Glitter Girls

Prologue

I first met Bridget Gossett in November of 1941 in Las Vegas, less than a month before Pearl Harbor thrust us in World War II.

She was young and beautiful, and when I say young I mean a child—a glorious, gorgeous, blond child not yet fifteen years old. Her family was wealthy, which was about all I knew about them. I did know of the rumors that her millionaire father, Solomon Gossett, liked to associate with gangsters and money men from New York and Chicago, but I didn’t know if the rumors were true.

My name is Jack Beech, and I’m a cop. I was only a few months out of the academy when Bridget and I met. I was assigned to Internal Affairs in the department because, I believe, they weren’t sure what to do with me, and at my age they might’ve been fairly certain, since the speculation was that we were headed for war and that I would undoubtedly be drafted. Which is exactly what happened.

At that time I was twenty-three years old.

1

(1941, November 19, 10:17 P.M.)

I pulled to a stop alongside a patrol car with its red-bubble flashing to see if I could offer assistance. The patrolman had stopped a dark limousine. In the periphery of my headlights, the direct lights of the police car aimed at the rear of the stopped car, and the dim lighting from the nearest street lamp, I could see the uniformed cop face to face with a huge, muscular guy on the sidewalk. Judging from my angle, I could tell there were other people inside the car, at least two men, hatless, and two women. The cop looked like he might be in an argument he could lose.

It was a violation of procedure to let the big man to get out of the car and approach him to draw his attention, not a good idea since he was a lone patrolman. Chances were there was no serious threat, but all it takes is one to become a statistic. For that reason I kept my engine and headlights on.

I took a flashlight when I got out and, showing my badge at the cop and the big man, eased into a position on the sidewalk at the car’s rear fender. I asked the officer if he needed help, and he told me, yeah, could be.

No trouble here, the big guy in civvies said, spreading his palms toward me. He saw the way I kept my hand close to the gun holster-clipped on my belt. We can straighten this out. It’s my fault, officer. I’m the driver.

The stopped car was a sleek, new Packard four-door sedan bearing a California license plate at the rear. The window was down on the passenger side in back, and a beautiful face topped by blond hair leaned out to peer at me. There was a stumpy-looking man, well-dressed with a white scarf tucked in the collar of his dark coat, sitting next to her, and, on the other side of him, was another woman. The nattily-dressed man in back didn’t look straight at me, nor did the woman on the far side. Both turned their faces away from my flashlight. Up front, on the passenger side, was another man in evening wear who kept his face averted.

We’ll pay the fine right here, the big guy on the sidewalk was saying to the cop.

My attention was drawn to the blonde in the back seat. Not only was she beautiful, she looked very young. Her hair was platinum, and her eyes were bright blue as she blinked into my light beam. I was about to lean down for a closer inspection of the car’s occupants when she suddenly opened the back door and got out.

The man up front, with his face turned away, snapped, Hey, come back here!

She paid no attention as she stood very close to me on the sidewalk. She smiled up at me.

She couldn’t have been more than a teenager, though she was conscious of her body in a mature way. She wore a snug, sheath dress, with a slit on the left side, that accentuated her excellent legs and youthful figure. She had on a pearl necklace and earrings. She wore silk stockings and high-heeled shoes. Her beauty was striking enough to make me catch my breath.

She continued to smile at me and said, I’m not a whore. My name is Bridget Marie Gossett. My father is Solomon Gossett.

I had heard of Solomon Gossett. I suppose everybody in Nevada had. How old are you? I asked.

Old enough, she laughed. What’s your name? I told you mine.

Jack Beech, I said.

She surprised me again by taking my arm. Then you can give me a ride home, Jack Beech.

The man in the back seat of the Packard said in a gravelly voice, We’ll take you home.

Jack Beech will give me a ride, she announced, as though that settled it.

I started to lean down again, but Bridget Gossett was partially obstructing my view. Who are you? I asked the man in back.

He still wouldn’t look straight at me, nor would he reply. His profile indicated a rather puggish face.

I can handle it, the cop said behind me.

I wondered why, all of a sudden, and thought it likely that the big driver had flashed money at him while my back was turned. I was still trying to peer into the

Packard, and Bridget was trying to steer me futher away on the sidewalk.

At the same time that Bridget Gossett gave a firm tug on my arm to turn me away, the big guy on the sidewalk was in motion also, coming around the front of the Packard to take his place as driver. The cop merely stood staring after him.

Go! I heard the backseat man’s voice snap at the driver. The Packard pulled away, leaving the cop, Bridget, and me standing on the sidewalk.

I clicked off my flashlight and looked a question at the cop.

He was tucking something into his pocket. He made a little motion with his hand to indicate it wasn’t important and headed straight to his patrol car.

I felt Bridget Gossett’s fingers lightly squeeze my arm. See? she said brightly. Now you’ll have to take me home. Or I’ll have to call my father and let him send someone. I didn’t bring my purse, so I don’t have any change.

You could get in a lot of trouble, I told her sternly.

What trouble? Show me you’re a nice guy, Jack Beech, and be my chauffeur. We can get better acquainted.

She walked behind the patrol car, came up between that one and mine, and opened the door on my passenger side to get in. I strode a cut in front of the cop’s car, making him put on his brakes, and went around to my driver’s side. Bridget Marie Gossett was already seated, waiting, all the time smiling at me. I was being vamped by one of the prettiest and youngest girls I had ever encountered. In a way it was kind of amusing to me, as well as intriguing. I put my flashlight away as the cop pulled on out ahead of us. He turned off a block ahead, and I drove straight on.

How old are you, Bridget? I said. The truth.

Fifteen, almost. She laughed lightly and anticipated my next question. My girlfriend and I went for a ride. That’s all. Nothing bad happened.

Is your girlfriend as young as you?

We’re the same age, she said, inspecting one of her painted fingernails.

What’s her name?

She ignored the question and gave me directions to turn back toward the neon-lighted center of town. You wouldn’t have a joint, would you?

Marijuana’s illegal.

Well, hell, Jack Beech, she said, what isn’t? How about a cigarette?

I told her I didn’t smoke.

A cop that don’t smoke, she said, shaking her head and sitting back. So? You married?

Nope. Who was the man in the back seat? The one giving the orders?

Frankie Carbo, from Los Angeles. I hear he’s a gangster. He’s got a nice car, don’t you think?

That was a shocker to me. Not the car, but Carbo’s name.

Frankie Carbo was, indeed, a mobster from L.A. The majority of Las Vegas residents wouldn’t have heard of him, but there wasn’t a police blotter west of the Rockies that didn’t have a clipping or file on Frankie Carbo. He wasn’t the biggest name on the West Coast by any means, certainly not as big as Bugsy Siegel or Jack Dragna, but he was certainly bad news. Police rumor had it that Frankie

Carbo had been a hit man for Murder, Inc. in their heyday back East.

What the hell were you doing with him?

Riding in his nice car, she said.

How did you meet Frankie Carbo?

She laughed and said, You ask a lot ‘a questions, Jack Beech.

I’m a cop, Bridget. You don’t want to be messing with guys like Carbo. How did you meet him?

Again, she laughed, having her fun at my expense. We can’t share all of our secrets on our first date.

I can arrest you and make your folks come get you. But I knew I wouldn’t. The bemused look she was giving me melted any attempt on my part to practice righteous indignation. Be serious.

Why? she asked with the same tone of innocence. You’re serious enough for both of us, Jack Beech.

You’re not only underage, you’re a smart-aleck. She giggled before giving me another directional heading. We had left downtown Vegas behind us. We can be friends. I’ve never had a policeman for a friend before.

What do your folks think of you running around with guys like Frankie Carbo?

My mother’s dead, was her reply. My father knows Mr. Carbo. Actually, I wasn’t with him. My friend was. I was with the gent up front who wouldn’t let you see his face. Turn right up here.

I followed her directions. Who’s the gent?

He wouldn’t want me to tell you, she said. Then she did something with the slit dress to show more of her leg, up to her thigh. I knew her adjustment was for my benefit. He’s not a nice man.

I set my eyes back on the road. I’d hate to see somebody as young and pretty as you get herself in trouble with mobsters.

Bridget took my right hand from the steering wheel, pulled it to her lips and kissed it. You’re a gentleman, Jack Beech. I was told most cops are crooked.

You were told wrong. Does Frankie Carbo have business in Vegas?

On holiday, he said, was Bridget’s reply. I think he’s laying low for awhile.

Now what would she know about a crook laying low? Come on, Bridget, what were you doing with Carbo?

Being nice to him, she said. Like you are to me.

To distract my focus from Bridget’s lovely legs, I tried remembering some of the things I had heard about Carbo. The latest was that he and Michael Mickey Cohen were competitors for whatever gang control they could squeeze out of Bugsy Siegel’s and Jack Dragna’s grip. Both Carbo and Cohen were bag men who handled a significant part of the sports betting on the West Coast. I was still stunned that Bridget Marie Gossett, this breath-takingly beautiful kid of fourteen, would know, and be in the company of, a gangster. I hoped to hell she wasn’t conning me, that she wasn’t, in reality, a teeny whore.

Are you a detective? Bridget asked. You’re not in uniform.

My current assignment is Internal Affairs. What that means is—

You try to catch other cops doing bad things, Bridget finished for me. I bet that keeps you busy. She moved closer, touching her shoulder against mine. How old are you?

I caught myself smiling over at her. Too old for you.

You have no idea what’s too old for me. She sighed. I’m glad I know you, Jack Beech. Got a girlfriend? No.

You had one, caught her cheating, and it pissed you off at women.

Her insightfulness made me laugh.

Did you shoot him? asked Bridget. The one she cheated with.

No, I didn’t shoot him.

You know, she said with the air of teenage wisdom, most crooks are dumb. I believe that, Jack Beech. They think muscles, guns, and making ugly faces will get ‘em anything. My father has to deal with some of those guys because he’s got money.

For the next few seconds, I mulled what she had said.

She went on, A really smart person can get away with anything. Once more I heard that laugh of hers. I can get away with anything. She peered forward and said, Slow down. You’ll turn up ahead.

I followed her directions to her father’s house. It was a mansion outside of town. At night, I couldn’t see a lot of it, but it was big and impressive. The portico out front, leading to the main doors, was lighted. I stopped in the driveway and started to reach across Bridget to open her door. She caught my arm.

If you come inside, she said, my father will reward you.

The service is free, I told her, our faces close together.

Nothing is ever free, Bridget said.

Then she pulled my head to her and kissed me on the mouth. It was a long, wet, lingering kiss. Her lips parted, and I felt the tip of her tongue slide between my lips. Her right hand slipped down to my crotch. At that moment, I was having a hard time breathing. I was having a hard time all around. She tasted and smelled wonderful. She had a kind of cherry flavor to her kiss.

When the kiss ended, she sat back and smiled as though she were in control of something.

I breathed in and said, Watch yourself. Stay away from people like Carbo and his pals. Stick to boyfriends your own age.

She gave me that little laugh once more. Young guys are boring, she said. I like excitement. I can take care of myself. Then she moved away quickly and opened the door on her side. I got halfway out, looking over the roof at her. But if I ever need help, I’ll call on you, Jack Beech. She blew me a kiss with the tips of two fingers. Promise you’ll be there for me if I need you.

I promise, Bridget.

She went quickly into the house, leaving me standing there trying to calm my heartbeat and overactive imagination.

I sat in my car for a couple of minutes, wondering just what I had experienced and why it had felt good.

Bridget Marie Gossett had gotten to me all right. Maybe I would have been less than human had she not. It was a strange and unusual feeling for me. I had to laugh at myself because there I was, falling in love with a child.

I didn’t get much sleep that night.

2

(1947, J une 6, 12:15 P.M.)

I was in a window booth, had just had my coffee freshened and topped with a shot of bourbon, when Dan Murray limped in.

Murray and I hadn’t been friends on the force, hadn’t partnered together, or had much to do with each other until in the fall of ‘41 when I was loaned to the Clark County Prosecutor’s Office with the assignment of looking into allegations against Sergeant Murray’s extortion activities. My duty had gotten me out of uniform and into civilian clothes for awhile. The last time I had seen Murray, he had threatened to shoot me. That was a week before Pearl Harbor. I didn’t know who followed up on that investigation because, less than two weeks later, I enlisted in the U.S. Army.

Our meeting place, the Nugget Saloon, was adjacent to The Golden Nugget Gambling Casino on Fremont Street.

The saloon had been under a different name before I went off to fight the war, and the main casino itself, the first structure in Las Vegas to be designed from the ground up to be a casino, was a contractor’s dream, and in some circles supposedly built with mob money. It had opened a year ago, while I was still in uniform, and was rumored to be under Bugsy Siegel’s control. The saloon, too, had been totally refurbished. It was much brighter now, had a newly-installed system of air-conditioning, a large, gilt-edged mirror behind the bar, velvety-textured wall coverings, and a row of shiny slot machines beyond the bar.

I hadn’t seen Murray for five and a half years, back when he was working narco and vice. He looked old and worn out, but still mean. Murray spotted me, came forward with a stiff-kneed hitch, and slid in opposite. He sat sideways, extending his left leg outward. The waiter approached to take his order.

Bourbon with water back, he said to the waiter, then faced me. Jack Beech, he said, you’re looking good.

We have an office.

Murray was a big, craggy-looking man, always had been, with deep lines in his sun-browned face, gray in his hair, and was more jowlly than I had remembered. He would have to be in his mid-to-late fifties by now. The pants he wore looked old, comfortably broken in, and he had on a tan, short-sleeved shirt that showed his thick, grizzled forearms. He still had the cop look with the narrow, piercing eyes.

I ain’t good with stairs, he said. Can’t drive much anymore. He tapped his bum leg. I took a bullet in the knee. They was so appreciative they retired me on half-pay disability. Wouldn’t let me finish out for full pension. You were smart not to go back on the force.

If he was looking for sympathy, he wasn’t getting it. Murray had been a crooked cop, in and out of trouble with the department. If he could have added all the time he lost on suspensions and trials, he would have had his full retirement.

What do you want? I asked.

I want you to bring my wife home.

I squinted to remember the woman’s name from the time I had questioned her about her husband. As I recalled, she had told me she hoped I could put the son of a bitch in jail. Irma? I asked.

Ida. No, not that bitch, Murray said in his husky voice. She divorced me in ‘42. I remarried Monday night, four days ago, in Reno.

I tilted my head at him. Home from where?

Jack, I married Bridget Marie Gossett.

I laughed at first, then shook my head. I don’t believe it.

He gave me a half-mouthed grin that showed off a gold tooth. Monday in Reno, that’s when we met. Got married that night. I got the marriage license to prove it.

My mental calculation put Bridget Gossett’s age at twenty. What would a beautiful young woman, worth more money than most of us accumulate in a lifetime, see in a butt-ugly, crude, ex-cop like Dan Murray?

Wednesday noon she left my house in a taxi, he said. I ain’t heard from her since. I think she went to see her old man, and he’s got her in that big house of his and won’t let her leave.

His drink was delivered, and I watched him toss it off.

He wiped his mouth on his bare forearm and took a swallow of water. Before the waiter was halfway back to the bar, Murray was snapping his fingers and motioning for a refill.

He said, Our wedding night Bridget called her old man from our room in Reno to break the news to him. They had a shouting match. Now Gossett won’t tell me nothing. He says if I set foot on his property he’ll have me taken care of. He’ll have certain guys pay me a visit.

What guys?

Come on, Jack, Murray said. People we both know.

I figured by that he meant the Neon Boys.

Sergeant Dan Murray had been a member of a select, though small, goon-squad known in the station as the Neon Boys. Paid by certain underworld types who were keeping a tight rein on the gambling enterprises in Vegas, that unofficial handful of cops and deputies discouraged the presence of enterprising gangsters who were not sanctioned by either the New York or Chicago mobs. More than one free-lancer from Kansas City, Detroit, Cleveland, even Miami, found himself hauled into the desert by the Neon Boys, beaten senseless, revived if possible, and told to be on the next transportation home. Rumor had it that some of those free-lancers had not survived and never returned from somewhere in the desert. Basically, it was same kind of operation that was said to be going on, under Jack Dragna’s directives, in Los Angeles.

I sat back and sipped my coffee, watching him as his second bourbon was delivered. He downed it as quickly.

Go see Gossett and reason with him, Murray said. A husband’s got some rights. The old man can’t keep her locked away because he don’t like me.

I thought about the Bridget I had met and couldn’t imagine her being held for very long anywhere against her will. I said, If she went home to her father, she did it by choice. If she’s not communicating with you, that’s her choice. If you’re wanting me to put pressure on Solomon Gossett, forget it. You’ll hear from Bridget if and when she wants you to.

Murray hauled out his wallet and slapped it down on the table. I got a hundred bucks here. Gus Fairly said you’d give me two days. It’s a goddam job for you.

You don’t need a private detective, you need a divorce lawyer.

Bridget an’ me are crazy ‘bout each other, Murray said. You wanna tell Fairly you turned down a client? Listen. I asked for you because Bridget told me ‘bout you.

She doesn’t know me.

She said you two met before the war. That you promised her if she was ever in trouble you’d help her out.

I smiled and slightly shook my head. I met her one time, almost six years ago. She was a child. I figured she’d forgotten all about it. When did she tell you?

On the way back from Reno, in her car.

You said she left your house in a taxi.

She did, Murray said. Wednesday morning, guy showed up with another key and took the car. I figure it’s back inside Gossett’s garage. Couple hours later Bridget called a cab.

And you’re certain she’s at her father’s house?

No, it’s what I’m guessing. He pulled out a dilapidated billfold and counted out one hundred dollars, leaving what looked like a few singles in the wallet. I half expected moths to fly out of it. Here’s the hundred.

From my inside jacket pocket I withdrew the contract I had brought from the office. It was two-sheeted with a carbon between. Murray signed, I signed under his name, and I gave