Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Hey, Frank,” Henry Silva said with a rakish smile, “this redhead’s a knockout. You should give her a part in the film.” Silva had two young dolls hanging off each arm. I later found they were con-ventioneering teachers he had plucked from the audience.

  “Are you an actress, sweetheart?” Frank asked Bev.

  “No,” Bev said, “I’m just a waitress in the lounge, Mr. Sinatra.”

  “Hmph,” Judith said, “a waitress.”

  “Would you like to be in a movie, Beverly?” Frank asked.

  “Oh my God,” Beverly said.

  “Frank—” Judith said.

  “Quiet, Judy,” Frank told her. “Joey, why don’t you take Eddie to his meeting? Eddie, leave Beverly here with us. We’ll take good care of her.”

  “Shall we go?” Joey asked.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I said to Bev, but I didn’t think she heard me.

  As I followed Joey across the crowded room I heard Frank say, “Bev, meet my good friend Nick Conte …”

  “Might lose your girl to Frank or Nick tonight, Eddie,” Joey said, as we left the Copa Room and reentered the hotel.

  “She’s not my girl, Joey,” I said. “I just invited her along because you gave me two tickets.”

  “Hey, you could do worse,” he said, with a shrug, “She’s a beauty.”

  “Yes,” I said, “she is.”

  Actually, I couldn’t help but be a little miffed about losing Bev to the Ocean’s 11 crowd, but what could I do about it? I had also wanted to meet Sammy Davis Jr., who had been talking to some people in another part of the room with Peter Lawford, but that didn’t happen that night, either.

  As we rode the elevator up Joey said, “You’re gonna meet Mack Gray, first.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “His real name is Maxie Greenberg, but everybody calls him Mack Gray. He’s an old-time fight manager who ended up bein’ George Raft’s personal assistant for years. When Raft fell on hard times and couldn’t afford Mack anymore he passed him on to Dean. See, Dean sort of idolized George Raft when he was comin’ up in the business. Rather than letting Mack go altogether George convinced Dean to give him a job doin’ the same sort of things he did for Raft. So now Mack is Dean’s personal assistant. Mack and Jay Girard also act as a sort of buffer between Dino and the outside world.”

  I found out later that Jay Girard—real name “Girardi”—was, for a long time, Dean’s stand-in and went on to become a sort of Man Friday for him. It seemed to me Dean Martin was pretty loyal to his friends.

  “Is Raft in Ocean’s Eleven?’ I asked Joey.

  “Dean got him a small part,” Joey said. “Now there’s a cool cat.”

  Joey was right. Because of Dean’s facade of cool I was surprised to learn that he had ever idolized anyone—but not surprised that it was George Raft. Raft, even to this day when he wasn’t working all that much, still epitomized cool.

  The elevator doors opened and Joey said, “Come on. Dean’s gonna want to turn in soon.”

  “No parties?” I asked, following him down the hall.

  “Dean’s not the partier everybody thinks he is. He actually likes to go to sleep fairly early.”

  “I didn’t know that about him.”

  When we reached the door Joey said, “You’re about to find out a lot of things about Dean Martin that nobody knows.”

  Seven

  MACK GRAY OPENED THE DOOR and let us in. He was wearing an expensive suit and a white shirt.

  “Mack, meet Eddie Gianelli,” Joey said. “Eddie, Mack Gray.”

  Gray closed the door then turned and looked at me.

  “This the clyde who’s supposed to help the boss?” he asked.

  “Clyde” was Rat Pack-ese for anyone who wasn’t part of their group.

  “This is him. Say hello, Mack.”

  Mack regarded me for a moment from on high—he was taller than me by several inches—and then stuck out his big hand. We shook briefly, and he stared at me like I was a puzzle he was trying to figure out. Actually, he was frowning as if something hurt him.

  “Mack?” Joey said.

  “Huh?” He had the fingertips of his right hand pressed to his forehead.

  “Dean?”

  “He’s gettin’ changed,” Mack said. “I’ll go and tell him yer here.”

  Mack disappeared down a hall, leaving us in a plushly furnished living room.

  “Either he doesn’t like me or he’s got a headache.”

  “Probably both,” Joey said. “Mack suffers from migraine headaches. Nothin’ seems to help, but he pops Percodan like they were M&M’s.”

  There was a bar against one wall which looked fully stocked, with a refrigerator behind it. A beautiful three-cushion burgundy sofa with two matching armchairs. In front of the sofa was a rectangular coffee table covered with comic books. I looked at Joey, who smiled.

  “Dean likes to read comic books.”

  “Why?”

  Joey shrugged. “He says they help him escape from reality.”

  I leaned over and leafed through them. Superman, Batman and other superheroes. He wasn’t hiding them, so he wasn’t ashamed of reading them. That sort of went hand in hand with Dean being cool, if you thought about it.

  “Eddie,” Joey said, “I’m gonna leave you alone here.”

  “Alone? With Dean?”

  Joey laughed. “Don’t worry. He’s not gonna bite you. You weren’t this nervous about meeting Frank.”

  “Well … I’m a big Dino fan.”

  “I see. Frank must have appreciated that, since he’s a big Dean fan, too.”

  “So he said.”

  “Is that why you agreed to help, finally?” Joey asked. “When you heard it was Dean who needed the help?”

  “Joey,” I said, “I went to the meeting with Frank because Jack Entratter told me to.”

  “And what about now? Frank didn’t tell you to talk to Dean, did he?”

  “No,” I said, “he asked me to, and he told me to feel free to say no.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “For two reasons,” I said. “One, if I said no I’d pay for it one way or another, and two, like I said, I’m a big fan. It’s a chance for me to meet Dean. And if I can help him, I will.”

  “Okay.” He looked at his watch. “I gotta go. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Joey—”

  He turned as he reached the door. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” And he left. I was standing alone in the living room of Dean Martin’s suite, not sure what to do with myself. I was impressed to meet Frank Sinatra, but this … this was different for me. I had a shitload of Dean Martin records at home, and never missed any of his movies. In my humble opinion, his split with Jerry Lewis was the best thing that had ever happened to him. The Young Lions, Some Came Running, and the more recent Rio Bravo proved his acting ability, and his recordings proved what a great singer he was. Even before Joey told me, I always had the feeling Dean didn’t need Frank. He didn’t need to make a movie like Ocean’s 11, he simply wanted to. He did not need a career boost from Frank Sinatra. Dean Martin out-cooled them all—Sinatra, Sammy … hell, even George Raft.

  I heard somebody coming down the hall and turned to see Mack returning.

  “Dean’ll be out in a minute,” he said in a monotone. He still had his hand pressed to his head, this time the heel. “He said you should help yourself to a drink if you want.”

  He headed for the door.

  “You’re not staying, Mack?”

  He turned, dropped his hand and glared at me.

  “I ain’t been invited to stay,” he said, and left. The big man’s feelings may have really been hurt, but that wasn’t my problem. I wondered if he had any idea what was going on, or if Dean was keeping it from him? I also wondered if Joey knew what the problem was, or Sammy and Peter, for that matter.

  I went over to the bar and looked it over, but nothing appealed to me until I opened the refrigerator and found it s
tocked with beer. There were enough brands in there for a variety of tastes and I finally chose a can of Piels. I found a can opener and had it ready to use when Dean Martin came down the hall and into the living room.

  He was wearing a yellow polo shirt with a white collar, light gray slacks and a pair of black loafers. His hair was wet, so he had probably showered after the show. I stood rooted behind the bar, because when I woke up that morning I had never expected to be in the same room as Dean Martin. He walked over to the bar and extended his right hand, after shifting his cigarette to his left.

  “Eddie?” he said. “I’m Dean Martin.”

  I shook his hand and said, “I know. I saw the show tonight.”

  “Did ya, now?” he asked. He shifted the cigarette back to his right hand, holding it between his forefinger and middle finger. “What’d you think?”

  “It was … entertaining.” That sounded lame, even to me.

  “Entertaining,” he repeated. “Well, I guess that’s what we want, eh?”

  “I mean … it was great. You and Frank and Sammy, you’re great entertainers.”

  “Ah,” Dean said, “alone, we’re great entertainers. When we get together we’re a bunch of clowns—but hey, the people loved it, right?”

  “They did,” I agreed. “They loved it.”

  Dean sat on a bar stool and faced me.

  “Why don’t you get me something to drink, if you don’t mind, since you’re already behind the bar?”

  “Sure, Mr. Martin,” I said, “what’ll it be?”

  “First,” he said, “call me Dean, and second, just get me a bottle of soda water out of the refrigerator, and a glass of ice.”

  “Oh, uh, right.”

  I’d expected him to ask for gin or bourbon, but I filled a glass with ice and took a bottle of water from the fridge. I opened it and poured it for him, and left the bottle on the bar.

  “Thanks, pally,” he said, and took a generous swallow. He sucked the cigarette to death and stubbed it out in a heavy glass ashtray.

  “So you talked to Frank,” he said. “He gave you the run down?”

  “He only told me that you were gettin’ death threats, Mist—uh, Dean. Nothing more than that.”

  “I’m not sure there is anything more than that,” Dean said, “but Frank’s worried. When Frank worries everybody tends to worry.”

  “Well, how many people know about these threats?”

  “So far,” Dean said, “you, me and Frank.”

  “Not Mack?”

  “Mack doesn’t need to know. He’d mother-hen me to death, and he’d give himself an ulcer to go along with his headaches.”

  “Seems to me he left with his feelings hurt.”

  “Mack’ll get over it.”

  “What about Joey?”

  “He doesn’t know the particulars, either,” Dean said. “Frank just used him to get you involved.”

  “Don’t you think you should tell the folks who are involved with the movie? The director? The producer? The other actors?”

  “Eddie,” Dean said, “I’m not absolutely convinced that there is really something to the threats. Why raise the alarm without knowing?”

  “And you want me to find out?”

  “Frank tells me you know everybody in town,” Dean said. “You could make some discreet inquiries.”

  “To tell you the truth, Dean,” I said, “I don’t know exactly what I can do, but I’m willing to try to help.”

  “That’s fine,” Dean said. “I appreciate that. Just no police, and no reporters. Not yet, anyway.”

  “All right, then,” I said, “I suppose we should start with the threats. How did you get them?”

  “Just a minute.”

  Dean got off his stool, walked to a writing desk at the far end of the room, and took some papers from a drawer. He brought them back to the bar and put them down in front of me. I spread them out and saw that they were letters—notes, really. Half a dozen of them.

  YOU AIN’T TOO BIG TO GET HURT one of them said. Another went IF YOU’RE NOT CAREFUL YOU COULD GET REAL HURT. Some of the others were more to the point about what the injuries could be.

  “They’re printed,” I said, “in block letters. Hard to identify handwriting from that.”

  “I know,” Dean said.

  “And I get the feeling the person who wrote these isn’t very educated.” I looked at him. “Do you suspect anyone, Dean?”

  “I can’t really think of anybody who’d want to harm me.”

  “What about somebody who maybe just wants to scare you?”

  “For what reason?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “You’re rich, handsome, famous, maybe somebody’s jealous. Somebody you stepped on gettin’ to where you are now.”

  That annoyed Dean. He pushed away from the bar and paced the room.

  “I never stepped on anybody in my life,” he said. “I worked hard getting where I am.”

  “Well, then maybe it’s somebody who’s jealous of you, simply because you’re you.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Well, it’s got to be someone,” I said. “We’ve got the notes to prove that.” I spread the papers out. “Where are the envelopes they came in?”

  “I threw them out, I guess.”

  “They came in the regular mail? Or were they delivered by messenger?” I was running out of questions. Not being a cop or a private eye, I wasn’t sure what else to ask.

  Dean thought a moment, then said, “Regular mail. They had stamps on them.”

  “Okay,” I said, “if you get anymore I guess you should keep the envelopes.”

  “They didn’t have any return address on them.”

  “What about postmarks?” I asked. “Were they mailed from here in Las Vegas? Were the stamps even canceled?”

  Dean’s shoulders slumped.

  “I didn’t notice,” he said. “That was stupid.”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Just remember with the next one … if there is a next one.”

  I wasn’t sure what to ask him next, but the guy looked so disheartened, I didn’t want to leave yet.

  Suddenly, he asked, “Where are you from?”

  “New York,” I said, “Brooklyn.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “About twelve years ago.”

  “I worked hard to get the Ohio out of my tone,” he said. “I always thought it was part of the reason I succeeded.”

  “Could be,”

  “Why would someone want to hurt me,” he asked, abandoning the small talk, “or threaten to hurt me just because I succeeded?”

  “Success is somethin’ to envy, Dean,” I said, “and, for some people, somethin’ to resent.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” He looked at his watch. “There’s an old John Wayne film on the television in five minutes. Ever since we did Rio Bravo together I try to catch all his early movies. Want to stay and watch?”

  What an invitation! Any other time I would have jumped at the chance to watch television with Dean Martin in his room.

  “I think I better get started on this, Dean,” I said. “I’d like to find out right away whether I can help or not. I don’t wanna waste your time.”

  “My time, pally?” Dean asked. “I got nothin’ but time to waste. It’s your time you’ll be wastin’. I hope we’re payin’ you enough.”

  “You’re not paying me at all,” I said. “This is a favor all the way down the line.”

  Dean regarded me for a moment, then stuck out his hand and said, “Thanks, Eddie. I really appreciate it.”

  I shook hands with him and said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  When I left the room he was turning on the TV to watch John Wayne. I hoped the movie would take his mind off the threats that were obviously bothering him more than he let on.

  Eight

  I WENT STRAIGHT HOME that night after my meeting with Dean because I had no idea where Bev had gone. It was a good bet she was with Frank
and Nick and Henry and the Ocean’s 11 crowd. Since this had been our first “date” and we’d had no previous relationship beyond waitress and customer—and two employees of the Sands—I wasn’t really that upset about it. I might have been worried, but I’d left her in the care of Frank Sinatra. Or maybe I should have been worried because I’d left her in his care. Whatever the case, when I couldn’t find her or Joey Bishop, or anyone else connected to the Rat Pack, I went home.

  I lived just far enough off the strip so I couldn’t see the bright lights. That was actually as far from it as I wanted to be, because I drew energy from the lights and activity of Las Vegas. I knew some folks who worked for the casinos and stayed far away from them when they weren’t working. You could often find me on the strip, in the casinos, in my off hours. I didn’t gamble as much as I used to, but I still liked to play some blackjack now and then—but never at the Sands. I didn’t shit where I worked.

  But this night I decided to have a drink in the privacy of my own living room and think about the events of the day. Meeting two of the most famous men in the world, Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. Nothing could have prepared me for that.

  I got up the next morning and went out for breakfast after making a phone call. When I got to the Sands coffee shop I found Danny Bardini waiting for me.

  Danny and I grew up together in Brooklyn and ended up in Vegas. He came a few years after I did, and had to quit working for the New York cops to do it. Me, all I’d left behind was a job as an accountant. Being good with numbers was what made me a good card player. He came out to Vegas, got a P.I. ticket and had been keyhole-peeping his way to wealth ever since. We shook hands, and he bruised me with a big, shiny diamond pinky ring.

  “Breakfast at the Sands on you?” he said. “Must be something you need, bad, for you to call me on short notice.”

  “You came, didn’t you? On short notice?”

  “Hey,” he said, “I love ya, Eddie. Why wouldn’t I leave a warm bed with an even warmer broad in it to have breakfast with you?”