David Bishop - Matt Kile 04 - Find My Little Sister (19 page)

The next morning,
by radio, we heard the authorities make two primary points. One, that there had been a murder on the Rex, but that no one else appeared to be in any danger. And, secondly, being the political animals they are, the interview with the authorities had a theme that the murder on board the Rex proved the unsavory and violent nature of organized crime and the societal influences of illegal gambling. The interview did not acknowledge that the very issue of whether or not gambling at sea beyond three-miles of shore was in fact, illegal. Instead it simply labeled it as such. They also didn’t mention the dozens of murders which occur in Los Angeles every year, a city crowded with what is clearly illegal gambling.

Around noon, a police boat came to the landing and a short while later took the stretcher that held the remains of Frances Hopkins. Her identity would get out soon
. Callie had already spoken with her father, a task she called the hardest thing she had ever done.

Before the stretcher started down the gangway, Callie walked near until security stepped in front of her. Cornero gave the okay and security stepped to the side. Callie lowered the cover and looked at h
er sister’s face. She needed to see for herself, but she needed to see no more than her little sister’s face. She turned and came to me.

After that Callie and I, Tony
, and Carter Mitchum went in the restaurant. Tony braced Callie’s coffee with a little brandy. I ordered her some scrambled eggs and buttered toast. She said she didn’t want it. I told the waiter to bring it anyway.

Johnny Breeze sat two tables over from us.

When the waitress started toward our table, Breeze stood up. A gun from somewhere appeared in his hand. He moved quickly, his gun hand held at his side. The gun was visible only if one looked down his arm at his hand.

Breeze angled his approach slightly, coming
more toward the approaching waitress than directly toward our table.

Carter Mitchum abruptly stood. An echo rose
from his chair when it fell backwards against the floor.

Carter hollered, “Stop right there. Keep your gun down.”

Breeze stopped. In a flash he raised his gun and shot the waitress three times. His first two shots struck her in the chest. His last entered her head. Carter fired once at Breeze, his bullet striking the gunsel in the shoulder.

People screamed. Chairs were tipped over. Tables were knocked off kilter. Tablecloths darkened from spilled glasses and cups. Diners ran for the exits, their coats forgotten.

I looked back at Breeze. He moved the gun into his other hand and, standing over the waitress, shot her twice more in the head.

Carter fired three more times.

Johnny hit the floor like dead weight—which he was. 

The short, inglorious saga of Frances and Johnny ended right there on the floor of the S.S. Rex. No one understood their love, but everyone understood the inevitability of their death. They had taken what they wanted and gotten what they deserved.

* * *

Carter Mitchum
had recognized the waitress. Flaxi was her name. She had been Breeze’s former moll. He said she had a reputation for having killed twice for Johnny, both times slashing the throat of the victims while they slept, after having seduced them.

Mitchum said Flaxi was her nickname because of her pale yellow hair, the color of flax. He didn
’t know her real name.

By the end of the day, Deputy District Attorney Olney and Tony Cornero had negotiated a
n end to the standoff. Well, at least a change. The passengers would all be allowed to return to shore by water taxi.

* * *

The following morning, August 3
rd
, 1939, the radio repeatedly played Earl Warren speaking of his satisfaction.

“We are satisfied that the Rex is not doing business
, and if Cornero and his crew want to remain in seclusion three miles out on the ocean indefinitely, we can wait longer than they can. I don’t think they will commit any further crimes unless they start stealing from each other.”

Later that day, Police Captain George Contreras asked through a bullhorn, “
Are you ready to turn over the Rex?”

Tony Cornero laughed. “What good would that do me?” Tony went on to speak of ample provisions and the relaxed atmosphere of the ship without passengers. He made it seem the crew and he w
ere on vacation.

Callie and I left on Pug’s water taxi. We were the last
passengers to go ashore.

On the eighth day
of the siege, Cornero gave up and let officers confiscate the Rex. When asked by reporters why he gave up, he claimed he needed a haircut. His surrender agreement included that he would be taken back to Santa Monica on the water taxi named Kitty, captained by Pug. I rode out with Pug and accompanied Tony, Carter Mitchum, and Captain Stanley as they came in. When they stepped back onto the Santa Monica Pier they surrendered to L.A. District Attorney Buron Fitts.

While being escorted by the officers, Tony turned to the members of the press, to whom he had thrown scotch and rum a few days before while the boat they were in circled the Rex.

“See ya in court, boys.  The real battle is about to begin.”

Over the next several weeks my column mostly featured the ongoing legal maneuverings of both California Attorney General Earl Warren and the lawyers for Anthony Cornero. Following several
lower court skirmishes, the case percolated up to the California Supreme Court in “People v. Anthony Stralla.” The law considered Tony’s correct last name to be Stralla, his stepfather’s name, not Cornero, his birthfather’s name, as Tony preferred.

The judges reviewed numerous historical records that mentioned the geographical formation of Santa Monica Bay, including
the Portuguese Explorer Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo’s notes from 1542 in which he designated it the “Gran Ensenada” (the “Grand Bay”). In the end the California Supreme Court sided with the California Attorney General Earl Warren and declared that Santa Monica was a bay and, as such, fell within California’s jurisdiction.

Tony
had lost in the highest relevant court. He settled the case. As part of that settlement, he agreed to pay the high costs for the destruction of the gambling equipment and related furnishings, the state and local expenses to abate the S.S. Rex and all unpaid taxes. No charges were made against Tony Cornero.

In my view, the lack of criminal charges against Tony confirmed the state
remained unsure of its argument that Tony had engaged in any illegal activity given the mixed lower court rulings during the periods when the S.S. Rex was open for business.

It has
also been rumored that the house’s cash on the Rex had been confiscated in some manner.

* * *

November, 1939 - The End of an Era

The approximate eleven-year run of the colorful and romantic California gambling ships has passed. With Tony Cornero’s surrender of the S.S. Rex and the California Supreme Court ruling that the California coastline extended out to an imaginary line between Point Vicente and Point Dume, the era of these ships is over. The prevailing legal argument was one Cornero had defeated on appeal from a lower court decision, but in the end the Supreme Court overruled the appellate court so the interpretation that came from the office of Earl Warren, California Attorney General, has survived.

Still, fear not, gamblers among you, we continue to have the gambling den
s and bookie joints which organized crime has scattered among the citizenry. Estimated at more than one thousand, these establishments continue to mysteriously avoid discovery by the local and state coppers and the district attorneys who have so frequently and eloquently spoken of the horrors of gambling. Their point, apparently, is that gambling on a ship three plus miles out to sea can destroy the very fabric of society while that fabric remains intact and strong as long as the gambling dens are down the street and around the corner. This logic escapes me. But then, perhaps there are other issues involved. Tony Cornero swore he never paid for protection from the authorities. If this is true, might that have a role in the different treatment of onshore gambling compared to offshore gambling? I shall leave that to the reasoning and conscience of the readers.

The one thing I know for
certain, we have not heard the last of Anthony “Tony the Hat” Cornero. He will resurface, and I will report it when he does.

Good night Mr. and Mrs. Los Angeles and the gambling dens on shore… . Good Luck, Suckers. Matt Kile.

* * *

I took Callie home to her father’s house. We found him sitting on a wooden chair, on the patio near the pool. He didn’t get up. Callie pulled a chair close and sat near him. She put her hand on his bare forearm and stayed quiet until her gray-haired father turned to her. His eyes were red. His cheeks wet. His lips quivered.

I went into the house and found a bottle of whiskey, the
brand I’d heard him request when the three of us had gone out to dinner on several occasions, and three glasses. I took them out, poured two fingers in two glasses and handed them to Callie and her father, then a third glass for myself. I took a seat in view, but at a little distance. This was a family time and I wanted to respect their need for it.

After about ten minutes, Mr. Hopkins said, “Why? Why
, Callie?” He looked over to me, his eyes, his entire face and body, beseeching me to make sense of it. “Mr. Kile … why?”

I moved my chair a little closer. “Mr. Hopkins, sometimes
, in spite of how badly we want it, the
why
can’t be found. I doubt Frances even knew. Young people sometimes get a romantic notion. The pull of excitement, thrills, independence, just overwhelms them. Johnny Breeze was a good looking, confident man, but a bad man. Your daughter came under his spell. She forgot all she had learned growing up. The wonder of his world. The daring of his world. The magic of Hollywood and the underworld drugged her. I’m afraid no more of an explanation is available.”

“Matt’s right, Daddy. We need to grieve for the sadness of it all, and then move on. We each must decide how we
’re going to let this loss affect the rest of our lives. We’ll always miss her. Always remember the Frances we knew and loved.

* * *

That night, Callie and I returned to our favorite stretch of beach. The Pacific Ocean a bit rougher than usual, yet the air felt mild. We sat on our regular driftwood stump to take off our shoes. Then we walked down and along the hard sand, the surf alternating between lapping at our ankles and licking our toes. It was like all the other times, except we were quiet. Callie said nothing.

We just walked. Oh, we held hands, but she didn’t cling to my arm. We didn’t stop to ooh and aah at the
silvery gossamer the moon scattered across the surface of the water. We didn’t kiss.

After an hour we turned around and headed back.
We usually turned back if she found the air too cool or the wind too strong. She never minded if the sea breeze messed up her hair. I liked that. She was beautiful, yet not consumed with being so.

When we were part
way back, Callie stopped and gave me that little tug she did when she wanted me to stop as well, wanted me to come around to face her. I did.

“I spoke to the police about Frances’s body
,” Callie said. “Because she was murdered there will be an autopsy. The body may be released in a few days. I want to have the burial as soon as possible. Daddy needs it to be over. We all do.”

I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t really anything to say. I held her. She wept for a few minutes. Then she started walking again, tugging my arm to get me started.

“Frances wasn’t all bad,” she said in a tone that made me wonder which of us she was saying it to. “Not really. Was she, Matt?”

“She was your sister.
You will always love her. Your memories will always be filled with her smiles, the good times the two of you shared, her gentleness as a child. The kind things she did for you and with you, the things that sisters share. So, no, to you she wasn’t all bad.”

“What about to you? To everyone?”

“I didn’t really know her. I only saw her as a grown woman, a tough woman, a moll for an assassin. Still, I understand the love you have for her and I know that anyone you loved could not be all bad.”

“Do you remember when we walked here the first time? We talked about the romantic notion that when a person dies, the
ir name is written on a cloud?”

“I remember.”

“Do you think that will happen?”

“I think
that what you just said was that cloud.”

“It hurts so much. My father is
… devastated.”

“Tony has a saying. ‘
Life has tragedy. Rise above it. If you can’t, it isn’t worth having.’ ”

“That’s not something I’d expect to hear from a gangster.”

“Tony was a bootlegger and always a gambler so I suppose he falls within the definition of gangster. But he is nothing like most gangsters. Sort of like you just said about Frances, he isn’t all bad. Not really. He’s my friend and I’ve never had a better one. I have this ominous feeling that, like you did Frances, I’ll lose Tony one day in the not-too-distant future.”

Callie looked in my eyes, as
if she wanted to find a way in.              “I can’t imagine losing you,” she said. “I love you with all my heart.”

“You will never lose me, darling. I shall always be by your side. Always be with you.”

Then our lips touched, and our hearts met. We just stood there with our arms around each other, the wind tossing her hair, the surf clawing at our legs, Callie’s tears wetting my cheeks along with her own.

Life is like th
e surf. It comes at your gradually, climbing your legs. And I knew life would be that way for us. I would stand through life with Callie, as the years climbed our legs.

Then we went home.