It Was a Very Bad Year

by Robert J. Randisi

  Ouch, I thought. That was adding insult to injury. Peter was still number one on Frank’s shit list since the fiasco with JFK staying at Bing’s house instead of Frank’s. The odd thing was, Frank had no anger toward Bing, and actually had Bing replace Peter on the 7 Hoods shoot.

  ‘I’ll try Dean again later, Jeannie,’ I said. ‘I’ll be working tonight.’

  ‘OK, Eddie. Come and see us some time, huh?’

  ‘You bet.’ I’d have to go to Beverly Hills to see her, because she rarely accompanied her husband to Las Vegas.

  I hung up, tapped the phone with my index finger, then made several more calls before standing up and leaving the room. I’d dropped Irwin’s name on a few of my local contacts, in the hopes that one of them might spot him, or hear something. At the moment there was nothing else I could do. Eventually, I might go and talk to Entratter. Maybe he’d be able to help locate Irwin through some of his contacts, if mine didn’t pan out. My people were on the street, though, vendors, doormen, valets, the locals who saw everything that happened in Vegas, heard everything. If anybody was going to help me locate Irwin, it would be one of them, or Danny.

  THIRTY-THREE

  During the night – a busy one, since it was a Friday – Entratter came down to the casino floor and showed up at my pit.

  ‘What kind of a night are we havin’?’ he asked, as I came around to greet him.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘A couple of high rollers came in for the weekend.’

  ‘Why didn’t I know about ’em?’ he asked, with a frown.

  ‘It was a spur of the moment thing,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry, I made sure they’re staying here. I got them two suites.’

  ‘Good work. Anything going on with you?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because, Eddie,’ he said, giving me a look, ‘somethin’s always goin’ on with you.’

  ‘Well, now that you ask . . . let’s get a drink.’

  We went to the Silver Queen lounge and sat at the bar, eyeing the Allan Stewart mural that ran the length of the wall behind it. It illustrated the history of Vegas from Gold Rush to A-bomb.

  It was quiet in the lounge. About an hour ago Jack Jones had wrapped up a set, and while half of that crowd was still there, they were well-behaved, sharp-dressed men with their elegant ladies. That was the kind of crowd Mr Jones attracted.

  When we had a beer each I said, ‘I got a visit from Detective Hargrove. He hauled me in for questioning this morning.’

  ‘What did you do now?’ Entratter asked. ‘Oh, wait. It’s more likely something you and Jerry did while he was here, right?’

  ‘It ain’t even our fault,’ I said. I told him about going to see Irwin – without telling him exactly why – and how he had some cheap muscle named Wayne there who Jerry had choked out fairly easily.

  ‘He killed him?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘we left him sleeping on the floor.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Now, a week later, he turns up dead.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with you?’

  ‘Hargrove got an anonymous call and somebody dropped my name in his ear.’

  ‘This Irwin guy?’

  ‘That’s what I figured.’

  ‘You go and see him?’

  ‘He’s gone to ground,’ I said. ‘His studio and home are empty.’

  Entratter took a pad and pen from inside his jacket.

  ‘Gimme his particulars.’

  I told him Irwin’s full name, described him, and both his addresses.

  ‘I’ll see what I can find out.’ He stashed the pad away. ‘You put out the word?’

  ‘Yeah, and Danny’s keeping his ears open.’

  ‘That big Jew ain’t here, is he?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘Jerry’s in Brooklyn.’

  ‘Good. We don’t need him tearin’ through this town.’

  ‘Jerry’s got more finesse than you’d think, Jack,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ he said, taking a hit of his beer, then shoving it aside. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’

  I grabbed my beer and gave it a little more attention than he’d given his. A cute waitress came over and flashed me a smile. She was new, and reminded me that I still hadn’t learned the name of the new girl behind the desk in the hotel.

  So many pretty girls, so little time.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Barney Irwin disappeared.

  Into the first week of December the photographer still had not reappeared. With all the contacts we had – mine, Danny’s and Jack Entratter’s – we still received no word of him being spotted anywhere in Vegas.

  But, on the bright side, nobody had tried to frame me for murder again. Hargrove had come around one more time, but he’d done so a little more politely, possibly because Jack Entratter had sent him word not to harass me. He’d simply asked a few questions about Wayne and Barney Irwin, and then I didn’t see him again.

  I had one conversation with Frank during that time, and he told me he was doing fine. Then I talked with Dino, who said that Frank was still depressed over JFK, but that it wasn’t showing in his work. But Frank was a pro. He’d never let his private life interfere with his professional one.

  The morning of December 9th I was home in bed when the phone rang. At least it wasn’t someone banging on my door. I rolled over and grabbed the handset on the fifth ring.

  ‘Yeah, what?’

  ‘Eddie? You awake?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Whozit?’

  ‘Eddie, goddamnit, wake up! It’s Frank.’

  ‘Frank?’ I sat up in bed. ‘What’s going on, Frank? You in town?’

  ‘No, I’m in Reno,’ he said. ‘I need you to come here.’

  ‘Why? What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when you get here,’ Frank said. ‘Don’t tell anybody you’re coming.’

  ‘Frank—’

  ‘Goddamnit, Eddie!’ he said, cutting me off. ‘No more questions! I need you here now! Yes or no?’

  ‘Sure, Frank,’ I said. ‘Where are you? Cal-Neva?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m at the Mapes Hotel. Just ask for me at the desk. Pack a bag.’

  ‘The Mapes—’ I caught myself before I asked another question. ‘OK, Frank. I’ll be there as soon as I can get a flight.’

  ‘Take a ’copter,’ Frank said. ‘It’s waiting for you at McCarron.’

  ‘You cleared this with Jack, Fra—?’ I started to ask, but he hung up.

  I hung up, wondering if I should call Jack Entratter and check. I decided that if the helicopter was waiting for me when I got there, it meant Entratter had okayed it.

  I got dressed and drove to the airport.

  There was a car waiting for me when we landed in Reno. All the driver said was that his name was Walter. He took my bag and tossed it in the trunk, then drove me right to the Mapes.

  The Mapes Casino and Hotel was located on Virginia and E. To get there from the airport we drove past the Flamingo, The Sahara, and the five showgirls standing on the marquee over the doors to the Primadonna casino. At night all five ladies lit up. Just south of the Primadonna was the Horseshoe, across the street from Harrah’s.

  The Mapes had a twelve-story hotel and, according to their marquee, Milton Berle was playing.

  I asked for Frank at the desk. They told me he was on the eleventh floor. When I asked what room, they just said to go up to the eleventh floor. On the twelfth floor was their restaurant, The Sky Room.

  Still wondering what the fuck was going on, still shaking off the cobwebs, I took the elevator up. When the doors opened I stepped out, and immediately got grabbed on both sides.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘We just have to frisk you, Mr Gianelli,’ one man said.

  ‘Frisk me for what?’

  ‘Just a precaution.’

  They put me against the wall, face first, started patting me down. One lifted my wallet, took a look at my license, and put it back.

  �
�While you’re at it you want to show me some ID?’ I asked. In my mind it was a toss-up – cops, or hoods.

  They finished patting me down, turned me around and put their IDs in my face. FBI.

  ‘What the hell—’ I said.

  ‘This way.’

  They walked ahead of me, which was encouraging. That meant I was following them of my own free will, not being ‘taken’ by force.

  They stopped at a door with no number on it, knocked and opened it.

  ‘He’s here,’ one said.

  ‘Go on in,’ the other one said.

  I entered the room, the two FBI agents closed it from the outside.

  The room was full of men. When I entered they spread out a bit, revealing Frank in their midst. He was sitting by the window, next to a table with a phone on it. He was holding something in his hands, clenching and unclenching. I realized it was a roll of dimes.

  There were five other men in the room with us. One of them stepped forward and put out his hand.

  ‘I’m Jim Mahoney, Eddie, Frank’s publicist.’

  In fact, he was Frank’s new publicist, replacing Chuck Moses, who I knew.

  ‘This man is Bill Raggio, District Attorney of Washoe County, Nevada; that’s Frank’s lawyer, Mickey Rudin. These two gents, and the two outside, are FBI agents.’

  ‘Hello, Frank,’ I said.

  ‘Hey, Eddie,’ Frank said, without taking his eyes off the phone. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘You wanna tell me what this is about?’

  Frank tore his eyes away from the phone to look at me.

  ‘You guys wanna step outside, let me talk to Eddie?’ he asked.

  ‘Mr Sinatra—’ Raggio started.

  ‘Frank, listen—’ Rudin said.

  ‘I just need a few minutes to talk to my friend!’ Frank shouted. ‘Get the fuck out!’

  One by one the men filed out. Rudin went last, pulling the door closed.

  Frank turned to me, a haunted look in his eyes. I’d never seen him so distraught.

  ‘They took my boy, Eddie,’ he said. ‘They took Frankie.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘Frank,’ I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘I went back to Palm Springs for the weekend and got the call there. They took him from Harrah’s in Tahoe last night. He was performing with Tommy Dorsey.’

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘They haven’t said, yet. They did say they’d call me here.’

  ‘Did they tell you not to call the police? Or the FBI?’

  ‘No, they never said a word about that. I called Mickey, and he insisted we call the FBI.’

  ‘So they’re gonna call here and tell you how much they want,’ I said. ‘Frank . . . how much can you cover?’

  ‘I’d give them a million if they give me Frankie back.’

  ‘Can you get that much?’

  ‘I already talked to my banker, Al Hart. He’s President of City National Bank of Beverly Hills. He’ll let me have whatever I need.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got the FBI, your manager, and your lawyer—’

  ‘Jilly and Jack will be here soon.’

  Jilly Rizzo was one of Frank’s best friends, as was Jack Entratter. It made sense they’d be there.

  ‘OK, so with all those guys here,’ I asked, ‘why am I here?’

  Frank stood up. He switched the roll of dimes to his left hand, and put his right on my arm.

  ‘When they make their demand I want you to make the drop, Eddie.’

  ‘Me? Make the pay off? But . . . why?’

  ‘Because I trust you,’ Frank said. ‘You’ve proven to me time and again that I can trust you. You get things done.’

  ‘Frank . . . don’t you think this is somethin’ the cops or FBI should handle?’

  ‘No.’ He slapped me on the arm, then flipped the dimes back to his right hand. ‘It’s your kind of job, Eddie.’

  He sat back down by the phone.

  The door opened and Mickey Rudin stuck his head in.

  ‘They’re here, Frank.’

  ‘Bring ’em in,’ Frank said.

  ‘And the FBI?’

  ‘No,’ Frank said, ‘all you guys stay out in the hall a little longer.’

  Rudin nodded, backed out. The room was significantly larger with the other men out in the hall, but this was hardly the caliber of place Frank Sinatra usually stayed in. This was a weekend warrior’s room, the folks who came to Reno to make a killing at the casinos during their vacation. Double bed, end table with phone, dresser, ice bucket and glasses, one cheap armchair and a TV. Not much more.

  The door opened and Jack Entratter entered, followed by Jilly Rizzo. Jack filled the room with his bulk, but Jilly hardly took up any. They both rushed to Frank, who barely had time to stand before they were hugging him.

  ‘Anythin’ you want done, Frank, just say the word,’ Jack told him.

  ‘Same here, buddy,’ Jilly said.

  ‘I know I can count on you guys,’ Frank said. ‘It’s those clowns in the hall I ain’t so sure about.’

  ‘Are we keepin’ this quiet, Frank?’

  ‘We’re not lettin’ it out,’ Frank said, ‘but it’ll get out. It’s too damn big not to.’

  ‘Biggest kidnapping since the Lindbergh baby,’ Jack said.

  I thought about that for a minute, then figured he just might be right.

  Jack looked at me, ‘Thanks for comin’, Eddie.’

  ‘I figured you knew.’

  ‘Frank asked for you, but he didn’t tell me why.’

  He and Jilly both looked at Frank.

  ‘He wants me to make the pay-off,’ I said.

  Jack thought a moment, then said, ‘Well, why not? He knows he can trust you.’

  I had expected Jack to maybe get upset that Frank hadn’t asked him to deliver the money, so his reaction surprised – and pleased – me.

  ‘Do we know how much they want?’ Jilly asked.

  ‘No,’ Frank said. ‘They haven’t made that call yet.’

  ‘How did this happen?’ Jack asked.

  ‘We heard from Joe Foss, one of Dorsey’s musicians. He was in the room with Frankie when the kidnappers knocked on the door, pretending to be from room service. They tied Foss up at gunpoint and took Frankie out. Foss got loose and called the cops. They put up road blocks right away, but they came up empty. I heard from Tino –’ That was Tino Barzie, Frank’s manager who was also handling Frankie – ‘in Palm Springs. Then I got a call and a guy told me they had Frankie, and I was to come here and wait for their call.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Jack asked.

  ‘That’s it.’

  The door opened again and this time it was Bill Raggio who came in.

  ‘Mr Sinatra, we need to talk.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, OK, come on in,’ Frank said. He looked at all three of us and said, ‘I got you rooms on this floor. These bozos will show you where.’

  The bozos in question were the FBI agents. One of them told the other three to show us to our rooms, as Raggio, Rudin and Mahoney once again surrounded Frank.

  Jack, Jilly and I walked down the hall with the three FBI men. We each had a room, identical to Frank’s.

  ‘Can we get room service?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Tell me what you want,’ one FBI man said, ‘and I’ll have it brought up.’

  ‘A bottle of bourbon, and some ice.’

  ‘Comin’ up.’

  ‘You guys join me in my room in a few minutes,’ Jack said.

  Jilly and I both nodded, and went into our rooms. I had only brought one change of clothes, so I didn’t bother unpacking. I went to the bathroom, ran some cold water, washed my face, then left and went to Jack’s room.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The two FBI agents eyed me in the hall but didn’t stop me from knocking on Jack’s door. He opened it and let me in. I was surprised that the bottle and the ice were already there.

  ‘Drink?’ he asked.

  ‘I could
use one.’

  He poured and handed me one. Jilly wasn’t there, yet.

  ‘This is insane, Eddie.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘I don’t know if Frank can handle this.’

  ‘He looks pretty rattled, but he seems OK.’

  ‘He’s right on the edge,’ Jack said. ‘Believe me, I know.’

  There was a knock. He let Jilly in and handed him a drink. We shook hands, which we hadn’t had a chance to do earlier.

  ‘Been a while, Eddie,’ he said. ‘Sorry it’s under these circumstances.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘I was just tellin’ Eddie how close to the edge Frank looks,’ Jack said.

  ‘You might be right,’ Jilly said, ‘but Frank’s pretty tough.’

  ‘Yeah, but this is Frankie,’ Jack said. ‘This is his kid, you know?’

  ‘Jesus,’ Jilly said, ‘Nancy must be a wreck over this.’

  ‘You think he called her?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I’m damn sure of it,’ Jilly said. ‘Nancy and Dolly, both.’

  I knew Nancy was Frank’s ex and Dolly was his mother, but I had never met either.

  Jack was sitting on his bed. Jilly sat next to him. I pulled a chair over and sat down.

  ‘To Frankie,’ Jack said, lifting his glass.

  ‘And his safe return,’ Jilly said.

  I raised my glass and said, ‘Amen.’

  ‘Frank called me this morning,’ I explained, ‘told me to get my ass here fast, but didn’t tell me what it was about. You guys know more than I do. Fill me in.’

  ‘Well, he told me Frankie got snatched, but not the particulars,’ Jack said. ‘I only know what he told all of us a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Poor Frank,’ Jilly said. ‘He still hasn’t gotten over JFK’s death, and now this.’

  ‘And the funeral snub,’ Jack said. ‘You’d think they could’ve at least let him attend the funeral. After all, he did help get JFK elected.’

  ‘Help?’ Jilly said. ‘He got Kennedy elected, plain and simple.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to him since the twenty-second, but he insisted he was fine.’

  ‘That sure don’t look like fine to me,’ Jilly said.

  ‘Hey, I didn’t ask, Eddie,’ Jack said. ‘Did you agree to make the drop for Frank?’