You're nobody 'til somebody kills you rp-4 Read online

  You're nobody 'til somebody kills you

  ( Rat Pack - 4 )

  Robert J. Randisi

  Robert J. Randisi

  You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Kills You

  Prologue

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Spring 2003

  I like the Flamingo, and the Riv. Along with the Golden Nugget, Binions and a few other places, they’re the last vestiges of my Las Vegas-the Las Vegas of Frank and Dean and Sammy. Now it’s the Vegas of Howie Mandel, Siegfried and Roy and Danny Gans-talented, yes. The Rat Pack? Hardly.

  I had a meeting at the Riviera that day. Some kid journalist wanted an interview about the old days, and when anybody wanted to talk about the old days they came to Eddie G.

  “Hey, Eddie,” a blackjack dealer shouted as I walked by, “how the hell are ya, man?”

  “Good, good.” I didn’t know his name, but I knew the face. It made an old man feel good when the youngsters working Vegas recognized me.

  I went past the bar, and it’s, “Hey, Eddie, have a drink, man.” Past the pit and they said, “Mr. Gianelli,” respectfully, because I made the pit what it is today. And when a waitress stopped to kiss my cheek, let me smell her perfume and breathed, “Hey, Eddie,” into my ear-well, I ain’t dead, ya know. I popped wood-or what passes for wood when you’re eighty-two.

  Just like me the hip life has passed the Riviera by, but I still liked it. I told the journalist to meet me in Kady’s coffee shop at 8:00 A.M. Me, I don’t sleep so much, anymore. I’m usually up around five or six, and Kady’s is a twenty-four-hour joint.

  I stopped in the doorway, looked around. There were a few customers. Some had just gotten up, others hadn’t been to bed yet. But they all had the same look in their eyes. Tired.

  Except for one. A young girl who seemed wide-awake and eager. I was looking for a writer named J.T. Kerouac. A friend of mine had set it up, but if the writer was a girl he would’ve mentioned it. Unless he figured it would be funny.

  The girl jumped up out of her booth when she saw me and hurried over.

  “Mr. Gianelli?” she asked, all excited.

  “Eddie G,” I said. “Everybody calls me Eddie G.”

  “Eddie, I’m so happy to meet you,” she said. “I’m J.T. Kerouac. No relation.”

  “I knew Jack,” I said. “Well, I met him. I wouldn’t say I knew him.”

  “Wow,” she gushed. “See, that’s why I wanted to interview you. You’re a legend in Vegas. They say that Eddie G knew everybody.”

  “How old are you, Kerouac?”

  “Twenty-four,” she said, with a grin. “I know, I look younger. It’s the freckles-but they go with my red hair. Nothing I can do about it. I really am a writer, though. Want to see my ID?”

  I hesitated, then said, “Okay, Kerouac. Let’s have some coffee.”

  We walked to her booth. The table was covered with papers and a lined pad. There was also a laptop computer, and books-about half a dozen, some hardback, some paper-all having to do with the Rat Pack, with Frank and Dean, and one on Marilyn Monroe.

  She sat down and I slid across from her.

  The waitress came over and said, “Hi, Eddie. It’s good ta see you. How ya doin’?”

  “Good, Melina, real good.”

  “This gonna be separate checks?”

  “No,” I said, “I’ll take care of it-”

  “No, no, I invited you,” J.T. said. “It’s on me.”

  “I’ll start with coffee, Melina.”

  “Sure thing, Eddie.

  “I’m sensing a theme,” I said, gesturing toward the books.

  “Oh, these? I’m working on a documentary. I’m a writer, and a filmmaker. When I’m making a film I’m also the director and the producer.”

  “Not the camera … woman?”

  “I have a cameraman, actually,” she said, “and a soundman.”

  “And what’s the documentary about?”

  “The Rat Pack, and their women. And I don’t only mean their girlfriends and wives. I mean women who were fringe Rat Packers … sort of …”

  “And what am I here to be interviewed about?”

  “Old Las Vegas,” she said. “Vegas has been turned into a huge theme park.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I’m going to write about the way it used to be, and nobody knows more about that than you.”

  “And that’s what you need me for today?”

  “No, today I’m working on a piece for Las Vegas Magazine.”

  “And who are you making the documentary for?”

  “Well … for me. I’m hoping to place it with one of the cable stations-HBO, maybe A amp;E, or even Bravo.”

  “How’s it going?”

  She had been typing on the laptop while talking. Now she stopped, sat back and looked at me.

  “Actually, it’s not going very well.”

  “Why not?”

  She touched the book on Marilyn. I saw the name Spoto on the spine.

  “Everything I’ve found on Marilyn seems to be old news,” she said. “I have some stuff on Angie Dickinson, and Shirley MacLaine, even Ruta Lee.”

  “There should be more on Marilyn Monroe than on those women combined,” I said.

  “Oh, there is,” she said, “but it’s all been done before. Over and over. I need something new, and I just can’t find it.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table. Even Eddie G wants to impress a pretty young girl. It had been awhile since somebody like J.T. had looked at me with such admiration.

  “What?” she asked. “What’s going on, Mr. Gianelli?”

  “Eddie,” I said, “call me Eddie.”

  “What’s on your mind, Eddie?”

  “Old Vegas,” I said, “and Marilyn.”

  “Did you know Marilyn, Eddie?” she asked, leaning forward.

  “Yep.”

  “Well?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Don’t play games, Eddie,” she said. “This documentary is important to me. If you can help me-”

  “Breakfast,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I need some more coffee, and some breakfast,” I told her.

  She worried her pretty lower lip, then said, “And then what?”

  “And then I have a story to tell,” I said, “about old Las Vegas, and Marilyn …”

  One

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Sunday, January 21, 1962

  Dean Martin said, “Twenty-two, pay the lady!”

  The crowd erupted into applause as Dino paid off the beautiful brunette, who probably wasn’t even legally old enough to gamble. That’s not my department, though. Once they’re in, they’re in.

  Only Dino could get away with paying a gambler when they actually busted the hand. Immediately afterward he spread his hands and backed away, giving the regular dealer back his table. Then he walked over to me with a big grin on his handsome face.

  “Eddie, my man! I came lookin’ for you.”

  We shook hands warmly.

  “Been a few months,” I said.

  “Well, I’m back,” he said. “Actually, we’re back. Three of us, anyway.”

  I knew that Frank, Dean and Sammy were booked into the Sands for one night, on the twenty-third. I had expected a call from one of them, but didn’t think Dean would come looking for me in my pit.

  “Can you get off so we can have a drink?”

  When it came to Frank, Dean or Sammy I could pretty much walk off the floor anytime I wanted to. My boss, Jack Entratter, — like the power to pay off on twenty-two.

  “Just gotta get somebody to fill in,” I said. “How about we meet
in the Silver Queen in ten minutes?”

  Dean’s smile broadened. “I’ll be waitin’, pally.”

  I got to the Silver Queen lounge in eight minutes. Dean was sitting at the bar talking to the bartender. Folks seated at the tables were pointing at him and talking excitedly to each other, but no one approached him. At the moment there was no one performing.

  I approached the bar and Dean turned, gave me that famous smile again. He had a cigarette in one hand, and a partially finished drink in the other. Dean always had a drink and a cigarette on stage, but I knew the whole drink thing was a put-up job for the “Clydes” in the audience. In fact, I’d been on the set of Sergeants 3 the previous summer to shoot a couple of scenes the guys had cast me in for fun, and I never saw Dean drunk the whole time. Ruta Lee, the leading lady of the film, had been quoted saying the same thing. She also complained that the guys treated her like a little sister. Well, everybody but me. Ruta Lee was quite a dish.

  But Dean’s smoking, that was for real. In fact, Dean, Frank and Sammy-who all made their living with their voices-were heavy smokers.

  “Bourbon, Eddie?”

  “You know it.” Now my drinking, that was for real, too.

  He turned to the bartender, Lew, who nodded and gave me a wave. I took the seat next to Dean.

  “Kind of odd for you to come in this early for a one-night show,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “Frank and Sammy will be in tomorrow. They want you to have dinner with us.”

  “Be my pleasure.” Lew set my drink down. “I saw Sammy here a couple of months ago, and Joey last month. I haven’t seen Frank since Tahoe.”

  “I remember,” he said. “Seems like we always come to you when we’re in trouble, Eddie.”

  “What are friends for?”

  “Well,” he said, “we should be your friends even when we’re not in trouble.”

  “I’m invited to dinner tomorrow night, right?” I asked. “I don’t guess that’s because all three of you are in trouble.”

  “No, it’s because all three of us like you, Eddie,” Dean said, “and we wouldn’t come to Vegas without seein’ you.”

  “I appreciate that, Dean,” I said. “And I understand it.” I sipped my drink. “So, tomorrow that’s just for pleasure. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “And tonight’s for …”

  “You’re a smart man, Eddie.”

  “Sometimes I think so, too,” I said.

  “It isn’t one of us who has a problem this time,” Dean said. “It’s a friend.”

  “A good friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “A … girl?”

  “It’s not what you think,” Dean said. “I’ve known this lady for a long time. She’s kind of … delicate. When she came to me with her problem I knew you were the man to help her. You know how to keep a low profile.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “that’s something you guys aren’t so good at.”

  Dean smiled.

  “Never been high on any of our lists, I guess.”

  “Okay,” I said, “so when do I meet the lady?”

  “How’s tomorrow sound?” he asked. “We can take a ride to Tahoe in the morning.”

  “Tahoe? Why there?”

  “Vegas makes her nervous. She’s staying at the Cal Neva as Frank’s guest.”

  “Is this somebody equally as high-profile as you guys?”

  Dean raised his glass and asked, “Why ruin the surprise, pally?”

  Two

  I was back in my pit ten minutes when Jack Entratter approached.

  “Jack,” I said, as he reached me, “what are you doing around so late?”

  “What’s late?” he said, shrugging his shoulders, adjusting his jacket. “I’m here all the time, Eddie, you know that.”

  He was, and he wasn’t. Jack was around whenever he wanted to be. He had a house, but he also had a room in the hotel. In fact, his mother had a room, too.

  But he was on the floor, and at my pit, and it was almost midnight. This was not normal.

  “Listen,” he said, “Frank, Dean and Sammy will be here tomorrow. They want you to have dinner with them tomorrow night. That ain’t a problem, is it?”

  “No, Jack,” I said, “that’s not a problem.”

  “Good,” he said, “good, Eddie.” He patted me on the shoulder. Now, that was unusual.

  “Anything else, Jack?”

  Jack hesitated. Something was on his mind, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to bring it up.

  “Well … my nephew’s comin’ to town,” he said. “Richard. You’ve never met him.”

  “No, I haven’t.” I hadn’t even known Jack had a nephew.

  “Yeah, well … you’ll get your chance. I want to show the kid a good time.”

  “What’s the kid’s game? Or do you want a girl-”

  “No, no,” Jack said, “nothin’ like that, Eddie. He’s a good kid. Not old enough to gamble, and my sister would kill me if I fixed him up … you know.”

  “Oh, I get it, Jack.”

  “Yeah.” He looked around, shrugged his shoulders again. “I ain’t really that sure how to entertain him, ya know?”

  “There’s a lot to do in Vegas, Jack,” I said. “I’ll get him a ticket for the show.”

  “That’ll be good,” he said. “My sister, she loves Frank.”

  I didn’t want to say that his nephew might like somebody like Paul Anka, or Fabian, better.

  “Uh, Jack, I’m going to need the chopper tomorrow morning, and some time off.”

  “Time off? For what?”

  “Dean wants to go to Tahoe.”

  “You saw Dino?”

  “Tonight,” I said. “He dealt some blackjack, and then we had a drink.”

  “He’s here early,” Jack said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well … his suite’s always waitin’ for him.”

  “I know that.”

  “What’s he want to go to Tahoe for?”

  “I’m not really sure.”

  “Okay,” he said, scratching his cheek, “okay, yeah, sure, take ‘im to Tahoe. Let him do what he wants to do.”

  “Sure, Jack.”

  Jack looked around, didn’t seem like he wanted to walk away.

  “Hey, boss, what’s goin’ on?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You’re … distracted.”

  “Yeah, well,” he said, “I’ve been talkin’ to my sister, and my mother … Richard gets in tomorrow morning. I gotta pick him up at the airport …”

  “Did you want me to pick him up?” I asked. “Was that what you were gonna ask me?”

  “Naw, naw, Eddie,” he said, “I wouldn’t ask ya to do that. You ain’t a chauffeur. Besides, my sister and my mother would both have my ass if I didn’t pick him up myself.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to get them mad at me.”

  “No, believe me,” he said, “you wouldn’t. I’m gonna take a walk around the place, Eddie. When do you get off?”

  “Three.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then-stop in whenever you get back from Tahoe. I’d like to know what’s goin’ on.”

  “Sure, Jack.”

  “See ya, Eddie.”

  “Later, boss.”

  I watched him as he wandered around the room. He stopped and spoke to some of the players, didn’t talk to any of the other employees he came across, except for a pretty waitress. Jack liked to keep the Sands stocked with waitresses, hatcheck girls and cigarette girls who looked like they belonged on stage.

  Once Jack left the casino floor I relaxed a bit and was able to go back to work. Kind of. I guess I was also wondering what Dean wanted to show me in Tahoe.

  Or who.

  Three

  Dean had made the arrangements for a car to pick us up early the next morning and take us to the airfield. The chopper pilot was the same one who had flown me to Reno and Tahoe several times the previous year when I was trying, at Frank’s request,
to help Sammy out of a jam. I had been successful, and had not seen the pilot since then.

  He greeted us in a friendly manner, as if he had known us both a long time, calling us “gents,” and showing no surprise or awe that one of his passengers was Dean Martin.

  In the chopper Dean told me that Frank had almost finished his refurbishment of the Cal Neva, but would not be there when we arrived.

  “He’s flying into Vegas later today from Palm Springs. He’s still getting the guesthouse ready for JFK to stay there in March.”

  “Is that gonna happen?” I asked Dean.

  “Between you and me,” Dean said, “I wouldn’t hold my breath. JFK’s people are not gonna stand for it. Frank’s in for a big surprise.”

  “Have you tried to tell him?”

  “Once,” Dean said. “He insists that he and Jack are friends. He’s gonna have to find out for himself-and I hope I’m not around when he does. He’s even putting in a helipad.”

  “Man, that’s gotta be expensive.”

  “The whole project is costing Frank a fortune.”

  At that point we were both tired of shouting over the noise of the rotating blades so we put our conversation on hold until we were on the ground.

  There was a car waiting to take us to the Cal Neva. It sure didn’t look to me like the work was almost done, but then what did I know about construction? The cabins in the back were still there. One was Frank’s, one was for his buddies when they came to town-that was the one I’d stayed in last year-and the other was for Frank’s, uh, lady friends. Years later the press would label Shirley MacLaine, Angie Dickinson and Ruta Lee Lady Rat Packers. I was always careful not to say Rat Pack around Frank. He didn’t like the name. He always referred to him and his buddies as “the Clan,” and their shows at the Sands as “the Summit.” It was the newspapers that dubbed them the “Rat Pack.”

  Anyway, I assumed-when the car pulled to a stop in front of cabin number three-that one of Frank and Dino’s lady pals needed help. I was kind of hoping it would be Angie Dickinson, but for selfish reasons. I had always had a thing for her, and meeting her had only strengthened the feeling.