‘What the hell is it now?’ Irwin demanded from the sofa. ‘Can’t a guy catch a nap—’
He stopped when Jerry put the barrel of his .45 to Irwin’s cheek.
‘What the fuck?’ Irwin said.
I moved around so he could see me. When he did, he craned his head against the pressure of the .45 and saw Jerry.
‘Fuck me,’ he said.
‘That’s exactly what we’re here to do, Barney,’ I said.
‘Hey, guys, look,’ Irwin said, ‘there’s no hard feelins—’
‘Cut the crap, Barney,’ I said. ‘You tried to have us killed, and we saw what’s in your storage unit. So cut the crap.’
Irwin looked at me and asked, ‘Can I sit up?’
‘Let him up, Jerry.’
Jerry moved the barrel of the gun far enough to let Irwin upright.
‘You guys are in trouble,’ Irwin said, his entire attitude doing a one-eighty. ‘You don’t think I’m here without back-up, do you?’
‘We don’t care,’ Jerry said, ‘We seen the kinda help you hire.’
Irwin looked at Jerry, then surprised me by smiling.
‘You’re right, of course,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’d consider coming to work for me?’
‘Sorry,’ Jerry said, ‘I don’t work for guys who wear white shoes.’
Irwin looked down at his feet, still smiling.
‘Barney,’ I said, ‘you know who Jerry is and what he does, right?’
‘Oh yeah,’ Irwin said, ‘I checked him out after that day in the warehouse.’
‘Then you know he’d kill you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then get up,’ I said. ‘We’re walkin’ out of here. And if you make a ruckus, Jerry’s gonna pull the trigger of that forty-five. It might even blow your head completely off your shoulders.’
‘I doubt that, Eddie,’ Irwin said, ‘but I’m sure it would blow the top of my head off, so I get your point.’
He stood up. Now that he wasn’t playing the lecherous photographer he even stood differently.
‘Where we goin’?’ he asked.
‘I’m gonna deliver you to a detective named Hargrove,’ I said. ‘With the Las Vegas PD.’
‘You can’t prove anything.’
‘That’s his job,’ I said. ‘He’s gonna prove that you either killed Wayne or had him killed. I’m sure he’ll get one or both of the Rienza brothers to admit you hired them to kill me. He won’t be able to prove you sent three hoods to Brooklyn to kill Jerry. But he will be able to prove that you were involved in the kidnapping of Frank Sinatra Jr. In fact, he might even prove you planned the whole thing.’
‘What?’ He’d still been grinning until I mentioned the kidnapping. ‘What the hell? That was my brother’s thing, not mine.’
‘We found the floor plan of Harrah’s in your storage unit, Barney,’ I said. ‘And a note in your desk drawer. Silly of you to keep those things.’
‘None of it,’ Irwin said. ‘You can’t prove any of it.’
‘I only told him I’d deliver you,’ I said. ‘Proving anythin’ is his job. Let’s go.’
‘You heard him,’ Jerry said.
‘The Rienzas are here, you know,’ Irwin said. ‘With a couple of the girls.’
‘Let’s hope they stay busy,’ I said. ‘For their benefit as much as yours.’
Irwin patted his pockets, as if he’d forgotten something, then looked around.
‘You won’t need a jacket,’ I said. ‘Let’s go, out the side door.’
He nodded, and headed for the door. Jerry put his hand out to stop him, went to the door first. He looked out, then waved us to follow. He kept his gun in his hand.
We could hear girls laughing and men moaning, but we made it out the side door without running into anyone. We headed to the front of the building, intending to walk him to my car. But as we passed the front door it opened and a Rienza brother stepped out.
‘Hey, boss, where you goin’—’ he started to shout, but then he saw Jerry.
‘Get ’em!’ Irwin shouted, and dropped to the ground.
The other Rienza came through the door and they both pulled their guns.
‘Jerry, get down!’ I yelled, but he had a gun and I didn’t. Jerry knocked me down, then turned to face the Rienzas in what seemed like an Old West gunfight.
SEVENTY-FOUR
The anniversary party was in full swing in the Sands Ballroom when we got there. We’d taken the time to shower the desert off us, treat our cuts and bruises, and then dress for the party.
There was a band playing, and people dancing. Waitresses dressed like showgirls – or maybe they were showgirls – were working the room, carrying trays of hors d’oeuvre and drinks. Celebrities were also working the room, mixing with the guests. I spotted Dino and Joey, Jack Jones, Nat King Cole, Steve and Eydie, Tony Bennett, Richard Conte . . . they had all turned out for the Sands’ eleventh anniversary.
We found Jack Entratter standing with a group of people, including Jilly Rizzo, Frank, and the Mayor of Las Vegas.
The Mayor was rambling on – as he was prone to do – which meant that Jack was scanning the room. He spotted us approaching.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ he asked.
I touched the band-aid above my left eye.
‘Oh, Jerry knocked me down.’
‘What?’
‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘It was just to save my sorry ass.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Entratter said. He interrupted the Mayor just long enough to excuse himself, then grabbed my sore left arm and pulled me to the side. Jerry followed along, snagging a pig-in-a-blanket from a passing girl.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘now tell me what the hell happened with you two?’
I explained to him about finding out where Irwin was, and driving out there to get him. How we grabbed him, but Jerry had to shoot it out with the Rienza brothers while we were getting away.
‘Oh, Christ. Are they dead?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Jerry said.
‘Jesus . . .’
‘Jerry pushed me out of the way, then turned on them – it was like somethin’ outta the Wild West, Jack. Guns blazin’, and those boys hittin’ the ground.’
Entratter looked at Jerry.
‘And you?’
‘A few scratches,’ he said. ‘I lost my footin’ and fell down.’
‘And then you just left?’
‘Naw,’ I said, ‘once the shootin’ was over we called the Sheriff’s Department, and when they came out we had them call the Las Vegas PD. They cuffed us all, but when Hargrove got there they let us go.’
‘Hargrove let you go?’
‘Hey, we gave him Irwin for murder, and kidnappin’. Believe me, he’s real happy.’
‘He’s gotta prove it all.’
‘I’m thinkin’ the other kidnappers won’t wanna take the rap without good ol’ Barney,’ I told him. ‘I don’t know about the murder, but that should put him away for a good long time. Besides, we also found out he’s been producing illegal porn. Believe me, he ain’t goin’ nowhere for a while.’
‘So you’re off the hook for murder?’
‘Looks like.’
‘And they ain’t gonna go after Jerry for killin’ the Rienza boys?’
I shook my head.
‘Self-defense.’
‘What about his gun?’
‘They took it away from me,’ Jerry muttered, mournfully.
‘And they ain’t gonna charge you?’
‘Hargrove said he’d see what he could do about that,’ I said.
‘Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna sweat a gun charge, Mr Entratter.’
‘You’ll have one of our lawyers, Jerry,’ Jack assured him. ‘So you won’t have to.’
‘Thanks, Mr E.,’ Jerry said. ‘Is there food here? I mean, other than this small stuff?’
‘There’s a buffet table on the other side of the room.’
Jerry took off.
‘Mayb
e I shouldn’t have told him that,’ Jack said, watching big Jerry bull his way to the other side of the room.
‘He would’ve found it, anyway.’
‘Come on, Eddie,’ Jack said, slapping me on the shoulder, ‘let’s get you a drink, and then you can tell Frank that the last motherfucker who kidnapped his kid is in custody.’
EPILOGUE
December 12, 2006
It was Frank’s birthday.
The Chairman of the Board passed in 1998, but every year on his birthday I still missed him.
At my age I don’t drive so good anymore, so when I want to go out at night I get myself a driver. That’s why I was in the back seat of the car, on my way to celebrate Frank’s birthday.
After all the kidnappers were caught they began to turn on one another. Convicting them was no problem. Oddly, the Irwins disappeared. I never did hear what had happened to them. Keenan and Amsler – friends since childhood – served just under five years each. When they got out they walked the straight and narrow. I’d seen Amsler’s obit earlier in the year, in May. He died at 65 of liver failure.
All but about six thousand dollars of the money was recovered. One of the kidnappers – Amsler or Keenan, I don’t remember – had bought his mother a bunch of new furniture. When Frank heard that the law was getting ready to repossess it, he told them to let the woman keep her furniture.
Reading Amsler’s obit had made me remember when Frank saw Amsler at the Liston-Patterson fight earlier in sixty-three. I wondered if that’s when the kidnappers had started to hatch their plot, and were in Vegas to see Irwin??
Frank was so pleased with what all the cops and FBI agents did that he gave them each a two-thousand-dollar gold watch made from twenty-dollar gold pieces, with velvet hands. There were twenty-seven of them.
The FBI returned the watches to Frank with a letter from Dean Elson, Special Agent in charge of the Las Vegas office. He told Frank that FBI agents were not permitted to accept gifts. A few weeks later Frank bought another one and sent it to J. Edgar Hoover, himself. He also sent the other watches along with it for each of the agents, with thanks for all the FBI had done to recover his son. This time, they were not returned. Frank had always felt he’d made a mistake the first time by not including a watch for J. Edgar.
He tried to give me a watch, as well, but I didn’t take it. I had done it all out of friendship. And I was a little miffed that he sent me the same thing he sent all those others. After all, I thought we were friends. But I called Frank to thank him, asked him not to take offense. He said there had to be something he could do for me. I explained about Jerry and his cousin Billy, and Frank stopped me before I was done. A couple of days later Jerry called me after he heard from the Sands that the debt was forgiven.
‘How did you do that, Mr G.?’ he asked.
‘How do you know I did it?’ I asked. ‘Maybe Frank did it.’
‘I’ll bet the call came from Mr S., but I’ll bet even more that it was your idea.’
‘Don’t be like the FBI and look a gift horse in the mouth, Jerry. What’s done is done.’
‘Well, thanks, Mr G.’
‘You gonna tell Billy he’s off the hook?’
‘Naw,’ Jerry said, ‘he’s makin’ payments to me, figurin’ I’ll send it to the casino. I’ll let him keep doin’ that, and eventually I’ll give him the money back. You know, like one of them Christmas Clubs in the bank.’
‘You’re a hard man, Jerry.’
‘Not you, Mr G.,’ Jerry said. ‘You’re just a softy . . .’
The kidnappers tried a pretty wild defense. They claimed the whole kidnapping was bogus, planned by Frank Jr. himself for publicity. The Independent News Service in London latched on to the story and ran with it. Frank sued them and won a boatload of money, which he then donated to charity. He just wanted to keep the record clean.
The limo pulled up in front of the restaurant where I was to have dinner. It was off the strip, a local place my dinner partner and I picked out because celebrities didn’t go there.
As the driver got out to open my door I thought back to the premiere of Robin and The 7 Hoods. After the trial Frank went back to work and the guys finished the film. It was released the following year. It wasn’t a great movie, but it had been fun, a good distraction for Frank from the whole JFK fiasco. After Frankie was snatched it was kind of a chore to go back to. I always enjoyed watching the film, though, just not as much as I enjoyed Ocean’s 11.
The cast members were pretty much all gone. Tony Randall died a couple of years ago. Peter Falk was still around, but I never did meet him. I know Barbara Rush – who played Marian in the film – and she had once told me what a difficult shoot that was for Frank.
The driver opened my door and said, ‘We’re here, Mr G.’
‘Thanks, Carl.’
He gave me a hand getting out of the back seat, and then walked inside with me. He’d sit in a corner and have a meal on me, so that I wouldn’t have to wait for him to pick me up after.
I walked into the dining room of the restaurant, crossed the floor to the table where my dinner partner was seated. As I approached he stood up, smiled broadly, and stuck out his hand. Damned if he didn’t remind me of his dad.
‘Hiya, Frankie.’
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Rat Pack Confidential by Shawn Levy, Doubleday, 1998; The Rat Pack by Lawrence J. Quirk and William Schoell, Perennial, 1998; Dino by Nick Tosches, Dell Publishing, 1992; His Way, The Unauthorized Biography of Frank Sinatra by Kitty Kelley, Bantam Books, 1986; The Peter Lawford Story, Life With The Kennedys, Monroe and The Rat Pack by Patricia Seaton Lawford, Carroll & Graf Publishers, 1988; Mouse in The Rat Pack, The Joey Bishop Story by Michael Seth Starr, Taylor Trade Publishing, 2002; The Frank Sinatra Film Guide by Daniel O’Brien, BT Batsford, 1998; Casino, Love and Honor in Las Vegas by Nicholas Pileggi, Simon & Schuster, 1995; Las Vegas is My Beat by Ralph Pearl, Bantam Books, 1973, 1974; Murder in Sin City, The Death of a Las Vegas Casino Boss by Jeff German, Avon Books, 2001; A Short History of Reno, by Barbara and Myrick Land, University of Nevada Press, 1995; A Short History of Las Vegas by Barbara and Myrick Land, University of Nevada press, 1999, 2004; When The Mob Ran Vegas by Steve Fischer, Berkline Press, 2005, 2006; My Life With Frank Sinatra by George Jacobs and William Stadiem, HarperCollins, 2003).
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