“Is she married?”
“No.”
“Are you trying to keep this from Juliet?”
“Well. . . yeah, of course I don’t want Juliet to know.”
“But that’s not the real reason you’re being discreet,” I said.
“No.”
I studied him for a moment, then asked, “This is the part I’m not gonna like, isn’t it?”
“Well, yeah.”
I took a sip of my coffee, wishing it was bourbon. I looked longingly at the glass decanter Frank had picked up when we first got into the car.
“All right, let me have the bad news.”
“It’s really not all that bad,” Frank said, “because I can handle MoMo.”
“MoMo?”
“That’s right.”
“As in . . . MoMo Giancana?”
“Right.”
“This Mary Clarke . . . she’s Sam Giancana’s girl?” I asked with a dry mouth.
“He thinks she is.”
“That’s the same thing, Frank,” I said. “When the Boss of all Bosses thinks a girl is his, she’s usually his.”
“Don’t blow it out of proportion, Eddie,” Frank scolded me. “I told you, I can handle MoMo.”
“Jesus ...”
“After all,” Frank went on, “he didn’t mind sharing Judy.”
“Judy . . . Campbell?”
“That’s right.”
“Judy Campbell is MoMo’s girl, too?”
“She was,” Frank said, “before she went on to JFK.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, “I slept with the same girl who slept with Sam Giancana and John F. Kennedy?”
He frowned and said, “Apparently we both did.”
Now I wondered if Frank was going to get all bent out of shape because Judith Campbell ended up in my bed after a party in his suite six months ago.
“Frank, listen—”
“Don’t worry about it, Eddie,” Frank said. “Judy’s out of the picture as far as I’m concerned.”
“But Mary Clarke ...”
“Very much in the picture ... at least, she was supposed to be.”
“So what happened?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said. “That’s what I need you to find out.”
“She’s missing?”
“She was supposed to be here to meet me, and she’s not.”
“So maybe she never got to Vegas,” I said. “Where does she live?”
“Chicago,” Frank said, “but she was here. I spoke to her on the phone two days ago. She said she was here waiting for me.”
“Where?” I asked. “I mean, what hotel?”
“The Nugget, downtown.”
“Is that smart, Frank?” I asked. “Having her in the Golden Nugget, right on Fremont Street? Near the theater?”
He scratched his head.
“Well, I thought it was better than having her here on the strip at the Flamingo, or the Riv,” he said, “but now that you mention it, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea . . . but that’s where you’re gonna have to start.”
“Have you been there lookin’ for her?”
“I told you, we’re tryin’ to be discreet,” he reminded me. “I called lookin’ for her, but she doesn’t answer.”
“But they have her registered?”
“That’s what they said.”
I stared out the window at the scenery going by. I could see that Henry was driving in circles.
“Listen,” Frank said, tapping me on the knee, “this wasn’t my idea, remember? You don’t have to say yes.”
“I don’t see the harm in me . . . poking around a bit. I mean, I don’t have to get involved with Giancana.” I looked at him. “Do I?”
“Of course not. MoMo’s not in Vegas, and Mary saw to it that he wouldn’t be expecting to see her for a while.”
“What’d she tell him?”
“That she had to go and sit with a sick friend.”
Christ, I thought.
“Yeah, I know,” Frank said, reading my mind, “but she’s a sweet kid. It’s exactly the kind of thing she’d really do.”
“Do you have a picture of her?”
“I figured you’d be needing one.”
He took a snapshot out of his pocket. She was a dish, all right. The color photo showed her blond hair and a well-endowed figure wrapped in a pink sweater. That was all I could see, but I was willing to bet the legs matched.
“Can I take this?”
“If you’re gonna be lookin’ for her? Sure. I got others.”
“Okay,” I said, taking the photo, “okay, Frank. Let me see what I can find out.”
He slapped me on the back with more strength than I thought him capable of.
“I knew I could count on Eddie G,” he exclaimed. “Dino suggested I ask you and I said no. I didn’t wanna get you involved. But he was right. You’ve got this whole town wired. You’ll find her. I’ve got faith in you.”
“If she’s even in town.”
“She’s here,” he said. ’’She’s here and my buddy Eddie will find her. Henry, take us back to the Sands.”
“Yes, Mr. Sinatra.”
Six
WHEN WE GOT BACK to the Sands Henry dropped us at a back door and we split up. Frank went to his suite and I went looking for Jack Entratter. It was late and he wasn’t in his office. Neither was his girl, but she kept regular hours and Jack didn’t. I found him wandering the casino, eyeing the punters, keeping watch for any more cheaters. I thought maybe he hadn’t had his fill of breaking bones, then immediately told myself that wasn’t fair to him. He had people to report to who would break his bones if they thought he wasn’t doing the job he was being paid to do.
“Hey, Eddie,” he said, his face lighting up when he saw me. “Heard you went to the show tonight.”
“I did.”
“Bet you weren’t surprised, huh?”
“No, I had warning,” I said. “Jack we gotta talk.”
“Casino business, pal? Or personal?”
“A little of both, since it involves your buddy Frank.”
“Let’s go into the lounge,” he said. “I could use a drink.”
I never saw anybody more uncomfortable in expensive suits than Jack Entratter. Because of his size he always looked like he was going to burst out of them.
When we got to the Silver Queen I headed for the bar but he said, “Let’s get a table. It’s more private.”
It might have been more private but it also meant that Bev was going to wait on us. When she came over she smiled at us both—I think. “What can I get for you gentlemen?”
“Hello, sweetie,” Jack said. “Scotch for me, rocks.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Entratter. Eddie?”
“A beer, Bev.”
’’What kind?”
“Anything on tap will do.”
“Coming up.”
As she walked to the bar Jack watched her ass all the way. “Weren’t you tappin’ that for a while, Eddie?” he asked.
“I’m not here to talk about my love life, Jack,” I said, sourly.
“Sorry,” Entratter said, “didn’t mean to hit a nerve. Okay, then, what’s on yer mind?”
I told him about seeing Dino on the golf course, going to the show, to Frank’s dressing room, and then about our ride around town.
“Okay,” he said, leaning back as Bev set down our drinks, “you told me everything but what Frank wants you to do.”
“Jack . ..”
He held up a big hand. “You’ll leave that to Frank to tell me if he wants me to know, right?”
“Hey, you’re the one who wants these guys kept happy while they’re here.”
“I know, I know.” He picked up his drink and downed half of it. “So what you’re tellin’ me is you need to be off the clock to do somethin’ for Frank, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, kid, you’re off.” He finished his drink. “You gonna drink that?”
&nbs
p; “Slowly.”
“I’ll see you around, then.” He stood up, towered over me. “Keep me posted, okay?”
“You know I will.”
“No, I damn well don’t know you will,” he said, “that’s why I’m tellin’ you.”
“All right, all right,” I said, “I’ll keep you posted.”
I don’t know why I decided to drink my beer slow. Maybe it was so it wouldn’t look like I was running out, trying to avoid Beverly. I sipped it and she stayed away, even though she didn’t have many customers. She stood, talking to the bartender, waiting for somebody—one of her three patrons—to order another drink. I didn’t want a second one and neither did the couple who was arguing at another table. They were young, probably on their honeymoon, and she was reading him the riot act about losing more than twenty dollars at the slot machines. Used to be only the broads worked the slots, but lately I was noticing some men playing them, too.
Finally I finished and decided to brave the lioness in her den.
I got up and walked over to where she was standing. Bev didn’t have showgirl looks, but that was only because she was too full bodied. She had the rack for it, but she also had the thighs and butt to go with them. Not for the stage but just right for other things.
Her red hair was piled up on top of her head tonight, but her green eyes were not sparkling at me the way they had in the past. Her kissable mouth was set hard, disappointed.
“Finished, Eddie?” she asked.
“Yes.” I reached into my pocket.
“You know Mr. Entratter doesn’t get charged for drinks, right?”
“I know it,” I said. I dropped a fin onto her tray, as a tip.
“Gee, thanks, Eddie.”
“Bev ... how are you doin’?”
“Me? I’m fine. How are you?”
“Um, pretty good. I, uh—”
“Eddie,” she said, “you don’t have to make nice to me, you know.”
“Bev, I’m just trying to be ... friends.”
“We are friends, Eddie,” she said. “No more than that. You made it clear.”
“Bev—”
“I have work to do.” She picked up her tray, then stopped and put her hand on my arm. “Really, Eddie ... it’s fine.”
She walked away to check on her other customers. I looked at the bartender, a guy named Leon, who just gave me a sympathetic shrug. I did the same, then turned and left.
Seven
IT WAS LATE—but the word “late” is relative in Las Vegas. It wasn’t too late to gamble, see a show, get something to eat or get laid. It was, however, too late to go down to the Golden Nugget and question the hotel staff about a guest. Those kind of questions were better asked during regular hotel hours. So I left the bar with nothing to do but go home.
I went into the parking lot and got into my ’53 Caddy. I’d had a ’52, which I had driven from New York to Vegas, but somebody blew it up trying to kill me six months ago, the last time I tried to help Frank and Dean. I hoped this time trying to help them out would not cost me another car—or worse.
When I pulled into the driveway of my little house I turned off the motor but remained behind the wheel. Once again I was thinking about last time, when two men had attacked me in my home. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the shadows my house threw, then got out of the car and walked carefully to the front door. Nobody jumped me and pushed me inside, but even before I unlocked the door and opened it I could smell it.
Coffee.
Somebody was in my house, and they had made coffee.
I entered and closed the door softly behind me. In a corner behind the door I had secreted a Louisville Slugger. It had been there for six months and this was the first time I’d picked it up.
Carrying it in both hands, I moved quietly through the living room toward the kitchen. I could hear someone moving around in there. It could have been Frank, though I doubted it. It could have been an old girlfriend, but I couldn’t remember ever having chosen a broad because she could make coffee, and the aroma was pretty good.
The kitchen had a swinging door. I stopped just on my side of it and listened. Somebody’s feet were scuffling around my kitchen, as if they were preparing more than just coffee. I decided to just go ahead and take the plunge.
Holding the bat in my best Mickey Mantle grip—even down to the little finger hanging over off the knob—I rushed through the swinging door, scaring the crap out of two people.
One of them was me.
The other was a big Jewish enforcer from New York named Jerry Epstein.
“Jesus Christ, Mr. G.,” he said, staring at me. “You scared the shit outta me!”
He didn’t look scared, standing there holding my coffeepot in one hand and a sandwich in the other. He hadn’t dropped either one.
“You want a sandwich?” he asked. “I made two.”
“You were expecting me?” I asked. “Now?”
“Naw,” he said, “If you didn’t come in the next ten minutes I was gonna eat the other one.”
I lowered my bat. Jerry was in shirtsleeves, and under his arm in a shoulder rig was a huge .45. If he’d been there to whack me my baseball bat wouldn’t have done much good. Luckily, we were friends ... kinda.
“Jerry ... what the hell are you doin’ here?”
“Same as last time, Mr. G.,” he said, walking to the kitchen table. “Watching your ass.”
“On whose say so? Frank’s?”
“Actually, it wasn’t Mr. S. who called me, it was Dino. Called earlier today and told me you’d need some help to help Mr. S. I caught the first flight out, got in late, thought I’d come right here.”
Calling Dean “Dino” was as much a sign of respect to Jerry as calling Frank “Mr. S.”
So Dean had called Jerry right after we spoke. I guess he assumed Frank would go ahead and accept my help.
Jerry sat down, poured himself a cup of coffee and bit into his sandwich.
“How’d you get in here?”
He licked a glob of mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth and said, “A door ain’t hard ta open, Mr. G.”
“Jerry ...”
“Yeah?”
Last time out, Jerry had not only been a big help, he’d saved my life. I could bitch about being predictable, but I couldn’t bitch that he was here.
“I’m glad to see you,” I finished.
“I’m glad ta see you, too, Mr. G.,” he said. “I been meanin’ ta come back to Vegas, ya know, just to gamble and shit ... and ta see you, of course. I just been kinda busy, ya know?”
“I know, Jerry,” I said. “Believe me, I know.”
“Ya want that other sandwich?” he asked. “It’s ham and cheese.” I looked over at the food on the counter, then walked to the drain-board to retrieve my coffee cup. I grabbed the sandwich and joined him at the table.
“There’s no mayo on this one, is there?” I asked.
“Naw, not yet,” he said. “I woulda put it if I was gonna eat it.”
I poured myself a cup of coffee and bit into the sandwich. Ham, Cheese, lettuce on white bread. All I ever had was white bread.
“Hey, wait,” I said.
“What?”
“There’s mayo on yours?”
“Yeah, so?”
“I don’t keep the stuff in the house, Jerry,” I said. “Where’d you get mayo?”
Looking sheepish he admitted, “I brung my own.”
“You carry your own mayo?”
He nodded.
“And mustard. Last time I was here I went through your cabinets and saw you didn’t have any. I hope you ain’t mad.”
“How can I be mad, Jerry?” I asked. “I like a man who comes prepared. Mayo, mustard, and your forty-five.”
He smiled and took another big bite out of his sandwich, dripping mayo onto the table.
Eight
FUNNY, I WOKE IN THE MORNING a little pissed. I would have preferred Jerry to show up the next day, after I had agreed to help Frank.
It was like the more I thought about it through the night the more it upset me that I was so predictable that Dino sent for him before we even spoke.
Of course, none of that was Jerry’s fault. He slept on the couch, and when I woke I could smell bacon and coffee. I’d forgotten about the benefits of having him around, other than saving my life.
“’Mornin’, Mr. G.,” he said as I entered the kitchen. I’d pulled on a pair of slacks and a t-shirt. He was still wearing the trousers from a gray suit and his white shirt, although it was unbuttoned, showing an expanse of the whitest skin I’d ever seen, beneath a mat of chest hair. “Jerry, you think you can call me Eddie, instead of Mr. G.?”
He handed me a cup of coffee, thought about the question, then said, “I don’t think so, Mr. G.”
“Just thought I’d ask.”
He put a plate of bacon and eggs on the table with some toast— perfectly golden, though I’ll never know how he did that in my toaster— and sat down across from me.
“You ain’t got any orange juice.”
“I’ll pick some up today.”
“So,” he asked, “what do we gotta do?”
“Dean didn’t tell you?”
“All Dino told me was that I was supposed ta keep you safe.”
“Well...” I thought it over quickly and decided to play straight with him. “We’re looking for a girl.”
“What girl?”
“Just a girl.” Well, maybe not completely straight. “She’s supposed to be stayin’ at the Golden Nugget, but nobody’s seen her in a couple of days.”
“Then I guess we gotta go there and look, right?”
“Right.”
“Where is the Golden Nugget?”
“Down on Fremont Street.”
He stared at me blankly, chewing a huge mouthful of food.
“The street where we went that time you had pancakes ... at the Horseshoe ... with my friend Danny Bardini?”
“Oh, the P.I.?”
“Right.”
“Those were good pancakes,” he said. “Can we go there again?”
“Sure.”
“We gonna see that guy, again? The P.I.?”
“Probably,” I said, “but I think we’ll snoop around on our own first.”
“Okay with me,” Jerry said, “but he was okay, that guy.”
[Rat Pack 02] - Luck Be a Lady, Don't Die Page 3
