“Let’s get seated and I’ll tell you a story.”
We got a table easily and both ordered steak and eggs. Danny was a few years younger than I was. Actually, back in Brooklyn his older brother, Nick, had been my best friend. When Nick was killed in a gang fight I sort of took Danny under my wing, until he joined the police department and had plenty of new brothers in blue. That’s when we sort of went our separate ways until we met up again in Vegas.
When we had coffee in front of us Danny said, “Okay, so tell me a story.”
I did, starting with Joey, moving onto Frank and then, finally, Dean. I threw Jack Entratter in there for good measure.
Danny’s eyes were wide when I finished and he said, “You got to meet Dean Martin?”
“That’s the little picture, Danny,” I said. “Take a look at the big picture.”
“Hey,” Danny said, “for me that is the big picture. Did you see Angie Dickinson?”
“Only in the audience.”
“Hey, what happened to Bev—”
“Big picture, Danny,” I said, “I need you to look at the big picture.”
“Okay,” Danny said, “okay, somebody’s threatenin’ Dean Martin. Is that unusual? Don’t Hollywood types get threats all the time?”
“I suppose they do, but Frank Sinatra seems to think there’s something to this one.”
“Well,” Danny said, pushing his nose to one side, “if Frank thinks so why doesn’t he get some help from the boys?”
“Look,” I said, “Jack asked me to help Frank, Frank asked me to help Dean—”
“Geez,” Danny said, as the waiter appeared, “you’re turnin’into some helluva name-dropper.”
I waited for the waiter to leave and then leaned forward.
“I need your help, Danny. I’m not sure how to go about this.”
“Eddie,” he said, around a mouthful of steak and eggs, “I peek through peepholes. What do I know about death threats?”
“Look,” I said, “between you and me we got this town wired, don’t we?”
“That’s true.”
“We know everybody.”
“Just about.”
“So between us we can find out what’s going on.”
Now it was Danny’s turn to lean forward.
“If I help with this do I get to meet Dean Martin?” he asked.
“I’ll arrange it.”
“And Angie Dickinson?”
“I’ll work on it.”
“Are we gettin’ paid for this gig?”
“Not a cent.”
“Geez, we’re a couple of swell guys, huh?”
“Dean Martin, Danny,” I said. “Remember?”
“I gotcha,” he said. “Tell me about the threats.”
“I left the notes with Dean,” I said, “but some of them were pretty fuckin’ graphic.”
“They come in the mail?”
“Yes.
“Postmarks?”
“I don’t have the envelopes.”
I gave him everything Dean had told me about the notes, which admittedly wasn’t much.
“Boy, you don’t want much for steak and eggs, do ya?” he asked. “There ain’t much to go on here, Eddie.”
“I know it,” I said, “but how was I supposed to say no to Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra?”
“Good point.”
We finished our breakfast and were on our last cup of coffee when Danny looked up and his eyes widened.
“You sleep with anybody’s wife lately?”
“Not so far this week,” I said. “Why?”
“There’s a kinda angry lookin’, um, big guy makin’ his way towards us.”
I turned in my seat and saw Mack Gray knock a waiter out of his way as he continued his path to our table.
“Who is this guy?”
“Mack Gray,” I said. “He works for Dean Martin.”
“Am I gonna have to shoot him?”
“Do you have your gun with you?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the difference? Let’s just see what he wants before we panic.”
“He looks real mad,” Danny said. “You can wait if you want, but I’m gonna panic now.”
When Mack Gray reached our table he stopped and glared down at me.
“You an’ me gotta talk, Clyde.”
“Mr. Gray,” I said, “meet my friend, Danny Bardini.”
“How are ya?” Danny asked. He didn’t offer to shake hands, just kept his fork in one hand and his steak knife in the other.
“Take a walk,” Gray said.
“Eddie?” Danny asked, looking very calm for a man who said he was panicking. “You want me to take a walk?”
“Why don’t you start workin’ on what we talked about, Danny,” I said, “and I’ll find out what Mack wants.”
“Okay.” Danny stood up and stared at Mack Gray, who glared back. “Nice to meet you, pal.”
Gray pushed out his jaw, but then revealed he wasn’t as hard and tough as he liked to make out he was when he said, “Yeah, likewise.”
Danny looked at me, raised his eyebrows and left.
“Sit down, Mack,” I said. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
Nine
“I WANNA KNOW what’s goin’ on,” Mack Gray said to me, after sitting down but refusing coffee.
“Ask Dean.”
“He ain’t talkin’.”
“Well, then I can’t, either, Mack. If Dean wanted you to know, he”ve told you.”
Mack slammed his fist down on the table, rattling everything around us and attracting attention. It was like a small earthquake. He had a pained look on his face.
“Mack—” I said, warily.
“This ain’t right.” Mack pressed the fingers of one hand to his head. “I been with him for eight years. He shouldn’t keep anything from me.”
“Maybe he’s got his reasons, Mack,” I said. “Maybe he’—”
Abruptly, he got up and walked off, leaving me in mid-sentence. I understood he felt hurt, maybe even a little betrayed, but it wasn’t my place to tell him anything.
I paid for breakfast and left the restaurant. I did not have the day off, but I wondered if I could have—and more?
Jack Entratter regarded me from behind his desk and a fat cigar. “So you’ve got a job to do for Frank?”
“More like a favor for Frank, and for Dean Martin, Jack,” I said.
“What’s it about?”
I hesitated, then said, “I think that would be better coming from Frank or Dean.”
Entratter took the cigar out of his mouth and peered at me through a haze of blue smoke.
“You work for me, son,” he said. “Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t, Jack,” I said, “but it’s my guess you want to keep Frank and Dean happy, right?”
“Well … yeah …”
“Then I’ve got to keep their confidence,” I asked. “Don’t I?”
He stuck the cigar back in his face and sat back in his chair.
“You’re a smartass, Eddie,” he said. “That’s probably why I like you—but don’t push it.”
“Look,” I said, checking my watch, “I have to go to work, so I won’t be able to do anything for Frank or Dean until—”
“Whoa,” he said, holding up his hand. “Didn’t we just talk about keeping them happy?”
“Well, yeah, but I’ve still got a job—”
“You’re off the clock,” Entratter said, “as of now. Got it?”
“Well, sure, Jack,” I said. “That’s real nice of you to offer—”
“Offer, my ass,” he said, “That’s what you came in here to get, only you wanted me to think it was my idea, right?”
I guess I looked a bit sheepish then.
“I said you were a smartass, Eddie,” he said, “I didn’t say you were smarter than me. Understand?”
“I understand, Jack.”
“Now get outta here.”
I stood up t
o leave.
“One more thing,” he said, before I got to the door.
“What’s that, Jack?”
“You report to me at the end of each day,” he said. “I wanna know what’s goin’ on.”
“I think I can do that.”
“If you can’t,” he said, “you better have a good reason why. Capice?”
Jack Entratter wasn’t Italian, and that was one of the only words he knew.
“Capice, Jack.”
Ten
I WASN’T USED TO BEING a free man, with time on my hands. Not having to go to work that day left me feeling curiously empty. I loved my job, loved the feel of a busy casino, especially one as large and bustling as the Sands.
But there were other casinos that basically offered the same things. If I stepped out onto the strip I could turn left and walk to Bugsy Siegel’s place, the Flamingo, or to the right to the Desert Inn or, beyond that, the Thunderbird.
My personal favorite—other than the Sands—was the Flamingo. I think it was because of the history. It was, after all, the casino that had started it all.
But I didn’t have time to go casino-hopping. I decided to go to the bar to do some thinking over a drink. It was early in the day to start, but then I didn’t have to be at work anytime soon. When I got there I saw that Bev was working. I grabbed a barstool rather than sit at a table.
“A little early for you, ain’t it, Eddie?” the bartender asked.
“No harm getting an early start once in a while, is there, Harry?”
“Hell, no. What’ll be?”
“Bourbon, rocks.”
“Comin’ up.”
When he had me set up, Beverly came sidling up next to me.
“Well, what happened to you, last night?”
“I might ask you the same thing.”
“After you abandoned me,” she said, “Frank and Henry asked me to go out with them.”
“And Miss Campbell?”
Bev made a face. “She didn’t want me to go.”
“She was jealous of you.”
“I didn’t take that as a compliment,” she said. “She’d be jealous of any woman.”
“You could have gone with them as Henry Silva’s date, though.”
She laughed. “He already had three women. I think that was enough for him to handle.”
“So what did you do?”
“I went home. I waited a while for you to come back, and then I went home.”
“Alone?”
“What do you mea—”
“I just meant,” I said, hurriedly, “that nobody put you in a cab, or anything?”
“Actually,” she said, “Nick Conte walked me to the door and saw me into a cab—and he was a complete gentleman.”
I felt foolish for thinking she’d gone out on the town with the Rat Pack.
“I’m sorry, Bev,” I said. “I had to go up and see Dean Martin.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re friends with Dean Martin?”
“Well not exactly,” I said. “I had some business with him.”
“What kind of business?”
“The kind I can’t talk about,” I said.
“I’m impressed,” she said. “At least you abandoned me for a good reason.”
“I didn’t abandon—”
“I’m kidding, Eddie.”
“I came down and looked for you, but you’d gone by that time. I guess it wasn’t much of a date, was it?”
“Is that what it was?” she said. “A date?”
“Well … wasn’t it?”
She thought a moment, then said, “I suppose it was—and as first dates go, it was a doozy.”
“I know,” I said, “I’m sorry—”
“No,” she said, “I meant that in a good way. I had a good time, I really did. The show was hysterical. I think I’d rather hear Frank and Dean sing—and Sammy Davis, too—but it was fun.”
“It was?”
“You know how to show a girl a good time, Eddie,” she said. “I mean, taking me backstage to meet all those famous people? It was a great date, believe me.”
“Uh, well, I’m glad,” I said. “I’m real glad you enjoyed it, Bev.”
“Do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Ask me out again, some time?”
“Well … of course. I mean, for this to have been a first date there’d have to be a second, right?”
“And next time I’ll let you see me home,” she promised.
“It’s a deal. Thanks, Bev.”
“No,” she said, “thank you, Eddie.”
She turned and flounced away, knowing I was watching. Her walk was something to behold.
Eleven
I WAS STILL SITTING on the stool, nursing the same drink, when Joey Bishop entered the bar. He spotted me and came walking over with a spring in his step.
“You look happy,” I said.
“I’m always happy after a good show,” he said. “Last night was a good show.”
“What happened to you after?” I asked. “Did you go out with the rest of ’em?”
“I turned in,” Joey said. “I can’t handle the nightlife like Frank and Peter and Sammy can. How about you? How did your meeting with Dean go?’
“Fine, I guess.”
“Are you, uh, helping him out?”
“I am,” I said. “You got any idea what it’s about, Joey?”
“No,” he said, “but if Frank or Dean want me to know, they’ll tell me.”
“Fair enough,” I said, “but tell me more about Mack Gray?”
“Mack? What about him?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“He’s a loyal guy,” Joey said. “He was loyal to George Raft for years, and now he’s loyal to Dean.”
“Why would Dean keep anything from him, then?”
“I don’t know, Eddie,” Joey said. “You’d have to ask Dean. Why? Did Mack say anything to you?”
“Mack is mad,” I said, “I’m just not sure if he’s mad at me or at Dean.”
“Mack doesn’t get mad at Dean, ever,” Joey said.
“Great, then he’s mad at me. I don’t need that.”
“If you want Mack off your back go to Dean,” Joey said. “He’ll take care of it.”
“No, I’ll wait a while,” I said. “I don’t wanna bother Dean until I have something positive to tell him.”
“Well,” Joey said, slapping me on the back, “I saw you from across the floor and thought I’d ask you how things went.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
He shook his head. “I don’t drink. One of these days we’ll have coffee, or tea. I’ll see ya.”
I watched Joey go, wondering how he could hang out with those guys and remain a teetotaler?
Harry waved my money away for the drink, so I dropped a generous tip on the bar and left.
I spent time talking to some of the Sands employees who might have known or seen something. I also spoke with the front desk and security staff about mail practices in the hotel. Who got it, who delivered it, that sort of thing. After that I talked with the people who really run Vegas—the bellmen and the valets. I asked whatever questions came to mind, collected information and stored it away in my head. Once I was finished talking with staff at the Sands, I knew I was going to have to spend some time outside the casino. I had contacts in all the other casinos, but I couldn’t just put out word that I was looking for someone who had been heard threatening Dean Martin. That would have been something less than discreet. So instead of simply “putting the word out,” I was going to have to do some pavement-pounding and talk to my contacts individually. Some were merely contacts but others were also friends, so I would have to deal with each of them on a very individual basis.
It was going to take quite a bit of time.
By the time I got home that night my feet hurt from the walking and I had a buzz on because a lot of the conversations had taken place over drinks. If I hadn�
��t been just a little bit looped I might have noticed that I had entered my own home without using the key. That might have alerted me that the scene was wrong, and helped me avoid a lot of pain.
As it was something hit me in the middle of the back just as I entered. The force of the blow propelled me forward awkwardly until I lost my balance and tumbled to the floor. I tried to catch my breath as the door slammed, and then the lamp clicked on.
In the dim light by the sofa I saw two men staring down at me. The blow had come not from a fist but from a blackjack one of them was holding. I had the feeling that he had not missed one of my kidneys by accident.
“Get his wallet,” one of them said, as I still struggled to catch my breath. A shot to the middle of the back takes all the air out of your lungs and mine were screaming for a refill.
“What for?”
“I wanna see if he’s the guy.”
“He come walkin’ in, didn’t he?”
“The door wasn’t locked.”
“But he had a key in his hand,” one of them said. “I heard it jingle.”
“Get his fuckin’ wallet, will ya?”
The guy without the blackjack reached down and lifted my wallet from my jacket. I couldn’t have stopped him if I wanted to, but at least my breath was starting to come back. My eyes were tearing, though, so I couldn’t see their faces clearly. The shadows thrown by the lamp didn’t help matters any. Their faces were shrouded in it rather than illuminated.
“What’s his name?” Blackjack asked.
“I’m lookin’,” Wallet said. “Says on his driver’s license ’Eddie Gianelli’?” He looked at his partner. “That the guy?”
“That’s the guy.”
My wallet came flying at me and landed on my chest.
“Whataya wanna do now?” the second man asked.
“Hold ’im down,” Blackjack said. “I’m gonna hurt ’im.”
“Hey,” I finally managed to say, “what the hell—”
“Shut up,” the second man said, and emphasized that this was an order and not a request with a kick to my ribs.
“We’re only supposed to scare ’im, you know,” he said to his partner.
“Yeah, well,” Blackjack said, “hurtin’ him will scare ’im, I guarantee ya. Just hold ’im.”
Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime Page 4
