Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

by Robert J. Randisi

  “What can I get you?” I asked Jerry as we sat at the bar.

  “Piels, if ya got it,” he said. “Ballantine, if ya ain’t.”

  I told the bartender to bring two Piels.

  “So, aren’t you curious about what’s goin’ on, Jerry?” I asked. “I mean, beyond what Frank has told you?”

  “No,” Jerry said. “If Frank wanted me ta know more he woulda told me.”

  “And Mr. Giancana? What does he know?”

  “Just what Frank told ’im, that he needed somebody here ta help out.”

  “And that’s your job? Helpin’ out?”

  “It’s my job this week, today,” Jerry said. “Until it ain’t, no more.”

  “Got a wife waitin’ for you at home?”

  “Nope.”

  “A girl?”

  “Dames,” Jerry said, “but no girl.”

  “Eddie,” the bartender said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Somebody’s been tryin’ to get you on the phone. You want me to have it transferred here?”

  “Yeah, Harry. Thanks.”

  A few minutes later Harry brought a phone over and handed the receiver to me.

  “This is Eddie.”

  “Mr. G, it’s Mike,” Borraco said. “I got somethin’ for ya.”

  “What is it, Mike?”

  “I can’t tell ya on the phone.” He was talking real quick, like he was in a hurry. “Ya gotta meet me.”

  “Where?”

  “Industrial Road.” He gave me an address.

  “Now, Mike?”

  “No, no,” Mike said, “tonight, after dark. Like ten P.M.”

  “Can’t we do this sooner—”

  “It’ll be worth it ta ya, Mr. G,” Mike said. “I promise.”

  “Mike, wait—” I said, but he hung up. I handed the phone back to Harry.

  “What was that about?”

  “Somebody says he has information for me.”

  “This somebody. Can you trust ’im?”

  “No,” I said, “probably not.”

  “Then I guess I better come with ya.”

  “You know what, Jerry?” I said. “I think I’d really like that. You want to do any gambling? I can get you a line of credit.”

  “Naw,” Jerry said, “that’s okay. I don’t gamble, except the ponies.”

  “You like the horses?” I asked. “We’ve got time to kill. You any good?”

  “I do all right but ya ain’t got a track here,” Jerry said.

  “Jerry,” I said, “we got all the tracks here. Come on, my friend.”

  Thirty

  BACK THEN the sports books handled horse racing exclusively, no other sport. They were also off property. I’d often thought the sports books should be brought inside the casinos, where they could be better regulated, and could handle all sports, but that wasn’t to happen until about 1968, when Frank “Lefty” Rosenthal came to town with his big ideas. Actually, it would be the idea of a man named Phil Hannifin, who was a commissioner for the state control board, but it would be Rosenthal’s testimony before the Gaming Commission that would seal the deal.

  So the sports book I took Jerry to was still pretty old-time, with sawdust on the floor and the odds and results posted on black chalkboards. I fixed it so Jerry could play any track he wanted, but he chose to play only the East Coast ones. Belmont, Monmouth, Keystone, they were all running. And I had to admit he did pretty well, and he did it from memory, without doing any handicapping whatsoever.

  “I got a good head for horses and jockeys,” he told me. “If I was playin’ a track I didn’t know, like Santa Anita, then I’d need to see the past performances.”

  Jerry was very animated when he was betting. It wasn’t that he shouted to root his horses home, but there was more expression on his face than I had seen at any time during the day.

  We killed a good portion of the afternoon playing horses, getting something to eat, and then going back to the horses again so he could try his hand at a few strange tracks. By the time we were done he had made a cool eight grand profit, and was very proud of himself.

  “Ya shoulda bet with me, Eddie,” he said. “I tol’ ya I was good.”

  “My game is cards, Jerry,” I said. “But I’m real happy you did well.”

  Jerry looked at his watch.

  “What time’s your meet?”

  “Ten P.M.”

  “Don’t it get dark before then?”

  “It should be good and dark, Jerry.”

  We went to the coffee shop for some pie. Beverly still wasn’t working. I hadn’t seen her all day, so I figured she must have had the day off.

  “So, who’s this guy yer meetin’?”

  “His name’s Mike Borraco. You know him?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s local,” I said. “Works over at the Riviera.”

  “Is he a made guy, or what?”

  “Mike? No, I think he’s just a gopher, but I figured he might have his ear to the ground and be able to pick somethin’ up for me.”

  “You got a lot of made guys in this town?”

  When Jerry said “made guy” he got this look in his eye. When a mob guy made his bones by making a hit they said he was “made.” I knew Jerry couldn’t be made though, because that honor was only bestowed on Italians.

  “I suppose so,” I answered. “I don’t hang out with that crowd, though.”

  “You work for Mr. Entratter, don’t ya?”

  “Yeah, I do, but in the casino, Jerry. I don’t … freelance.”

  “Well,” he said, with a shrug, “that’s yer own business, I guess. Just seems to me a smart guy like you could do all right with a little freelancing, ya know? Plus yer Italian.”

  “All Italians aren’t connected, Jerry.”

  “Guess yer right,” Jerry said. “Sure wish I was, though.”

  “Connected?”

  “Italian.”

  “What’s wrong with bein’ Jewish?” I asked.

  “Nothin’,” he said, then added, “if I was workin’ in the diamond district, or somethin’.”

  “What about Meyer Lansky? Seems to me he’s doin’ okay for himself.”

  “Mr. Lansky, he’s a special case.”

  I wanted to take the conversation in another direction, and we weren’t really getting anything accomplished sitting there.

  “We still got a couple of hours to kill before we meet with Borraco,” I said. “I think I know how to spend it.”

  There’s “Vegas” and there’s “Las Vegas.” To me Vegas was the casinos, the action. Las Vegas, on the other hand, was everything else. Homes, stores, restaurants, hotels, bars, clubs, all having nothing to do with the casinos. Consequently most were devoid of mob interests, except for a few bars and strip clubs.

  There was a time when I drank a lot, a period of my life I prefer not to think about very often. During that time I frequented a lot of those bars and clubs, and it occurred to me that might be the case with the two men who had ambushed me, Lenny Davis and Buzz Ravisi.

  I have to admit having Jerry with me was one of the reasons I felt secure about hitting these places and asking about Davis and Ravisi. I don’t know that I would have done it on my own because I sure as hell didn’t want to run into those two again when I was flying solo.

  We hit two places before I found a bartender I recognized from those drinking days. The place was a strip club where the girls went all the way, which I wasn’t even sure was legal. Back when I had frequented the place they’d worked with pasties and G-strings.

  The place was dark and smoky, only about half full of men who looked either bored or desperate. As Jerry and I walked past the stage to the bar a topless blonde with bowling-ball tits leaned over and slid her G-string down to her ankles. I took a quick peek, then looked over my shoulder at Jerry to see if he was enjoying the sights. He wasn’t. His eyes were combing the room. He’d done the same thing in the other place, watching for trouble. See
ing that a huge set of tits and a bare muff couldn’t distract him made me feel even safer.

  The bartender did a double take when we reached him.

  “Jesus,” he said. “Ain’t seen you since the night I poured you into a cab. Johnnie Walker Red Label, right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “That was … how long ago was that?”

  “A few years.”

  He smiled, revealing missing teeth in a baby face, remarkable for a man pushing fifty.

  “Damn, I got a good memory, right?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “That’s Jerry.”

  I could feel Jerry’s hulking presence behind me. He took his job seriously, staying so close to me that no one would have been able to get me from behind.

  “You guys wanna drink?”

  “Not me,” Jerry said. “I’m workin’.”

  “Scotch?” he asked me.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’m lookin’ for a couple of guys.”

  “You a cop now?” he asked. “I thought you worked for a casino?”

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Marty.”

  “Look, Marty,” I said, “these two guys, they dropped a bundle at my casino and I okayed their credit.”

  “And they welched?”

  “Big time. If I don’t find them and get that money I’m out of a job.”

  “That sucks. Which casino?”

  I didn’t want him to know where I really worked so I said, “The Flamingo.”

  “Bugsy’s place,” he said. “Sounds to me like you might lose more than just yer job.”

  “That’s a real possibility.”

  He leaned his elbows on the bar.

  “Okay, who ya lookin’ for?”

  “Two guys, usually travel together,” I said. “Their names are Buzz Ravisi and Lenny Davis.”

  The bartender straightened up quick.

  “I don’t know ’em,” he said, and started to back away.

  Quicker than I could move Jerry reached out and closed one massive hand around the guy’s right wrist.

  “Yeah, ya do,” he said.

  “Hey—”

  “If you don’t tell me the truth, Marty,” I said, “Jerry will break your wrist … for starters.”

  Jerry’s hand tightened and Marty’s face contorted with pain. “Awright, awright,” he said. “Lemme go.”

  Jerry didn’t let go, but he let up on the pressure some.

  “They come in here a lot,” he said. “The broad up on the stage now is Buzz’s girl.”

  “The one with the bowling balls?” I asked.

  “That’s right. Her name’s Iris.”

  I turned and looked at her. She was working the pole, showing the guys her bare ass, bending over to look back between her legs so that her tits hung down and swung like pendulums.

  “Have they been in tonight?”

  “No,” Marty said.

  “Last night? The night before?” Jerry asked. “Come on, man.” He shook Marty by his wrist.

  “Okay, okay,” Marty said. “They were in last night, and they should be coming back tonight.”

  “When tonight?” Jerry asked.

  “Midnight,” Marty said. “Iris gets off at one. Buzz likes to pick her up, but he likes to watch her work for an hour, first.”

  “And Davis is always with him?”

  “Always,” Marty said. “He’s got a thing for Iris, too. He’s hopin’ Buzzy will throw her to him when he’s done with her.”

  “Real friends,” Jerry said, releasing his hold on the bartender’s wrist.

  The bartender started to back away but Jerry stopped him by barking, “Hey!”

  “What?”

  “If they was to be told we was around askin’ about them, I wouldn’t like it very much. You understand?”

  “Yeah,” Marty said, licking his lips, “yeah, I understand.”

  “You afraid of them fellas?”

  “Naw,” he said, “naw, I ain’t afraid of them … exactly. I’m just careful around them.”

  “You afraid of me?”

  Marty stared at Jerry, then lowered his eyes.

  “Yeah, just remember that. Okay?”

  “Sure, sure,” Marty said. “Okay.”

  “Git lost now.”

  Marty slunk down to the other end of the bar.

  “Whataya wanna do?” he asked.

  “We’ve gotta meet Mike at ten,” I said. “Industrial Road’s not that far from here. We can get back between twelve and one.”

  “Yer takin’ a chance on missin’ these guys.”

  I looked up at the blonde. She was doing something with her tits I’d never seen before. I wondered how she was able to get them to move in opposite directions like that.

  “I guess as long as she’s workin’ here they’ll be back. We can take a chance.”

  “That’s up ta you.”

  “Maybe I should call the cops,” I said. “After all, they did break in and work me over.”

  “I don’t never think you should call the cops, but like I said, that’s up to you. If ya do, though you ain’t gonna mention Frank, are you?”

  “I guess I won’t call the cops,” I said. I looked at my watch. “If we’re gonna meet Mike Borraco we better go now. Then we can hurry back here.”

  “It’s your call,” Jerry said. “After all, I’m workin’ for you.”

  Actually, there were a couple of other guys he was working for before me, but I said, “Okay, then let’s go.”

  Thirty-one

  “THIS GUY’S AS GOOD as dead.”

  We’d pulled up in front of a warehouse on Industrial Road when Jerry made his comment. In the dark the building looked like a huge black box—no windows and no lights.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I seen enough movies to know what’s gonna happen,” Jerry said. “He’s dead.”

  “This is real life, Jerry,” I said, “not a movie.”

  “Hey,” the big man said, “you got two dead girls already, right? And you got beat up and threatened? Sounds pretty close to me.”

  “Let’s go and find him.”

  I started to open my door but Jerry put a big paw out to stop me.

  “You heeled?”

  “No, I’m not heeled,” I said, annoyed. “I don’t carry a gun. I’m not a cop, a P.I. or a hood.”

  “Well, I am a hood,” he said, “and I’m carryin’, so let me go first.”

  “Look, Jerry,” I said over the top of the car, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “Shhh,” he said, waving a huge hand at me. In the other hand he carried his .45; the big gun was still dwarfed by the size of his mitt. “Don’t say no more. Let’s find this guy.”

  We approached the warehouse, with me close behind Jerry this time, instead of the other way around.

  “Did this guy say where he was gonna be?”

  “No,” I said, “he just gave me the address.”

  “Let’s jus’ find an open door, then.”

  I followed him around the building. We tried a couple of doors, found them locked and I started to get a bad feeling, like maybe he was right.

  The building itself was unmarked. There was no way for us to tell what kind of business was using it, unless there was a sign we couldn’t see in the dark.

  “I’m getting’ a bad feelin’,” Jerry said.

  “I thought you had a bad feeling already?”

  “It’s getting’ worse.” He turned to face me. “Look, Mr. Sinatra said I was to keep you safe. I think we better get outta here.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  We both saw it at the same time. A large trash bin out beside a loading dock. There was just enough moonlight for us to see a flash of red hanging over the edge.

  “Your man wear red?” he asked.

  “Not the last time I saw him.”

  I didn’t know enough about Mi
ke Borraco to know if red was a favorite color.

  “Well, we’re here,” I said. “We might as well have a look.”

  As we approached the trash bin I wished I had thought to bring a flashlight. At that moment Jerry reached his empty hand into his pocket and came out with a small pen light. He aimed it at the bin as we got closer. Sure enough, there was a tail end of a red shirt hanging out over the edge.

  “You seen a dead body before?” he asked.

  “Lots.”

  He looked at me.”

  “In the war.”

  “Korea?”

  I nodded.

  “I couldn’t go,” he said. “Flat feet.”

  “You didn’t miss much.”

  “Want me to take a look, here?”

  “No,” I said, “we’ll stay together.”

  We walked to the bin and peered over the top. Jerry aimed his pen light inside. Sure enough, Mike Borraco was there, staring back up at us through sightless eyes. His red shirt was torn, the tail end of it having gotten caught on a sharp edge of the metal bin.

  “That him?” he asked.

  “That’s Mike.”

  Jerry moved the light around. Parts of Mike were buried beneath the garbage.

  “I don’t see no wound,” he said. “I can’t tell how he got killed.”

  “This is crazy,” I said. “First the two girls, and now Mike.”

  “What’s this got to do with Mr. Martin?” Jerry asked.

  “Nothin’!” I replied. “That’s what I’m sayin’. This is all just a crazy coincidence.”

  “The cops ain’t gonna think so, you finding another body. They don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do?” I asked. “Not call them?”

  “I tol’ ya,” Jerry said. “Callin’ the cops ain’t never my first choice.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “I suggest we get the hell outta here. There’s a chance whoever killed this guy called the cops themselves, hopin’ to frame you.”

  We started for the car and then Jerry stopped and said, “Wait a minute. How did this guy know your phone number?”

  “I wrote it down for him. Why?”

  He turned and ran back. I saw him reach in and it looked to me like he was rifling the corpse’s pockets.

  “What are you doing?”

  He withdrew his hands and came trotting back to me. He was remarkably light on his feet for such a big man. He handed me a slip of paper I recognized.