***
I staked out an empty desk in the office next to Jack’s and used the phone to dial Jerry’s number. This time he answered on the third ring.
“Hey, Mr. G.,” he said when I identified myself. “How’s it goin’?”
“Not so good, Jerry,” I said. “I think I may need you. The problem is—“
“I know all I need to know, Mr. G.,” he said, cutting me off. “You need me, I’m on my way.”
“Mr. Sinatra is sending his plane for you, Jerry. It’ll pick you up at LaGuardia.”
“Wow,” the big guy said, “this is serious. I guess I’ll see you soon.”
“Yeah, and try to bring your cannon with you.”
***
I decided to meet Jerry at McCarron Airport later that night. Usually, you had to declare a weapon and show a license. Since he didn’t have to fly commercial I figured he’d have a way to get the gun on and off Frank’s plane with no trouble.
I don’t know how Frank did it, but we didn’t have to stand in any lines when we were in the Miami Airport, and now Jerry came out a separate door from the rest of the passengers, carrying a single bag.
“Hey, Mr. G.,” he said, as we shook hands.
“What gives, big guy?” I asked. “You lose some weight?”
“Yeah,” he said, glumly, “I’m on a diet. Dropped nearly twelve pounds, so far.”
“Why?”
“Doc’s orders,” he said. “Somethin’ about bein’ borderline diabetic?”
“Jesus,” I said, as we walked through the concourse to get to the parking lot, “I don’t know much about diabetes.”
“Me, neither,” he admitted, “but the doc told me if I lose some weight I might be able to head it off.”
I shook my head. “I can’t imagine you on a diet.”
“You can’t imagine it,” he said. “Oh, sorry I snapped at you. This diet’s got me on edge.”
It didn’t seem like he’d snapped at me, but I let it go. He did seem tense, though maybe because of the weight loss, he was sounding different.
When we got to my Caddy he tossed his bag into the back seat and assumed the driver’s position, as he usually did. Just sitting behind the wheel it seemed to me that he’d relaxed a bit. His houndstooth jacket wasn’t straining at the seams, as it usually did.
As we pulled out onto the street Jerry said, “Okay, that’s enough about my weight. Why don’t you tell me what’s goin’ on?”
The drive to the Sands from the airport wasn’t long, but there was enough time for me to lay it all out for him.
“So you think this guy’s gonna come for you?” he asked, as we pulled into the Sands parking lot.
“He’ll either come if he has second thoughts about letting me go,” I said, “or because he knows I went to the cops before I left. Either way, he’ll kill—“
“Not while I’m around,” he said, pulling into a parking spot.
We got out of the Caddy, but before we went inside he opened his suitcase, took out his .45 and stuck it in his belt.
“Okay,” he said, grabbing the suitcase, “let’s go.”
TWENTY ONE
I got Jerry into a room where he could clean up and stow his gear, and then we went to get something to eat. Down in the Garden Room, where Jerry and I had shared many meals over the past 5 years or so, he agonized over the menu.
“No French fries, no French fries...” he kept chanting like it was a new mantra for him.
I realized I was starving. A burger and fries sounded great, but I didn’t want to order it in front of him.
“You order whatever you want,” he said, without looking up from the menu, as if reading my mind. “I’ll find somethin’.”
When the waitress came over it was a girl I knew slightly, but who had never seen Jerry before.
“Lisa, this is my friend, Jerry.”
“Hi, Jerry. You’re a big one.”
He looked up at her. “Not as big as I used to be.” He seemed sad when he said it.
“Lisa, I’ll have a burger and fries,” I said. “Oh, and a Coke.”
“And you, big fella?”
Jerry closed the menu and put it down with finality. “Pancakes!”
“A big stack?”
He winced and said, “A small stack.”
“Okay,” she said. “I hope that does it for you.”
“So do I.”
As she walked away I said to him, “Pancakes?”
“Smaller portions,” he said. “That’s not somethin’ I ever thought I’d be worried about.”
“What about the syrup?” I asked. “I mean, diabetes, that’s about sweets, right?”
“I’ll just have a little dab,” he said. “What are we gonna do after we eat?”
“Get a drink. Tomorrow, I’ll start workin’ like normal, and you’ll have to shadow me.”
“What about the dick, Bardini?”
“What about him?”
“Ain’t he gonna help?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t talked to him since I got back.”
“Well, maybe you better,” he said. “He’s gonna be pissed if ya don’t.”
“You’re probably right,” I said. “Okay, I’ll go and see him tomorrow before I start my shift. If he’s in town.”
“You goin’ home tonight?” Jerry asked.
“I was gonna, yeah.”
“I’ll have to go with ya, sleep on your sofa.”
“No,” I said, “we’ll go to my house and I’ll pack a bag. Until we know I’m in the clear, I’ll stay here.”
“In my room? Gonna be crowded.”
“We’ll get a suite,” I said. “With two bedrooms.”
“So we’ll be roomies.”
“If you want to look at it that way.”
“I dunno how to look at it,” he said. “I ain’t never had a roommate before. But you and me, we split hotel rooms before.”
”Yes, we have.” For short periods of time. Who knew how long this would take, though.
Lisa came with the plates and put them down. I watched Jerry spread butter on his pancakes, and then pour a dollop of syrup about the size of a half dollar on top. After that, he used a knife to spread and spread and spread it until it disappeared. Then he cut into them and started eating. I picked up my burger and took a big, not-so-guilt-free bite.
“You know,” he said, while chewing, “I do got some connections. Maybe I can make some calls and find out who this hitter is.”
“That would be helpful,” I said.
“Hopefully, he ain’t freelance or too much of a loner,” he went on. “If he was sent to Miami to do a job, maybe we can find out who sent him. How did he do it?”
“A knife.”
“That’s a specialist. You got the name of the guy he stabbed?”
“I do. But it was just some man who was stalking Marilyn Taylor.”
“Maybe,” Jerry said, “that’s just what he happened to be doin’ when the button man found him.”
“That’s pretty smart, Jerry.”
“Yeah?” he asked. “I don’t feel so smart since I been eatin’ less.”
“I don’t think there’s a connection, there.”
“I hope not,” he said. “I’ve always been kind of a dope. I don’t wanna turn into a damn idiot! Sorry.”
I guess he thought he had snapped, again.
“You don’t have to keep doin’ that.”
“What?”
“Apologizing.”
“Oh,” he said, “sorr—uh, okay.”
We both went back to our meals. When he was done he used the last forkful to soak up whatever syrup and/or butter was left on his plate, which wasn’t much.
“You gonna finish that?” he asked.
“What?”
“That.” He pointed with his index finger, which was still as big as a sausage.
I looked down. I hadn’t even realized I’d left some fries on my plate, and a pickle.
> “No,” I said, “go ahead.”
He switched plates with me, put another half dollar sized dollop—this time of ketchup—on the plate, then finished the few potatoes I’d left there, dipping each one. The last thing he ate was that pickle, which he held in his hand like he wanted it to last forever.
“I’ll start makin’ calls tomorrow,” he said, gesturing with the pickle. “I’ll start with the victim, find out who or what he was. Maybe that’ll tell us who wanted him dead, and we can find out who hired the hitter.”
“You’re talkin’ like a real detective, big guy,” I said.
He laughed. “That comes from hangin’ out too much with you and the dick.”
“Well,” I said, “as far as I can see, losing weight hasn’t killed any of your brain cells.”
He bit into the pickle and said, “Yeah... not yet.”
TWENTY TWO
We drove to my house. Jerry watched and waited while I packed a bag. We were in and out in fifteen minutes, and on our way back to the Sands.
“If this guy’s specialty is a knife,” Jerry said, on the way, “then he’s gonna have to get close to do the deed.” He looked at me, then back at the road. “I ain’t gonna let him get that close.”
“Glad to hear it.”
He kept one eye on the road and one on the rearview mirror, just in case.
“I don’t think he’d be here now,” I said. “After all, I just got back. He’ll need time to decide whether or not he made a mistake. Or to find out I talked with the detective in charge.”
“Hopefully,” Jerry said, “nobody’ll tell him that part.”
“Yeah.”
When we got to the Sands I arranged with one of the clerks to get a two-room suite for us and we dropped off our bags.
Since Jack Entratter had taken me out of the pits my job was basically to be on the casino floor, available to anyone who had a problem, or a special request. That meant Jerry was going to have to be on the floor with me.
“How about you sit at the bar and watch?” I suggested.
“No can do, Mr. G.,” he said. “If this jerk is a knife guy, he’s gonna wanna get up close. That means I gotta be close enough to stop him.”
The year before there had actually been a hit out on me and Jerry stayed right by my side the whole time. I knew how committed he was to keeping me safe. And, truth be told, I would have put my own life at risk to save his, so I knew how he felt. This wasn’t just a job.
“Okay,” I said, “but let’s start out sittin’ at the bar, anyway.”
We went into the Silver Queen Lounge, grabbed two stools and ordered beers. Jerry frowned and digested while we waited.
“What’s the matter?”
“The stools feel different from the last time I was here,” he complained.
“It ain’t the stools, you mook, it’s your butt that’s different. That weight you lost must’ve been from your keester.”
“Oh yeah!” He looked pleased as the bartender set down two beers.
“Are you supposed to drink that?” I asked as he picked it up the bottle.
“I’ll just drink half,” he promised.
As I picked mine up and turned to look at the room, one of the cashiers from the cage came in, looked around, spotted me and came running over with a nervous look on his face. I had a feeling I knew what he wanted.
“Eddie, it’s Mr. Skelton,” he said. “He wants to raise his limit, but Mr. Entratter said—“
“It’s okay, Louie.” I took the slip he was holding, checked the amount, and signed it. “let him have it.”
“Sure thing, Eddie.”
“Red Skelton still gamblin’ here?” Jerry asked. “Seems like every time I’m here he’s askin’ for his limit to be raised.”
“He’s a good customer and a good friend,” I said. “He promotes us whenever he can.”
Jerry turned around on his stool as well, and leaned back against the bar.
“I love this place,” he said.
“The Silver Queen?”
“The whole package,” he said. “Vegas.”
“What about Brooklyn?”
“Ah,” he said, “it ain’t what it used to be, what it was when we were kids.”
“You know, I met Jackie Gleason in Miami,” I said. “He talked a lot about Brooklyn.”
“Hey, that’s right,” Jerry said, “he’s from there. You know, he actually lived in that building where the Honeymooners lived.”
I was always surprised at the scope of Jerry’s knowledge when it came to t.v. shows, but I had always thought it was limited to shows like 77 Sunset Strip and Maverick, not comedies.
“Three twenty-eight Chauncey Street, in Bed-Stuy,” he said.
“Have you ever been by there?” I asked.
He had once made me take him to the location of 77 Sunset Strip when we were in L.A., even though the address was actually 8524 Sunset Boulevard, as there are no two-digit addresses on that strip.
“Naw, never,” he said, “but I ain’t never been to the Statue of Liberty, either.”
I didn’t know what the Kramden’s apartment and Miss Liberty had in common, but I didn’t ask. Sometimes Jerry’s logic boggled my mind. So far, though, he’d been having good ideas since he got off the plane.
“Hey, Mr. G., I gotta make some calls. Can I do it from here?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. I signaled the bartender that I needed a phone. He nodded and brought one over. “There you go.”
“Thanks,” Jerry said. “Okay if I call Chicago?”
“Be my guest.”
He turned around and started dialing furiously, apparently from memory.
TWENTY THREE
Jerry made several calls, speaking in low tones so no one else in the lounge could hear him—except once or twice when he got excited, or agitated and decided to threaten somebody. Several times I tried to get off my stool and walk away, but he reached over, grabbed my arm in a vice-like grip and pulled me back onto my seat. He was serious about sticking to me.
He finally put the receiver down for the last time and shoved the phone away.
“No luck?”
“Nobody knows nothin’ about a blade man bein’ in Miami Beach,” he said, mournfully.
“Did you ask firm enough?”
“I threatened to break a few heads if they didn’t talk, but it didn’t help. I got squat.”
“Well, it wasn’t because you didn’t try.”
“I’m still waitin’ for a couple of calls back,” he said. “Maybe somethin'll turn up.”
“Jerry,” I said, “my butt’s numb. I’ve gotta get off this stool and walk.”
“Sure thing, Mr. G.,” he said. “Let’s go.”
We both eased off our stools and walked out onto the casino floor. It was February, but this was Vegas. Miami Beach had been full of bikinis, but here it was high heels and mini-skirts. The men were in sports jackets, with loud shirts underneath.
“This place looks like it’s full of tourists,” Jerry commented.
“It’s winter,” I said. “Lots of folks come lookin’ for the heat, as well as the gambling.”
“Is that Julius LaRosa at the craps table?” he asked.
I had been spoiled by singers like Frank, Dean and Tony Bennett, so others like Al Martino, Julius LaRosa and Buddy Greco tended to blend together for me. But since I knew LaRosa had been performing at the Desert Inn, I nodded.
“Yep, that’s him. Singin’ at the D.I., but gamblin’ here.”
“Whatayou think of him?”
“Well,” I said, “he’s no Jack Jones.”
“Who?”
“You know, ‘Wives and Lovers?’” I said.
He shook his head.
“He’s a friend of Nancy Sinatra’s, had a big hit earlier this year with a song called ‘The Race is On’.”
“Oh, that guy,” Jerry said “Yeah, he’s okay. He’s pretty young, ain’t he?”
“I guess, still under thirty
.”
“Well, he ain’t as good as that Donkey-Shane kid, Wayne Newton.”
I was digesting that when a bellboy from the hotel came running over.
“Mr. G., Mr. Entatter’s lookin’ for you. Says it’s important.”
“Yeah, okay, thanks, Willy.” I gave him a buck. “I gotta go to Jack’s office. You comin’?”
“I guess,” Jerry said. “I can’t read that guy. I don’t think he likes me.”
“I’m not even sure he likes me,” I assured him.
***
In a week I’ll get called up to Jack’s office at least once a day. It usually has something to do with a high roller who’s coming to town and wants a certain kind of entertainment or a celebrity who needs special treatment.
This time it was the high roller.
As I entered his office with Jerry behind me Jack looked at us and scowled. That wasn’t going to help Jerry’s feeling that Entratter didn’t like him.
“Lew Ordway’s comin’ to town,” he barked at me, which explained his scowl.
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll call Lily and warn her.”
Lily Grant ran a high-priced call girl operation in Vegas that we used a lot for high rollers.
“She’s gotta have at least one girl left who hasn’t been beaten up by him,” Entratter said.
“I’ll check.”
“Yeah, lemme know,” he said. “How ya doin’, there, Jerry?”
“Good, Mr. E.,” Jerry said. “Thanks for askin’.”
“Thanks for comin’ out on such short notice.”
“Sure thing,” Jerry said. “Anything for the Sands, you know that.”
“And we appreciate it,” Jack said. “You got a good room?”
“We got a suite, Mr. E.”
Jack looked at me.
“I thought I ought to stay around here for a while, so we got one of the two bedroom suites.”
“Yeah, okay,” Jack said, “probably a good idea. Any word on who the mechanic was in Miami?”
“I can’t get a peep outta nobody, Mr. E.,” Jerry admitted. “And I called Chicago.”
“I can make some calls,” Jack said. “What do we know?”
[Rat Pack 11] - I Only Have Lies for You Page 7
