A big kid.
Jerry walked me out to Larry’s cab. I had Ava’s bloody clothes wrapped in the towel under my arm.
‘Not as good as your Caddy, Mr G,’ Jerry said, looking disappointed.
‘No, but it’ll get me where I want to go. I’ll give it back to Larry when he gets out.’
‘When’ll that be?’
‘Probably a week or so. But I’ll probably give it back to him sooner. I want to get Ava to Vegas.’
‘Gonna fly?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Maybe we’ll rent a car and drive.’
‘I liked that drive last time,’ he said.
‘Yup, but that was in the Caddy,’ I reminded him.
I opened the door to the cab to get in.
‘Can I ask ya a question, Mr G.?’
‘Sure, Jerry.’
‘You said the cabbie got beat up because he picked up a call for you?’
‘Right.’
‘Well, somebody musta been watchin’, and heard him pick up the call, figured he was you, right? Which meant they was lookin’ for ya?’
‘Right.’
‘So how’d they know you was here?’ Jerry asked.
‘I’m figuring either the desk clerk or manager gave me up.’
‘So you told them your name when you got here?’
I thought for a moment, then looked at him and said, ‘Jerry, did you know you’re a genius?’
‘I ain’t no genius, Mr G.,’ he said. ‘I just sometimes know what questions ta ask.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Just like in the movies I had to drive through a big front gate with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer above it, which meant I had to talk to a portly uniformed guard. Before going there, though, I had found an out of the way garbage dumpster to stash the towel and clothes. There was no reason anyone would look for it there, and if anyone found it they couldn’t connect it to Ava.
‘Who you here to see?’ the guard asked.
‘Louis B. Mayer,’ I said, even though I knew he had died in 1957.
‘Sorry, you’re out of luck,’ the man said. ‘He’s dead.’
‘So who’s in charge?’
The guard must have been having a bad day – or week, or life – because he was ready to bitch to anyone who’d listen.
‘You know, that’s a good question,’ he said. ‘Right now this place has got a lot of Indians and no Chief, if you know what I mean.’
‘Hard times?’ I asked.
‘Hard? There are more cartoons and TV shows comin’ out of here than movies,’ the guard said. ‘MGM ain’t what it used to be, pal.’
‘Well, I need to talk to somebody about Ava Gardner.’
‘What about Miss Gardner?’
‘Frank Sinatra sent me to talk to somebody about Ava Gardner.’
The man stared at me for a minute, then asked, ‘You serious?’
‘I am.’
He stared some more. ‘Wait here.’
‘Sure.’
He stepped into his booth and made a phone call. Then leaned out the booth.
‘Hey, what’s your name?’
‘Eddie Gianelli, from Las Vegas.’
‘Where in Vegas?’
‘The Sands.’
He went back inside, spoke into the phone some more, listened, then hung up and came back out.
‘Pull inside and park there,’ he said, pointing to some parking spots.
‘OK.’
‘Somebody’ll be along to take you inside.’
‘Thanks.’
He gave me a short salute, prepared to turn his attention to the next car.
I pulled into one of the parking spots he’d pointed to and waited. Lots of MGM’s talent spent time in Las Vegas. I wondered if I’d see anybody I knew?
I had my head back and my eyes closed when somebody knocked on the window. I looked up at a grim, striking face dominated by nose and chin. I opened the door and stepped out.
‘What the hell,’ George C. Scott said, ‘I thought that was you, Eddie.’
‘George,’ I said, grabbing his hand. Scott had been to the Sands more than once, and we usually took good care of him. ‘How are ya?’
‘Not bad. What are you doin’ here?’
I shrugged.
‘Gotta see a man about a debt.’ It was a good enough story. ‘How about you. New movie?’
‘TV,’ he said, a little sheepishly.
‘You’re kiddin’.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘A show called East Side, West Side. What are you gonna do? Everybody needs work, right? At least I get to work with a babe. She’s a tall drink of water named Barbara Feldon.’
‘The one that does the commercial in the tiger suit?’
‘The same.’
‘Yeah, not a bad gig, I guess.’
‘Ah,’ Scott said, ‘it won’t last, but it’ll keep me busy for a year or so. MGM ain’t what it used to be.’
‘So I heard.’
‘Are you Mr Gianelli?’ a voice asked.
I looked at a man with a pencil thin mustache, black hair that came to a widow’s peak, and piercing blue eyes. His mouth was a thin, straight line. I rolled the window down.
‘That’s right.’
‘What are you doing driving a cab?’
‘Tryin’ to make some extra money?’ I asked. He didn’t enjoy the joke. ‘I borrowed it. I needed a set of wheels.’
‘I gotta go, Eddie,’ Scott said. ‘Nice seein’ you.’
We shook hands and he moved off. The other man didn’t seem impressed. Then again, he worked there.
‘You got some I.D.?’
I gave him my driver’s license. He looked at it then gave it back.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘come with me.’
I rolled the window back up, got out and closed the door behind me.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Vargas,’ he said.
‘What do you do, Mr Vargas?’
‘I talk to strangers who want to talk to the man in charge,’ he said. ‘Once you talk to me, I’ll decide if you get to talk to him.’
I thought that over and then said, ‘That sounds fair.’
‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
We walked across the parking lot to a two-story building with lots of doors in it. Apparently, it had been broken up into many small office spaces.
‘This is where all the writers used to work when we had them under contract,’ he told me. ‘William Faulkner wrote in here.’
He opened a door and we stepped into a small office sparely furnished with a desk, two chairs and a file cabinet.
‘You mentioned some big names to the guard,’ Vargas said, seating himself behind the desk. ‘Why should we believe that you have any connection to Frank Sinatra or Ava Gardner?’
‘Come on, Mr Vargas,’ I said. ‘I had time to take a little nap in the cab. That means you spent that time checking me out.’
Vargas stared at me.
‘Look, I know things are in an upheaval around here, and I’m not lookin’ to take up your time. I just need to ask somebody a question.’
‘What kind of question?’
‘About Ava Gardner.’
‘We haven’t had anything to do with her since nineteen sixty.’
‘But there are people who don’t know that,’ I said. ‘If somebody was interested in talking to her they’d most likely come here.’
‘What’s your question, Mr Gianelli?’ he asked.
I was thinking the only reason I hadn’t been kicked out was because Vargas had probably talked to Jack Entratter at the Sands. Also, Vargas knew who owned the Sands. He wasn’t exactly being polite to me, but he was giving me more time than he normally would have.
‘Has anyone been askin’ about Ava Gardner lately?’ I asked.
‘Asking about her . . . how?’
‘Tryin’ to find her, get in touch with her.’
‘Who are we talking about,
Gianelli?’ he asked. ‘The police?’
‘Anybody, Mr Vargas,’ I said.
Vargas studied me for a few moments.
‘Look,’ he said, finally, ‘I’m willing to cooperate with you, but you’ve got to give me something.’
‘Like what?’
‘We’re interested in getting Frank to do a picture for us,’ he said.
‘I don’t have that kind of authority,’ I told him, wondering what Jack had told him about me?
‘I understand that,’ Vargas said. ‘All I’m asking is that you . . . talk to Frank. Put a little bug in his ear.’
‘A bug in his ear,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Vargas said. ‘We just need him to be . . . open to the possibility.’
I thought a moment, then decided Frank would probably do anything for Ava.
‘OK,’ I said.
‘OK . . . what?’ he asked.
‘I think I can guarantee that Frank will be open to the possibility.’
His eyes widened and he smiled for the first time.
‘That’s wonderful!’ he said.
‘Sometimes,’ I said, ‘all you need to do is ask.’
‘Wow,’ Vargas said, ‘well, OK then, exactly what do you want to know?’
‘Has anybody been asking about Ava Gardner in, say, the last week or two?’
‘Somebody looking to make a movie with her? Get an interview? Or are we talking legal—’
‘Mr Vargas,’ I said, cutting him off, ‘you’re makin’ this harder than it has to be.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, backing off. ‘I don’t mean to do that.’
‘Just answer the question and I can be on my way,’ I said.
‘As far as I know,’ he said, ‘nobody’s been looking for Miss Gardner. She made a picture recently in Spain, but we had no involvement in that. Nobody’s asked to interview her, and there have been no police here asking about her. Does that answer your question?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I think that about does it.’
‘We’re done?’ he asked.
‘I am,’ I said, standing
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I’ll walk you back to your, uh, car.’
At the cab he stood by while I opened the door.
‘When can we, uh, expect a call from Mr Sinatra?’ he asked.
‘I suggest you get in touch with his representative,’ I said. ‘They’ll get back to you.’
‘We’ve been trying, but—’
‘They’ll get back to you this time.’
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
I started to get in, then paused. He seemed so damned uncomfortable at that moment.
‘Tough times around here, huh?’ I asked.
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he said. ‘Television! This place has made some legendary movies. It’s a damn shame.’
‘And nobody’s runnin’ the place?’ I asked.
‘You know, I don’t even have an office,’ he answered and shook his head.
As I drove through the front gate the guard said, ‘You get what you wanted?’
‘Pretty much,’ I said ‘but things sure sound grim around here.’
‘Yeah,’ the man said, ‘I’m, thinkin’ of makin’ a move.’
‘Sounds like a good idea,’ I said.
TWENTY-NINE
Driving back to the Beverly Hills Hotel from the MGM lot I thought again about the question Jerry had asked me that morning, before I left.
I had not identified myself to the clerk or the manager before going to Ava’s room. How, then, had someone managed to be in the lobby in time to hear me being paged, and see Larry pick up the call?
Had I been followed from the hotel? If so, why? Nobody knew I was in L.A., or why I was there, except Frank, Jack, Ted Silver from McCarran Airport, and Ben Hoff from LAX. I knew Frank and Jack would never talk, felt fairly sure about Ted.
That left Ben Hoff.
I’d have to go to the airport to talk to him, and I wanted to take Jerry with me.
And if the airports weren’t safe – if information was being sold, or the airports were being watched – I’d have to rent a car to take Ava back to Las Vegas with me.
If somebody was looking for Ava did they have enough juice to cover airports and rent-a-car companies? Might be I’d have to borrow a car.
A better one than the cab I was driving.
The first time I realized I was being followed was when I heard tires screech behind me. Apparently, whoever was following me had been cut off by another car and had to swerve to miss it. That brought the dark sedan to my attention.
I made a few subtle turns, nothing obvious. I didn’t want them to know I knew they were following me. But I sure couldn’t drive back to the Beverly Hills Hotel. I was going to have to stop somewhere and give Jerry a call.
I spotted a likely place to stop: a hotdog stand beneath a faded Burma Shave billboard, with a pay phone alongside. I was pretty sure if I made a call, my tail wouldn’t find it curious, or unusual. I was right. They pulled over, but didn’t get out.
I pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the stand, walked over and ordered a hotdog with the works. Then I took it with me to the phone and dialed the Beverly Hills Hotel. I told the operator to connect me to Lucy Johnson’s bungalow, number 6.
‘Hello?’
‘Jerry?
‘Hey, Mr G. What’s goin’ on?’
‘Looks like whoever’s looking for Ava, it’s not cops, or they would’ve gone to the studio.’
‘So who are they?’
‘We only know who they aren’t, Jerry,’ I said. ‘How’s Ava?’
‘Gettin’ antsy.’
‘What is she doing?’
‘We’re playin’ cards. Gin. I owe her like a million bucks.’
‘Well, keep playing. I’m on my way. It might take me a while because I’ve picked up a tail.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘You still drivin’ that cab?’
‘I am.’
‘You think you can lose ’em?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Go someplace where there’s lots of cabs, Mr G. Ya can lose ’em that way.’
‘Jerry, that’s brilliant.’
Leave it to the criminal mind.
‘And what are we gonna do next, Mr G.?’
I had to take a moment to swallow the bite of hotdog I’d taken.
‘Mr G.? Whataya eatin’?’
I’d forgotten who I was talking to. Jerry could hear chewing from miles away.
‘Oh, I’m at a hotdog stand.’
‘You went for hotdogs?’ he asked, sounding hurt. ‘Without me?’
His tone made me feel bad.
‘Did you have your pancakes?’
‘Well, yeah, but . . . hot dogs.’
‘I’ll bring you some.’
‘Hey, Miss Ava. Ya want a hotdog?’
I heard Ava shout, ‘Yes!’
‘Don’t forget the mustard,’ Jerry told me. ‘And the kraut.’
‘Jerry,’ I said, warning him, ‘these are not Brooklyn hotdogs.’
‘Then bring plenty of mustard,’ he said, and hung up.
THIRTY
Lots of cabs, Jerry had said.
If I knew L.A. well enough that would’ve been easy. Just drive to where all the cabs are – a cab company parking lot, a lot where they keep repossessed vehicles, or . . . a big hotel with a cab line outside. Or, for that matter, the airport.
A big hotel seemed most likely. Just driving around I’d have to find one, eventually.
It didn’t have to be a famous hotel. Just a big one. I checked my gas gauge. I had half a tank. Hopefully that would be enough to find a hotel, ditch the cab, and get back to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Or it was enough to drive to the airport and then back to the hotel. But not both.
I felt bad about dumping Larry’s cab, but at least I would be able to tell him where it was. Or he’d be able to get it fro
m wherever they towed it to. I’d make sure he didn’t have to pay to recover it.
On the side of his cab it said ‘Horizon Cab Company.’ I didn’t know if Larry was just a driver, or an owner/operator. The fact that he had loaned me the cab led me to believe he owned it. I hadn’t seen another Horizon cab on the street, but then I hadn’t been checking out cabs. There were plenty that were yellow, but I hadn’t been looking for names.
I checked the meter, which I was supposed to have kept running but had forgotten. Beneath it was a radio. It was off. I turned it on and immediately heard a voice calling out addresses for pick-ups. OK, even if Larry did own the car, he was still taking calls from the dispatcher.
A gravelly voiced guy kept calling out addresses which didn’t help me. Even when he gave out the name of a hotel, he didn’t give an address. Experienced cabbies were supposed to know where all the large hotels were.
After driving around for half an hour – with a bag of hotdogs in the back seat – I decided I needed help. I picked up the transmitter, pressed the button on the side, and said, ‘Larry’s cab to central.’
I’d heard the other cabs talking to ‘Central,’ whoever that was.
‘Who is that?’ the gravelly voice called out.
‘My name’s Eddie,’ I said. ‘I’m drivin’ Larry’s cab and I need some help.’
‘Hey, are you the guy from Vegas?’
‘That’s right.’
‘OK, everybody, radio silence,’ he ordered. ‘Ya got me. Radio silence for a few minutes while I talk ta this guy.’
The chatter on the radio suddenly went dead.
‘How did you know I was from Vegas?’ I asked.
‘I talked to Larry at the hospital,’ the guy said. ‘He told me he loaned you his cab because you needed wheels. Said you were doin’ something important, and for helpin’ he was gonna get some free tickets for shows in Vegas. That go for anybody who helps ya?’
‘It sure does, friend.’
‘Well, my name is Louie, Mr Vegas,’ gravelly voice said. ‘Whataya need?’
‘I’ve picked up a tail, Louie, and I wanna lose them,’ I explained. ‘I thought I could do that someplace where there’s more cabs. A hotel, the airport, maybe a parking lot—’
‘You sure could, pal,’ Louie said. ‘But I got a much better place for ya.’
‘Where?’
‘Come straight here.’
I'm a Fool to Kill You Page 8
