McCarthy thinks all Democrats are communists.”

Sinatra’s fabled blue eyes locked onto me. “You know him, don’t you?”

“Some. I did a job for Drew Pearson involving McCarthy, and got to know the guy.”

Pearson was a nationally known muckraking syndicated columnist I’d handled occasional investigations for over the years: Senator McCarthy had been a source of his I’d checked.

Sinatra’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “So you’re friendly with McCarthy?”

“Friendly enough to drink with.”

“Great! Perfect, Melvin.” And the skinny singer stood, patting me on the arm, flashing me his charismatic if shopworn smile. “We’ll talk soon... I gotta try to catch up with that crazy broad.”

And he was gone.

“He seemed nice,” Vera said.

“He can be. You ready?”

“It’s too late for me to go back to the dorm. Can I stay at your place?”

We went out the glass doors and walked arm in arm under the Sherry’s canopy, with Vera leaning against my shoulder.

“You know a lot of famous people, don’t you?” she asked. Her spike heels clicked on the sidewalk.

“That’s part of my business, Vera. You want to be famous?”

“Oh, yes. My parents brought me to Hollywood on vacation, when I was a little girl — about ten. I stood on the corner of Hollywood and Vine and I just knew this town would belong to me someday.”

We walked around and up the incline into the parking lot.

“And here I thought you were just a college girl,” I said.

“I’m a college girl studying to be a movie star.”

“Careful what you wish for, Vera...”

We were approaching the Packard when he stepped out from between two cars: Paul, his army uniform looking stained and rumpled. His fists were clenched, but he did not charge at us or anything — just stood with his weak chin high. The wild look was out of his eyes: despair had taken its place.

“Keep your distance, mister,” he said to me.

Poor bastard had been following us all night — first saw me take his girl to the hotel, then to Sherry’s...

I said, “Paul, that’s good advice — keep your distance, or I’m turning you over to the cops for harassing this girl.”

His voice quavered, but there was strength in it, even some bruised dignity. “I just want to talk to my wife.”

I glanced sharply at Vera. “Wife?”

She swallowed and avoided my eyes, though still hugging my arm.

To the solider, who was maybe ten feet away, I said, “You’re her husband, Paul?”

Traffic sounds from the Strip provided dissonant background music for this second sad confrontation.

“That’s right,” he said. “And Jaynie’s afraid I’ll tell the Miss California people she’s married, and a mom, and they’ll toss her out on her sweet behind.”

I winced at Vera. “Jaynie?”

Paul answered for her: “Her name is Vera Jayne, mister. And Palmer’s just her maiden name. Our little baby girl, just a few months old, is home with Jayne’s mother.”

Mildly pissed and vaguely ashamed of myself, I turned to the coed. “This boy is your husband? And you have a baby back in Texas?”

She still wasn’t looking at me; but she nodded.

“Go talk to him,” I said, suddenly exhausted. “I’ll wait — I’ll still drive you back to your dorm, if you want. But first talk to him.”

I leaned against the Packard while they talked. I didn’t eavesdrop, and anyway they kept their voices down. Finally they hugged. Kissed, tentatively.

Vera came over and said, “Paul’s been called up to active duty — he’s going to Korea. He wants me to be with our little girl, back home in Dallas, and be with him as much as possible... When his hitch is up, he says he’ll bring me back out here, and let me take my shot at stardom. That’s two years. You think I’ll still be pretty enough, in two years, to try again?”

“Sure, Vera.”

Her eyes shimmered with desperation. “Can I call you, then? For a reference to the studios?”

“Sure — me or Fred, either one of us will help you, Vera.”