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Authors: Robert J. Randisi

Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime (11 page)

BOOK: Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime
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I
T WAS THE END of a long day that had resulted in the death of two women I didn’t know. Still, I was obviously a suspect in their deaths, otherwise I would not have received that late-evening visit at my home from Detectives Hargrove and Smith.
Since agreeing to try to help Dean Martin I had been beaten up in my home, found a dead woman, and become a suspect in two murders. I had every reason to pull out and tell both Dean and Frank thanks but no thanks, I didn’t think I could help them. But there was still my curiosity to be appeased, and the only way to do that was to find Unlucky Lou.
I was trying to decide between another beer and bed when the phone rang. I checked the clock. Two A.M.
“Mr. G, that you?” I recognized the voice right away. Mike Borraco. I had given him my home number as well as my number at the Sands.
“Mike?”
“Hey, it is you,” Mike said. “I hope I ain’t callin’ too late.”
“This is Vegas, Mike,” I said. “It’s never too late.” I didn’t want him to know I was on the verge of turning in for the night. “What can I do for you?”
“I think I might have a location on Unlucky Lou,” Mike said,
“but I won’t know for sure until tomorrow. Will I be able to reach you?”
“You can call me at the Sands and leave a message,” I said. “I’ll probably be out and about.”
“Okay,” Mike said. “Hey, I heard about Carla and her roommate. Tough break. You think Lou had anything to do with that?”
“I don’t know, Mike.”
“Whatever you was lookin’ for him about musta been important, huh? Somebody’s out there killin’ people over it. I was thinkin’ … .”
“Thinking what, Mike?”
“Well … I was thinkin’ the info about Lou might be worth a little more money than what we discussed.”
“Mike,” I said, “I have no idea why those two women were killed. It’s got nothing to do with why I was lookin’ for Lou, believe me.”
“Just a coincidence, huh?”
“Exactly,” I said. “Just a coincidence.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I’ll call ya tomorrow, Mr. G.”
I didn’t know where the “Mr. G” stuff came from, but I said sure and hung up. I had the feeling Mike didn’t know anything yet, and was just trying to jack up the price.
I hung up and decided to go to bed. I was tired, and sore, but that wasn’t the reason. I just wanted the day to end. Maybe after a good night’s sleep I’d decide to hell with the whole thing and go back to my pit.
 
 
I woke up the next morning to a pounding on my front door. Thinking it was the police again I wasn’t in a hurry to answer it. Wearing only pajama bottoms I stumbled to the door and opened it. Standing there was Frank Sinatra. He was wearing a white tuxedo, no tie, his shirt collar open. At the curb was a black limousine with the motor running. The back window was rolled down about halfway and I thought I could see a woman’s head, blonde.
“Frank.”
“’Mornin’, pally,” he said. “Got any coffee?”
“I, uh, can put some on,” I replied. “What time is it?”
“I’m not sure. Eight? Nine?”
“Come on in.” I backed away from the doorway. “What about your … friends?”
I thought I heard giggling from the car and revised my estimate. He had at least two women in there.
“They’re fine,” he said, waving a hand negligently. “They’ve got champagne, and Henry’s with them.” I assumed he meant Henry Silva. “I need coffee.”
“Yeah, sure. I, uh, lemme get some pants on. Have a seat.”
I left Frank Sinatra in my living room. I pulled on a pair of slacks and a T-shirt, ran a comb through my hair and hurried back out. He wasn’t there, but I heard something clinking in the kitchen.
As I entered I found him with a can of coffee on the counter, using an opener on it.
“I can do that, Frank.”
“I got it, Eddie,” he said. “Have a seat. Want some toast? Got any bread?”
“Second drawer.” I was thinking, Frank Sinatra is making me breakfast! And then I tried to get past that.
He’d obviously been up all night, had probably gone out directly from the Rat Pack show in the Copa Room. But his eyes seemed bright and clear, his hair was perfectly combed. Even though his jacket was wrinkled and his tie was missing, he still looked like he was ready to go on, or to shoot a movie.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on a set somewhere?” I asked.
“Ocean’s Eleven?”
“They’ll wait.” The hand wave, again. He spooned out the coffee, put the lid on and set it on a burner. “They can’t do a thing without us and then we always get it in one take. Know what Smokey calls us? ‘One-Take Charlies.’ Stove works, I hope.”
“It works.” My kitchen was filthy. “Cleaning lady hasn’t been in.”
“Forget it,” he said, coming over to sit across from me. “You should see some of the dives I’ve had coffee in.”
“Frank … you weren’t just passin’ by.”
“You’re right,” he said, reaching across the table and tapping me on the arm. “I got your address from Jack before I left the Sands last night. I wanted to talk to you.”
“About what?” I asked. “I’ve only been on this thing for a day and—”
“Jack told me what’s been going on. A dead showgirl? What’s that all about?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “and it’s two dead showgirls.”
“Two?” Sinatra looked shocked. “What kinda nut kills two gorgeous babes?”
I shrugged helplessly.
“You know, Ed,” Sinatra said, “if you want to pull out you can.”
“Frank, I don’t think the two girls have anything to do with you or Dean. That’s just somethin’ I kinda walked into.”
“You did have two clydes work you over, though, right?” Frank asked. “Warn you away from Dean?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“They hurt you bad?”
“A bump on the head, a few sore ribs,” I said.
Frank smiled. “You and me, we got worse than that when we were kids, right?”
“Right, Frank,” I said, without much enthusiasm.
“Hoboken, Brooklyn, not much difference between the two.”
I didn’t agree with that. No Brooklyn boy would ever agree that any part of New Jersey was the same as Brooklyn, but I kept that opinion to myself.
The room began to fill with the smell of percolating coffee. Sinatra sat back in his chair and appeared to breath the aroma in deeply. I seemed to remember that he had recorded something called “The Coffee Song,” a few years back.
“So you’re still with us, then?” he asked.
“I’m with you, Frank.”
“Any word yet? Any … clues?”
“None. I talked to everyone at the hotel. Nobody remembers envelopes being delivered for Dean. Has he been at the set?”
“He was there yesterday, and he’ll be there today.” He shot his cuff and looked at his watch. “I’ve got just enough time for a cup.”
He stood up, found where I kept the cups and poured us each full. We both sipped and made the same face.
“I make a lousy cuppa joe,” he said, and pushed his away.
To me coffee’s coffee, so I continued to drink it.
“Walk me to the door.”
He stood up and I followed. We walked to the door shoulder to shoulder.
“I’ve got somethin’ for you.”
“What?”
“It’ll be here in a couple of hours. When do you go to work?”
“I’m off the clock.”
“Good,” he said, “then you’ll still be here when it arrives.”
He opened my front door and stepped outside. We stood in the doorway and shook hands. I heard the girls laughing in the car. They didn’t seem to be missing Frank at all.
“Can you give me a hint?” I asked.
“I don’t want to ruin the surprise.” He started down the walk toward the limo, then turned nimbly. “You need any money? For expenses or something?”
“No,” I said, “I’m good, Frank.”
“Okay.”
“Hey, Frank.”
He turned and looked at me expectantly. I looked around, saw no one, but stepped outside anyway, to get closer to him so I could lower my voice.
“Frank, do you think anyone …’well, connected, is after Dean?”
“Kid,” he said, though he wasn’t that much older than me, “if anyone ‘connected’ was after Dean, he’d be dead by now.
Capice
?”
I
DIDN’T MEAN TO WAIT for Frank Sinatra’s gift to arrive, but as it turned out it took me that long to get myself around. When the knock came at the door I decided that entirely too many people knew where I lived.
When I opened the door a big guy was standing there blocking out the sun. He was even bigger than Mack Gray.
“Oh, no, not again.” I figured I was in for another beating.
“Huh?” he said.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“You Gianelli?”
“That’s right.”
“Eddie Gianelli, right? Eddie G?”
“That’s me.”
“Then I got the right place.”
“The right place for what?”
“Frank sent me.”
“Frank … Sinatra?”
“That’s right,” the man said. “He told me to tell you I was your gift? You know what that means?”
“Yeah,” I said, “yeah, I’m afraid I do.”
 
 
His name was Gerald Epstein but he told me I could call him Jerry. I didn’t want to call him anything, because I didn’t want him around.
He was sitting at my kitchen table, drinking coffee Frank Sinatra had made, while I tried to convince him he didn’t have to stay.
“I don’t leave until you do.”
“You mean … you’re goin’ with me everywhere I go?”
He nodded.
“Until Frank tells me not to.”
“Jerry … are you carryin’ a gun?”
“Of course,” he said, looking at me as if I was nuts. “What kinda bodyguard would I be if I didn’t have a gun?” He pulled aside his jacket to show me the piece in his shoulder holster. I recognized it as a .45, same thing I carried in the army.
“Jerry, if you get caught with that—”
“I got a permit.”
That figured.
“Did Frank tell you what’s goin’ on?” I asked.
“He said a coupla guys worked you over. He said I should make sure that does not happen again.”
“Did he tell you who worked me over? Or why?”
“No,” he said, “but I don’t have to know that to do my job.”
“Well, let me ask you,” I said, “do you know two guys named Lenny Davis and Buzz Ravisi?”
“No. Are they local?”
“I think so.”
“I ain’t local,” he said. “I’m in from New York.”
“When did you get here?”
“Last night.”
I hesitated to ask the next question. Partly because I didn’t want to know the answer, partly because I thought I already knew.
“Who do you work for in New York, Jerry?”
“I work for Mr. Giancana. And while I’m in Vegas, I work for Frank.”
That’s what I was afraid he was going to say. I’d spent my life trying
to stay out of street gangs when I was growing up, and away from the mob as an adult. I’d thought I could work in the casinos in Vegas and stay away from them, and I thought I had done pretty well for twelve years—except maybe for Jack Entratter—but now …
… Frank Sinatra …
… Sam Giancana …
… I guess the connection was unavoidable.
I
CALLED DANNY BARDINI and he agreed to meet me for breakfast at the Horseshoe, Benny Binion’s place on Fremont Street. Benny had arrived in Vegas the same month Bugsy Seigel opened the Flamingo. He’d left a violent past behind in Texas, where he had a reputation as a gambling king and a killer. They say he arrived with two million dollars in a suitcase. Four months later he bought the old Eldorado Club, changed the name to the Horseshoe Club and turned it into one of the most popular casinos in Las Vegas.
Danny was waiting at a booth in the back of the Horseshoe’s coffee shop.
“Who’s he?” Jerry asked, as we entered.
“A friend of mine.”
“A cop?”
“No,” I said, “he’s not a cop. He’s a P.I.”
Jerry made a face.
“Same difference.”
“Jerry, why don’t you sit at the counter and have what you want.”
“You buyin’?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m buyin’.”
He looked over at the counter, and then at the booth Danny was sitting in.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You can see me from there.”
“Okay.”
As he settled onto a stool—almost two stools—I walked over to where Danny was waiting.
“Who’s the giant?”
“That’s Jerry,” I said, sliding in across from him. “He’s a gift from Frank Sinatra.”
“Frank never heard of jewelry?” Danny asked. “Or cars? You know, I heard that Elvis Presley gives everybody cars, even people he doesn’t know. Why don’t you work for Elvis Presley?”
“Give Elvis my number,” I said. “If he calls I’ll work for him. Meantime, what did you find out?’
“Can we order, first?”
“Sure.”
As I looked at the menu a waitress came over.
“You Eddie G?” she asked.
I looked up at her. A waitress in the Horseshoe’s coffee shop and she looked like she should be a showgirl—but considering how many showgirls had shown up dead lately, maybe she was better off where she was.
“That’s right.”
“Um, the big man at the counter? He says you’re payin’ for his breakfast?”
“He’s right.”
“Mister,” she said, “he ordered two dozen pancakes.”
I turned and looked at Jerry, who was staring into a mug of coffee. As if he felt my eyes on him he turned his head and looked over, his face expressionless.
“So give him his pancakes,” I said.
She shrugged and said, “Okay.” She turned and nodded to the man behind the counter, then looked at us. “You boys ready to order?”
“Yeah,” Danny said. “Pancakes sound good but I’ll just have a stack.”
I ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, home fries, toast, juice and coffee.
“Two dozen pancakes,” Danny said as she walked away. “This I gotta see.”
“Danny,” I said, “tell me you found somethin’ for me, because I’d hate to have to rely on Mike Borraco.”
“That weasel?” he asked. “He’s scammin’ you, Eddie, if he says he can get you somethin’.”
“Probably,” I said. “I just have him looking for Unlucky Lou Terazzo.”
“You and the cops,” Danny said. “What did you get yourself into, pal?”
“The cops talked to you?”
Danny nodded.
“A dick named Sam Hargrove. I know him, and he knows we’re friends.”
“What’d he ask you?”
“Wanted to know if you were violent,” Danny said. “Have you ever beat up any women? Did you have somethin’ against showgirls.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“‘No, no and no,’”he quoted. “Those words, exactly. So what’d you walk into, bub?”
“Danny, I don’t know. I went lookin’ for Lou Terazzo just to see if he might know somethin’ about the two goons who worked me over.”
“Why Lou?”
I shrugged. “I just figured they were members of the same fraternity, you know?”
“And?”
“And I never found him. Instead, I get put onto a showgirl named Carla and while I’m lookin’ for her I find her dead roommate.”
“And now she’s dead, too.”
“That’s what Hargrove and his partner told me last night.”
“What does this have to do with Dean Martin?”
“Fuck if I know,” I said. “Nothin’, probably.”
“You mean this is all a coincidence?”
“It’s got to be.”
He sat back in his chair and stared at me.
“What?”
“I hate coincidences, Eddie. You know how I hate coincidences.”
“What else could it be?” I asked. “I just happen to go looking for Lou Terazzo, and he’s involved with the threats on Dean Martin? Isn’t that a coincidence, too?”
“Those two girls got killed for some reason.”
“That’s got nothin’ to do with me or the Rat Pack,” I insisted.
“So you’re still lookin’ into this for Sinatra and Dino?”
“I gave my word.”
I’d given a lot of thought to quittin’, but the truth was I didn’t want either Sinatra or Dino to think badly of me, or even Entratter. It might have been an ego thing, but there it was. I couldn’t quit.
The waitress came with our breakfast and set it all down. Danny was lookin’ past me, so I turned and saw that Jerry had started in on his two dozen pancakes.
“Maybe he needs a shovel,” Danny said to the waitress.
She laughed and walked away.
“Danny …”
He dumped some butter and syrup on his cakes and said, “I’ve got nothin’ on Ravisi or Davis, Eddie. They’ve disappeared.”
“What about who they were workin’ for?”
“They’ll work for anybody who can run two dollars together.”
“What about big boys like Costello or Giancana?”
“Why would they give work to bums like that,” Danny said, “when they’ve got Man Mountain Jerry, over there? By the way, what’s his last name?”
“Epstein.”
“A Jew? Maybe he works for Lansky?”
“He says he’s from New York, where he works for Giancana. Now he works for Frank.”
“Mo Mo sent Frank one of his boys? Guess they’re as close as everybody says, huh?”
“I don’t care,” I said. “Frank can be friends with anybody he wants.”
“They say the mob got him
From Here
to
Eternity.”
“What’s the difference?” I asked. “He made the most of it, didn’t he? Got his career back on track?”
Danny shrugged around a mouthful of pancakes. He had a
smudge of syrup on one corner of his mouth. I piled some eggs and bacon onto a piece of toast and shoved it into my mouth.
“If they bought him the movie, they coulda bought him the Oscar, too.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but they can’t sing for him. He does that on his own.”
“I hear he’s pushin’ for Kennedy,” Danny said. “That’s some triangle, huh? Frank, Mo Mo and JFK?”
“We’re gettin’ off the subject, Danny.”
“Okay, okay,” Danny said. “I’ll keep lookin’ for these guys. I don’t think we’re gonna find out who they’re workin’ for until we actually meet them face to face.”
“What if they’re in a hole in the desert somewhere?” I asked.
“You better hope they ain’t,” he said, licking the syrup off his lip. “They sound like your only lead.”
BOOK: Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime
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