[Rat Pack 11] - I Only Have Lies for You

by Robert J. Randisi

  “He didn’t have to get back?”

  “Apparently,” I said, “he took some vacation days to come here.”

  “So he wasn’t official.”

  “I guess not.”

  “I’ll have to call Miami P.D.,” Hargrove said. He pushed his chair back and stood up.

  “Hey,” I said, “what about me?”

  “Sit tight,” he said. “I’ll be back after I’ve talked to Miami. Depending on what they say, I’ll let you leave.”

  “Hargrove—“ I snapped, but he went out and locked the door behind him.

  ***

  Another hour with no coffee or water. I knew Hargrove was being a dick — a real dick — on purpose.

  I felt sorry for Eisman. He came all this way to work his case on his own time, only to die, probably at the hands of the very killer he was pursuing. I wondered if he saw it coming?

  When the door opened again it wasn’t Hargrove, but Everett, the new partner.

  “You find out what a shitheel your partner is, yet?”

  “I went into this already knowin’ that,” he told me. “But they don’t let us pick our partners.” He stood aside and left the door open. “You can go.”

  “What’d Miami say?”

  “They’re sendin’ somebody, probably to talk with Hargrove, and to take Eisman home.”

  “Maybe his partner, a guy named Winter.”

  “That’s him,” Everett said. “I talked to him a bit on the phone. He was shocked, didn’t even know Eisman had left Miami Beach.”

  I stood up.

  “Any problem with me talking to him when he gets here?”

  “He said he wanted to,” Everett said, “and I don’t see why not. You can go.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  As I passed him he said, “Sorry for the shitty treatment. I wanted to bring you some water, but Hargrove wouldn’t let me.”

  “That’s no surprise,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Your friend’s waitin’ out front.”

  “My friend?”

  “Big guy,” he said, “in a Caddy.”

  “Ah, Jerry,” I said. “Good to know I’ve got a ride. I’ll be seein’ you, detective.”

  I made my way to the front of the building without running into Hargrove, which suited me fine. Took the elevator down and found Jerry waiting out front like Everett said. I’d been inside for hours, but it still wasn’t completely dark.

  “Hey, Mr. G.” he called.

  I waved, went down the stairs and got into the passenger seat of my car.

  “Everythin’ okay?” he asked.

  “Oh, Hargrove was a shit, as usual, but yeah, everything’s fine. He called Miami, and they must’ve given him the word that I’m not a suspect.”

  “So where to?” Jerry asked.

  “We’ve got to find Danny,” I said. “He’s probably wondering where we are. And then I’ve got to talk with Jackie.”

  “So, back to the Sands?”

  I nodded. “Back to the Sands.”

  THIRTY FIVE

  We didn’t have to look for Danny. He was waiting for us in the lounge, at the bar. It was dark when we pulled into the parking lot, and I could hear Jerry’s stomach making hunger noises.

  “I got the word that you got pinched,” Danny said, as we approached. “But nobody knew why.”

  “Not pinched,” I said, “just taken in for questioning.” I waved to the bartender for two beers. I was dry as the desert around Las Vegas. “The Miami Beach detective who showed up here, Eisman, was found dead in his hotel.”

  “Jesus!” he said.

  Jerry and I took stools on either side of Danny, who was working on bourbon.

  “But they let you go,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said, after a healthy swig of my beer, “they talked to Eisman’s partner in Miami. I guess he gave me the all clear, but he’s on his way here.”

  “He’s gonna want to talk to you,” Danny said.

  “That’s not a problem,” I said. “What did you find out?”

  “Not a thing,” he said. “Came up dry. But what did you expect? Nobody was gonna tell me they spotted a guy getting off a plane who looked like a hitman.”

  “I guess not.”

  He smiled. “Although one guy did tell me about Jerry.”

  “What?” Jerry said.

  “Yup,” Danny said. “A ticket taker said the only guy he saw who looked like a gangster was this big guy who was wearing a houndstooth jacket.”

  “I don’t look like no gangster!” Jerry snapped. “Do I?”

  “Maybe,” Danny said, “it’s just the jacket.”

  Jerry looked down and touched his lapel.

  “Never mind,” I said. “The airport was a longshot.”

  “What’s next on your agenda?” Danny asked.

  “Me and Jerry are gonna eat here. You’re welcome to join us,” I said. “After that, I’ll wanna talk to Jackie, again.”

  “Thanks for the invite, but Penny’s waitin’ for me to take her to dinner, and I’m already late.” He got off his stool. “Just so you know, I’m gonna blame you.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Your girl will know better, anyway.”

  “Tell ‘er I said hello,” Jerry said, although his attention was still on his lapel.

  “Will do, big guy.” Danny looked at me. “I’ll be around tomorrow.”

  “See you then.”

  As Danny left Jerry moved over one stool and we finished our beers before going into the Garden Room for dinner.

  “What makes this a gangster jacket?” he asked.

  ***

  Jerry had some chicken and a salad and picked on some fries from my plate, where they surrounded my steak.

  “Well, your killer’s definitely in town,” he said. “It’s too much of a coincidence that somebody else killed that Miami cop.”

  “I agree,” I said. “He’s either here for Marilyn, or for me.”

  “You don’t believe that guff about him bein’ sweet on the broad, do ya?” Jerry asked.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then you definitely think he’s here for you.”

  “It makes the most sense,” I said. “Why kill the investigating detective, and not the only witness?” Then something occurred to me. “Oh, shit!”

  “What?”

  “I wasn’t the only witness.”

  Jerry got it. “The driver!”

  “Right.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Just his first name,” I said. “Paul.”

  “Well, who would know his full name?”

  I made a face. “Maybe Frank, since he hired him.”

  “And you don’t wanna talk to Mr. S.,” Jerry said.

  “Not really.”

  “What about the cops?”

  “Eisman’s partner is on his way here.”

  “Well, I can call Mr. S.,” he offered.

  “No, no,” I said, “it’s my responsibility. I’ll call him.” I signaled the bartender to bring me a phone, dialed the Cal-Neva number in Tahoe from a small book I kept in my pocket since I started working as a host.

  “Frank Sinatra, please,” I said when the phone was answered.

  “He don’t talk to just anybody,” a wise guy on the other end said. “Who’s callin’?”

  “This is Eddie G. from the Sands? You wanna keep your job, bub? Put me through!”

  “Uh... oh...yeah, sure, right away. Sorry.”

  Other people referred to me as Eddie G., but I never did. I felt bad for using my name to make the guy into a stammering, apologizing fool. Kinda.

  “Jesus, Eddie,” Frank said, coming on the phone, “what’d you do to that guy? He’s afraid he’s gettin’ fired.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that, Frank. He rubbed me the wrong way.”

  “Seems like that’s happenin’ a lot, lately.”

  I ignored the comment.

  “Look, that detective who was inves
tigating the murder in Miami came here to see me, and he ended up dead in his hotel.”

  “Crap, the hitman?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “So he’s in town. Lookin’ for you?”

  “That’s what I was thinkin’,” I said, “but then I remembered I wasn’t the only witness.”

  “You weren’t — oh, wait, Paul.”

  “That’s right. I don’t know his last name. Do you?”

  “Jeez, no, I never did, I just... wait, I got a card in my wallet. Here’s the number I call to get him.” He read me a phone number.

  “Okay, Frank,” I said, “I’ll see if I can get ahold of him. If he’s okay, I’ll warn him.”

  “But you guys didn’t see nothin’, right? Just the dead body in the elevator?”

  “Right,” I said, “but the hitman might have his own ideas about what we saw.”

  “Hey,” Frank said, “let me know what happens, huh? And Eddie... I’m real sorry I got you into this. If you want, just tell Jackie you’re out. I’ll make him understand.”

  Somewhat mollified by the apology I said, “Naw, naw, it’s okay, Frank. I already told him I’d help. I don’t wanna go back on my word.”

  “Okay, Eddie,” Frank said. “Keep in touch so I know you’re all right.”

  “I will.” I hung up.

  “What happened?”

  “He apologized.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s good.” I tapped the phone a few times, then dialed the phone number Frank had given me for the driver in Miami Beach.

  “Hello,” a woman’s voice said.

  “Hello,” I said, “I’m calling for Paul... DeWitt. Is he there?”

  “Oh...” she said, and it sounded as if she dropped the phone.

  “Hello? Hello?” I said.

  The phone was picked up and a man said harshly, “Who is this?” I had a bad feeling.

  “My name is Eddie Gianelli,” I said. “I’m calling from Las Vegas. Frank Sinatra and I use Paul as a driver when we’re in Miami Beach. I was wondering if I could talk to him.

  “Oh,” he said, “oh, I’m sorry Mr. Gianelli, I didn’t know... that was Paul’s wife who answered the phone. I’m her father. I have some bad news. Paul went out a few nights ago for a driving job and never came home. They... they only just found him today. He’s... he was dead in his car.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said. “Do — did the police say how he died?”

  “He was stabbed. It’s... it’s horrible. My daughter is very distraught.”

  “Understandably so,” I said. “I won’t bother your family any longer, sir. Please accept my condolences. Paul was a fine man.”

  “Yes,” he said, “thank you.”

  The line went quiet.

  “He’s dead?” Jerry asked.

  “Oh yeah,” I said, “He’s dead. Stabbed and left in his car.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Now,” I said, “we wait for Detective Eisman’s partner to get here. Meanwhile, we’ll talk to Jackie, again.”

  THIRTY SIX

  I called Jackie’s suite and told him what had happened to Eisman. He said he didn’t want to talk in his room. There was no reason to bother Marilyn with that news just yet.

  “Where can we talk?” Jackie asked.

  “Wherever you want,” I said. “The bar, the Garden Room, Jack Entratter’s office.”

  “Let’s not involve him.”

  “He won’t be there at this hour.”

  “Hell with it,” Jackie said. “I’ll meet you in the Garden Room in ten minutes.”

  “We’ll be there.”

  “We? Oh, Jerry?”

  “Yup.”

  “Good.” He hung up. So did I.

  “Garden Room?” Jerry asked.

  “Right.”

  “That means I’ll have to eat somethin’.”

  “Have to?”

  “Well, just to be nice to Jackie,” Jerry said. “We can’t let him eat alone.”

  “What makes you think he’s gonna eat?”

  “Have you met Mr. Gleason?”

  Well, I’d been in the police station for a long time. I was kind of hungry.

  ***

  We were sitting at a table when Jackie walked into the Garden Room. I thought he’d prefer it to trying to slide into a booth.

  “Hey, Jerry, ol’ pal!” Jackie exclaimed.

  “Hey, Mr. G..”

  “’Mr. G.,’” Jackie said, looking at me. “I tol’ the kid he can call me Jackie, but he calls me ‘Mr. G..’”

  “He calls me ‘Mr. G.’ and he’s known me for years.”

  “Well, whattaya know,” Jackie said. “I guess it’s a sign of respect, huh?”

  “What’s wrong with respect?” Jerry asked.

  “Nothin’, Jerry, ol’ pal,” Jackie said. “Nothin’ at all.” Jackie sat opposite me. Jerry was on my left. “You mind if I order somethin’?”

  “No,” I said, “I could use a snack. Being left hangin’ in a police department interview room tends to make me hungry.”

  “They took you in, huh?”

  “For questioning.” I waved at the waitress. This one was a cute kid named Coco.

  “Whataya have, Mr. G.?”

  “A burger, Coco. No cheese, no fries.”

  “No fries?” Jerry asked.

  “Order your own,” I said.

  “I can’t,” he said, glumly, and looked at pretty Coco. “A burger, with cheese.”

  “Comin’ up.” She looked at Jackie. “Hey, aren’t you Ralph Kramden?”

  “That’s me, doll,” Jackie said. “I’ll have a cheeseburger, and bring me the fries these guys aren’t havin’.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bring us three beers with the food, Coco.”

  “Right, Eddie.”

  “And baby,” Jackie said, “make sure that burger is medium rare or, bang, zoom, to the moon!”

  Coco hurried away, giggling.

  Jackie took a cigarette out of his right pocket and lit it.

  “Okay, Eddie,” he said, “what’s goin’ on?”

  Detective Eisman’s not the only one dead, Jackie,” I said. “Also the driver, Paul, who was with me when I found the body.”

  “Jesus,” Jackie said, “so you’re the last one left alive?”

  “Me,” I said, “and Marilyn.”

  “But she didn’t see nothin’,” he said.

  “Well, neither did I, except for a dead guy in an elevator.”

  “So then why would he be after you?” Jackie asked.

  “For the same reason he killed Paul, whatever that is,” I reasoned.

  “And he’s not following Marilyn?”

  “I don’t know, Jackie,” I said. “We can ask him that when we find him. But I doubt he’s in love with her.”

  “So now we’re actively lookin’ for a professional hitman?”

  “That seems to be a better idea than waitin’ for him to find Mr. G.,” Jerry said.

  Coco came over and set all our plates down. Jackie’s was covered with fries. He picked up his hamburger, bit into it, chewed, then looked at her and said, “Baby, you’re the greatest.”

  Again, she scurried off, giggling.

  “So if he’s here,” Jackie said, “maybe the best thing is for Marilyn and me to head back to Miami Beach.”

  “That may be,” I said. “If he stays here, he’s after me. If he goes back, then he’s after her... or you.”

  “Me?” Jackie stopped chewing. “Why would he be after me?”

  “We don’t know why he’d be after any of us, Jackie,” I said. “We don’t even know why he killed that poor bastard in the elevator.”

  “Okay,” Jackie said, “so Marilyn and me, we go home. Then we see what this hit guy does.”

  “When will you leave?” I asked.

  “Well,” Jackie said, “not ‘til I finish these fries.”

  THIRTY SEVEN


  Since Jackie and Marilyn had come in on Frank’s plane, they could leave anytime. All Jackie had to do was call Frank.

  Jackie finished eating and stood up.

  “Can I sign the check—“ he started.

  “Don’t worry, I got it,” I said, cutting him off. “Look, do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t leave town until late tomorrow. I just need some time to make sure what’s safe, and what isn’t.”

  “Sure, pal,” Jackie said, “but we do have to get back by the end of the week for the next show.”

  “Gotcha,” I said.

  “See ya later, Jerry,” Jackie said and left the Garden Room.

  Coco came over and indicated the plates on the table.

  “Okay to clear?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I answered.

  She took Jerry’s plate and mine, but as she reached for Jackie’s, Jerry said, “Take that later!”

  “Sure, big guy,” she said, with a smile. “Hey, that Mr. Gleason’s a riot, right?”

  “He sure is,” I said. “He’s a regular riot.”

  As she walked away Jerry put Jackie’s plate in front of him.

  “Jerry.”

  “There’s only a few fries left here,” Jerry reasoned. “He ate most of ‘em.”

  “You should see him chow down on Chinese food.”

  “Chinese food!” Jerry said. “Now that sounds good.”

  “You just had a burger,” I said. “Relax and eat your fries.”

  He popped one fry into his mouth and asked, “What’s on your mind?”

  “Jackie.”

  “What about him?”

  “I’m gettin’ the feelin’ he knows more than he’s tellin’,” I said.

  “And that’s why your Brooklyn is comin’ out?”

  “I don’t like thinking he’s holding out on us,” I explained.

  “You’re not mad at Mr. S. anymore, but you’re mad at Mr. Gleason?”

  “I’m not mad,” I said. “I’m... confused by the whole thing.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We wait for Eisman’s partner to get here tomorrow, and see what he has to say.”