Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Gee, I’m sorry you had such a bad day, Eddie.”

  “Ah,” I said, “I’m sorry I dumped it on you, Bev.”

  “That’s okay,” she said.

  She picked up the heavy tray with grace and surprising strength. I thought I would have staggered under the weight.

  “If you want to talk later, Eddie,” she said, “I’m a real good listener. Just give me a call.”

  “I might do that, Bev,” I said, “I might just do that.”

  Twenty-four

  FOR VEGAS anytime was the shank of the evening. If I’d been on the clock I would have been in my pit, trying to keep high rollers happy while at the same time trying to keep the casino from losing too much money. It’s a delicate balancing act, and I believed that one day it would be two very specific jobs in Vegas casinos. Let the pit guy concentrate on the game, and let someone else keep the gambler happy.

  I decided to go and take a look at my pit and see what was going on. The blackjack tables were full, with only an occasional empty seat. A couple of my big-money guys were there, which meant their wives would be on a slot machine somewhere.

  Pete Dawson played a hundred dollars a hand minimum, often bumped it up to five hundred. But there was never any rhyme or reason that I could see when he would bump up the bet. It seemed to take place on a whim. It used to drive me crazy until I found his wife at a slot one day and decided to ask her about it … .

  Her name was Lisa Dawson, and she had probably been a heckuva looker twenty, maybe ten years ago. These days she was a blowsy forty-five or so, her once taut figure now full, almost sloppy. She had large breasts and dressed to show them off. Her black hair came out of a bottle, and her once pretty face was mottled from drinking and heavy with pancake make-up to hide it. And yet there was a sexy, slutty quality to her. More than once she’d offered to take me to a room while her husband played blackjack, but I always declined.

  The day in question was no different. I had been relieved in the pit and in passing a bank of slot machines had seen her there. I detoured and walked over to her.

  “Hello, Lisa.”

  She looked up from her machine, annoyed that someone would interrupt her, but when she saw it was me she smiled widely.

  “Eddie G,” she said. “Come to take me up on my offer to let me fuck your brains out while my husband loses all our money?”

  “He never loses it all, Lisa,” I said, “and if I did let you fuck my brains out it would probably ruin me for other women.”

  “Well, you’re right about that,” she said, with a wicked smile. She turned to face me, giving me a clear view of her plunging neckline. I had to admit her breasts looked inviting, and that shadowy cleavage was intriguing. The gold lame dress she wore clung to her lovingly, but I was sure she was firmly corseted into it. I didn’t want to be in the same room with her when she got undressed and removed it. Suddenly, the air of intrigue was gone.

  “I just wanted to ask you a question about your husband.”

  “Oh,” she said, “him.”

  “I’m wondering about his strategy.”

  “Strategy?” she asked. “What strategy?”

  “Well, he bets a hundred or two hundred most of the time, but every so often he jumps the bet up to five hundred. I was wondering if there was a strategy behind it?”

  She studied me for a moment, then dropped a coin in the slot machine and pulled the handle. The reels went around, flashing red, yellow and orange, and then stopped with a lemon between two cherries.

  “If I tell you,” she asked, “would it help you beat him?”

  “Well, no—maybe, but—”

  “Just say yes,” she said. “I’d love to see him lose for once.”

  She was right. Even though I couldn’t see a strategy to his play, he seemed to win all the time.

  “Okay,” I said, “it would help.”

  She looked around, then crooked her finger at me and leaned forward.

  “He bets five hundred every time a pretty girl comes to the table or walks by.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true,” she said. “Any time a pretty young girl is around he tries to impress her by betting five hundred dollars.”

  I stood straight up.

  “That’s it? That’s his strategy?”

  “That’s it,” she said. “Can you use that?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “If that’s all it is then it’s a matter of luck.”

  “Can’t your dealer do something when they see a pretty girl? Deal from the bottom?”

  “Sorry, Lisa,” I said. “That would be cheating.”

  “Oh,” she said, “and the casinos don’t cheat, right?”

  “Not while I’m in the pit,” I told her, and walked away … .

  I watched Pete play a few hands and saw that he’d stopped betting five hundred, even when a pretty girl passed. I looked around for Lisa but she wasn’t anywhere to be found. Maybe she’d stopped coming with him to the casino. Not that I minded.

  I nodded to Tom Huston, who was manning my pit in my stead, and moved on. I made a slow circuit of the casino floor, comparing it in my mind to the Riviera. All-in-all I preferred the ambience of the Sands to those of the Riv, the Sahara and some of the other properties. We didn’t have as many slots, since Entratter was on the same wavelength as me and didn’t think the one-armed bandits were going to become as popular as other people in the business were saying. Or maybe I was just more comfortable there after so many years. It was, after all, my home.

  I stepped outside. The heat had relented a bit, but we were still in the middle of the desert. The temperature didn’t drop significantly until after the sun actually went down.

  I’d had a full day already, running around after Lou Terazzo and Carla, finding a dead body. I was tired. I decided to go home, maybe stop someplace for a bite to eat. Danny might have found something out during the day, or even Mike Borraco. One of them might call me and I thought I should be home if they did.

  Twenty-five

  I WATCHED MY REAR-VIEW mirror all the way home. I didn’t know if Ravisi and Davis had followed me home last night or had been waiting for me there, but I didn’t want to take any chances. Not that I knew what I was doing. Several times I thought I spotted a car following me, only to have it turn and disappear. When I got home I pulled into the driveway of my little house, then waited a few moments before I got out. When I got to my front door I fitted the key into the lock and opened it very carefully. When nobody grabbed me and pulled me inside I stepped through the doorway, then closed and locked the door behind me.

  My house is small, and all on one level. It didn’t take me long to go through it and determine that I was alone. When I was reasonably sure I was safe I went to the kitchen, scraped the Chinese I’d brought home with me onto a plate, got myself a beer and sat down to eat. I went over the day again in my head and decided that if I was going to do Dean Martin any good I had to forget about finding the body of Misty Rose. Like Jack Entratter had said, I had to chalk it up to experience.

  However, the fact remained that somebody out there didn’t want me helping Dino, and they had sent two gorillas to make their point. It seemed logical to me—not being a detective, and all—that whoever sent them was behind the threats. And I had two names, which Danny Bardini and Mike Borraco also had. I decided to let those two keep their ears to the ground and wait for them to get back to me. Going out on my own to find some other contacts had not turned out so well today.

  But there was nothing I could do about my curiosity. Why had Carla DeLucca run away when she heard I wanted to talk to her? What I had to find out from Verna was what she’d said to Carla. Had she told her, “There’s a man outside to see you,” or had she said my name? If she’d told Carla my name, then the woman had run from me and that was something I didn’t understand.

  Women didn’t always swoon over me, but they didn’t usually run from me, either.

  I finished what was in m
y plate, left the rest in the boxes and put those in the refrigerator. I pulled out one more beer and took it into the living room with me to catch the news.

  They covered the discovery of Misty Rose’s body, but kept my name out of it. I learned that Misty not only danced at the Riv, she stripped at one of the local clubs, as well. Police suspected that some amorous Romeo had followed her home from work, pushed his way into her apartment, and ended up killing her. They didn’t say whether or not she’d been dead when she went into the water.

  More curiosity on my part, or maybe just an inability to believe in coincidence. Did Misty’s murder have nothing to do with Carla running from me? Was Misty dead when Carla heard I wanted to talk to her? Did Carla think I was a cop or, worse yet, the killer? And where was Unlucky Lou Terazzo? What was his part in all this? Could he have been the amorous Romeo?

  By the time I refocused on the TV a movie had started. I was about to turn it off when I realized it was an old John Wayne western. I decided to go ahead and watch it, but I hadn’t gotten a half hour into it when my eyes began to droop, and then I dropped off to sleep. I didn’t know I was asleep, though, until someone pounding on my door woke me up.

  I leaped to my feet, eyes wide, in a cold sweat, and stood there wondering what was going on. The move did nothing for the pain in my side which, amazingly, had left me alone for most of the day. Now it was back, though, and so was the headache.

  When I realized someone was knocking I looked around for a weapon. I had to choose between the beer bottle and a lamp. I decided on the bottle, reversed it so I could hold it by its long neck and went to the door.

  When I peered out the small eye level window in my door I saw Detective Hargrove standing on my doorstep with his partner.

  I opened the door and looked at them through the screen door.

  “Detective Hargrove,” I said. “What brings you here at—”

  “Midnight,” he said, cutting off my question. “Don’t tell me a casino bigwig like you hits the sack at midnight, Mr. Gianelli.

  “Fell asleep in front of the TV.”

  “Did ya watch the news to see if they’d mention your name?” the other detective asked. I’d forgotten his name. “Guess you were disappointed, huh?”

  “No,” I said, “as a matter of fact, I wasn’t. I was glad not to hear my name. You guys want to tell me why you’re here?”

  “We’d love to,” Hargrove said. Apparently, he thought that was an invitation to enter. He opened the screen door and stepped through. I had no choice but to back off or let him walk into me. His partner followed and closed the door behind them.

  “Where’d you go today, Gianelli?” Hargrove asked.

  I noticed he wasn’t calling me “Mister” anymore. I’d seen enough old movies to know that wasn’t a good sign,

  “When?”

  “After you left us this afternoon,” Hargrove said. “Account for your movements.”

  “Why?”

  “Humor us,” his partner said. I suddenly remembered his name was Smith, and then felt stupid for forgetting it.

  I thought about resisting, then figured, what the hell? I wasn’t guilty of anything.

  I told them I went back to the casino to check in with my boss and get my work done.

  “And you were there the whole time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can anybody vouch for that?”

  “My boss.”

  “Jack Entratter?” Hargrove asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Yeah, he’s a reliable witness.”

  “Some of the other employees saw me.”

  “Don’t lie to us, Gianelli,” Smith said. “If we go down there and ask around and find out you lied—”

  “I’m not lying.” Actually, I wasn’t, but I wasn’t telling the whole truth, either. I was still leaving the Rat Pack out of all my explanations. But I had gone back to the Sands, and I had gone home from there. “Go ahead and ask them.”

  “Oh, we will,” Smith said. He turned and headed for the door.

  I looked at Hargrove. “Can you tell me what this is about?”

  He considered it for a moment, almost followed his partner, then turned back with a kind of “what-the-hell” shrug.

  “The other girl,” Hardgrove said, “the one you were lookin’ for?”

  “Carla DeLucca?”

  “We found her in a Dumpster out behind the Riviera.”

  “Dead?”

  “Mr. Gianelli,” he said, “we don’t often find live girls in Dumpsters.”

  Twenty-six

  IT WAS THE END of a long day that had resulted in the death of two women I didn’t know. Still, I was obviously a suspect in their deaths, otherwise I would not have received that late-evening visit at my home from Detectives Hargrove and Smith.

  Since agreeing to try to help Dean Martin I had been beaten up in my home, found a dead woman, and become a suspect in two murders. I had every reason to pull out and tell both Dean and Frank thanks but no thanks, I didn’t think I could help them. But there was still my curiosity to be appeased, and the only way to do that was to find Unlucky Lou.

  I was trying to decide between another beer and bed when the phone rang. I checked the clock. Two A.M.

  “Mr. G, that you?” I recognized the voice right away. Mike Borraco. I had given him my home number as well as my number at the Sands.

  “Mike?”

  “Hey, it is you,” Mike said. “I hope I ain’t callin’ too late.”

  “This is Vegas, Mike,” I said. “It’s never too late.” I didn’t want him to know I was on the verge of turning in for the night. “What can I do for you?”

  “I think I might have a location on Unlucky Lou,” Mike said, “but I won’t know for sure until tomorrow. Will I be able to reach you?”

  “You can call me at the Sands and leave a message,” I said. “I’ll probably be out and about.”

  “Okay,” Mike said. “Hey, I heard about Carla and her roommate. Tough break. You think Lou had anything to do with that?”

  “I don’t know, Mike.”

  “Whatever you was lookin’ for him about musta been important, huh? Somebody’s out there killin’ people over it. I was thinkin’ … .”

  “Thinking what, Mike?”

  “Well … I was thinkin’ the info about Lou might be worth a little more money than what we discussed.”

  “Mike,” I said, “I have no idea why those two women were killed. It’s got nothing to do with why I was lookin’ for Lou, believe me.”

  “Just a coincidence, huh?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Just a coincidence.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I’ll call ya tomorrow, Mr. G.”

  I didn’t know where the “Mr. G” stuff came from, but I said sure and hung up. I had the feeling Mike didn’t know anything yet, and was just trying to jack up the price.

  I hung up and decided to go to bed. I was tired, and sore, but that wasn’t the reason. I just wanted the day to end. Maybe after a good night’s sleep I’d decide to hell with the whole thing and go back to my pit.

  I woke up the next morning to a pounding on my front door. Thinking it was the police again I wasn’t in a hurry to answer it. Wearing only pajama bottoms I stumbled to the door and opened it. Standing there was Frank Sinatra. He was wearing a white tuxedo, no tie, his shirt collar open. At the curb was a black limousine with the motor running. The back window was rolled down about halfway and I thought I could see a woman’s head, blonde.

  “Frank.”

  “’Mornin’, pally,” he said. “Got any coffee?”

  “I, uh, can put some on,” I replied. “What time is it?”

  “I’m not sure. Eight? Nine?”

  “Come on in.” I backed away from the doorway. “What about your … friends?”

  I thought I heard giggling from the car and revised my estimate. He had at least two women in there.

  “They’re fine,” he said, waving a hand negligently. “
They’ve got champagne, and Henry’s with them.” I assumed he meant Henry Silva. “I need coffee.”

  “Yeah, sure. I, uh, lemme get some pants on. Have a seat.”

  I left Frank Sinatra in my living room. I pulled on a pair of slacks and a T-shirt, ran a comb through my hair and hurried back out. He wasn’t there, but I heard something clinking in the kitchen.

  As I entered I found him with a can of coffee on the counter, using an opener on it.

  “I can do that, Frank.”

  “I got it, Eddie,” he said. “Have a seat. Want some toast? Got any bread?”

  “Second drawer.” I was thinking, Frank Sinatra is making me breakfast! And then I tried to get past that.

  He’d obviously been up all night, had probably gone out directly from the Rat Pack show in the Copa Room. But his eyes seemed bright and clear, his hair was perfectly combed. Even though his jacket was wrinkled and his tie was missing, he still looked like he was ready to go on, or to shoot a movie.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be on a set somewhere?” I asked. “Ocean’s Eleven?”

  “They’ll wait.” The hand wave, again. He spooned out the coffee, put the lid on and set it on a burner. “They can’t do a thing without us and then we always get it in one take. Know what Smokey calls us? ‘One-Take Charlies.’ Stove works, I hope.”

  “It works.” My kitchen was filthy. “Cleaning lady hasn’t been in.”

  “Forget it,” he said, coming over to sit across from me. “You should see some of the dives I’ve had coffee in.”

  “Frank … you weren’t just passin’ by.”

  “You’re right,” he said, reaching across the table and tapping me on the arm. “I got your address from Jack before I left the Sands last night. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “About what?” I asked. “I’ve only been on this thing for a day and—”

  “Jack told me what’s been going on. A dead showgirl? What’s that all about?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “and it’s two dead showgirls.”