I'm a Fool to Kill You (10 page)

‘Come on in, Jerry. It's good to see you, big guy.'

‘Good to see you, too, Mr G.,' he said, pumping my hand. ‘I was surprised when Mr S. said I had to come out to L.A. I thought you'd had enough of this place since Miss Monroe died.'

‘Yeah, I did,' I said, ‘but something came up. Did Frank tell you what's going on?'

‘Nope. Just told me to get here. Said you was staying here with some broad named Lucy Johnson.'

‘Well, Jerry,' I said, walking him to the table where Ava was sitting in her silk robe, ‘meet Lucy Johnson.'

‘Pleased ta meet ya, Miss Johnson. Jeez, you sure look a lot like that broad who was in that movie – the one in the jungle with Clark Gable?'

‘
Mogambo
,' I said.

‘Yeah, right,' Jerry said. ‘That's it. Ya look like . . . Ava Gardner!'

‘Really?' Ava asked, playfully. ‘Don't you think I'm prettier than her?'

‘Uh, well . . .' Jerry looked at me for help. He wasn't very good talking to women, unless they were waitresses or whores. ‘. . . sure, sure, you are . . . Mr G.?'

‘Jerry,' I said, ‘this is Ava Gardner.'

Jerry gaped at me, then at her.

‘You was playin' games with me,' he said to her, finally.

‘Yes, I was,' she said, ‘and I'm sorry, Jerry.' She stood up and Jerry averted his eyes because the flimsy robe was clinging to her. ‘Eddie, I'll go get dressed and you can talk to Jerry.'

‘OK, Ava.'

We both watched her walk to the bedroom door, closing it behind her.

‘Jesus, Mr G.,' Jerry said, ‘are you nuts? You shackin' up with Mr S.'s wife?'

‘Ex-wife,' I said, ‘and it's not what you think. Frank sent me here. Frank sent me to help Ava. She's in some kind of trouble.'

‘Mr S. knows you're here with her?'

‘Well, he sent you here, didn't he?'

‘Uh, yeah, I guess he did.'

‘Sit down, Jerry,' I said. ‘Let me fill you in . . .'

TWENTY-SIX

I
f I'd had my pick of somebody to watch over Ava I would have picked Jerry Epstein, my big leg-breaker buddy from Brooklyn. He'd had my back in most of the things I've done for Frank, Dean and Sammy. It just didn't occur to me to call him out to L.A. for this. I was glad Frank had thought of it. At least now I knew Ava would be safe when I went to the studio.

‘So, jeez, she can't remember forty hours?' Jerry said when I was done.

‘It might come back to her,' I said, ‘but meanwhile I'd like to find out what happened during that time. She's afraid she might have hurt somebody.'

‘Or killed 'em?'

‘Yeah, that, too.'

‘So whataya want me to do, Mr G.?'

‘Stay with Ava, keep her safe.'

‘From who?'

‘From anybody,' I said. ‘I don't want anyone in here, Jerry. Not even hotel personnel.' I added to what I had already told him that I didn't think we could trust the manager or the desk clerk.

‘One of them gave me up,' I said, ‘and the cab driver caught my beatin'.'

‘So nobody in?' he asked. ‘And nobody out?'

‘Out? Ava won't go out. You don't have to worry about that.'

‘Can I—' he started, then stopped.

‘What?'

‘Can I order something from room service?' he asked. ‘I'm pretty hungry.'

‘Sure, Jerry,' I said. ‘Order anything you want. All the pancakes you want.'

‘Thanks, Mr G. Food any good here?'

‘Not great, but I've only tried the steak and hamburger platter.'

‘OK, then,' he said. ‘I'll get some pancakes, maybe some bacon. And coffee. Think Miss Gardner would want anything?'

‘Ask her,' I said.

‘I can . . . talk to her?'

‘Sure, Jerry,' I said. ‘She talks.'

‘Mr G., this ain't gonna be like Miss Monroe, is it?' he asked.

‘What do you mean?'

‘You know, how she got to be like . . . a sister? You pretty much ruined her for me, ya know?'

‘That's not gonna be a problem this time, Jerry,' I said. ‘Trust me. Ava Gardner's not your little sister.'

‘Good,' he said.

‘What's going on?' Ava asked, coming out of the bedroom. She was wearing a tight skirt and a chunky sweater. The combination sort of said ‘look, but don't look'.

‘Ava, Jerry's gonna stay with you. You can trust him like you'd trust me.'

‘I just met you yesterday, Eddie,' she reminded me.

‘I know,' I said, ‘but Frank vouched for me, and I vouch for Jerry. He's got a big appetite, though. You gotta feed him to keep him happy.'

‘He looks like he'd take some feeding.'

‘Just a couple of dozen pancakes,' I said.

‘Are you kidding?'

‘Watch him,' I said. ‘Meanwhile, I'm gonna go over to the studio and find out if anyone's lookin' for you.'

‘And if they're not?'

‘That'll be good news.'

‘Will it?' she asked.

‘It's always good news if the cops ain't lookin' for ya, Miss Gardner.'

‘Just call me Ava, Jerry,' she said.

Jerry looked away and said, ‘I can't do that, Miss Gardner. Mr G.'ll tell ya that.'

‘Mr G?' Ava said, looking at me. ‘Is he for fuckin' real?'

‘Can't get him to call me Eddie,' I said. ‘Been trying for a couple of years. Yep, Jerry's for real. What you see is what you get, pretty much.'

‘OK,' she said, ‘then call me Miss G. . . . no, you call Eddie Mr G.. It would get confusing. Call me . . . Miss Ava. OK, Jerry?'

‘I could do that, Miss Gar — Miss Ava.' He smiled like a lovesick kid.

A big kid.

Jerry walked me out to Larry's cab. I had Ava's bloody clothes wrapped in the towel under my arm.

‘Not as good as your Caddy, Mr G,' Jerry said, looking disappointed.

‘No, but it'll get me where I want to go. I'll give it back to Larry when he gets out.'

‘When'll that be?'

‘Probably a week or so. But I'll probably give it back to him sooner. I want to get Ava to Vegas.'

‘Gonna fly?'

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘Maybe we'll rent a car and drive.'

‘I liked that drive last time,' he said.

‘Yup, but that was in the Caddy,' I reminded him.

I opened the door to the cab to get in.

‘Can I ask ya a question, Mr G.?'

‘Sure, Jerry.'

‘You said the cabbie got beat up because he picked up a call for you?'

‘Right.'

‘Well, somebody musta been watchin', and heard him pick up the call, figured he was you, right? Which meant they was lookin' for ya?'

‘Right.'

‘So how'd they know you was here?' Jerry asked.

‘I'm figuring either the desk clerk or manager gave me up.'

‘So you told them your name when you got here?'

I thought for a moment, then looked at him and said, ‘Jerry, did you know you're a genius?'

‘I ain't no genius, Mr G.,' he said. ‘I just sometimes know what questions ta ask.'

TWENTY-SEVEN

J
ust like in the movies I had to drive through a big front gate with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer above it, which meant I had to talk to a portly uniformed guard. Before going there, though, I had found an out of the way garbage dumpster to stash the towel and clothes. There was no reason anyone would look for it there, and if anyone found it they couldn't connect it to Ava.

‘Who you here to see?' the guard asked.

‘Louis B. Mayer,' I said, even though I knew he had died in 1957.

‘Sorry, you're out of luck,' the man said. ‘He's dead.'

‘So who's in charge?'

The guard must have been having a bad day – or week, or life – because he was ready to bitch to anyone who'd listen.

‘You know, that's a good question,' he said. ‘Right now this place has got a lot of Indians and no Chief, if you know what I mean.'

‘Hard times?' I asked.

‘Hard? There are more cartoons and TV shows comin' out of here than movies,' the guard said. ‘MGM ain't what it used to be, pal.'

‘Well, I need to talk to somebody about Ava Gardner.'

‘What about Miss Gardner?'

‘Frank Sinatra sent me to talk to somebody about Ava Gardner.'

The man stared at me for a minute, then asked, ‘You serious?'

‘I am.'

He stared some more. ‘Wait here.'

‘Sure.'

He stepped into his booth and made a phone call. Then leaned out the booth.

‘Hey, what's your name?'

‘Eddie Gianelli, from Las Vegas.'

‘Where in Vegas?'

‘The Sands.'

He went back inside, spoke into the phone some more, listened, then hung up and came back out.

‘Pull inside and park there,' he said, pointing to some parking spots.

‘OK.'

‘Somebody'll be along to take you inside.'

‘Thanks.'

He gave me a short salute, prepared to turn his attention to the next car.

I pulled into one of the parking spots he'd pointed to and waited. Lots of MGM's talent spent time in Las Vegas. I wondered if I'd see anybody I knew?

I had my head back and my eyes closed when somebody knocked on the window. I looked up at a grim, striking face dominated by nose and chin. I opened the door and stepped out.

‘What the hell,' George C. Scott said, ‘I thought that was you, Eddie.'

‘George,' I said, grabbing his hand. Scott had been to the Sands more than once, and we usually took good care of him. ‘How are ya?'

‘Not bad. What are you doin' here?'

I shrugged.

‘Gotta see a man about a debt.' It was a good enough story. ‘How about you. New movie?'

‘TV,' he said, a little sheepishly.

‘You're kiddin'.'

‘I know,' he said. ‘A show called
East Side, West Side
. What are you gonna do? Everybody needs work, right? At least I get to work with a babe. She's a tall drink of water named Barbara Feldon.'

‘The one that does the commercial in the tiger suit?'

‘The same.'

‘Yeah, not a bad gig, I guess.'

‘Ah,' Scott said, ‘it won't last, but it'll keep me busy for a year or so. MGM ain't what it used to be.'

‘So I heard.'

‘Are you Mr Gianelli?' a voice asked.

I looked at a man with a pencil thin mustache, black hair that came to a widow's peak, and piercing blue eyes. His mouth was a thin, straight line. I rolled the window down.

‘That's right.'

‘What are you doing driving a cab?'

‘Tryin' to make some extra money?' I asked. He didn't enjoy the joke. ‘I borrowed it. I needed a set of wheels.'

‘I gotta go, Eddie,' Scott said. ‘Nice seein' you.'

We shook hands and he moved off. The other man didn't seem impressed. Then again, he worked there.

‘You got some I.D.?'

I gave him my driver's license. He looked at it then gave it back.

‘OK,' he said, ‘come with me.'

I rolled the window back up, got out and closed the door behind me.

‘What's your name?' I asked.

‘Vargas,' he said.

‘What do you do, Mr Vargas?'

‘I talk to strangers who want to talk to the man in charge,' he said. ‘Once you talk to me, I'll decide if you get to talk to him.'

I thought that over and then said, ‘That sounds fair.'

‘I'm glad,' he said. ‘Follow me.'

TWENTY-EIGHT

W
e walked across the parking lot to a two-story building with lots of doors in it. Apparently, it had been broken up into many small office spaces.

‘This is where all the writers used to work when we had them under contract,' he told me. ‘William Faulkner wrote in here.'

He opened a door and we stepped into a small office sparely furnished with a desk, two chairs and a file cabinet.

‘You mentioned some big names to the guard,' Vargas said, seating himself behind the desk. ‘Why should we believe that you have any connection to Frank Sinatra or Ava Gardner?'

‘Come on, Mr Vargas,' I said. ‘I had time to take a little nap in the cab. That means you spent that time checking me out.'

Vargas stared at me.

‘Look, I know things are in an upheaval around here, and I'm not lookin' to take up your time. I just need to ask somebody a question.'

‘What kind of question?'

‘About Ava Gardner.'

‘We haven't had anything to do with her since nineteen sixty.'

‘But there are people who don't know that,' I said. ‘If somebody was interested in talking to her they'd most likely come here.'

‘What's your question, Mr Gianelli?' he asked.

I was thinking the only reason I hadn't been kicked out was because Vargas had probably talked to Jack Entratter at the Sands. Also, Vargas knew who owned the Sands. He wasn't exactly being polite to me, but he was giving me more time than he normally would have.

‘Has anyone been askin' about Ava Gardner lately?' I asked.

‘Asking about her . . . how?'