You're nobody 'til somebody kills you rp-4

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Let’s go,” I said to Jerry. I looked at Cohen. “If you call Johnson and warn him we’re comin’ we’ll be back-and I won’t hold my friend here back.”

  “I got it,” Cohen said. “Believe me, I got it.”

  “And don’t let your girl out there make any calls, either.”

  “She don’t know nothin’,” Cohen said.

  “Oh, one more thing,” I said. “We need to talk to two of your other clerks. Hilary? Is that the girl outside? And Harry.”

  “I got no Hilary and no Harry,” Cohen said. “I guess Max really was a liar.”

  I looked at Jerry and we turned and left.

  “Well, we didn’t get anything to prove to Stanze that Danny was here.”

  “It sounded to me like he believed ya already,” Jerry said, leaning against the car.

  “Maybe,” I said, “but let’s find this Johnson guy and confirm it.”

  “You got it, Mr. G.”

  Thirty-five

  When we got in the car Jerry asked, “What’s the address?”

  I read it off for him.

  “How do we get there?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “We could ask directions.”

  “We’re from Brooklyn,” I said, “we don’t ask directions.”

  “Well, then … how are we gonna get there?”

  I looked at him. “We’ll ask for directions.”

  After we stopped at a gas station for help we drove to an apartment building on the outskirts of Brentwood.

  “I thought Brentwood was all rich people and movie stars,” Jerry said, parking in front of the building.

  “So did I.”

  “So where did this block come from?”

  “This must be the Brentwood slums.”

  “I’m glad I have my gun,” he said.

  “You do?” I asked. “But … in the police station …”

  “I left it in the trunk.”

  “The trunk?” I said. “Of my car?”

  “Well, I didn’t think they’d search your car,” he said. “Why would they?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “why would they?”

  Trying a second look at the building, I decided it probably was a good thing that Jerry had his gun.

  We opened the trunk and he dug the.45 out of the wheel well, stuck it in his belt.

  “No holster?”

  “That would’ve looked suspicious,” he said. “I mean, if I was wearing an empty holster?”

  We started toward the building, and I put my hand on his arm to stop him.

  “When exactly did you put the gun in the trunk?”

  “Before you drove to the police station.”

  “Why?”

  “I had a bad feelin’.”

  “A bad feelin’?”

  “Yeah, that they was gonna pick me up. I figured those assholes from Palm Springs was gonna squeal.”

  We walked to the building. There were doorbells, but only a few had names on them.

  “Jerry.”

  “Yeah, Mr. G.?”

  “The next time you have a bad feelin’ will you let me know?”

  “Sure, Mr. G.”

  We tried the front door and it was unlocked. In fact, the lock was broken.

  “Mr. G.?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is it,” he said. “I got a bad feelin’ about this.”

  “Mmm, me, too.”

  We went in. The urine smell was enough to make my eyes sting.

  “What apartment?” he asked.

  I looked at the index card.

  “Two-C.”

  “Second floor.”

  We went up the steps, walked past only one apartment that seemed to be occupied. A radio was playing, and a child was wailing. When we got to 2C Jerry drew his gun.

  “Me first, Mr. G.”

  I nodded.

  He reached for the doorknob and it turned easily.

  “This has got to be a phony address,” I said.

  “Why?” Jerry asked. “When the guy got the job at the motel why would he give a phony address?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe …”

  He pushed the door open and went in quickly with the gun held out in front of him. I waited until he waved me in.

  I left the door open and looked around. There was a sagging sofa with one broken leg and an armchair with half the stuffing sticking out. Off to the left was a folding table with a slightly limp fourth leg.

  “Nobody even bothered to try and make it look lived in,” Jerry said.

  “There’s a kitchen, and another room. Bedroom?”

  “We better check,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “You take the kitchen, Mr. G.”

  “Right.”

  No body, I thought, thank God there was no body.

  I entered the kitchen. Cabinet doors were hanging off their hinges or missing completely; there was a kitchen table but no chairs. The stove was minus two burners. I opened the oven and looked in, found it empty and dirty.

  No bodies. I went back into the living room.

  “Jerry?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Anything?”

  He came out of the bedroom, tucking the.45 into his belt.

  “Nothing, Mr. G. There’s a chest of drawers, but nothing’s been in them for a long time.”

  “So it’s a phony address.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Who gets a job at a fleabag motel and gives a phony address?”

  “When was he hired?” Jerry asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, remembering the index card. “He was hired … a week ago.”

  “Before Danny got to L.A.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Odd,” he said.

  “I think so.”

  “Can we get out of here now, Mr. G.?” he asked. “My eyes are burnin’ something bad.”

  “Yeah, let’s go,” I said, “before a body falls from the ceiling.”

  We stopped at a Chinese takeout and brought two greasy bags of food and a six-pack back to Marilyn’s guesthouse.

  “Before we go inside,” I said, “we’ve got something to decide.”

  “Like what?”

  “Whether or not we believe the house is bugged,” I said. “And if the house is bugged, is the guesthouse bugged?”

  “What do you say?” he asked.

  “I think if they bugged the main house there’s no point in bugging the guesthouse.”

  “I agree.”

  “You do?”

  “Well, no … but I want to eat this Chinks hot. I gotta think if one house is bugged, so’s the other one, Mr. G.”

  “Good point,” I said. “We’ll just have to watch our p’s and q’s then.”

  “Sure, Mr. G.”

  Thirty-six

  "Chinks?” I asked inside. “When did you start callin’ it that?”

  Jerry shrugged. “Did it since I was a kid. I probably heard somebody else do it. Why?”

  “My grandmother use to call it that,” I said.

  We opened all the containers, got some plates and sat down at the table to demolish the food along with bottles of Schlitz. And just in case the house was bugged, we kept the water running in the sink for background noise.

  “I was hoping we’d find out something from the desk clerk,” I said.

  “Maybe we should go back,” Jerry said. “Maybe the owner was lying.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, “not with your hand on his chest.”

  “Well, he’s gotta have a good phone number to reach the guy at,” Jerry said. “It’s gotta be on that card. Maybe we should call it and see?”

  “Good idea.”

  I swallowed the egg roll I was chewing, went to the phone and fished that index card out of my pocket. I dialed the number. After twenty rings I hung up.

  “No answer,” I said, sitting back down. “We’re lookin’ at a brick wa
ll, Jerry.”

  I watched Jerry pick up a wonton with his chopsticks. I was using a fork.

  “I could never get the hang of that,” I said, indicating his sticks.

  “I eat lots of Chinks,” he said.

  “So do I. My grandmother-the only member of my family who wasn’t crazy-tried to show me how to use them when I was a kid. She lived in Little Italy and took me to Chinatown a lot.”

  “Ya want I should show ya?”

  “No, that’s okay,” I said. “I do pretty well with a fork.”

  I emptied pepper steak onto my plate and took a swig of beer.

  “If this was Vegas I might have some idea about what to do, where to look,” I said, “but I’m out of my element here.”

  “What about what you said before?” Jerry asked, dumping a bunch of fried rice onto his plate.

  “About what?”

  “Hirin’ a PI.” He lowered his voice. “That Otash guy?”

  “Yeah, I was thinkin’ about that.”

  “We could go see him tomorrow … unless ya wanna ask that detective to recommend somebody.”

  “I don’t think we want Stanze knowin’ that we’re hirin’ a PI,” I said. “He doesn’t want us messin’ in his business.”

  “But it ain’t his business, Mr. G.,” Jerry said. “It’s your business. But I know what ya mean. Cops always think stuff’s their business when it ain’t.”

  “Okay,” I said, “so we’ll go talk to Otash tomorrow. I’ll call Dean first.”

  “Whataya wanna call him for?”

  “I’m involved because he asked me to be, and Danny’s missin’ because I asked him to help. I’ll ask Dean to call Otash and arrange an appointment. That way we’ll know that he’ll see us.”

  “That sounds like a good idea, Mr. G.” He grabbed the fried rice box, then looked at me. “You like the steamed white or the fried?”

  “I’ll take the white.”

  “Good,” he said, “I like the fried.” He emptied the box onto his plate, then dumped chicken chow mein on top of it.

  “I’ll call Dean after we finish eating,” I said. “You want this last egg roll?”

  “Sure,” he said, taking it.

  Why did I ask?

  “Hey, Eddie,” Dean said when Jeannie put him on the phone. I was surprised he was home. I thought Jeannie would have to give me a phone number wherever he was performing. “Lucky you caught me home. I’m heading for Chicago tomorrow to do a show. Is this about Marilyn?”

  “It started with Marilyn, Dean,” I said. “Now it’s moved on.”

  I’d had to drive three blocks before I found a pay phone, but I didn’t want to call from the house.

  I told him what had been going on and asked him about Otash.

  “I know Fred, of course,” he said, “but you should know that he’s a hustler. That’s why you see so many of his ads in the paper.”

  “A hustler?” I asked. “You mean … he’s on the hustle?”

  “No, he’s a con man. He’ll work for anybody who pays him. If he was a lawyer you’d call him an ambulance chaser.”

  “But is he any good?”

  “As far as I know,” Dean said, “he’s very good. If you need someone who knows his way around California, he’s your man.”

  “I need someone who knows somethin’ about findin’ a missing person.”

  “Then use him,” Dean said. “You want me to call him?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “can you do it first thing in the mornin’?”

  “Sure thing. You bringing Big Jerry with you?”

  “Yeah, he’s here.”

  “Okay,” Dean said, “I’ll tell Fred to expect both of you. I’ll tell him it would be a favor to me.”

  “Don’t ask him to do it for free,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” he said. “Fred Otash doesn’t work for anybody for free.”

  “Okay, thanks. Hey, Dean?”

  “Yeah, pally?”

  “What did you mean when you said he’d work for any-body?” I asked.

  “I meant,” Dean said, “that he will work for anybody.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Okay, thanks.”

  “No, thank you, Eddie,” Dean said. “I know I got you into this, which means I got Danny into this. I hope you find him okay.”

  I hung up just as my time ran out.

  Thirty-seven

  Fred Otash’s office was in Hollywood, on North Laurel Avenue. We took the elevator up and presented ourselves to a woman who looked as if she was dressed for an audition rather than a day at work. Her nails and lips were bloodred, her hair Jayne Mansfield blond, her dress a size too small and protesting.

  “Yes?”

  “We’d like to see Mr. Otash.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your name?”

  “Gianelli, Eddie Gianelli?”

  She opened her appointment book, looked at it and shook her head. “I don’t have you in my book, sir.”

  “Why don’t you call Fred and ask him?” I suggested. “He got a call this morning from Dean Martin to set this up.”

  She let loose with a heavy sigh that tested the resolve of her dress, got a put-upon look on her face and pressed the intercom button.

  “Mr. Otash, there’s a Mr. Gianelli here who says Dean Martin called-”

  “Send him in, Leona,” a voice said, “and his friend, too.”

  She hung up and tapped her appointment book with her red nails. Clearly, this was not acceptable behavior to her. “You can go in.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was only one other door so we opened it and stepped through. Fred Otash stood up, remained behind his desk, and extended his hand. He wasn’t short, had wavy dark hair and a full face. He looked more like an agent than a private eye.

  “Mr. Gianelli?”

  “That’s right.” I shook his hand.

  “And Mr. Epstein?”

  “Hiya,” Jerry said, shaking his hand.

  “Wow, you’re a big one,” Otash said. “Have a seat.”

  We both sat. The chairs were cushioned and comfortable. The office was expensively furnished in dark wood that gleamed. I wondered if the red-nailed secretary also did the dusting.

  “Well, okay,” he said, “Dean tells me you’re friends of his who need help. He also told me you’re in trouble because you were helping him. It all sounds real involved, so whenever you’re ready … go!”

  I started with Dean asking me to help Marilyn and worked my way through everything. The only thing I left out was why I went to New York.

  When I was done he asked, “Why did you go to New York?”

  “Is that relevant?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “and I won’t know until you tell me.”

  “A funeral,” I said. “Family.”

  “Whose?”

  I looked at him.

  “Okay, never mind that part,” he said, waving a hand. “You say Danny Bardini is in my business?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t know him,” he said with a frown. This seemed to bother him. “Okay, never mind. What we have to do here is move on.”

  “You’ll take the case?” Jerry asked.

  Otash nodded. “As long as there’s no major open police case that I’d be interfering in.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I’ll have my girl type up a standard contract for you. After we take care of the business aspect of this, I’m all yours.”

  Thirty-eight

  I signed Otash’s contract and agreed to his fee. I had no idea if he was giving us any kind of discount or not because of Dean, but he seemed expensive.

  “All right, gentlemen,” he said, when Leona left with the signed document and I had a copy in my pocket. “Do you have any objection to my talking to Detective Stanze?”

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, “but I do know a fe
w guys at the West Los Angeles Station.”

  “Anyone with rank?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want to thumb my nose at this detective,” I said.

  “Leave it to me,” he said. “I can talk to him without damaging his ego. And believe me, he’d probably rather I do this than you flounder around on your own. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Jerry said.

  Otash looked at him. “That’s good, big guy,” he said. “I’d hate to offend you.” He looked at me, pushed a pad of lined paper my way. “I need the address of that motel, the name of the manager, the clerk, the address you had on the clerk … any place else you’ve already gone.”

  “Okay.”

  “Any objection to my talking with Miss Monroe?”

  “No,” I said, “but I’ll have to set that up. She’s … delicate.”

  “So I hear,” Otash said. “I’ve dealt with stars before, Mr. Gianelli. I know how to handle them.”

  “That may be,” I said, “but I’ll still have to set it up. If you want to talk to her in person, I’ll have to be there.”

  “That’s fine with me. Where is she now?”

  Oh, yeah, I had left out that part. I hesitated.

  “Is that something you don’t want to tell me?” he asked.

  “Um, no,” I said. “She’s in Palm Springs, staying with … a friend.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “Okay, well I’ll start with the police, and then look into that motel. Oh, and would you write down there a complete description of your friend?”

  “Sure.” I wrote down as complete a description as I could.

  “Very good,” Otash said, accepting the pad back.

  “If you gentlemen don’t mind I’d like to ask what Mr. Epstein’s interest in all this is?”

  “He’s with me,” I said.

  “Yes, but why?”

  “I help Mr. G. when he needs help,” Jerry said.

  “You don’t sound like you’re from Vegas,” Otash said.

  “I’m from New York.”

  “Brooklyn, if my ear is right.”

  “That’s right.”

  Otash looked at me. “Did you know each other when you lived in Brooklyn?”

  “No,” I said, “we only met a couple of years ago, in Vegas.”

  “I see.”