Hey There (You with the Gun in Your Hand)

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Coffee’s fine,” I said. “The way I’m feelin’ if I have a drink it might knock me right out.”

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “He’s here.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I hung up and walked to the window. I could see a portion of the lake from there.

  “This ain’t what I expected when you said cabin,” Jerry observed.

  “I know,” I said, “when I first came to see Frank I thought I’d find somethin’ more rustic.”

  “Huh?”

  “Somethin’ more … earthy, plain. Nothin’ this fancy.”

  “Oh, yeah … rustic.”

  “How about a hike while we’re here?” I asked.

  “I was willin’ ta hike for you in Reno, Mr. G.,” he said. “Let’s don’t push it, huh.”

  Sammy had a driver who had him at the cabin, with coffee, inside of half an hour. The driver carried the tray in—coffee and some donuts—while Sammy gave me and Jerry a big hug each. Jerry wasn’t used to that kind of demonstrative behavior, but he put up with it.

  Sammy poured three cups of coffee, handed us each one, then sat down on the sofa. The driver went outside and waited in the car.

  “My eyes used to get like yours when I was tired,” he said. “Now this one stays clear.” He pointed to the glass eye and laughed.

  I noticed that his good eye was as red as both of mine.

  “You want out, Eddie?” he asked.

  “Sammy, I need—”

  “No hard feelings,” he said. “I appreciate what you’ve done, especially when it came to the gun. You can walk away.”

  “I need to explain this to you.”

  He sat back on the sofa and said, “I’m all ears, pal.”

  I told him what I knew, what I suspected, and what I thought. He listened without interrupting.

  “Whataya think?” I asked when I was done.

  “I don’t know, Eddie,” he said. “Hit men? Maybe from the CIA? Or Joe Kennedy?”

  “Or Bobby.”

  Sammy dry-washed his face with both hands, then sat forward and sipped some coffee.

  “Are you sure you’re not … overreacting?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so, Sam. You know that you took some photos when Jack Kennedy was around. We talked about this as a possibility.”

  “Well, yeah,” he agreed, “but nothing anybody would kill for.”

  “That you know of.”

  “I’ve wracked my brain, Eddie,” Sammy said. “If I caught JFK with his pants down, I don’t know it.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t so much his pants down as his hand out.”

  “A payoff?” Sammy asked. “Making one or paying one?”

  “What about that million dollars Peter wanted to show us last year? Remember?” I asked. “Didn’t he say the hotel owners wanted to donate it to JFK’s campaign?”

  “Yeah, but there’s nothin’ illegal about a campaign contribution.”

  “Well, if you can’t figure it out, I sure can’t,” I said. “My only move now is to try and get out of this alive.”

  “There’s still the photo I’m tryin’ to buy back,” he said.

  “I’m thinkin’ that might be a dead issue, Sammy. And I do mean dead.”

  “You mean you think whoever was tryin’ to sell me the photo is dead?”

  “My theory is, they went out on a limb, tried to make some extra money on the side, and got slapped down for it.”

  “But if I hear from them again …”

  Yeah, what if he did hear from them again. What if Caitlin and her boyfriend were still after their fifty grand? Could I just walk out on him?

  “If you get another note let me know,” I said. “But if they call this time, because notes don’t seem to be working, then you tell them to call me personally. Tell ’em that’s the only way you’ll do it.”

  “But what if that’s not what they wanna do. What if they just release the photo—”

  “They don’t make any money that way, Sam,” I said. “These are greedy people. They could sell it to a tabloid, but not for as much. They’ll do whatever it takes to get that money. Just play hardball with them. Tell them I’m the go-between and they have to discuss the details with me. Tell ’em that’s the only way you’ll do it.”

  “And what phone number do I give them?” he asked. “You’re not goin’ home, are you?”

  “No, I can’t go home until I clear this up,” I said. “They tried something there once, already. Gimme a minute to think.”

  I poured myself some coffee while I thought the situation over. Sammy just sat on the sofa and stared out the window at the sky.

  “Okay,” I said, “if they call just arrange a time for them to call here.”

  “How do I get in touch with you?”

  “Same thing, I’ll be here,” I said. “Also, if you can’t get me call Jerry.” I didn’t have to send Jerry back to New York just yet. The big guy looked at me and nodded his okay.

  We stood up and Sammy walked me to the door.

  “I hope you’re wrong about all this, Eddie,” Sammy said. “I mean, I hope this isn’t some big conspiracy….”

  “This country was built on conspiracies, Sammy,” I said.

  “That may be, but I don’t need ’em in my life. I got enough grief.”

  “I hear ya,” I said, and he left.

  “Jerry,” I said, “after what happened in Reno why don’t you go with Sammy? Watch out for him.”

  “For how long?”

  “I have a feelin’ they’re gonna move fast on this,” I said. “I’d just feel better if you were with him for a while. We don’t know what those Feds from Reno—if they are Feds—will pull.”

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “I’ll be okay,” I said. “I’ve got your other gun. Get goin’.”

  “Gotcha, Mr. G.”

  Fifty-three

  THERE WAS A KNOCK at the door about ten minutes later. I opened it, thinking it was Jerry.

  “What’d you forget—”

  It wasn’t Jerry. It was two men with guns.

  “Eddie Gianelli?” one of the men asked.

  “You know that already, or you wouldn’t be here,” I said, with a calm that surprised even me.

  I said they had guns, I didn’t say the weapons were in their hands. No, one had a gun on his belt, the other in a shoulder holster. They stood with their hands on their hips, so that the weapons were displayed.

  “Are you Eddie Gianelli?” the older one asked. He had about ten years on his partner. He stood up straight, the younger one slouched. Sometimes I think that’s the definition of experience.

  “The man asked you a question,” the young one said, “twice. Don’t you think it would be polite to answer him?”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. I looked at the older one. Forties, I thought, like me. “Yes, I’m Eddie Gianelli.”

  “The one they call ‘Eddie G’?”

  “Well, I don’t know who ‘they’ are, but yes, that’s a nickname of mine.”

  “Well, Eddie G,” the older one said, “somebody wants to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “A very important man.”

  “The President of the United States?”

  “More important than him.”

  “Who’s more important than the President?”

  Neither one answered.

  I tried to judge them by their clothes, the way Jerry had done earlier with the other three. These two had decent suits and shoes, and thin ties. I gave up after that.

  “What do I call you?”

  “Call him Number Two,” the older man said, “and me Number One.”

  “Why are you Number One?” the younger one asked.

  The older one looked at him.

  “Because I’m not dumb enough to ask a question like that.”

  “He’s right,” I said to Number Two. “That was a dumb question.”

  He came
out of his slouch and asked, “You callin’ me dumb?”

  I looked at Number One, who shrugged wearily.

  “Are you comin’?” he asked.

  “What’s my alternative?”

  “We bring you.”

  “How far are we goin’?” I asked.

  “Not far.”

  “Am I comin’ back?”

  “No reason to think otherwise.”

  For some reason I believed him. These actually were messenger boys, not hit men.

  “Well,” I asked, “when do we go?”

  “Now,” Number One said, “but first … you wouldn’t be carrying a gun, would you?”

  There was no point in lying, since they’d probably search me no matter what I said.

  “As a matter of fact.” I raised my hands and indicated my right jacket pocket.

  Number One stepped forward and fished the .38 out.

  “I’d like to get that back when we’re done.”

  “Don’t see why not,” he said, tucking the gun into his belt. “Shall we go?”

  Fifty-four

  THEY HAD A BLACK sedan parked in the lot. Number Two got behind the wheel, Number One in the shotgun seat next to him. I got in the back. I didn’t have a car.

  “When will we—” I started, but Number One cut me off.

  “There’s no point in asking questions,” he told me. “All we know is that we were to come and get you and bring you back. We don’t know why.”

  “But where—”

  “Where will be apparent shortly,” he said, turning to look at me. “It’s not far, like I told you. Just sit back and relax. Somebody wants to talk to you. Nobody wants to hurt you.”

  If I took him at his word this would probably be one of the few times I would actually be able to sit back and relax for a while.

  We drove out of Tahoe and past some of the ski lodges that were going up almost as fast as casinos. There were also some impressive homes out this way. We were most of the way around the beautiful lake, almost to the California border, when the car pulled into a long driveway that led up to a palatial house. Whoever I was being brought to see had money, or friends who had money.

  “Nice little cottage,” I said. I got no reply.

  Number Two stopped the car in front of the house and we got out. I followed them up the stairs and inside.

  “Leaving the door unlocked is not smart,” I said, “even around here.”

  “We’re expected,” Number Two said.

  Behind me I heard Number One lock the door.

  They took me to a room that was lined with books—a library, or a den. Since all I have is a living room, I can never tell the difference.

  “Wait here with him,” Number Two said to Number One.

  “Okay.”

  We waited in silence. He stared off into space while I walked around and looked at the books, a mixture of classic fiction, nonfiction, and law books. That’s as far as I got before my host entered the room.

  “You can go,” he said to Number One.

  “Yes, sir.” He headed for the door, but stopped just short of leaving. “Want me to stay outside?”

  “Just stay in the house,” my host said. “I’ll only need you to drive Mr. Gianelli home.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Number One left and closed the door behind him.

  My host was a man in his seventies, gray-haired, ramrod straight, wearing an unmistakably expensive suit and wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  “I think so,” I said. “I’ve seen photos. You’re Joseph Kennedy.”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  Father of the President of the United States. In point of fact Joe Kennedy always wanted his oldest son, Joseph Kennedy Jr., to become President, but after he was killed in World War II he turned his ambitions to his second oldest son, John F. Kennedy. He planned strategies, did the fund-raising, and generally oversaw the entire campaign. It was believed by people in the know that Joe Kennedy was pulling the strings on both Jack and Bobby and that he insisted when Jack became President that he appoint Bobby as attorney general.

  “Would you like a drink, sir?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’d like to know why I was brought here.”

  “I’ll have some Irish whiskey, if you don’t mind.”

  He walked to a sideboard and poured two fingers into a tumbler.

  “Please, have a seat,” he said. “I must sit, myself. I don’t often leave the compound anymore.”

  I knew from television and newspapers that the Kennedy residence in Hyannisport, Massachusetts was referred to as “the Kennedy Compound.”

  The room had two maroon leather armchairs and we each took one, so that we were facing each other.

  “I had you brought here for a reason, Mr. Gianelli.”

  “I hope so.”

  Joe Kennedy’s entire countenance was a stern one. I’d never heard anything about the man having a sense of humor. Now that I was seeing him for the first time the lack of it was very evident.

  “I understand you have been engaged in the pursuit of a certain photo.”

  I quickly wondered how to play this. If Joseph Kennedy wanted me dead, I’d be dead, so I decided to play it straight.

  “Actually,” I said, “I’m trying to buy an entire roll of film.”

  “I see. Do you know what this roll of film contains?”

  “Not a clue,” I lied.

  “Then why are you trying to purchase it?”

  “I’m acting on someone else’s behalf.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, at this time.”

  “I see,” he said, again. “One of your Rat Pack cronies?” He said “Rat Pack” with intense dislike. I knew he hadn’t liked Jack consorting with Frank, but they’d needed Frank to deliver the Teamsters. As soon as JFK got elected, Frank was out.

  I decided not to be passive.

  “I understand you’re trying to buy a photo, too,” I said.

  Kennedy frowned, but said, “Well, yes …”

  “Do you know what it is a photo of?”

  “I’m afraid I do,” he said. “Do you?”

  “Nope.”

  He studied me, as if trying to decide if I was lying or not.

  “I’ve checked you out, Mr. Gianelli,” he said. “You work for Jack Entratter at the Sands hotel, and you consort with Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin … those types.”

  “Types?”

  “Show business types.”

  “The types you wouldn’t want your sons to consort with, you mean?”

  “My sons choose their own friends.”

  “Sure they do.”

  “Never mind,” he said. “My point is that I’ve checked you out and while you work for the Sands you don’t seem to be … what’s the word … connected.”

  “Connected to what?”

  “Please, Mr. Gianelli,” he said, “so far we haven’t been playing games with each other.”

  “Except for that bit about your sons choosing their own friends.”

  “All right,” he said. “We understand each other, then.”

  I nodded as if we did.

  Fifty-five

  “MR. GIANELLI, it might surprise you to know that I think you have the best chance of buying these photos.”

  “Is that because people have been dying to get them?”

  I didn’t mean for that to come out as a pun, but it went over his head, anyway. I also noticed that my Brooklyn had taken a hike. Once again, I was adapting to the company I was keeping. This time, I didn’t much like it.

  “I have heard about that,” he said.

  “Mr. Kennedy, do you know a guy named Sloane? Claims to be with the Secret Service?”

  “I don’t believe I do.”

  “Byers, or Simpson?”

  “No. Apparently, there are some other parties trying to get those photos.”

  “And ho
w did these other parties find out about them?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, really,” he said. “My only concern at the moment is that they don’t succeed.”

  “Mr. Kennedy,” I said, “so far I haven’t seen the photo you’re talking about. In fact I haven’t even seen the photo I’m talking about.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Furthermore, I don’t want to see them,” I said. “In fact, I want out of this whole business.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Why? Because you won’t let me out?”

  “I am certain I have no control over the decision you make, Mr. Gianelli,” he said. “I’m sure you are your own man.”

  “Then why is it unfortunate?”

  “Well, I’m not sure the other parties involved will let you out.”

  “I’m kind of worried about that, myself,” I said. “I don’t want to end up dead.”

  “Maybe the only way to avoid that is to get ahold of that roll of film.”

  “And turn it over to you?”

  “Only the print I am concerned with,” he said. “The rest of the roll is yours, to do with as you see fit. Sell it, turn it over to your principal, whatever.”

  “Sell it?” I said. “What the hell do you think I am? I’m no blackmailer.”

  “I apologize,” he said. “That was thoughtless of me. Of course you’re not a blackmailer. I understand you know my son, Jack.”

  “We met before he became President.”

  “Yes, I believe he mentioned it to me. Last year, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “At about the time the photo was taken, in fact.”

  “I guess.”

  “Your likeness wouldn’t be on that roll of film, would it, Mr. Gianelli?”

  “It’s possible,” I said, “but I don’t think I was doing anything … objectionable.”

  “How fortunate for you,” he said. “My son was not as lucky.”

  It was the first time I heard some hint of emotion in his voice—disapproval. Was that an emotion?

  “I have a proposal for you, sir,” he said.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “I’ll pay you, employ you, to continue your negotiations for that roll of film.”

  “But the people I’m negotiating with are not the same—I mean, they’re only looking for fifty thousand—”