Hey There (You with the Gun in Your Hand)

by Robert J. Randisi

  “We can’t let ’em find it,” Jerry said. “It’ll point to Mr. Davis.”

  Just for a split second I thought, what if Sammy did it? We’d be covering up for him. But I didn’t really think Sammy Davis Jr. was a killer.

  “Mr. G.? Did you hear me?”

  “No, Jerry,” I said. “No, I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”

  “I said, why don’t we drop it out of the helicopter? Over the desert, or the lake?”

  I thought that over.

  “Nobody would ever find it,” he added.

  “Maybe not,” I said, “but the pilot would be a witness.”

  “Good point,” Jerry said.

  We both sat there, waiting for Sammy and staring at the gun. Then I remembered and called down to the lobby for the driver.

  “There’ll be three of us going to the heliport, Henry.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be ready.”

  “Thank you, Henry.”

  When Sammy came out, Jerry and I were still wondering what to do with the gun.

  “Why don’t we just leave it here?” he suggested.

  “We can’t do that,” I said.

  “Why not?” Sammy asked. “Nobody’s looking for it, nobody knows—”

  “The blackmailers know,” I said. “If this was an attempt to frame you they could call the cops and give them your name. What if they came here and found the gun?”

  “Okay,” Sammy said, “okay, so we just take it with us.”

  “I can carry it,” Jerry offered.

  “No,” I said, “we have to hide it, or get rid of it.”

  “Okay,” Sammy asked, “where?”

  “That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out.”

  We met Henry in the lobby.

  “The car is ready, sir.”

  “Okay, Henry,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Jerry, Sammy and I got in the backseat, and Henry headed for the heliport.

  For a moment I thought about giving the gun to Henry to get rid of, but that would make him a witness—or, at least, an accomplice.

  We had wrapped it back up in the hotel and Jerry carried it again now. When we got to Vegas we’d drive out to the desert and get rid of it, I thought, bury it. Bodies had been hidden in the desert for years without being found. Why not a hunk of metal?

  “Let’s just go to Vegas,” I’d said in the room, “enjoy Dino’s show, and worry about all of this tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” Sammy agreed, “why not? After all, maybe we’ll never hear from them again. Maybe one killed the other and he’s on the run.”

  Yeah, maybe, but what about the photo Sammy was afraid of?

  What would happen to that?

  Twenty-one

  OUR TABLE WAS A RIOT, especially with Joey, Frank, Sammy and Buddy Hackett heckling Dino. At one point Dean pulled the four of them on stage with him and they cracked the entire audience up for a good twenty minutes while Jerry and I watched with everyone else. Then he kicked them off and we all fell quiet and listened to the man do what he did best—sing.

  At one point he came out into the audience and approached a table where a young couple was sitting. They looked young enough to be newlywed, the man sandy-haired, the woman pretty and dark-haired.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” Dean asked her.

  “Shirley,” the girl said, shyly.

  “And is this fine young man your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jerry.”

  “Where are you from, Shirley.”

  “San Francisco.”

  “Do you think your husband would mind if I sang a song to you?”

  “I wouldn’t care if he did,” she said, and everyone laughed, including her husband.

  “Well, all right, then …” Dean said, and he sang “I’d Cry Like a Baby,” to her. She blushed furiously, but loved every moment of it. When he finished Dean shook hands with the beaming young husband and returned to the stage.

  When he was finished with his act we all applauded, nobody louder or longer than Frank.

  “Let’s give him some time before we go backstage,” Frank said.

  I knew Frank was curious about how things were going, but he didn’t mention it in front of Joey and Buddy. And I knew he wouldn’t talk about it in front of Dino, either. He’d have to have the patience to wait until he got either me or Sammy alone.

  We waited for the Copa Room to empty out and had one more round of drinks.

  “You guys gotta let me come on stage with you one night,” Buddy said.

  “Where were you an hour ago, Buddy?” Frank asked. “You were up there with us.”

  “Just remember,” Joey said, wagging his finger at Buddy, “there’s only room for one comic in this act.”

  “Hey,” Buddy said, “you start doin’ some TV and there’ll be room for me, right? Who else would you recommend?”

  “I ain’t recommending nobody, pal,” Joey said, “ ’cause I ain’t givin’ up this gig.”

  Frank looked at me and rolled his eyes. We both looked at Sammy, who seemed to be staring at something only he could see.

  “Hey, Sam,” Frank said, “wake up, baby. It’s party time.”

  “I’m ready, Frank,” Sammy said, with a big forced grin. He stubbed out a cigarette and lit another one right away.

  “Come on,” Frank said, pushing his chair back, “let’s go back and see Dino.”

  “I’ll get the check,” I said, intending to have the Sands comp everybody.

  “I already took care of it, pally,” Frank said, slapping me on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  Backstage was not as wild as it had been when the whole Rat Pack was entertaining, but it still took us a while to work through the crowd to where Dino was holding court.

  “Just in time,” he said, putting one arm around Frank and the other around Sammy. “I was goin’ to change. Are we still on for tonight?”

  “We sure are,” Frank said. “It’s been a while since we’ve all been together.”

  “Too bad Peter’s not here, too,” Sammy said.

  “We don’t need Peter,” Frank said. “We got Eddie G.”

  I was flattered and figured that Peter’s connection to the Kennedys was keeping him in Washington these days.

  I knew that the real late-night swingers in the group were Frank and Sammy, but this was opening night for Dean, so everyone agreed to go out and celebrate.

  We waited for Dean to change while the backstage area cleared out. Then when Sammy, Joey and Buddy left to go out front and wait, Frank grabbed my arm. Jerry drifted out with the other three and I knew he was feeling like a fifth—well, seventh—wheel.

  “I know it’s Sammy’s business,” Frank said to me, “but I haven’t gotten a chance to get him alone. How’s everything goin’?”

  I hesitated, then decided that Sammy probably wouldn’t mind Frank being clued in on some details.

  “Not good, Frank.”

  I told Frank things didn’t go well the first time I tried to help Sammy, so we were going to take a second shot at it. I didn’t tell him about the photo, or the dead body. And I didn’t tell him anything about Sammy’s gun—which, by the way, Jerry said he’d taken care of.

  After we’d landed in Vegas we dropped Sammy at the Sands so he could change, and then we went to my house so we could do the same. When we left the house I asked Jerry if he still had the gun on him. I was nervous about him getting caught carrying it. When he told me he didn’t I was even more worried about it being found in my house.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “somebody would have to find it in more than one place. I broke it down in pieces and sort of … spread it around.”

  “Where did you put … You know what? I don’t want to know.”

  Frank listened patiently. He knew he wasn’t getting all of it, but in the end he just told me, “Keep tryin’ to help him, Eddie. Sam’s already been through a lot. You know, it ain
’t easy bein’ black and Jewish. He takes a lot of crap.”

  “Don’t worry, Frank,” I assured him, “I’m doing my best.”

  “I know you are, Eddie,” Frank said. “Listen, one other thing. Give big Jerry a pass tonight. I don’t think he’s real comfortable, but I also don’t think he’d say so.”

  “I was having the same thought. I’ll go out and talk to him now while you wait for Dean.”

  Frank nodded and I left. The Copa Room was empty and men were stacking chairs on top of the tables, so I went outside the front doors and found the guys waiting there. Joey and Buddy were arguing, or pretending to; Sammy’s head rocked left and right, like he was watching a tennis tournament. Jerry was standing off to the side with no expression on his face. I walked over to him.

  “Hey, Mr. G.”

  “Hey, Jerry,” I said, “you look a little tired.”

  “Huh? Oh, I am, sorta—”

  “Why don’t you go up and use your room to get some rest?” I asked. “Or go back to the house.”

  “I’d hafta take the Caddy—”

  “I’ll get a ride,” I assured him. “You don’t have to come out with these bozos if you don’t want to.”

  “I was kinda thinkin’ about skippin’ it….”

  “Sure, why not?” I said. “I’ll see you later at the house.”

  “You sure you’re gonna be okay?”

  “These guys’ll be around me all night, and like I said, I’ll get a ride home.”

  “Well, okay,” Jerry said, “but you be careful.”

  “Go ahead,” I said, slapping him on one big shoulder. “Go home and get some rest.”

  “Thanks, Mr. G.,” he said. “You’ll, uh, explain to everybody—”

  “Sure, sure,” I said, “just go.”

  He looked very pleased at having been given his release—or else he was just looking forward to driving the Caddy again.

  I turned and went to see what Joey and Buddy were beefing to each other about.

  Twenty-two

  WHILE I WAS OUT BOOZING and carousing with the boys, Jerry drove my Caddy back to my house. He said when he pulled into the driveway and cut the engine he could feel something was wrong. He didn’t know how to explain it. It was some kind of extra sense—Jerry knew nothing about a “sixth sense” at that time—that had served him well over the years and kept him alive.

  It was dark. He had pulled into the driveway with the lights on, and then cut them.

  I didn’t have a garage. At the time I bought the house I had managed to wrangle the price down because of that.

  Jerry got out of the car, closed the door behind him, and stared at the house. The blinds on the front bay window were open, the way we had left them. He stared at the window, and then saw it. He must have spotted it out of the corner of his eye when he pulled in. A small pinpoint of light, like the glowing end of a cigarette when somebody draws on it.

  Jerry had three choices: front door, back door, or get back in the car and leave. He had to decide fast, before whoever was inside decided to come out after him.

  He moved around the car lazily, in no hurry, and when he was out of sight of the window he drew his gun and hurried around to the back. He didn’t know what they’d do inside when he was out of sight. Maybe they’d come out to have a look. Or maybe they’d expect him to try the back.

  He stopped at a side window, which he knew led to my bedroom. Jerry knew everything there was to know about my house. He made sure of that each of the other times he was there.

  He hoped whoever was inside was watching the front and back doors, because he was going in through the bedroom. The locks on my window were for shit, which Jerry knew.

  He jimmied the window open as quickly and quietly as he could, then climbed inside as silently as his bulk would allow him. At one point he feared his rear end had gotten wedged in the window, but then he slid through and was in the house.

  Forty-five in hand he moved to the bedroom door. As he got closer to it and reached to pull it open, it suddenly slammed into him. He staggered back, kept hold of his gun, but there was a bright light in his face, blinding him.

  “We’re not that stupid, friend,” a voice said. “Just drop the gun and let’s talk.”

  We hit a few clubs, had some drinks and laughs, turned away many pretty ladies because it was “guy’s night out.” Eventually, we ended up at Frank’s booth in the Congo Room at the Sahara. It was late, but they put out a spread for Frank and his guests. I was sorry I had sent Jerry home. He would have loved it.

  “Time for me to call it a night,” Dean announced.

  “It’s still early,” Frank argued.

  “I have to be on stage tomorrow night and do it all over again,” Dean said, “and this time without you bums. I need my rest.”

  “Me, too, Frank,” Sammy said. “I need to get back to Tahoe early tomorrow to get ready for tomorrow night’s show.”

  “You guys are workaholics,” Frank complained.

  “Look at the pot callin’ the kettle black,” Dean said.

  “What’d you say about black?” Sammy demanded.

  “Oh no,” Dean said, “I’m not starting a routine with you.”

  He stood up and put his hands on Frank’s shoulders from behind.

  “Thanks for coming to the show, Frank.”

  “You were great, Dino, as usual.”

  “Anybody want to share a limo?” he asked.

  “Yeah, me,” I said.

  “Eddie!” Frank said, as if insulted.

  “Sorry, Frank,” I said, “but I’ve got things to do in the morning.”

  “I’ll come along,” Sammy said. He looked at Joey and Buddy. “I’ll see you cats. If you get a chance come to Harrah’s and catch my show.”

  “A capital idea, Sam,” Buddy Hackett said.

  “Capital,” Joey agreed, and the two nodded at each other.

  “Let’s get another round of drinks, Frank,” Buddy said.

  “See?” Frank said to those of us who were leaving. “These are my real friends!”

  Dean laughed, because he knew who Frank considered his real friends, and Sammy and I followed him outside.

  “Goin’ back to the Sands, Sammy?” Dean asked.

  “I think I want to get some air,” Sammy said. “Eddie, what are you gonna do?”

  “I’m gonna get a ride to my house.”

  “I’ve never seen your pad,” he said. “Mind if I tag along?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  We had been using two limos all night, so we all piled in one and left the other for Frank, Joey and Buddy. We dropped Dean off at the Sands first, and then had the driver take us to my house.

  “Nice little neighborhood,” Sammy said as we drove down my block.

  “Right here,” I said to the driver, and then suddenly I said, “no, keep goin’.”

  “What’s the matter?” Sammy asked.

  “Go to the corner,” I said to the driver. To Sammy I said, “I’m not sure. Jerry’s supposed to be there. My car’s in the driveway, but there’s no light in the house.”

  “Maybe he’s asleep,” Sammy said. “It’s late.”

  It was 2 A.M.

  “This is Vegas, Sammy,” I said, “it’s not that late.”

  “Okay, so what do you wanna do?” Sammy asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Call the police?”

  “No,” I said, “no cops.”

  “What’s your name, driver?” Sammy asked.

  “Thomas, Mr. Davis.”

  “Thomas, you got anything in the car we could use as a weapon?” Thomas leaned forward, opened the glove compartment, and took out a wicked-looking automatic.

  “Will this do?”

  “Whoa,” Sammy said, reaching for the gun. “A German Luger? This is groovy.”

  “I brought it back with me from Germany,” Thomas said. I hadn’t realized earlier that he was in his sixties.

  “Do you have a permit fo
r that?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can I borrow it?” Sammy asked.

  “Sam,” I said, “if you shoot somebody with that, not only are you gonna be in trouble, but so will Thomas.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Sammy said, handing the gun back to the driver.

  “You got a tire iron, or something?” I asked.

  “If you gents are having a problem,” Thomas said, “maybe me and my Luger can help?”

  Twenty-three

  THOMAS TURNED OUT to be ex-Army Ranger Sergeant Thomas Thorpe. Out of the fifteen million men and women who served in the armed forces during World War II, only three thousand were Rangers. They were trained for surprise attacks, many of which took place at night—like this.

  “What would you like me to do, sir?” Thomas asked as we approached the house.

  “I think I’ll go in the front, Thomas, pretend there’s nothing wrong. Why don’t you go in the back—just in case something is wrong.”

  “Sounds good,” he said.

  “And me?” Sammy asked.

  “I still think you should’ve stayed in the car, Sam.”

  “No way,” Sammy said. “Whatever’s goin’ down is because of me. I want in.”

  I was holding a tire iron. As we reached my car I decided to put it down in the grass.

  “What are you doin’?” Sammy asked.

  “Well, if I’m gonna walk in like nothing’s wrong I can’t very well be carrying a tire iron, can I?”

  “I suggest you put it down your pants leg,” Thomas said. “You might need it.”

  I thought that over, then decided an Army Ranger knew what he was talking about. I picked the iron up and put it down my left pants leg. It didn’t reach my knee, so I’d have no trouble walking.

  “I would’ve offered to carry it,” Sammy said with a grin, “but I’ve got short legs.”

  Thomas laughed, then started around the house.

  “So we just walk in?” Sammy asked.

  “If somebody’s in there and they kill us they won’t get any money out of you, will they?” I asked.

  “Then why would they be in there?” Sam asked.

  “Probably to deliver a message.”

  “For the next meeting?”