Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime (2 page)

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Authors: Robert J. Randisi

BOOK: Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime
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I
WAS ONLY BACK at my pit half an hour when one of the other pit bosses, Richie Castellani, came over and whispered in my ear, “Boss wants you, G. Now.”
The boss was Jack Entratter, who had left his job as assistant manager and bouncer at the Copacabana in New York to come to Vegas to run the Sands Hotel and Casino for Frank Costeilo—or so the story goes. All of the entertainers who went through the Copa while Jack was there had come to love him, so not only had Frank, Dean, Sammy and the others made the Sands their place in Las Vegas but others, too, like Lena Horne, Nat King Cole, Milton Berle, Danny Thomas, Tony Bennett and Dean’s old partner, Jerry Lewis.
Richie stepped into the pit and I left and headed for Jack’s office. I knew what this was about. Entratter and Sinatra were friends, and Frank was a two-percent owner in the casino; I had the feeling Joey Bishop had gone over my head.
I knocked on Entratter’s door and he shouted, “Come in!”
If Entratter was really running the Sands for Costello, he was the perfect choice. He wasn’t Italian, and nobody would ever take him for one. Jack was six three or four, a hulking brute of a man who had been left bandy-legged by the childhood disease osteomyelitis. As a twenty-six year old in 1940 he had signed on as bouncer at the Copa
and over the next twelve years had moved up to assistant manager without giving up his bouncer job. At thirty-eight he had left the Copa to take over the newest casino in Vegas, the Sands. Now Jack was forty-six and ruled the Sands with an iron hand, but he was even better known as a showman. There were times he even got up on stage with the Pack. I envied him that. I was a shower singer who dreamed about being on stage.
He was sitting behind his desk, alone in the office, when I entered. His suit was sharp, but it lost some of its edges because it was on Entratter’s body. His tie was askew and his shoulders were threatening his seams.
“What the hell are you tryin’ to do to me?” he demanded.
“Boss?”
“Who’s my best friend in the world?”
Well, the answer to that varied from week to week, but I knew what he wanted to hear.
“Frank Sinatra.”
“You bet your ass, Frank Sinatra,” he growled. “So when my best friend in the world asks you for help, what do you tell him? You tell him no.”
“Well, uh, I told Joey I’d like to take a pass,” I tried to explain. “I never did talk to Mr. Sinatra—”
“Don’t you think you should?” Entratter asked. “I mean, before you take a pass shouldn’t you find out what you’re takin’ a pass from?” He made it sound like the most reasonable request in the world.
“Jack, I—”
“You work for me, don’t ya, Eddie?”
“Well, yeah, Jack, I do, but—”
“So if I ordered you to talk to Frank you would, right?”
“I, uh, well, sure—”
“But I ain’t gonna do that.”
“You’re not?”
“Siddown, Eddie.”
I sat across from him.
“You’re from New York, right?” He knew that, but I answered the question, anyway.
“That’s right. Brooklyn.”
“I never saw you at the Copa.”
“I never went,” I said. “It was more than I could afford back then.”
“Yeah, it was kinda expensive.”
For a moment Entratter retreated a dozen or so years inside his head, then shook off the reverie and looked at me again. “I ain’t gonna order you to talk to Frank, kid.” He called me “kid” a lot, even though he was only about six years older than I was.
“I appreciate that, Jack—”
“I’m gonna ask ya to do it as a favor to me, Eddie,” he went on, cutting me off. “Go and talk to him, see what he wants. If you can help him, help him. If not …” he shrugged.
I owed Entratter a lot and he knew it. That’s why he was asking me instead of telling me.
“You’re the man here in Vegas,” Jack said, then. “You know everybody there is to know in this town. You got it wired. Hookers, pimps, valets, doormen, high rollers and bums, you know ’em all. If anybody can help Frank it’s Eddie G—”
“Okay, Jack, okay,” I said. “Geez, enough. A guy can only take so much stroking. I get the picture. I’m your man.”
“Great!’ Jack said, clapping his big hands together.”Joey’s down in the casino waitin’ for you.”
“You knew I’d say yes?”
“If ya hadn’t,” Jack said, “I woulda ordered ya to. But I knew I could count on you, kid. Now get out. I got work to do.”
I headed for the door, but never made it.
“Eddie.”
“Yeah, Boss.” I turned to face him with my back to the door.
“I’m curious,” he said. “Why’d you refuse in the first place?”
“Like I said,” I replied, “I’m from Brooklyn.”
“So?”
“Frank’s from Jersey.” I made a face.
“Get out!”
I left Jack’s office and made my way back to the casino floor. Joey was seated at an empty blackjack table, waiting for me. As I approached him he stood up, his face expressionless.
“Steam room?” I asked.
“Steam room,” he said.
T
HE STEAM ROOM was in the bowels of the Sands. Since it was so exclusive—just the Rat Pack and their close friends—I half expected there to be a guard on duty. According to Jack Entratter I was “the man,” but I’d never been down there before.
When we got there I spotted some robes hanging on the wall. On the backs were written the names “Smokey,” “The Needler,” “The Dago” and “Charlie the Seal.” There was an empty peg, which I assumed would hold Frank’s robe, but hanging on it at the moment was a shoulder holster.
“Charlie the Seal?’ I asked.
“That’s Peter,” Joey explained. “He has a smoker’s cough.”
“The Needler has to be you.”
“Correct.”
“The Dago is Dean; Smokey is Sammy?”
“Right,” Joey said, “because Sammy smokes.”
“Right. And what does Frank have on the back of his robe?”
“What else? ‘The Leader.’”
“And who gave out the names?”
“Frank.”
“Figures.”
Joey walked to the robes on the wall and took down “The Dago.”
“This looks like your size.”
“I—I can’t wear Dean Martin’s robe,” I said.
“Wrong,” Joey said. “You can’t wear mine or Sammy’s because they’d be too short.”
“But—Dean Martin?” Joey didn’t know it—few people did—but I was a huge Dean Martin fan. In my opinion his level of cool was head-and-shoulders above the rest of the Rat Pack combined.
“Okay,” Joey said, with a shrug, “wear Peter’s.”
He started to put “The Dago” back on the wall and I said, “No wait … I’ll wear Dean’s.”
Joey smiled and handed me the robe.
“I’ll be upstairs,” he said. “Frank wants to talk to you alone. Think you can find your way back out?”
“I’m sure I can.”
“Then I’ll see you upstairs.”
As Joey left I undressed, put on Dean Martin’s robe and then approached the steam room door. I wasn’t sure what to do at that point, knock or just walk in. I hesitated, almost knocked, then figured, “What the hell,” and walked right in.
 
 
“Over here.”
In just two words the familiar voice made chills run up my spine. The Jersey accent was never very far removed. Being from New York I recognized even a hint of it. I’d been out of Brooklyn for twelve years and still hadn’t completely lost my accent.
The steam was kind of thick but I followed his voice and gradually he came into view.
The Leader.
The Chairman of the Board.
Sinatra.
Frank.
“Eddie Gianelli?”
“That’s right.”
Frank extended his hand. For a moment I wondered if I was supposed to kiss it, but in the end I just shook his hand. I was surprised
at how small it felt in mine. I was also surprised at how frail he looked, sitting there in his robe.
“How’s your bird?” This was Rat Pack-ese for “How are ya?” They were so cool they had their own language.
“Good, Frank. I’m good.”
“Have a seat.”
Rather than join him on the set of risers he was sitting on I climbed the ones adjacent to him. He was seated on the upper most level of his, so I chose to sit one from the top on my side. Later I realized it had been a kind of unwitting deference.
“First, thanks for coming.”
“No problem.” I was already sweating, probably from the steam.
“Here,” he said, tossing me a towel. “It’s clean.”
“Thanks.” I caught it and wiped my face. Okay, so maybe I was nervous.
“I see Joey gave you Dean’s robe.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I hope that’s okay. It’s the only one that fit.”
“Hey, it’s jake with me,” Frank said, “and I’m sure Dino won’t mind.”
I was kind of annoyed at my reaction to meeting him, being in the same room with him—the steam room. I was impressed, there was no denying it, but I’d once heard him refer to himself as just “a lounge singer.” That’s what he was, an entertainer. I mean, it wasn’t as if I was in the presence of Ike, or even Joe DiMaggio, for Chrissake.
But then again, he wasn’t just some entertainer, he was Frank Sinatra. By anyone’s standards, that was big. By Las Vegas standards, it was huge!
“I guess you’re wonderin’ why I asked you down here,” Frank said.
“Yeah, you could say I’m curious.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I guess you would be.”
Sinatra paused long enough to wipe his forehead on the towel he was wearing around his thin shoulders. His chest looked almost concave to me. I wondered if being on the big movie screen added weight, or bulk, or if it was just a matter of the image being so big.
“They call you Eddie G, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Eddie, I’m told you know a lot of people in Las Vegas.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“And I’m told you can get things done.”
“Well … you can get things done, Mr. Sinatra—”
“Oh no, Eddie,” Sinatra said, waving his forefinger at me, “no, no, no …” He pursed his lips, the way I’d seen him do in countless movies. “Not ‘Mr. Sinatra.’ Call me Frank.”
“Okay … Frank.”
“You’re from New York, aren’t ya?”
“Yes, Mr.—yeah, Frank, I’m from New York—Brooklyn, to be exact.”
“I didn’t catch the accent the first time we talked, but I got it now.”
“I’ve been away a while,” I said. “It comes and goes.”
“You don’t mind that I call you Eddie, do ya?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t mind.”
“Okay, Eddie,” Frank said, “I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
Frank frowned.
“‘Name it,’ means you’ll do it, no matter what I say. Did Jack tell you that you had to do what I asked?”
“As a matter of fact,” I answered, “what he said was he’d consider it a favor if I came and listened to what you had to say.”
“So you had a choice.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I could come and listen, or eat shit for a while before he forgave me.”
“Would he fire you?”
“Nah, he wouldn’t fire me,” I said, “I’m too good at my job, but he’d make me miserable for a while.”
“But he didn’t say that, exactly?”
“It was understood.”
“Well, understand this,” Frank said. “I’m gonna ask you a favor, and you’ve got a choice. You can say yes, or you can say no. No consequences. Understand?”
“Yes, sir—Frank.”
“So nothing’s ‘understood,’” Frank said. “Everything’s clear?”
I hesitated a moment, getting it straight in my head, then said, “Everything is clear.”
“Okay.” He wiped his forehead again, then leaned forward.
“
W
HAT’S THE FAVOR, Frank?” My curiosity was killing me, but I tried to appear cool. It wasn’t easy, though, since I was in a steam room with Mr. Cool, himself.
“A friend of mine has been receiving death threats,” Frank explained. “I want you to find out who’s sendin’ them.”
“You need a private detective for that, Frank, not me.”
“If that’s what you think, then you hire him,” Frank said, “but I want you takin’ care of this for me, Eddie. You pay the detective, and I’ll pay you.”
I figured this must be a pretty good friend of his if he was willing to foot the bill.
“Who recommended me for this?”
“Nobody recommended you for this specific job because I haven’t told anybody about it,” Frank said. “I haven’t even told you the whole story, yet. But Jack speaks very highly of you, and I asked around. Your name always comes up when I tell people I need something done in Vegas. ‘Get Eddie G,’ they say, so I got you. Now ask me the other question you wanna ask.”
“The other question?”
“The obvious one.”
“Oh,” I said, “who is this friend of yours whose life’s been threatened?”
Frank pointed at me.
“Me?”
“On your back, pally,” he said, and I realized he was pointing to the robe I was wearing. “The Dago.”
“Dean?” I asked. “Dean Martin is the man we’re talkin’ about?”
“That’s right,” he said, “Dino.”
“Why would somebody threaten Dean Martin’s life?” I asked.
“Who knows why a wacko does what he does?” Frank asked. “If they were threatenin’ Sammy I’d say it’s because he was black, or a Jew, or both. Joey? Maybe somebody don’t like his jokes. But Dean? He’s a pussycat. Everybody loves the guy.”
“Not everybody, I guess.”
“No, you’re right,” he said, “not everybody.” He leaned forward, put his hands on his bony knees. I always wondered what Ava Gardner saw in the guy, but let me tell you, up close, when you’re in the same room with him, he’s got something. It worked on women better than on men, but it was still there. Sex appeal. Charisma. Whatever you wanted to call it. It made women love him, and men want to be his friend.
“Look,” he said, “we’re filmin’ this picture here in town.”
“Right,
Ocean’s Eleven,”
I said. “Everybody knows about it.”
“Yeah, well that’s probably part of the problem. Too damn many people know about it. We got a three-week shoot on this thing, startin’ tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you put it off until you can find out who’s sendin’ the threats?” “Can’t,” Frank said, “it’d cost too much money.”
“Then why not give Dean some time off, shoot around him?” I asked. “You do that sometimes in the movies, right? Shoot around somebody?”
“Yeah we do it,” Frank said, “and I’ve suggested it to him, but he won’t have it. He’s not takin’ these threats serious enough.”
“But you are?”
“I’ve had death threats, pally,” Frank said, “and you don’t want to know who from. They’re no fun, and a lot of the times they’re serious.” He picked up a towel that was sitting on the riser next to him and I saw a .38 Smith & Wesson. He dropped the towel back down. Now I knew why there was a shoulder holster hanging on a peg outside. I wondered if the steam was bad for the gun. “I pack heat wherever I go now. And yeah, I got a license for it.”
“Why not go to the police?’
“Publicity,” Frank said. “I know, you’re thinking that there’s no bad publicity. If it was me I’d go to the cops and let it get out, but Dean’s a private person. He’s not like me. He doesn’t want to go to the police.”
“Does he know you’re talkin’ to me?”
“No,” Frank said. “If he knew he’d take my head off.”
“Well then, how can I help him?”
“You come to the show tonight,” Frank said. “Joey’ll give you tickets. Bring a dame. After the show Joey’ll take you to Dean’s suite. Once you’re there he won’t toss you out. He’s too much of a gentleman.”
“I get to meet Dean Martin?”
Frank regarded me with an amused look on his face.
“So you’re a fan?”
“Well … yeah …”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Frank said. “I’m a big fan of Dino’s, too. He’s the real deal. I may be a crooner, but he’s a singer. He’s got the pipes.”
I was surprised to hear Frank talk that way about somebody else.
As if reading my mind Frank said, “Does that surprise you, to hear me talk that way about Dean?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Hey, relax,” Frank said. “Dean doesn’t have a bigger fan than me. He’s so cool he doesn’t care about all this.” He waved his hands to encompass—I assumed—all of Las Vegas. “He’s only doin’ the
movie as a favor to me. That’s why I want to help him, why I want you to help him.”
“Frank,” I said, groping for the right words, “I’ll do what I can.”
It sounded lame to me, but apparently it was what Frank wanted to hear.
“Hey,” he said, “that’s all I’m askin’.”

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