[Rat Pack 02] - Luck Be a Lady, Don't Die
Lucky Be A Lady, Don’t Die
A Rat Pack Mystery
Robert J Randisi
St. Martin’s Minotaur
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Epilogue
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
Luck Be A Lady, Don’t Die.
Copyright © 2007 by Robert J. Randisi.
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Randisi, Robert J.
Luck be a lady, don’t die : a Rat Pack mystery / Robert J. Randisi.
—1st ed. p. cm
ISBN-13: 978-0-312-36043-6 ISBN-10: 0-312-36043-6
1. Rat Pack (Entertainers)—Fiction. 2. Entertainers—Fiction.
3. Gangsters—Fiction. 4. Casinos—Fiction. 5. Las Vegas (Nev.)— Fiction.
I. Title
PS3568.A53L83 2007 813'.54—dc22
First Edition: December 2007
For Marthayn, who has been my Lady Luck
for almost 15 years
Prologue
May 20, 1998
THE CHAIRMAN WAS DEAD.
Frank Sinatra had been known by many names over the years. “Frankie” when he was wowing the bobby-soxers in his younger days, “Has Been” before he appeared as Maggio in From Here to Eternity and blew that label all to hell. He was christened “Chairman of the Board” when he founded the Reprise record label in 1961, and forever was referred to as “Ol’ Blue Eyes.”
I called him my friend.
The funeral service at Good Shepherd Catholic Church in Beverly Hills was by invitation only. I had one in my pocket. That was how I knew I wasn’t the only one who thought that he and I were friends.
The stars had come out to say good-bye to Frank. From my vantage point I could see Kirk Douglas, Robert Wagner, Jack Lemmon, Johnny Carson, Anthony Quinn, Tony Curtis and Bob Dylan. Mario Thomas was there. It was the second funeral in that church I knew of for her. Danny Thomas’ funeral had been held there seven years before.
The celebrities I knew well enough to speak to because they had played the Sands in Vegas a time or two were the likes of Jerry Lewis, Tony Bennett, Milton Berle, Debbie Reynolds and Liza Minelli. Steve and Eydie waved at me from across the room. Bob Newhart and Don Rickies were sitting together with their wives and nodded. Angie Dickinson even waved. I was seventy-eight that year. I didn’t know how old Angie was, but she still did it for me. She smiled and I remembered that day in 1960 when Frank finally introduced us.
The family was seated in the front row. Frank’s wife Barbara, his daughters Nancy and Tina, and his son Frank Jr. In the row directly behind them sat Frank’s two surviving ex-wives, Mia Farrow and Nancy, who had her hand on Junior’s shoulder.
Another row back were the surviving wives of Rat Pack members, Dean’s ex-wife Jeannie, and Sammy’s widow Altovise. Of all the wives, former wives and widows, I only knew Jeannie, slightly.
I doubted either of my ex-wives would attend my funeral, unless it was to make sure I was dead. The wife attendance was proof that if they didn’t love Frank Sinatra, most of Hollywood certainly respected him. And then, of course, there were those who just wanted to be seen at his funeral.
It was part funeral part vigil, actually. The street outside was crowded with Frank’s fans, and his longtime pianist, Bill Miller, had played “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning” and “All the Way” as we filed into the church. Just a few days ago, the day after Frank’s death, I had been in Vegas when all the lights—and I mean all the lights—on the strip were dimmed in his honor.
Even though I was familiar with most of the people there that day, and not particularly awestruck since I’d met many of them before, I was looking at Sophia Loren—who also did it for me. Trying not to gape at her ageless, legendary beauty I was startled when somebody said in my ear, “Hey, Eddie G.”
I looked up and saw Joey Bishop leaning over me.
“Jesus, Joey.” I got up and he hugged me. He felt brittle. I wondered if I felt the same way. Two old men, old friends, trying not to squeeze each other too hard.
“Ain’t seen you in a dog’s age,” Joey said. “What’ve you been doin’?”
“Not much. After they blew the old place up two years ago I just didn’t have it in me to work anywhere else. So I retired.” I didn’t bother to tell him that no one in Vegas had room for a septuagenarian pit boss.
“You’re goin’ bald,” he said.
“And you’re gray.”
He laughed shortly, but it didn’t make it to his sad eyes.
“I’ll see you later, Clyde,” he said, squeezing my arm before moving on. “Clyde” was Rat Pack talk. Shirley MacLaine was there. She and Angie were sort of mascots, but Joey was the last of the five. It made me sad. I remembered all of them—Frank, Sammy, Dean, Joey, even Peter, who I didn’t care for that much—as vital, young guys back in 1960.
I shook hands with Wayne Newton and Paul Anka before sitting back down for the service. Cardinal Roger Mahony eulogized Frank and I could hear people around me crying, some quietly, some sobbing hysterically. I hadn’t cried since the dust from the old Sands got in my eyes the day of its implosion, but I found myself fighting tears back. If
I cried it wouldn’t only be for my dead friend, but also for all the lost years. I hated to think it and even more to say it, but as I got older I knew that the 60s in Vegas had been the best years of my life, and the Rat Pack was a big part of that. I don’t think any of us went on to be happier. Perhaps some of us rose to greater heights—Dean, with his hit movies and his wonderful TV career—but none of us were, I think, ever happier.
The Cardinal droned—as is usually the way at those things—so I just closed my eyes and drifted back in time ....
One
Las Vegas, July 30,1960
“The idea is to bang out together, find fun with broads, and have a great time. We gotta make pictures people enjoy. ”
—Frank Sinatra
SOMETIMES THEY SCREAM, thinking you’ll feel sorry for them. Then the first break comes. Crack! Audible, like a branch snapping. That’s when they start yelling that they’ll never cheat again.
“Not in my casino, anyway,” Jack Entratter said.
They get no sympathy from Jack. He’s had lots of bones broken for him over the years, and some he even broke himself.
They get no sympathy from me, either, especially not when I’m the one who caught them at it. I get pissed when some smart-ass tries to cheat at one of my tables. Even from my position in the pit I could spot this one a mile off. You can’t nick the corner of a card without me hearing it, and this guy was clumsy about it. Plus, he stood out in his Nehru jacket and beads. Both might have been popular for the time, but they were not normal blackjack table attire.
“Boss?” one of Entratter’s men asked.
Jack thought about it while the two hoods held the cheater down.
He gave it some serious consideration and then said, “Break one more.”
“Which one?” the hood asked.
“You’re a leg-breaker,” Entratter said. “Figure it out.” He looked at me. “Let’s get out of here.”
We left the back room and walked down a hall that would take us back to the casino floor of the Sands. We could still hear the cheater yelling.
“The guys are comin’ back ya know.”
“I heard,” I said. The “guys” he was talking about were the Rat Pack: Frank, Sammy, Joey Bishop and Peter Lawford. Dean was already playing the Copa Room.
“From Dean?”
“No,” I said, “I haven’t seen Dean ... yet.”
“He’s been here a few days,” Jack said. “After you bailed him out last time you ain’t heard from him?”
“No. I guess he’s been busy.”
We reached the casino floor and Jack stopped. For a moment we both absorbed the sounds—the dice, the roulette wheel, the voices. This was home to both of us.
“Want me to talk to him?” he asked.
“No, Jack,” I said. “If Dean wants to see me he’ll say so.”
“Okay.” He slapped me on the shoulder. He was a big man and sometimes forgot it. He almost knocked me over. “Good job spottin’ that guy.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“But a helluva way to start a day, huh? I’ll see you later.”
We split up there, Jack heading for his office and me back to the pit—only I detoured and went into the Silver Queen Lounge for a drink first.
It was quite a change, from the back room with broken bones to the casino floor with its lights and bells, cards and broken hearts.
I sat at the bar and waved Harry over.
“Heard you caught a cheater,” he said.
“Bourbon, ice.”
He pulled a face. “Musta been a bad one.”
“Just another loser sent to the hospital,” I said when he brought my bourbon.
“Then why the drink in the middle of the day?”
I stared at him.
“I have to explain to you why I want a drink in the middle of the afternoon?”
“Jeez, Eddie,” Harry said. “No, ya don’t.”
He walked away, dragging his bruised feelings with him. I didn’t feel bad about the kid with the broken arm and—I assumed, after we left—leg, but I felt bad about busting Harry.
That’s when I realized I had some bruised feelings of my own. All it took was Jack asking about Dean and the guys. After I helped Frank and Dean out when they were in Vegas in February shooting Ocean’s 11. I guess I kidded myself that we were friends. Now they were coming back to town for the opening of the film at the Fremont Theatre. I thought maybe, with Dean getting there first to play the Copa Room, I’d hear from him, and then from Frank when he hit town. But why would a couple of big timers like Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin want to be friends with a pit boss from Brooklyn? They had left Vegas six months ago and probably forgot about me a week later. I stared at the mural behind the bar. It ran the length of the bar, had been painted by an artist named Allan Stewart, and depicted the history of Vegas from the gold rush days to the exploding of the atom bomb. Finally, I pushed the half full glass away. I was acting like a snubbed broad, getting my feelings hurt and all. Stupid.
“Harry!”
“Yeah?” He came over.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” I said. “Bad day.” I dropped a fin on him as a tip.
“Hey, no problem Eddie. Thanks.”
I looked around.
“Bev’s not here?”
“Come in tonight. I thought you and her was done?” he said, then backed off like I was going to snap his head off again.
“On and off,” I said. “Like I am with most broads.”
“I hear ya,” he said. “I ain’t found one worth all my time yet, either.”
I didn’t bother telling him that Beverly Carter was worth my time, she just deserved better than me.
I knocked on the bar and said, “See you later.”
“Sure.”
I left the lounge and went back to my pit, where another boss was covering for me. Jack Entratter had a rule for his staff. If you caught somebody cheating you had to follow through all the way and watch them pay for it. I had started spotting cheaters as a dealer, and never flinched the first few times I had to follow through. Jack liked that and eventually bumped me up to pit boss because of it.
“Bad?” Leo Goldman asked as I joined him in the pit.
“Bad enough,” I said. “He won’t cheat again—at least, not here. And it’ll be a while before he can do it anywhere, again.”
“You back?” Leo asked.
“I’m back,” I said. “Go on, get out of here.”
“See you tomorrow.”
I waved and went to work, watching the tables. A pit boss has to watch everything, not only the players but the dealers, too. And God help the dealer who got caught cheating in Jack Entratter’s Sands. I’d followed through on a cheating dealer once, and I never wanted to do that again.
Two
WHEN I SAW JOEY BISHOP coming across the floor toward me it took me back six months to the first time I’d gotten involved with the Rat Pack as something other than a fan. Meeting Frank and especially Dean had been a thrill for me, and being able to help them, even more. Six months of silence, however, had taken the shine off of it. As Joey got closer, smiled and waved, my stomach did a flip-flop. I didn’t know if I was pissed, or excited.
“Hey, Eddie G!” he greeted me, enthusiastically.
“Joey.” We shook hands. “I didn’t know you were in town already.”
“I came ahead to, you know, get everything in order for the Leader.”
“How is Frank?”
“Ah, ya know,” Joey said. “He’s been moonin’ over Ava again lately.”
“I thought he was seeing Juliet Prowse?”
“He is,” Joey said, “but you know how Frank feels about Ava.” Well, yeah, I did, but it wasn’t by hearing it from Frank. It was from reading the gossip columns, like every other Clyde.
“Anyway,” Joey said, “I got a message for you.”
“From Frank?”
“Naw,” he said, “from Dean. He’s playin’ the Copa, you know.
”
“Yeah, I know. I can read a marquee.”
Joey eyed me for a minute, then said, “Dean would like to see you.”
“Where?”
“He’s on the golf course.”
“Now?” I asked, annoyed at the tone of my own voice. “I can’t right now, I’m workin’.”
“I’m sure Jack would let you go to see Dean,” Joey said.
My boss, Jack Entratter, would pay me extra to keep guys like Frank and Dean happy.
“Okay,” I said, finally, “tell Dean I’ll be there.”
“Great. There’s a car waitin’ for you outside.” Joey slapped me on the arm. “Good to see you again, Eddie.”
“Yeah, you too, Joey.”
As I watched him walk away I wondered when I had gotten so predictable?
* * *
It was just at the start of my shift, so I had somebody cover for me again. Entratter would have wanted me to go right up as soon as Joey gave me the word. He considered these guys his friends—especially Frank—and wanted them kept happy when they were in “his joint.” All of us knew that was part of the job. Even when Dean decided he wanted to deal blackjack and paid off a good-looking broad who got twenty-two, Entratter wouldn’t squawk.
I went out front and found a limo sitting there waiting for me. The driver jumped out and opened the door for me. When I got in I found myself staring at a monolith with legs named Mack Gray. Gray used to be George Raft’s Man Friday but when Raft fell on hard times and couldn’t afford him he “gave” him to Dean Martin. Our first meeting had not gone well, and the way he was staring at me I wasn’t sure this one was going to go any better.
“Hey, Mr. G.,” he said, sticking out his hand. “How ya doin’?”
Apparently, Mack remembered that I had covered for him last time and probably kept him from losing his job—and going to jail.
“Hey, Mack,” I said, shaking his hand. “Good to see you.”
“The boss is waitin’ for ya.” At that moment the limo jerked, and then started moving.