The Rat Pack Mysteries from Robert J Randisi
EVERYBODY KILLS SOMEBODY SOMETIME
LUCK BE A LADY, DON’T DIE
HEY THERE – YOU WITH THE GUN IN YOUR HAND
YOU’RE NOBODY ’TIL SOMEBODY KILLS YOU
I’M A FOOL TO KILL YOU *
FLY ME TO THE MORGUE *
* available from Severn House
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2011
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2011 by Robert Randisi.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Randisi, Robert J.
Fly me to the morgue.
1. Rat Pack (Entertainers) – Fiction. 2. Gianelli, Eddie
(Fictitious character) – Fiction. 3. Horse owners – Crimes
against – Fiction. 4. Las Vegas (Nev.) – Fiction.
5. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title
813.5'4-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-7801-0021-0 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8015-4 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-341-0 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
To Marthayn, who
Flies Me To The Moon
every day
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
SIXTY-EIGHT
SIXTY-NINE
SEVENTY
SEVENTY-ONE
SEVENTY-TWO
Seventy-THREE
SEVENTY-FOUR
SEVENTY-FIVE
SEVENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Las Vegas, December 2004
My long-time buddy, Danny Bardini, had shown up at my door with the DVD in his hot little hand.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he said.
‘Christmas is next week.’
‘I know, but Penny has us committed to some family gathering, so this was my only chance to give this to you and have a Christmas drink with my old pal.’
‘Old’ being the operative word. We were both in our early eighties at this point in our lives. Danny hadn’t handled a case in ten years; not since his wife Penny – for many years his secretary – had forced him into retirement.
I popped the cork on some champagne and he regaled me with the problems he had being married to a younger woman. After all, Penny was only sixty-eight.
‘I swear, Eddie,’ he said, ‘she wants it twice a month. I tell ya, she’s tryin’ to kill me.’ He put his feet up on my coffee table. ‘Put the DVD in.’
‘What? Open my Christmas present now?’
‘What part of I’m not gonna be here for Christmas did you miss?’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Early Christmas present for me.’ I tore it open, and found myself holding a DVD of The Frank Sinatra Show. ‘Hey, all right. The perfect gift.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
I went to my fifty-inch flatscreen and went down to one knee to access the DVD underneath. Both had been gifts from Vegas high rollers.
‘How do you do that?’ Danny asked.
‘What?’
‘Go down on one knee like that. Can you get up again?’
With the disc in the machine I stood up easily.
‘Show off,’ he said. ‘My knees are killing me.’
‘I walk,’ I said, ‘a lot.’
‘I walk,’ he insisted.
I sat next to him and said, ‘I mean further than from the sofa to the refrigerator and back again. Oh wait, you don’t do that, either. Penny gets your beer for you.’
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘I earned that kind of service with a lot of years of hard work and devotion.’
‘What did Penny ever see in you?’ I asked.
‘I was Mike Hammer, and she was Velda,’ he said. ‘Who else would she go for? You?’
‘Not me. She was too young for me.’
‘You’re only two years younger than me.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
Danny was my older brother’s best friend when we were kids in Brooklyn. When my brother died he kind of took me under his wing. He moved to Vegas after I did, telling me I was his only friend. I was never sure, but I found out over the years he was right. He didn’t trust people easily, and when you can’t trust, you can’t befriend.
‘Hey, turn this thing on,’ he said. ‘Mitzi Gaynor’s on the show with them.’
‘Ah, Mitzi . . .’ I said.
‘You knew her?’
‘No.’
‘But she played Vegas a lot.’
‘What can I tell you? You can’t meet them all.’
‘But you met these guys,’ he said, gesturing at the TV.
Frank, Dino and Bing were sitting on something that looked like a jungle gym for adults, singing together. It was The Frank Sinatra Show, circa 1958, and they were performing Together.
At one point Bing referred to them as ‘three vagrant minstrels’. He also referred to Frank as ‘Bones’.
‘Sure, but that was easy. They were all part of the Rat Pack.’
‘Bing Cr
osby?’
‘Well, sort of,’ I said. ‘He did do Robin and The Seven Hoods with them. And before that he and Frank did High Society. And this’ – my turn to gesture – ‘came in between those two things. High Society was fifty-six, this was fifty-eight and Robin was . . . sixty-four.’
‘Jesus, even your memory is better than mine,’ he complained.
‘Yeah, but you still got your looks.’ And most of his hair, I noticed.
‘Yeah, I do, don’t I?’ He raised his chin. ‘But what about the whole JFK thing?’
‘I’ve always wondered about that, too,’ I said. ‘Frank never got mad at Bing when JFK stayed at his house, instead. Never even got mad at Kennedy. He took it all out on Peter.’
‘Sounds kinda unfair.’
‘Maybe . . .’
‘You want help turnin’ the DVD player on, old timer?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got it,’ I said, pointing the remote.
When the screen came to life so did my friends . . .
ONE
August 4, 1962, Del Mar Race Track, Del Mar, California
My invitation to Del Mar Race Track for the Bing Crosby Handicap came from Dean Martin. Del Mar was founded by Bing Crosby himself in 1937, and every summer the elite showed up there for thoroughbred horse racing by the sea.
Singers like Dino, Frank Sinatra, Perry Como and Tony Bennett had for years talked about the debt they all owed to Bing Crosby. In fact, in 1950 Dean even recorded a song called ‘If I Could Sing Like Bing.’
In point of fact Dino was the one who was most like Bing. Not only could he sing, but he also shared Bing’s flair for comedy. Frank could be funny in the movies and on stage, but it didn’t come naturally to him like it did for Bing and Dino.
Dean had played Vegas in September of ’62 and wasn’t scheduled to come back to the Sands until ’64. But he called me in July of ’63 and asked me if I wanted to go to the track . . .
‘Gonna be quite a bash,’ he told me on the phone. ‘Bing will be there for the race, and he’s invited Jack Benny and Bob Hope.’
‘He won’t mind if I just show up?’
‘Hey, pally,’ he said, ‘Der Bingle invited me and I invited you. And bring somebody if you want. The more the merrier. It’s supposed to be a party.’
Dean even offered to send me a plane ticket but I told him I preferred to drive.
‘I’d like to bring Jerry Epstein, if that’s all right?’
‘The leg breaker?’ Dino laughed. ‘I thought you’d bring a broad with you.’
‘Jerry’s a big horse player,’ I said. ‘This’d be right up his alley.’
‘Then bring ’im,’ Dean said. ‘Sure, why not? It’ll be great. And pack for a couple of days. I’ll get you rooms in the Hotel Del Mar. That’s where a lot of us will be staying instead of driving home.’
When I hung up with Dean that day I called Jerry and he got excited. The chance to go to Del Mar to watch and bet on the Bing Crosby Handicap with Bing Crosby? The big guy loved it.
So at the end of July, Jerry came to Vegas, we did the town for a couple of days, and then headed for Del Mar in my Caddy. Naturally, he drove.
‘A month ago I never expected to be spending the first weekend in August in Del Mar,’ Jerry said, during the ride.
‘It’s a big deal, huh?’
‘You kiddin’?’ he asked. ‘The two places I’d most wanna be in the summer are either Del Mar or Saratoga. I can’t thank ya enough, Mr G.’
We drove to the Hotel Del Mar, checked into our rooms and had dinner, then Jerry said he had to go to his room to handicap.
‘I don’t wanna embarrass myself tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I gotta pick some winners.’
‘I hope so,’ I told him. ‘I’m gonna be betting your horses.’
When we got to the track the next day, we were immediately shown to the Clubhouse, where Dino welcomed us and made the introductions.
First he introduced us to our host, Bing Crosby, who had his wife of six years, Kathryn Grant, on his arm. It caused a stir in Hollywood when they married, as she had been twenty-three at the time and he fifty-four. But they looked like a happy couple that was very much in love.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Bing said, shaking hands with both of us.
‘It’s a real pleasure, Mr Crosby,’ I said.
‘Bing,’ he said, ‘just call me Bing.’
‘Mr Crosby,’ Jerry said, sounding nervous.
‘You, too, son,’ Bing said. ‘Call me Bing.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t do that,’ Jerry said.
‘Sure you can—’
‘No, he really can’t,’ I said. ‘He still calls me Mr G., and we’ve known each other for years.’
‘Are you two an act?’ Bing asked, laughing. ‘Should Hope and I be worried?’
‘I don’t think you and Mr Hope should worry about anybody,’ Jerry said. ‘You guys are funnier than Abbott and Costello, and they’re my favorite.’
‘High praise, indeed,’ Bing said, his arm around his beautiful wife’s waist. ‘I’ve gotta check a few things, so you boys just mingle, huh?’
‘Thanks, Bing.’
He walked off, looking more like he was dressed for golf than the track, but that was probably just his style. His wife, like many of the women around us, was decked out in an expensive sundress, others in halter-tops, all there to enjoy the sun as well as the horses. Some of them passed close enough for us to smell the ocean on them, indicating they had come to the track right from the beach.
Jack Benny was next, with his wife Mary; then we met Bing’s partner in Del Mar, Pat O’Brien. There were others, friends of Bing’s and O’Brien’s, not Hollywood types, all of whom were very nice and very rich.
A spread had been laid out for the guests, which I nibbled at but ‘Jerry made full use of. I stood off to one side with a Bloody Mary in my hand and watched him pile a plate high with cold cuts, potato salad and several other types of salad.
‘He really appreciates a smorgasbord, doesn’t he?’ Dean asked.
‘He has a big appetite, all right.’
‘You got any horses picked out for today?’
‘Jerry’s my guy for that,’ I said. ‘He’s a good handicapper.’
‘Is that so?’ Dean asked. ‘How good?’
‘Real good.’
‘I usually rely on Bing for my tips.’
‘Jerry doesn’t give out tips,’ I said. ‘He just picks winners.’
‘I might give him a try.’
‘Well, he did a lot of his handicapping last night, but as he explained to me on the way here, that’s only half the job. When he’s actually at the track he watches the horses in the paddock.’
‘Sounds like a lot of work,’ Dino said.
‘Why do you think I‘m counting on him to do it?’ I asked. ‘Where’s Frank, by the way?’
‘Bing invited him, but he’s got other obligations.’
‘It’s not because of the, uh, JFK thing, is it?’
‘What? Hell, no. Frank doesn’t hold Bing responsible for that.’
‘Or Jack Kennedy, I notice,’ I said. ‘Just Peter.’
‘Peter, and the rest of the Kennedy family, especially Joe. No, Bing means too much to Frank for him to get mad at. You don’t know what a thrill it was for Frank to work with Bing in High Society. In fact, he’s asked Bing to take the part that Peter was going to play in our new film, Robin and The Seven Hoods. He wishes he could have come, but he couldn’t. Same for Sam and Joey. Other plans. So, lunch?’
‘It’s too early.’
‘It’s almost noon. Almost first post.’
‘I know, but working and living where I do I sometimes eat at odd hours.’
‘Well,’ Dean said, ‘Bing usually leaves this spread out all day.’
‘Good to know.’
‘If Jerry leaves any of it for us.’
TWO
By the fifth race Jerry had picked three winners, and cashed a place bet. So had I, and Dean had followed
. Bing, on the other hand, was oh-for-four, but not ready to toss in the towel yet.
‘You kiddin’?’ he said, when Dean suggested he followed Jerry’s picks for the rest of the day. ‘I’m just gettin’ warmed up. And I have the winner in the big race.’
‘Are you sure?’ Dean asked.
‘Positive,’ Bing said. ‘I got the word from the trainer.’
He walked off to make his bet on the fifth race.
‘He’s stubborn,’ Kathryn said, with a wry smile, ‘but I know when I’m licked. Jerry, who do you like in this race?’
Jerry gave her his pick and she went off to play it, as did Dean. Jerry had already bet, for both of us.
‘Who do we like in the big race?’ I asked him.
‘Crazy Kid.’
‘What?’
‘The horse’s name is Crazy Kid, trained by John G. Canty for Vista Hermosa Stable.’
‘You know all of that?’ I asked.
‘You gotta have as much information as you can to make your pick,’ Jerry said. ‘This ain’t casino gamblin’, ya know.’
‘Oh? And what’s wrong with casino gambling?’
‘Most of it is luck,’ he said. ‘This is skill.’
‘You’ve played poker and blackjack, and you can still say that?’
‘You still gotta have the cards.’
‘Well, here you’ve got to have the horse.’
‘And the jock, and the trainer, and the track condition—’
‘OK, OK,’ I said. ‘I give. Crazy Kid it is.’
‘I gotta get somethin’ ta eat,’ Jerry said, and headed for the spread. Actually, I was finally hungry, so I followed him.
We were standing off to one side with plates when Pat O’Brien came walking over. Had anybody in Hollywood played more priests in the movies than Pat O’Brien?
As he approached I could see how much thicker and greyer he’d gotten with age. I was used to seeing him on the screen, and hadn’t seen him like this. But after all, he was sixty-four. He reminded me of George Raft, who’d had a similar career.
From 1930 through 1952 I don’t think there was a year that Pat O’Brien wasn’t in a movie. Lately, he’d been plying his trade on TV in things like Playhouse 90, Studio 57, and his own show for one season, Harrigan and Son.
He looked around, like he was worried someone would see us.
‘Hey, big fella,’ he said, ‘I hear you been pickin’ winners today.’
Fly Me to the Morgue Page 1
