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

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Wait here,” I told him. “We just have to get our things and check out.”

  “Right.”

  As we started for our room we saw a girl walking ahead of us, with her arm through a man’s arm. He was a portly man who couldn’t have scored a girl like that unless she was a pro.

  After we grabbed our luggage, we went to the lobby to check out. As we did, another girl came in with a thin, homely man, got a key from the clerk, and then took the man out. The two girls I’d seen would never make it in Vegas. They were too cheap.

  “Checkin’ out?” the clerk asked. “Already.”

  “Who you kiddin’?” Jerry said. “You were shocked when we checked in. You shoulda told us what kind of place this was.”

  The clerk, a middle-aged, grey-haired man, said, “No skin off my nose where ya wanna stay.”

  “I can make it skin off your nose,” Jerry offered.

  The clerk drew back.

  “Forget it, Jerry,” I said. “What do we owe you?”

  “You didn’t even stay a night,” the man said, eyeing Jerry. “Forget it.”

  “Yeah,” Jerry said, “let’s forget it.”

  “Suits me,” I said.

  We carried our bags out to the car, where Esteban put them in the trunk.

  “Where to, Mr. G.?” he asked.

  “Back to the theater,” I said. “We’re picking up a lady.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As we drove Jerry said, “I feel like a dope.”

  “Why?”

  “Shoulda known what kinda place that was.”

  “We didn’t see any girls when we checked in,” I said. “We knew it was cheap, though.”

  “And dirty.”

  “In more ways than one.”

  Jerry laughed.

  “I can take you someplace better,” Esteban said. “Not the Fountainbleau, but cleaner rooms and a nicer beach.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “We already got a better offer.”

  “The Lady?”

  “Yes,” I said, “and she is a lady, so don’t get the wrong idea.”

  “Sorry, sir. I wasn’t thinking anything.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” I said. “We’re just feeling a little frustrated, lately.”

  When we pulled up in front of the theater doors June was waiting outside, alone. Jerry opened the window and waved, and she came down the stairs, He got out to hold the door for her and let her get in the back with me, and then he got in front with Esteban. She looked beautiful and smelled great.

  “Just give Esteban your address, and we’ll be on our way,” I said.

  She smiled, gave him the address, and then sat back and sighed.

  “Tough day?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, “Long, but I always enjoy working with my girls. It’s just... having this other stuff on my mind that’s draining.”

  “Well,” I said, “maybe we can solve this thing and give your mind a rest.”

  “I know you can, Eddie,” she said. “It’s like Frank and Jackie keep saying. You’re ‘the guy.’”

  That, again!

  FIFTY THREE

  Esteban drove us to June’s North Beach house. He popped out of the driver’s seat and got our bags from the trunk.

  “Thank you for the ride, Esteban,” June said.

  “You’re very welcome, Ma’am.”

  “Esteban,” I said, “tomorrow we want to drive to Orlando. Any idea how long that will take?”

  “For most people, three-and-a-half to four hours, Mr. G.. It’ll take me three.”

  “Okay,” I said, “and then we’re gonna want to drive to a town called Cassadaga. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “Between Orlando and Daytona Beach. In fact, it’s closer to Sanford than Orlando. It’ll probably take half an hour.”

  “Can we do all that and drive back in one day?” I asked.

  “It depends on what you’ll be doing in both places,” he said. “You’ll probably have to stay over somewhere between here and there.”

  “Can you okay that with your boss?”

  “Tomorrow I start two days off, Mr. G.,” he said, “but I can still be here.”

  “So we can make our own deal for the two days?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Okay, then. Pick us up in the morning around... nine?” I said.

  “I’ll be here at nine on the dot, Mr. G..”

  “See you then, Esteban. And thanks.”

  “My pleasure, si—Mr. G.”

  He got back in the car and drove away.

  “Let’s go inside,” June said. “I’ll show you to your rooms and then we can have dinner.”

  “Dinner, too?” I asked.

  She smiled. “June’s B&B. Come on.”

  We grabbed our bags and followed her up the walk to the front door.

  Her home was a beautiful one-story glass-and-stucco beach house. As soon as we entered we could see through to the glass French doors that led out to a patio, and the beach beyond it.

  The furniture was both expensive and comfortable looking.

  “Wow,” Jerry said, looking at the sectional sofa set, “I could sleep on that.”

  “You won’t have to,” June said. “I have four bedrooms, so you can each have your own. Just go on and pick one out. I’m going to my room, get changed, and start dinner. Is lamb okay?”

  “Lamb sounds great,” I said.

  Jerry and I walked down a hall and each picked out a room that looked identical to each other; king-sized bed, large dresser and a chest of drawers, sliding doors out to the patio, and each room had its own bathroom. The floors had deep-piled carpet, except in front of the sliding doors, where there were tiles for you to walk on when you were wet.

  “I can’t believe she’s gonna cook for us,” Jerry said, coming into my room. “I mean, that’s a T.V. star, right?”

  “She sure is,” I said. “She’s won awards.”

  “Emmy awards,” he said.

  “I’m gonna wash up,” I said. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I will, too.”

  He went to his room, and I went into the bathroom, scrubbed my face and hands, mostly to get the Pink Grotto dirt off. This place was so pretty I just had to be clean.

  When I came out into the living room Jerry was there, looking around him.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked him.

  “Someplace to sit,” he said. “This is all so... nice.”

  “Sit anywhere, Jerry,” June said, coming back to join us. She had changed into slacks and a short sleeved-blouse and was barefoot. “You’re my guests.”

  Jerry looked at me, then turned and sat down gently on the sofa. There was a matching chair, which I took. That was when I saw a man’s pipe on the table next to it.

  “Do you live here alone?” I asked.

  “No,” she answered, “I live here with my husband, Sol. He’s a lawyer.”

  “Is he home? Or coming home?”

  “He’s away on business,” she said. “He’s often away. I spend a lot of time here alone, but I like it.” She pointed to the open kitchen. “I’m going to make dinner.”

  “Won’t that take a lot of work?” I asked.

  “I prepared the lamb last night,” she said. “All I have to do is cook it.”

  “You were gonna cook it for yourself?”

  “I like cooking,” she said, with a shrug. “And leftovers. But I’ll happily share it with the two of you. Would you both like a beer while you wait?”

  “Yes,” I said, “we would.”

  She went to the kitchen, came back with two cans of Piels.

  “Why don’t you enjoy them out on the patio, or down by the beach,” she suggested. “I’ll come out and join you when the lamb’s in the oven.”

  Jerry and I went outside, decided to stay on the patio. There were chaise lounges there, and we each took one. A cool breeze wafted in from over the wat
er. For that moment, maybe even for the evening, we could relax.

  About ten minutes later June came out, carrying a glass of red wine. Now that she didn’t have all the showbiz make-up on I could see she was a very lovely 45 or so.

  “The lamb‘s in the oven,” she said. “It won’t be long.” She also sat on a chaise lounge. “I love sitting out here.”

  “I can see why,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Especially at this time of the winter,” she said, “when there’s a cool breeze.”

  “Why does Marilyn live in that apartment building?” I asked.

  “Jackie wanted to buy her a house, but she wouldn’t let him,” June said. “There are certain aspects of her relationship with him that she’s still not comfortable with.”

  “Because he’s married?” I asked.

  She nodded. “He’s been separated from Genevieve for over ten years, but she’s a devout Catholic and won’t give him a divorce.”

  “That’s crazy,” Jerry said. June looked at him. “I mean, for somebody to hang on that long to somebody they don’t wanna be with.”

  “Jackie’s asked over the years. He says if he keeps asking that, eventually, she’ll cave in and give him the divorce.”

  “Can Marilyn wait that long?” I asked.

  June bit her lip. “It’s something she’s having doubts about, lately. She’s starting to feel foolish for waiting around.”

  “But she’s on the show,” I said. “And she’s one of your dancers.”

  “Which is part of the problem.”

  “So if the show went off the air, would she leave, then?” I asked.

  “Maybe. But every time the ratings start to lag, Jackie reinvents the format. Right now he’s really playing up the whole Honeymooners revival.”

  I hadn’t seen the new Honeymooners stuff. I never told anybody that I wasn’t a real Gleason fan. I liked the old Honeymooners, but his Life of Riley had left me cold, and I hadn’t watched any of his variety shows. I didn’t even watch the episode Dino had done when I was down there with Frank.

  “The lamb should be ready,” she said, getting to her feet. “Come inside in five minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  She walked into the house.

  “She’s real classy,” Jerry said.

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Her husband shouldn’t leave her alone so much. She might meet somebody better.”

  We finished our Piels and carried the empty can back into the house with us when we went in for dinner.

  FIFTY FOUR

  June Taylor was almost as good a cook as she was a choreographer. The lamb was cooked perfectly, covered with bread crumbs, accompanied by carrots and potatoes.

  “This is great!” Jerry said, working his way through everything she had put on his plate. He felt he had to eat everything, so as not to insult her.

  “He’s right,” I said. “It’s delicious.”

  “I’m sure you’ve eaten in a lot of fine restaurants, especially in Vegas,” June said.

  “I’m not kidding,” I said. “This is better than what I’ve had in those restaurants.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that,” she said. “Thank you. More?”

  “Hell, yeah!” Jerry said, holding out his plate. “Jeez, I’m sorry, Miss—“

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Don’t apologize for being anxious for more of my food.”

  She loaded his plate down and he started working his way through his second helping.

  “Eddie?”

  “Not a full helping,” I said, wanting her to feel good, but getting pretty full from my first plate.

  She gave me a lot less than she had given Jerry, then took even less for her own plate.

  “More wine?” she asked.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She poured some in my glass, then looked at Jerry’s empty glass.

  “I’ll stay with beer,” Jerry said.

  She nodded and set the wine bottle down.

  “Have you cooked for Jackie?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” she said, “I work for him. We don’t eat together.”

  “Aren’t you friends?”

  “I’ve been working for him since Cavalcade of Stars,” she said. “That’s nineteen-fifty. We’re close, mind you, but no, we don’t eat together.”

  “Is that when you met him?” Jerry asked. “Nineteen-fifty?”

  “I met him in forty-six,” she said. “We were both in a Baltimore nightclub and had a terrible case of stage fright. I helped him overcome it, and the rest — as they say — is history.”

  “Well,” I said, “he’s missing out on a helluva cook.”

  “Marilyn comes here once in a while,” June went on, “but without Jackie. He’s not a beach person. He likes to be near it, likes looking at the girls, but he doesn’t go on the beach, himself. He only ever wears a bathing suit on stage.”

  “I never wear a bathing suit,” Jerry said.

  June and I looked at him.

  “I’m too big,” he said. “It ain’t a pretty sight.”

  “But... you’ve got muscles,” June said.

  “Nah,” he said, “I’m just big. Oh, I’m strong, but I ain’t got none of them weightlifter muscles.”

  It occurred to me, then, that even though we’d roomed together in the past, I couldn’t remember ever seeing Jerry without a shirt—or, for that matter, a jacket.

  “Huh,” I muttered.

  “What?” Jerry asked.

  “Nothin’,” I said. “Just thinking.”

  When dinner was over June once again shooed us out onto the patio with beers, while she got dessert ready. It was getting dark, the breeze was mild, and we could see some lights out in the water.

  “Ships,” Jerry said. “I wonder where they’re goin’?”

  “Or coming back from,” I said.

  “Ever been on a ship, Mr. G..?”

  “You know, Jerry,” I said, “I have never been. But then, I’ve never wanted to be.”

  “Me, neither,” he said. “Some fishin’ boats in Sheepshead Bay, but not on a big ship.”

  “Never had the urge to take a cruise?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me, neither.”

  June came out with three cups of coffee and some pastries on a tray.

  “Sfogliatelle!” Jerry said, in surprise. “Here?”

  “There’s a wonderful Italian bakery here,” June said.

  “I haven’t seen those since I left Brooklyn,” I said, as she set them down on a table that matched the chaise lounges. When I was a kid they were a staple in my house on Sunday mornings, along with eclairs, creme puffs, and Napoleons.

  Sfogliatelle were shell shaped pastries filled with different things, but the most traditional were...

  “What are they filled with?” Jerry asked, taking one.

  “What else?” June asked. “Ricotta.”

  We enjoyed our coffee and Italian pastries, and then Jerry excused himself and went to bed.

  “I’m gettin’ old,” he complained, as he went off.

  That left me alone with June.

  “What do you think you’ll be able to do, Eddie?” she asked.

  “Well, we’ll check out where Rossi lived in Orlando, then go and look for this psychic in Cassadaga, see what she has to say for herself.”

  “We heard she left there,” June said.

  “Did anyone go and check?’

  “Well, I don’t know. Maybe those two detectives.”

  “Is that who told you she was gone?”

  “Yes,” June said, “I think they told Jackie that.”

  “And,” I said, “that’s probably not even her real name. Jerry and I‘ll look around and see what we can find out.”

  “But... you’ll be careful, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  We both stood up. With June’s beauty, the moon on the water, and the breeze, it was a very romantic moment. We stood close
to each other and looked into one another’s eyes.

  And then it passed.

  “I have a husband,” she said, taking my hand. “Or it might be different.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Good-night.”

  “Good-night.”

  She went inside. I turned and looked out at the water. If I had gone with her to her room, it would only have been for the one time. I didn’t love her, and she didn’t love me. She had a man she loved.

  And someday, I’d have a woman I loved... maybe... but not that night.

  FIFTY FIVE

  Esteban picked us up the next morning, and we headed north to Orlando.

  Esteban took us on the Tamiami Trail to Tampa, and then U.S. 41 to Orlando. As promised, he made the drive in just over three hours.

  Past Tampa and closer to Orlando, he pointed out the exit to Disneyland.

  “If you want,” he said, “we can stop there on the way back.”

  “We won’t have time for that,” I said.

  “Besides,” Jerry said, “it’s for kids.”

  When we got to Orlando we found that Rossi didn’t live in the city. He lived a few exits after it. When we got off, the exit sign said we were in Altamonte Springs, Florida.

  June had given us Rossi’s address. She said Jackie had gotten it from the police. I wondered how and why, but assumed that Jackie Gleason had some connections in Miami Beach.

  We found our way to a neighborhood of old, adobe homes that looked as if they had been there for a long time.

  “This is the address,” Esteban said, stopping.

  There was a fence around a bare front yard, with the gate hanging from one hinge. The adobe walls of the house had cracks in there. I had no way of knowing if they were surface, or if they went all the way through.

  “Why would Rossi be living here?” I said, aloud.

  “We don’t know what he really did, do we?” Jerry asked.

  “No,” I said. “Just that he worked for a... a psychic.”

  “Maybe he was her muscle,” Jerry said. “Was he a big guy?”

  “The only time I ever saw him, he was dead on the floor of an elevator,” I said. “He looked kind of... shrunken.”

  “We might as well take a look.”

  “You can wait in the car, Esteban.”

  “Sure, Mr. G..”