“What the hell is wrong with you guys?” the driver demanded.
The driver behind them leaned on his horn, but when Jerry gave him a look he released it.
“What do you guys want?” I asked. “You been following us at least since Palm Springs, maybe before.”
“We don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” the guy in the passenger seat said.
“You got a permit for that rod, bub?” the driver asked Jerry.
“This one sounds like a cop, Mr. G.”
“I suggest we get our cars out of the way and have a talk,” I said.
“Tell your friend to put the gun away,” the driver said. “The security guy’s comin’ over to see what’s goin’ on.”
“He’ll put it away,” I said, “but it comes out again if you try to take off.”
“Understood. We’ll move the car,” the driver said, getting back in.
“I’ll move the Caddy, Mr. G.”
At the same time, the passenger got out. “I’ll handle the security guy.”
“Right behind you,” I said.
As Jerry and the other driver moved our cars out of the way the passenger showed the security guy ID that I didn’t get a look at. It must have been good because the guard backed right off.
We walked over to where Jerry and the other driver were waiting.
Both the strangers were in their thirties, wearing off-the-rack suits and skinny ties. They didn’t look like Secret Service to me, or FBI.
“Mind if we see those IDs?” I asked.
The men exchanged a glance, then took out their folders, flashed us Palm Springs police department buzzers. The passenger was Dugan, and the driver was Atkins.
“What the hell-” I said.
“Detective Stanze would like to see you fellas now that you’re back in town,” Dugan said.
Atkins looked at Jerry. “Bet you’re gonna have to explain about that gun.”
“Bet you’re gonna have ta explain about your black eye,” Jerry said.
“I don’t have a-” Atkins said, then suddenly backed away from Jerry warily. “I could take you in for manhandling me.”
“You’re right,” I said, “he jerked you out of the car pretty easily. Want to explain that? That’d leave a bruised ego.”
“Look,” Dugan said, “we were just sort of escortin’ you back. You know, keepin’ an eye on you like Stanze asked.”
“So you didn’t follow us from L.A.?” I asked, just to confirm.
“No, we picked you up when you got to Palm Springs,” Dugan said.
“You friends with Frank Sinatra?” Atkins asked.
“Yeah, we are.”
“Umm,” Dugan said, “that blonde in your car, was that … Marilyn Monroe?”
“No,” I said, “it was Mamie Van Doren. Why don’t you call Stanze and tell him we’ll be in a little later. We’re gonna freshen up first.”
“Yeah, you guys can go back home to paradise,” Jerry said.
“It is paradise,” Atkins said. “Where are you from, bub?”
“New York, pal,” Jerry said, “and you can keep yer sand and sun. I’ll take the Great White Way, thanks.”
Atkins made a move as if he was going to poke Jerry in the chest with his finger, but he drew it back at the last minute. Wise decision. Jerry probably would have pulled it off and shoved it up the guy’s ass.
“Let’s go,” Dugan said to his partner. “We’re done here. We were doin’ a favor for your guy, Stanze.”
“He’s not my guy.”
“Well, whatever he is, tell him not to call us again. We’re done cooperatin’.” He turned to Jerry. “You ever point a gun at me again-”
Jerry stopped him by drawing the gun and pointing it at him.
Atkins looked at Dugan, then they both chuckled, shook their heads and walked away.
Thirty-two
When we got back to Marilyn’s house I used the key she gave us to get into the guesthouse. We walked through and out the back door to a small patio.
“Jerry, you’re gonna have to cool it with the gun unless we really need it.”
“I didn’t know they was cops, Mr. G.”
“I know, but how about the second time?”
“The guy just pissed me off.”
“Okay, well, I’ve got to go and see Detective Stanze and try to explain all this. Meanwhile, I’ll have him explain why he’s havin’ me followed.”
“I better come with ya, Mr. G.,” Jerry said. “You’re gonna hafta explain me, too.”
“Let me see if I can deal with it,” I suggested. “I know how allergic to cops you are. If I can’t, then you’ll have to go in and talk to him. I’ll try to keep you out of it, but …”
“I get it. Thanks, Mr. G.”
“Sure. Just stay here, have somethin’ to eat, watch TV. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“You got it, Mr. G.”
A uniformed cop walked me to Stanze’s desk.
“Mr. Gianelli,” he said. “Nice of you to drop by.”
“I assume you heard from your Palm Springs buddies?” I asked. “Dugan and … what was it, Atkins?”
Another cop came walking over, plainclothes, white hair, deep tan.
“Say hello to my partner, Detective Bailey.”
“Dave Bailey,” the man said. “Hey.”
“Let’s go someplace and talk,” Stanze suggested.
“Need me?” Bailey asked.
“Nah, I got it,” Stanze said. “The lieutenant in?”
“No.”
“I’m gonna use his office.”
“He’s gonna catch you one of these days,” Bailey said.
“I’m just tryin’ his chair on for size,” Stanze said. To me, “Come on.”
When we got into the office, he closed the door, walked around and sat in his boss’s chair again. I sat across from him.
“You got ambitions,” I said.
“Who doesn’t?”
“Would you like to tell me why you were havin’ me followed?”
“Followed?” Stanze asked. “Those officers were there for your protection.”
“Protection from what?”
“Or who?” he asked. “How about whoever made your friend go missing?”
“I didn’t ask for protection.”
“No, that’s right, you have your own. Who’s the guy with the gun, Gianelli?”
“What happened to the ‘mister’?” I asked.
“Maybe you can earn it back, comprende?” the detective said. I was willing to bet that was the only Spanish he knew. “Who’s your friend?”
“He came to watch my back.”
“He got a permit for that gun?”
“I’m sure he does.”
“Where’s he from?”
“New York.”
“How’d he get a gun here from New York?”
“In his luggage, I assume.”
“Why didn’t you bring him in with you?”
“Did you want to see him?” I asked. “I thought this was between you and me.”
“What did the Palm Springs detectives tell you?”
“Oh, yeah, they gave me a message for you,” I said. “They said don’t call them again. So tell me, how did they know we were in Palm Springs? Were you havin’ me followed here and your guys lost me?”
“Come on,” he said, standing up.
“Where?”
“Downstairs to see your friend.”
“My friend?”
“Yeah,” Stanze said. “He was picked up ten minutes after you left him at Marilyn Monroe’s house.”
I got to my feet fast. “What the hell for?”
“He pointed a gun at a cop,” Stanze said. “Two cops, as a matter of fact.”
“We didn’t know they were cops,” I said. “They could’ve been the guys who made my friend disappear. Isn’t that what you said? Somebody made him disappear?”
“I’m looking into it,” Stanze said. “What were you doin
g in Palm Springs?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you took Marilyn Monroe somewhere. Why?”
“She’s a friend of mine,” I said. “I didn’t want any of this spilling over on to her.”
“Look, I assume you were candid with me in our first meeting,” Stanze said. “So you took Miss Monroe someplace safe? What did you do? Put her in a motel?”
“Marilyn Monroe in a motel?” I asked.
“Okay, come on,” Stanze said. “Let’s go downstairs and see your guy.”
“You’re not gonna arrest him, are you?”
“Let’s see if he’s got that permit.”
Thirty-three
We went down to a holding cell where they had Jerry, who was sitting on a bunk, looking very calm. Outside the cell was the uniformed turnkey and another uniformed cop.
“Open it,” Stanze told the turnkey.
“Yes, sir.”
He opened the cell door, then backed away. Stanze entered and I followed.
“Mr. Epstein,” Stanze said, “my name is Detective Stanze.”
Jerry looked up at him.
“Mr. Gianelli has explained to me that you didn’t know the two men were cops when you pointed your gun at them. Is that correct?”
I had no idea what I’d done but apparently I’d earned back my “mister.”
“He’s right.”
“I need to see your pistol permit.”
“It’s with my stuff,” Jerry said, “which they took away from me.”
Detective Stanze turned to the cop standing outside the cell.
“Get me his things.”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked at Jerry. “Is there any point in me asking you the same questions I asked Mr. Gianelli?”
“Whatever Mr. G. said, I agree with.”
“That’s what I thought. What do you do in Brooklyn, Mr. Epstein?”
“This and that.”
Stanze looked at me. “Why is it every time I ask one of these guys what they do they say ‘this and that,’” he asked me.
“What guys are those?”
“One of these torpedoes,” Stanze said, “or hard guys, or whatever they call themselves these days. Gunsel. Wiseguys. Isn’t that what they call them back east?”
“I ain’t a wiseguy,” Jerry said, “and I’m nobody’s torpedo.”
“Oh, sensitive, huh?”
The cops returned with an envelope holding Jerry’s things. There was a table in the cell, so Stanze emptied the envelope onto it. Wallet, some change, a key ring with three keys. No gun. Jerry had not been dumb enough to carry it into the police station.
Stanze picked up the wallet. He went through it, found the permit and studied it.
“You know this is no good in the state of California,” he said.
“I know.”
“And yet you were carrying a gun.”
“I was gonna come in and register it,” Jerry said, “but I got busy.”
“Uh-huh. With Marilyn Monroe?”
“I’m just helpin’ Miss M.”
“Do what?”
“Stay safe.”
“Why did you point your gun at those two Palm Springs cops-after they identified themselves?”
“They was bein’ assholes.”
“They could have taken you in, you know.”
“They was out of their jurisdiction.”
“Oh, you know the law?”
“Some.”
“Well, I’m not out of my jurisdiction.”
“I ain’t carrin’ it now.”
“But you were, earlier today. You admitted it.”
“I’d be stupid to deny it,” Jerry said, “with them two Palm Springs dicks tellin’ you I pointed it at them.”
“For being assholes.”
“Yup.”
Stanze looked at me.
“They were,” I said. “I was there.”
Stanze put the wallet back on the table. He didn’t put the items back into the envelope. I took that as a good sign.
“What have you done about finding Danny Bardini?” I asked. “Have you been back to that motel?”
“I talked to the owner,” he answered. “He says he checked the records. There’s no sign of anyone by that name signing in.”
“Somebody could’ve erased it,” I said. “Did you check the airport?”
“Yes, your friend did fly into L.A. on the same flight with Miss Monroe. That’s the reason I believe you, that and I’m sure that clerk I talked to was lying through his teeth.”
“Is he still around?”
“He is. I saw him there earlier, when I talked to the owner.”
“He’d be silly to run,” Jerry said. “That’d prove he was a liar.”
“Very good, gunsel,” Stanze said.
Jerry took the name-calling impassively. The only one he really didn’t like was “torpedo.”
“Okay,” Stanze said, “pick up your stuff and go.”
Jerry collected his belongings and pocketed them.
“You never answered my question,” I said.
“What question was that?”
“Were you havin’ us followed until we left L.A.? And did your guys lose us?”
“If I was having you followed it was for your own protection.”
“That’s what the Palm Springs dicks said,” Jerry said.
“You fellas going to be at Miss Monroe’s house, even though she’s not there? I mean, if I want to reach you again?”
“Yeah, we’ll be there,” I said. “She gave me a key. We got permission.”
“Okay, then,” he said. “If I find out anything about your friend, I’ll call you there.”
“Thanks.”
He walked us out of the cell block and upstairs to the main floor. Before I could leave he grabbed my arm.
“You did drop Miss Monroe off at Frank Sinatra’s, right?”
“Why would I have done that, Detective?” I asked. “Didn’t you hear? They broke up.”
Thirty-four
When we walked into the office of the motel the skinny girl behind the desk looked at Jerry with wide eyes. He was big, and was wearing a sports jacket. Even though I was used to the heat-being from Vegas-I had taken my jacket off and left it in the car.
“Who owns this joint?” Jerry demanded loudly.
“Um, um, Mr. Cohen,” the frightened girl replied.
“Where is he?”
“Um, he’s in-in the back.” She jerked her finger toward a doorway.
“Thanks.”
He stormed past the girl toward the doorway.
“Uh, you can’t-” she started, but I stopped her.
“Don’t bother,” I said. “You’ll just make him mad.”
I followed Jerry through the door, found him facing a guy in a tank top seated in a leather lounge chair. The guy was in his sixties, with buzz-cut white hair and white stubble. He had good biceps on him for his age, but his gut hung over a cheap belt.
“What the hell-” he started.
He tried to get up but Jerry put a massive hand on the guy’s chest and shoved him back down. He kept his hand on the man’s chest. The guy grabbed Jerry’s wrist with both hands and strained, but despite the good biceps he couldn’t budge it.
“Whataya want?” he demanded.
“Just answer a few questions,” I said to him, “and we’ll go away.”
The guy looked at me.
“You his keeper?” he demanded. “Tell him to stop crushing my chest.”
“I ain’t his keeper,” I said, “but I might be able to persuade him, if you’re willing to talk to us.”
“I ain’t gonna be talkin’ to nobody if he crushes my damn chest!” He looked up at Jerry. “It’s a crime I should breathe?”
“Okay, Jerry,” I said. “Let him breathe.”
Jerry removed his hand.
“Jesus!”
“Are you Cohen?”
“Yeah, Stanley Cohen. Who’
re you? I don’t owe no bookies.”
“We’re not collectin’ on the debt, Mr. Cohen,” I said.
“Well, you ain’t cops.”
“No, not cops.”
“Then what?”
“I told you. Somebody with questions.”
“I ain’t answerin’ no questions-oof-” He got cut off when Jerry clamped his hand back on Cohen’s chest. “Jesus, awright already.”
Jerry removed his hand.
“Whataya wanna know?”
“The cops were here talking to you about one of your desk clerks.”
“Yeah. So?”
“We want his name and address.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s lyin’ to the cops, and to you, and we want the truth.”
“Max don’t lie to me.”
“Okay, then you’re lyin’, too,” I said. “Jerry, the man’s lyin’. Make him tell the truth.”
Jerry reached down for the guy, this time with both hands. Cohen squawked, put his hands up in front of his face and said, “Awright, awright, call ‘im off!”
“Jerry.”
The big guy backed off.
“Johnson, Max Johnson,” Cohen said. “That’s his name.”
“We need his address.”
“Can I get up?”
“Sure,” I said.
Cohen eyed Jerry warily as he got to his feet. He walked to a cabinet, opened it and removed an index card. Turning, he held it out to me.
“Here, take it. I’m gonna fire his ass anyway.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because he brought you guys here,” Cohen said. “He brought the cops here. This I don’t need.”
“So what about Danny Bardini?” I asked. “Was he registered here or not?”
Cohen put his hands out, as if to ward us off, and said, “I really don’t know about that. Max said he never registered, and I believed him. When the cops showed up askin’ questions I didn’t know what the hell was goin’ on, and now that you guys are here I still don’t. What’s the big deal if the guy stayed here or not?”
“He’s missing,” I said. “That’s what the big deal is.”
“Well, I don’t see no record that he was ever here. I’m sorry.”
“Max Johnson told me he was here for four days.”
“Well then, Max musta got rid of the registration card.”
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