He shrugged and said, “That’s my job.”
Forty-One
I TOOK JERRY to the lounge and bought him a beer. While we drank I told him about Mary Clarke’s sister.
“Good-lookin’ as her?” he asked.
“Yeah, but without the blond hair.”
“Bet your P.I. buddy’s givin’ it to her right now,” Jerry said. Most guys would have leered while they said it, but he didn’t. He was just making an observation.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” he asked. “Seems to me he’s the type.”
“Oh, he’s the type, all right,” I said. “But she’s not.”
“Mr. G.,” he said, “they’re all the type.”
“Not this one,” I said. “Pure Midwest.”
“I got a question for ya,” Jerry said.
“Shoot.”
“That cop,” he said, “why ain’t he askin’ who you were workin’ for when you went lookin’ for the girl?”
“You know, I’ve asked myself that same question.”
“Come up with any answers?”
“Two,” I said. “One, he’s too dumb, and I don’t think he is, and two, he’s been told not to.”
“By who?”
“That’s part of the same question.”
“His boss?”
I shrugged. “Maybe your boss.”
Jerry didn’t comment. I still wasn’t all that sure who his real boss was. Probably some New York counterpart of MoMo.
“Maybe mine,” I said, thinking about Entratter. Did he have that kind of power?
“I can think of another reason,” Jerry said.
“Let me have it, then.”
“Maybe,” he said, “he already knows.”
* * *
We were about to leave the lounge when a bellman entered, spotted me and came over.
“Message for you, Mr. Gianelli.”
“Thanks.”
“What is it?” Jerry asked.
I unfolded it and read.
“Jack says the girl still hasn’t picked up the money, and the office closed.”
Jerry ran his finger around the rim of his empty beer glass.
“She must be dead, Mr. G.,” he said. “Why else would she not pick up the money? She needs it bad.”
“Maybe she can’t get to it.”
“ ’Cause she’s dead.”
“Or being held.”
He shook his head. “She ain’t bein’ held by nobody.”
“Why do you say that, Jerry?”
“Because she’s marked,” he said. “There’s a hit out on her. There’s guys out there with a reason to kill her, but ain’t nobody got a reason to just take ’er and hold ’er. See what I mean?”
“I see, Jerry,” I said. “I see.”
“Where we sleepin’ tonight, Mr. G.?” he asked.
“Where are we safe, Jerry?”
He shrugged and said, “You’re pretty much safe where I am.”
“What if there’s a hit out on me?”
“There ain’t.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“That guy I shot in your room? He was here for the girl, not you. You was just a way for him to get to the girl. Nobody’s tryin’ ta hit you, Mr. G. At least, not for money.”
I didn’t find that comforting at all.
Forty-Two
WHEN WE LEFT THE LOUNGE I took Jerry over to watch some blackjack. He watched the players, and I watched the dealers and Barney Crane. Crane was giving me one of his arrogant sonofabitch looks when somebody poked me in the back . . . hard.
I turned and saw Detective Hargrove standing there, his face a rosy glow that didn’t come from the casino lighting.
“You and me have to talk,” he said. “Alone.”
Jerry turned and glared at the detective.
“Turn it off, torpedo,” Hargrove said. “Your bad looks don’t scare me.”
“He doesn’t like to be called that,” I said.
“Too damn bad.” He jerked his thumb at Jerry. “Get lost.”
“I got a better idea, Detective,” I said. “Let’s you and me get lost.”
“Someplace quiet,” Hargrove said to me.
“Coffee shop’s quiet,” I said. “And I’ll buy you something to eat.”
Hargrove glared at me, then said, “Normally I’d tell you to shove it, but I’m hungry.”
Quickly I stepped over to Jerry and said, “I want you to do me a favor.”
“What?”
“See that guy behind the tables? In the pit?”
“The guy you don’t like.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I want you to just stand here and stare at him.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” I said. “Just fold your arms and stare at him until I come back.”
“Okay, Mr. G.” He was puzzled, but he agreed.
I turned to Hargrove and said, “Come this way.”
* * *
We walked through the casino towards the coffee shop. To my complete shock I saw Angie Dickinson walking towards us. She was dressed for a night out, her off-the-shoulder gown showing just enough cleavage and leg to entice, but no more, because she was so sensual she didn’t need to flaunt acres of skin.
As we passed she smiled at me and said, “Hello, Eddie.”
My mouth was too dry to say anything, so I just nodded and continued to watch as she walked away from us. I noticed that Hargrove was watching, as well.
“T-that was Angie Dickinson,” he said.
“She must be here for the premier,” I said, as nonchalantly as I could.
“She knows you?”
“We’ve met,” I said. “Come on, coffee is this way.”
Having Angie Dickinson know me by name was just another reason for him to hate me.
* * *
He grabbed a menu and ordered an open-faced roast beef sandwich, mashed potatoes and a glass of water.
“Sure you don’t want something stronger to drink?” I asked.
“Fuck you, Eddie,” he said.
I looked up at the startled waitress and said, “Nothing stronger for the gentleman. I’ll just have some coffee.”
As she walked away, shaking her pretty head, I said, “You shocked the young thing.”
“I’m sure she’s heard worse working here.”
“Tell me. Detective,” I said, “did I do something to you last time to make you hate me, or do you hate everybody?”
“Not everybody,” he said. “Just mugs like you and your pal Jerry.”
“Me and Jerry,” I said, “we’re nothin’ alike.”
“You’re more alike than you want to admit, Eddie,” he said. “Maybe you fool yourself, but you don’t fool me. You work for the mob, you’re in with the mob.”
“I’m a pit boss,” I said. “I work in a casino.”
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s why you’re out finding bodies.”
The waitress returned with two glasses of water, and a cup of coffee for me.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I’m going to get this over with quick, Eddie,” he said. “Maybe by the time my food comes you can leave and let me eat in peace.”
“What’s on your mind, Detective?”
He pointed his right index finger at me, probably the same one he’d poked me with. I noticed for the first time since meeting him how blunt it was, and that it was missing a nail. No, missing the entire tip.
“I got the word from above, Eddie, that I’m not supposed to press you for the name of your high roller,” he explained, “but between you, me and the lamppost we know that Frank Sinatra sent you to find that girl.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
I stared at him, took a sip of my coffee.
“Is that all you came here to say, Detective?” I asked then.
“You’re not going to admit it,” he said, sitting back in his chair.
“Hey, that’s okay, you don’t have to.” He shrugged. “I just want you to tell that lounge singer something for me.”
“Lounge singer?” I asked. “Why would you call one of our headliners, and a great actor to boot, a ‘lounge singer,’ Detective? You got something against him, too? Oh wait, don’t tell me, let me guess. He’s a mug too, isn’t he? Because he works for the casino?”
“Don’t kid yourself, Eddie,” he said. “Sinatra’s a bigger mug than you.”
I sat back in my chair.
“I’ll bet you got beat up a lot as a child,” I said. “Bigger kids? Older? Probably Italian.”
“What’re you now, a shrink?”
“I’m just sayin’—”
“Well, stop saying,” he snapped, cutting me off. “Tell Sinatra if he had anything to do with these murders I’ll nail him.”
“I’m sure he’s heard that before,” I said, and then added, “in the movies.”
“You know something?” he said, throwing his napkin down on the table. “Suddenly I don’t have much of an appetite.”
He stood up.
“Don’t go away mad, Detective.”
“I’ll nail you, your big torpedo friend, and Sinatra,” he said. “Remember that.”
“Wait,” I said, “that’s if we had anything to do with the murders, right? Not just in general? I mean, I wanna get this straight.”
“Fuck you, Eddie,” he said, just as the girl appeared with his plate of food. He stalked off and she stared after him, then looked at me.
“Wha—” she said. “Hey, he didn’t—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Wrap it up and I’ll take it with me.”
For Jerry.
Forty-Three
WHEN I GOT BACK to the big guy he was doing exactly what I’d asked him to do, standing there with his arms folded across his chest, watching Barney Crane—who suddenly didn’t look so arrogant. In fact, he looked downright uncomfortable.
“I brought you something,” I said to Jerry, holding out the bag to him.
He looked at me, unfolded his arms and accepted the bag. He opened it and sniffed.
“Smells good,” he said.
“Find someplace to sit and eat it.”
“What happened with the cop?”
“He just wanted to warn me that you, me and Frank Sinatra were going down.”
“Not a chance of him takin’ Mr. S. down,” he said.
“I wish you sounded as confident about you and me,” I told him.
“Hey,” he said, “we didn’t do nothin’.”
“I don’t think that matters to the detective. Look, go sit in a corner and eat that and I’ll come and find you.”
“What about your buddy, there?” he asked, meaning Barney Crane.
“Give him one more long look before you go.”
Jerry did that, then went and sat in front of a slot machine, digging eagerly into his doggy bag.
I looked over at Barney, who seemed even more perturbed. He waved me over.
“What’s up, Barney?” I asked, innocently.
“What’s with your boy there, Eddie?” he asked.
“My boy?”
“Your pet torpedo.”
“He doesn’t like to be called that.”
“Well then, whatever he is, does he have a problem with me?” Physically, Barney was a lightweight. I mean, really, if he was a fighter he’d be a lightweight—a tall one. He had height, but he had no meat on his bones.
“Whataya mean?”
“He’s been starin’ at me for the past half hour,” Barney said. “And I mean ... glarin’ at me, you know? Like I fucked his sister or something.”
“Well, he doesn’t have a sister,” I said. “All I can tell you is that he says he likes blackjack, and can spot a cheater a mile away.”
“A cheater?”
“That’s what he said.”
“I ain’t seen him play a hand.”
“Oh, he doesn’t play anymore.”
“Why not?”
“He says he killed the last guy he caught cheating,” I explained. “Ever since then he doesn’t play. Now he just watches ... and waits.”
“Waits? For what?”
“For the next cheater.”
Barney swallowed.
“I, uh, don’t have no cheaters at my table, Eddie,” he said. “You know that.”
“Well, then that’s good, Barney,” I said. “That’s real good. You keep it that way.”
I walked over to where Jerry had already polished off his sandwich. He was licking brown gravy from his fingertips.
“What’re we pullin’ on him?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” I said.
He balled up the bag and dropped it into a garbage bin.
“Where we goin’ now?”
“Back to my house,” I said. “If you’re sure there’s not a hit out on me I guess we’ll be safe there.”
“I’m tellin’ ya, Mr. G.,” he said. “There’s no hit on ya.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “You drive.”
* * *
We were heading for the back door when I spotted something and stopped short.
“What?” Jerry asked, almost running into me.
“See that girl over there? The one tapping her foot at the blackjack table?”
“Like she’s sittin’ on an anthill or somethin’?” he asked.
“That’s the one.”
“She’s a looker.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but she’s also Mary Clarke’s sister, Lily.”
“I thought she went upstairs to her room with yer buddy Bardini?”
“I guess they didn’t stay up there.”
“She tell you she came here to gamble?”
“No,” I said, “she just said she had to come to try to help her sister.”
“But gamble in the meantime, huh?”
“I didn’t get that impression,” I said. “In fact, I had the distinct impression she’d never been to Vegas before.”
“Maybe she’s a beginner.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“That’s not a low-limit table.”
Forty-Four
WE STOOD AND WATCHED for fifteen minutes. During that time she lost over five thousand dollars, and I had no idea how long she’d been sitting there and how much she’d lost before we arrived.
“Somethin’s hinky, huh?” Jerry asked.
“Very hinky,” I said, “except...”
“Except what?”
“She told me she works as a bookkeeper.”
“Are you thinkin’ she’s playin’ with somebody else’s money?”
“If that’s true,” I said, “then I really am not the judge of character I thought I was.”
“Or,” Jerry offered, “she’s just really good.”
“I would prefer it that way,” I said.
As we watched she made a huge bet, took two hits and busted. I couldn’t see what she’d been hitting on, but my keen instincts told me she should have stood.
“Jerry,” I said, “I need you to make a phone call, and I need you to say exactly what I tell you to say.”
“No problem, Mr. G.”
Fifteen minutes later an annoyed-looking Frank Sinatra came into the casino wearing a raincoat with the collar turned up. He attracted some attention, but not for the reason he usually would.
He spotted Jerry and me and came walking over.
“You wanna tell me why I’m wearin’ a raincoat in the middle of the desert?” he asked.
Maybe I should have asked him why he had brought a raincoat to the middle of the desert, but I decided against it.
“Frank,” I said, “have you ever met Lily D’Angeli?”
“Lily—who the hell ... wait a minute. You talkin’ about Mary’s sister?”
“That’s right. Did you ever meet her?”
“Well, not exactly ... I saw her in the Ambassador one
night, talking to Mary.”
“But you never met.”
“I just said that, Eddie,” he snapped.
“Okay, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just trying to be sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay, then look over there at the center blackjack table and tell me who you see?”
He looked, then looked again.
“That’s Lily ... I think.”
“You think?”
“Well... she looks an awful lot like Mary with brown hair.”
“Frank ... could that be Mary?”
“Why would Mary—”
“Could it be her?” I prodded.
He looked again, then said, “I’ve got to get closer.”
“Okay, but I don’t want to spook her.”
There was no need to worry. Even though people were looking at us—and some of them even recognized Frank, finally—Lily D’Angeli was so intent on her cards that she never looked up.
When he’d gotten a good enough look we withdrew again. In fact, I pulled him behind some slot machines. Jerry got the picture then and gave us some extra shelter by using his bulk.
“Frank?”
“It’s not Mary,” he said. “It looks a lot like her, but it ain’t.”
“Okay.”
“So if that’s her sister, Lily, what the hell is she doin’ here?”
I told him that after I spoke to her on the phone she decided to hop a plane to Vegas to see if she could find her sister.
“Then why is she playing blackjack?” he asked. “And at a high-limit table?”
“That’s what I intend to find out,” I said. “Did Mary ever tell you anything about Lily?”
“Like what?”
“Her job, whether or not she gambled ...”
“Mary told me her sister was a prude, didn’t like to have fun and didn’t want Mary to have fun.”
“And her job.”
“I dunno—wait.” He stroked the corners of his mouth with thumb and forefinger. “I think she said once that she was a bookkeeper. I remember because Mary said she couldn’t imagine a more boring job, so it was perfect for her sister.”
[Rat Pack 02] - Luck Be a Lady, Don't Die Page 14
