It Was a Very Bad Year rp-7 Read online

  It Was a Very Bad Year

  ( Rat Pack - 7 )

  Robert J. Randisi

  Robert J. Randisi

  It Was a Very Bad Year

  ‘But now the days grow short,

  I’m in the autumn of the year. .’

  Lyrics by Ivor Arthur Davies

  PROLOGUE

  Las Vegas, May 12, 2006

  Let me tell you about being an octogenarian.

  You can’t do the things you used to do, at the ripe old age of eighty. You can’t eat the things you like, because now it’s all bad for you. And what you can eat that is good for you is either grey or green.

  The other thing is, you read the newspaper. Specifically, the obituaries. It’s always a good news/bad news thing. Good when your own name isn’t there, bad seeing all the familiar names.

  One name that caught my attention was Floyd Patterson. At twenty-one, Patterson was the youngest heavyweight title holder in history. At seventy-one, he had succumbed to Alzheimer’s disease and prostate cancer.

  ‘What’s the matter? You look like you just lost your last friend.’

  I looked up at Mark Hancock. Mark held in The Venetian Resort Hotel and Casino the job I once held in the Sands. The Venetian now stood where the Sands had existed until its implosion in 1996. That was one of the reasons I liked to take my breakfast there. It wasn’t the same place, but it was in the same place. If you get my meaning. I can’t explain it, but it was a comfort to me.

  Mark sat down across from me. He ran his hand over his black hair, shot through with grey. It was a habit he had acquired since turning fifty a couple of years ago. Mark had started to feel old. Maybe that’s why he liked having breakfast with me.

  What I wouldn’t give to be fifty again.

  ‘That’s not something you want to say to someone my age, Mark,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’ He signaled to the waitress for coffee, and snatched a menu from the table.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have lost a friend,’ I said. ‘Floyd Patterson died.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard that on the news,’ he said. Then: ‘Wait. You knew Floyd Patterson?’

  ‘You haven’t been listening to me,’ I said. ‘I knew everybody.’

  ‘Well, I know you knew everybody in the entertainment field,’ Mark said. ‘Frank, Dino, Sammy, and like that. But I didn’t know you knew sports figures.’

  ‘Sports isn’t entertainment?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, maybe now. .’

  He was right. Back then sports — especially boxing — was not considered part of the entertainment field. Although Muhammad Ali — who I first met when he was Cassius Clay — was doing his best to change that.

  Mark ordered his breakfast from the fresh-faced waitress, watched her walk away and then turned back to me.

  ‘So did you know Mike Tyson?’ he asked.

  ‘I met him,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t say I knew him.’

  ‘But you knew Floyd Patterson?’

  ‘Very well,’ I said.

  ‘You goin’ to his funeral?’

  ‘I don’t travel much these days, Mark,’ I said. ‘I especially don’t fly.’

  ‘Can’t say I blame you for that,’ he said, nodding. ‘You could get trampled in an airport.’

  Or a mall, I thought. Especially when your feet are numb from diabetes. No, I pretty much stayed close to home, these days.

  ‘I hadn’t seen Floyd in a long time,’ I explained. ‘We lost touch. I’m sorry he died the way he did, and too soon.’

  To somebody my age, seventy-one was too soon.

  Mark’s bacon-and-eggs breakfast came. I looked down at my bran cereal and fruit. If I ate what Mark was eating my sugar would soar sky high. Luckily, I could still drink coffee, but no more orange juice for me. I remembered the days I used to watch my buddy Jerry Epstein pack away a couple of stacks of pancakes. Now he was recovering from prostate cancer. As soon as he was well enough he said he was going to visit me. I was afraid when he got off the plane I’d see a shadow of what Jerry once was. That was certainly what he would see when he looked at me. But Jerry was in his seventies, and if he kicked the cancer he’d still be as healthy as a horse.

  Floyd Patterson was beyond that, though. He was gone. In his prime he was small for a heavyweight, about a hundred-and-eighty pounds, but he was fast and strong. The only times he lost was when he came up against somebody faster, and stronger. Ingemar Johansson, Muhammad Ali, and Sonny Liston came to mind.

  ‘Hey, didn’t Patterson fight Liston in Las Vegas years ago?’ Mark asked.

  ‘He did,’ I said. ‘It was the rematch.’

  ‘OK, now wait,’ Mark said. ‘Tell me you were there that night.’

  ‘I was there that night,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘Oh, man!’ Mark said. ‘What I wouldn’t have given to see that fight.’

  ‘It wasn’t much of a fight, as I remember,’ I said. There were other things I remembered about that night, though. And other people. . lots of other people. .

  ‘That was nineteen-sixty three. I was a bigger stud then than you are now, kid. .’

  ONE

  Las Vegas Convention Center, July 22, 1963

  ‘Hang on to your hat,’ Nick Conte said. ‘This isn’t gonna take long.’

  Richard Conte — a tough-guy actor whose close friends all called him ‘Nick’ for the simple reason that it was his real first name — was seated to my right, Frank Sinatra to my left.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Frank said. ‘That first fight was a fluke. Liston’s way too slow for Floyd.’

  Conte leaned forward to look past me at Frank.

  ‘Wanna double the bet?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re on, pally,’ Frank said. ‘Floyd takes his title back tonight.’

  Nick looked at me. ‘You want a piece?’

  ‘I’m not gamblin’ on this fight,’ I said. ‘My heart is with Floyd, but. . I don’t know. Liston looks tough.’

  ‘See?’ Nick said to Frank. ‘Even Eddie says Liston wins.’

  ‘He didn’t say that,’ Frank said. ‘He just said Liston looks tough. Well, he ain’t gonna scare Floyd to death.’

  ‘Well, he scared him enough to KO him in two minutes the first time,’ Conte said. ‘I don’t see it goin’ too much longer than that this time.’

  ‘You’re crazy. .’ Frank said, but I didn’t hear the rest.

  I had to admit, Sonny Liston was sorta scaring me to death, and I wasn’t even in the ring with him. The knockout in the first fight — which actually came at two minutes six seconds into the first round — had been devastating to Floyd. I wasn’t sure he was fully recovered yet, psychologically. And he did look less than confident to me in the ring.

  ‘What the hell-’ I heard Frank say.

  ‘What?’ I asked, turning around.

  He was looking not at the ring, but across it.

  ‘What’s that bum doin’ here?’ he asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Across the ring.’ He pointed. ‘That fella’s name is Amsler, Joe Amsler.’

  I tried to see who he was pointing at.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The young guy,’ Frank said, ‘right across from us. He went to high school with my Nancy.’

  I saw an animated young man talking earnestly with another man about the same age. It looked to me like they weren’t looking at the ring either, but past it to us — at Frank.

  ‘I take it you don’t like him?’

  Frank looked at me and said, ‘I never like any boy who hangs around Nancy. Keep that in mind, Eddie.’

  ‘Hey,’ I said, referring to my one close encount
er with Frank’s daughter, ‘she flirted with me.’

  ‘Just remember, pally,’ he said, poking me in the chest with his forefinger.

  After that we ignored Amsler and went back to watching the action in the ring.

  Richard Conte nudged me and asked, ‘Would it be bad taste for me to light up a victory cigar now?’

  ‘I don’t think Floyd’s camp would appreciate it.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I’ll hold off. Floyd may not be able to beat Liston, but he could kick my ass with no trouble.’

  ‘You and me both,’ I agreed.

  We watched as the fighters came to the center of the ring for their instructions.

  A left took Floyd’s legs out from under him, and set up the first knockdown.

  ‘Oops,’ Conte said, happily.

  Floyd got up and indicated to the ref that he was all right, but you could see he had no legs. A barrage of punches put him down for a second time, and Conte happily took out his cigar. He was just taking the cellophane off when Floyd went down for the third and final time.

  He was knocked out at two minutes ten seconds of round one.

  He had lasted four seconds longer than the first fight.

  Liston would defend his title against Cassius Clay the following year.

  Conte’s blue cigar smoke surrounded us as we waited for the fight crowd to clear out.

  Conte puffed away happily.

  Sinatra fanned away the smoke and said, ‘Gloat now, Nick, but Cassius Clay will take the title away from Liston when they meet.’

  ‘You wanna bet now?’ Conte asked, smiling.

  I didn’t get in on that bet, either. I didn’t think anyone would be beating Sonny Liston for a long time.

  By the time we left the Las Vegas Convention Center I had completely forgotten about Joe Amsler.

  TWO

  Las Vegas, November 1963

  I first met Abby Dalton briefly when I was in LA with Ava Gardner. We flirted some, but let me repeat that at the time I was with Ava Gardner. Abby was a beautiful young blonde with a delicious overbite (although I had heard it described as ‘vicious’) who was playing Joey Bishop’s wife on his sitcom The Joey Bishop Show.

  Joey had called me the day before to say he was coming into town and did I want to have dinner? Whenever any of the guys flew in I made time for them. We agreed to meet at the Bootlegger Italian restaurant on the South Strip. Frank and Dean had introduced me to the Bootlegger, which served traditional Italian fare.

  I arrived first and was sitting at a table with a martini when Joey walked in. I was surprised to see that Abby Dalton was with him. Her hair was up, and she was wearing a suit that did nothing to hide her curves, a short skirt and high heels that showed off her wonderful legs.

  ‘Hey, Eddie,’ Joey said, as they approached, ‘you remember Abby.’

  ‘How could I forget?’ I asked, standing. ‘Nice to see you again, Miss Dalton.’

  ‘Oh, please, Eddie,’ she said, dazzling me with that overbite, ‘call me Abby.’

  ‘All right, Abby. Please, sit.’

  She looked at the two place settings on the table and turned to Joey.

  ‘You didn’t tell him I was coming.’

  Joey looked at me for help.

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ I said, and his look turned to a glare, ‘but it’s a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘somebody’s a gentleman.’

  Joey took the hint and held her chair for her. A waiter came running over — because he recognized Joey, or simply because he saw Abby? — and asked if they wanted drinks.

  ‘I’ll have a Coke,’ Joey said, as he sat. According to him he had never touched hard liquor in his life, and I never saw a reason to doubt him.

  ‘I’ll have what Eddie’s having,’ Abby said.

  ‘Vodka martini coming up, signorina.’ I could see in the young waiter’s eyes that he was smitten.

  ‘Eddie, I’m sorry Joey surprised you like this,’ Abby said.

  ‘No reason to apologize,’ I said. ‘Why would I not want to eat dinner with a beautiful woman — and a schmuck?’

  ‘Hey, easy now.’ Joey looked sharp, as usual, in a black suit, white shirt and thin black tie. He always made me feel like a bargain basement kind of guy as I looked down at my own five-year-old suit.

  ‘Well, I’m sure he got you here under false pretenses,’ she said. ‘You see, I have a problem that Joey said you might be able to help me with.’

  There was a time when I thought Frank, Dean, Joey and the rest only called me when they had problems. That time had past, since I’d had many breakfasts and dinners with each of them that involved nothing more than catching up.

  ‘Well, Joey’s pretty well versed on what I can and can’t do,’ I told her. ‘If he says I can help you, I probably can. At the very least, I’ll try.’

  ‘See?’ Joey said to her. ‘What did I tell you? He’s the best.’

  The waiter returned with their drinks, and a third place setting.

  ‘We won’t need that,’ Joey said. ‘I’ll be leaving right after I finish my Coke.’

  ‘Si, signore,’ the waiter said, and took the extra setting away.

  Joey looked at me. ‘I just wanted to get you two started, then I figured I’d leave you alone so Abby can tell you her troubles.’

  Did this mean that Joey had promised her I’d help, even without knowing what the problem was?

  ‘Well then,’ I said, ‘you should probably leave so we can order.’

  Joey drank half his Coke and said, ‘Oh, yeah, right.’ He stood up. ‘You’ll see that Abby gets back to the Sands?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ I said.

  Joey put his hand on her shoulder and said, ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘OK, Joey,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

  As Joey left I picked up a menu and handed it to her.

  ‘Let’s order, maybe get some wine,’ I said, ‘and then you can tell me what this is all about.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but I’ll be paying the check, since Joey tricked you into coming.’

  ‘I’ll pay the check, Abby,’ I said. ‘I consider that Joey did me a big favor by arranging for me to have dinner with you, instead of him.’

  ‘I can see I’m going to have to watch myself with you, Eddie,’ she said. ‘You seem to know all the right things to say.’

  THREE

  I had veal, Abby had chicken.

  Once we had dinner in front of us, with a glass of red wine each, I asked Abby to tell me what the problem was.

  ‘I’m being. . harassed.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘What form is this harassment taking?’ I was already thinking that maybe she’d get more help from my private eye buddy, Danny Bardini.

  ‘Phone calls, mail-’

  ‘What did you get in the mail?’

  She fidgeted in her chair.

  ‘Years ago, when I was first starting out, I had some. . pictures taken,’ she said, nervously.

  ‘OK, let me stop you,’ I said, wanting to ease her discomfort. ‘I don’t need to know what kind of pictures, and I don’t need to see ’em.’

  She breathed a sigh of relief and said, ‘You’re making this a lot easier.’

  ‘That was my intention.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She paused for a piece of chicken and I watched with pleasure as she chewed. I don’t usually enjoy watching people eat — it’s pretty ugly most of the time, people shoveling food into this big hole in their face — but hey, this was Abby Dalton.

  ‘Somebody — probably from my past — sent me a copy of the photo. . photos. They then called and just sort of. . gloated.’

  ‘No blackmail?’

  ‘No,’ she said, then after a pause, ‘not yet, anyway.’

  ‘But you are expecting a demand.’

  ‘Well. . you tell me. Why else would somebody do this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. �
�Just to scare you, maybe? I mean, if these photos got out they’d be. . what? Embarrassing?’

  ‘At the very least.’

  ‘Why would someone do this now?’ I asked. ‘Because you’re a celebrity, and you’re on TV?’

  ‘I was on Hennessy for three years before doing Joey’s show,’ she said. ‘Why wouldn’t they have done it then?’

  ‘Could someone have found these photos, say, accidentally?’

  ‘I suppose. .’

  ‘Who were they taken by?’

  ‘A professional photographer.’

  ‘And what does he have to say?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I. . I haven’t spoken with him.’

  We paused for a couple of bites each. It was a shame we weren’t paying attention to the food. It was very good.

  ‘Joey told me you helped Sammy a couple of years ago when he had a similar problem.’

  I didn’t know how similar Sammy’s situation was, and I couldn’t really comment on it, but it did involve — in part — some photos of his wife, May Britt.

  ‘I know you can’t talk about that,’ she said, ‘but I was hoping you would be able to help me, too.’

  ‘Why would you ask me for help and not somebody in Los Angeles?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I didn’t tell you. I was born here in Las Vegas, Eddie. The photos were taken here. I think that’s really why Joey thought of you.’

  Well, that made sense.

  After dinner we had dessert — cheesecake for me, a cannoli for her — and discussed the situation further.

  ‘So the photographer was also from here?’

  ‘Yes, he had a studio here. Eddie, I haven’t checked, or tried to get in touch with him. I can’t — I don’t want to-’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘if he’s still alive, and workin’, I can find him.’

  ‘Then you’ll help me?’

  ‘Of course I’ll help you, Abby,’ I said. ‘I mean, I’ll do what I can, but you know I’m a pit boss, not a detective.’

  She laughed, her eyes lighting up, and said, ‘Joey says you’re a hell of a detective.’