Hey There (You with the Gun in Your Hand)

  Also by Robert J. Randisi

  IN THE RAT PACK MYSTERY SERIES

  Luck Be a Lady, Don’t Die

  Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

  IN THE JOE KEOUGH SERIES

  Arch Angels

  East of the Arch

  Blood on the Arch

  In the Shadow of the Arch

  Alone with the Dead

  IN THE NICK DELVECCHIO SERIES

  No Exit from Brooklyn

  The Dead of Brooklyn

  IN THE MILES JACOBY SERIES

  Eye in the Ring

  The Steinway Collection

  Full Contact

  Separate Cases

  Hard Look

  Stand Up

  IN THE DENNIS MCQUEEN SERIES

  The Sixth Phase

  Cold Blooded

  STAND-ALONE NOVELS

  The Disappearance of Penny

  The Ham Reporter

  Once Upon a Murder

  Curtains of Blood

  The Offer

  BY ROBERT J. RANDISI AND CHRISTINE MATTHEWS

  IN THE GIL & CLAIRE HUNT SERIES

  Murder Is the Deal of the Day

  The Masks of Auntie Laveau

  Same Time, Same Murder

  Thomas Dunne Books

  St. Martin’s Minotaur New York

  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.

  HEY THERE (YOU WITH THE GUN IN YOUR HAND). Copyright © 2008 by Robert J. Randisi. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. 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.

  Hey there (you with the gun in your hand) : a Rat Pack mystery / Robert

  J. Randisi.— 1st ed.

  p. cm

  ISBN-13: 978-0-312-37642-0

  ISBN-10: 0-312-37642-1

  1. Rat Pack (Entertainers)—Fiction. 2. Casinos—Fiction. 3. Las Vegas (Nev.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3568.A53H49 2008

  813’.54—dc22

  2008030119

  First Edition: December 2008

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Marthayn,

  Hey There …

  well, you know the rest.

  Prologue

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  February 10, 2002

  DEAN STARED OUT at the crowd from the stage and asked, “How did all these people get in my room?”

  Frank said, “Keep smilin’, Sam, so they can see you.”

  Joey said to Frank and Dean, “Stop singin’ and tell the people all the good work the Mafia’s doin’.”

  They moved around the stage like a well-oiled machine. The lines were old, but the crowd loved each and every one of them.

  “Hurry up, Sam,” Frank said, “the watermelon’s gettin’ warm.”

  Frank was the Leader, but Joey was the director. Not many people knew at the time that Joey wrote a lot of the jokes the Rat Packers did on stage.

  Like Dean and Sammy saying in tandem, “If all the women in Texas were as ugly as yo’ momma, the Lone Ranger gon’ be alone for a loooong time.”

  Or Dean picking Sammy up in his arms and saying, “I’d like to thank the NAACP for this award.”

  Later I found out that the line was supposed to be, “I’d like to thank the B’nai B’rith …” but Dean couldn’t remember the line, so he kept saying “NAACP” and they finally left it in.

  And my favorite was when Sammy put his arm around Dean, and Dino said, “I’ll sing with ya, I’ll dance with ya, I’ll pick cotton with ya, I’ll even go to a Bar Mitzvah with ya, but don’t touch me.”

  A modern crowd might have taken offense at this and many of the other lines, but the first time they were performed it wasn’t to a modern crowd. It was 1960.

  That was then, and this was now …

  Okay, so it wasn’t the real Rat Pack up there on stage. All of them but Joey—about my age now, eighty-three or-four—were gone. Frank was the last one to go in ’98. I had attended all their funerals, because over the years they became my buddies.

  This particular tribute show was at the Greek Isles Casino. Buddy Hackett’s son, Sandy—Buddy went in ’03, damn it—was the driving force behind it and also played Joey Bishop. He had been smart enough to get his father to record an opening. Buddy played God and did a small monologue, which was meant to set up the show.

  For a while in ’60 and ’61 I kinda thought the guys might’ve just been using me to get themselves out of jams because they knew I had the town wired. But later, when I started getting invitations to shows and events, even Christmas cards, I decided we were friends—especially Dino and Frank.

  Peter Lawford and I never got along, but then he fell out with Frank, too.

  But Joey and me, we got along from the get-go. I had a lot of respect for Joey because he wrote a lot of the material the Rat Pack did on stage, and he wasn’t bothered by the fact that Frank, Dino and Sammy got most of the accolades. Joey Bishop knew he was brilliant, and didn’t need anybody else’s opinion to prove it. Not for nothing did Frank call him “the Hub of the Big Wheel,” giving him credit for writing most of their shtick.

  It took a little longer for me and Sammy to get to know each other. The first two times I had to help the guys—during the filming of Ocean’s 11 and then at the Vegas premier of the movie six months later—I dealt mostly with Dino and Frank. But the third time, that was all Sammy’s mess….

  The show was still a few minutes from starting when Sandy Hackett came over to my front row seat.

  “You comfortable, Eddie?” he asked, shaking my hand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t greet you at the door. I just wanted to make sure they got you to your seat.”

  “I’m fine, Sandy, just fine,” I said.

  “Can you see okay?”

  “I’m old, Sandy,” I said, “but I’m not blind … yet.”

  Sandy laughed.

  “I want you to tell me what you think when it’s over, Eddie,” he said, “and I want you to be honest. It’s important to me what Eddie G thinks. After all, you were buds with them. All of them.”

  “You knew them, too, Sandy.”

  “I knew ’em through my dad,” he said, “and I didn’t know ’em back then, like you did. I mean, I wasn’t there at the Sands, Eddie. You were.”

  “I know I was, Sandy,” I said.

  “Well, I gotta get backstage,” he said. “Enjoy the show, Eddie.”

  He shook hands with me again.

  “I’m sure I will,” I said. “You’re a good kid, Sandy.” I looked down at the program. “Puttin’ your dad in the show was brilliant.”

  “Wait ’til you hear him as God, Eddie. It’s only at the beginning of the show, but you’ll bust a gut. God speaking with Buddy Hackett’s accent talking to the guys, who are supposedly up in Heaven with him, telling them about this show that was being done on earth in their honor. It’s great, great.”

  “I’m lookin’ forward to it.”

  It had been a long time since I’d busted a gut—in a good way. Those times are few and far between, when I’ve got diabetes and high blood pressure. When I either have shooting pains in or can’t feel my feet. When I can’t eat what I want to eat.

  No wonder I spend so much time remembering the past.

  One

  Las
Vegas

  March 1961

  “Between us we knew everybody in show business.”

  —Sammy Davis Jr.

  BUDDY HACKETT WAS A RIOT.

  When Joey Bishop asked me if I wanted to go and see Buddy at the Riv I jumped at the chance. Joey—a pretty funny guy himself—told me he thought Buddy Hackett was the funniest man he’d ever seen. I agreed, and since Joey had two tickets I happily went along.

  Buddy was hilarious, as usual, and after he was done the three of us went to dinner at the Sahara in their Congo Room. We sat in the “Sinatra Booth,” which Frank occupied whenever he was in town.

  Joey was in town taking a break. He chose Vegas because Dean would be appearing at the Sands at the end of the week.

  “Frank’s at his house at the Cal Neva in Tahoe,” Joey told me, when I asked about the other guys, “and Sammy’s starting a gig in Tahoe at Harrah’s.”

  I knew Frank had been in Washington with the Kennedys for the inaugural balls in January, but he had apparently been staying at home since then.

  With Joey and Buddy in the same room I spent most of the night in stitches. They kept swapping stories—good ones, bad ones, but all funny ones. Then they started talking about the future.

  “I’m talkin’ to Danny Thomas about guesting on his show in the spring,” Joey said. “Might be a chance for me to do my own show for his production company.”

  “Like he did for Andy Griffith?” Buddy said. “Dat’s great, Joey.”

  “I liked the old name of his show,” I said, “Make Room for Daddy. Before he switched networks and changed it to The Danny Thomas Show.”

  “If I get my own show,” Joe said, “I’m just gonna call it The Joey Bishop Show.”

  “I don’t blame ya,” Buddy said. “I’d do the same but what would I do with a program called The Joey Bishop Show?”

  That cracked us all up, and then Buddy started telling us some new bits he was thinking of putting in his act.

  “Tell me what ya think. I walk out on stage naked.” He looked at both of us eagerly.

  “Totally naked?” Joey asked.

  “Completely butt naked,” Buddy said, “and I just stare at the audience, like this.”

  He screwed his face up as only Buddy could and I couldn’t help myself. I started laughing.

  “See?” Buddy said. “It’ll work.”

  “Better you than me,” Joey said. “I mean, I’ve been on stage and felt naked, but to really be naked?”

  “Socks,” I said.

  “Huh?” Buddy looked at me.

  “Shoes and socks,” I said. “If you came out naked, but wearing … black shoes and socks, I think that’d be funnier.”

  Buddy thought it over, looked at Joey, and then the two of them started laughing, Buddy slapping me on the back.

  By the time Joey and I left Buddy and headed back to the Sands, my sides were aching.

  “How about a nightcap?” Joey asked.

  Joey rarely drank, so I agreed and we went into the Silver Queen Lounge. It was late, the last set had been played by the lounge act, and we were able to sit at the bar and talk quietly.

  “Still no free drinks?” Joey asked, when I paid the bartender for my bourbon and his coffee.

  “Jack doesn’t want to start a trend.”

  Joey nodded and sipped his coffee.

  “What’s on your mind, Joey?” I asked.

  “Why does somethin’ have to be on my mind?”

  “Look,” I said, “I had a great time tonight. Buddy’s great and the two of you together are a riot. But when’s the last time you invited me for a night on the town?”

  “You’re a smart man, Eddie,” Joey said. He pointed his finger at me. “I said that first, and the rest of the guys found it out later.”

  “Not Peter.”

  “Peter’s okay,” Joey said, but didn’t go any further.

  “Where is he, Joey?” I asked. “Where’s Frank?”

  “He’s at the Cal Neva, in Tahoe,” Joey said. “He’d like you to come there.”

  “Why didn’t he just call me?”

  Joey shrugged helplessly.

  “Maybe you could ask ’im when you see ’im.”

  “And when is that?”

  “Well, hopefully tomorrow,” Joey said.

  “He wants me to drive to Tahoe tomorrow?”

  “Fly,” Joey said. “He said you can use his copter.”

  “Copter?”

  “One of the improvements Frank made at the Cal Neva was putting in a helipad.”

  “Really?”

  “You ever been up in a helicopter?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll love it.”

  “I thought the Cal Neva was only open from June through September. After all, it’s a lodge, not a real hotel.”

  “Frank’s convinced it could be a moneymaker all year round,” Joey said. “That’s why he’s there, in his cabin. The casino isn’t open yet, but it will be.”

  “I have a job, Joey.”

  “I have a feeling Jack will let you go, don’t you?” he asked.

  No, it wasn’t a feeling. I knew Jack Entratter, my boss, would let me go. He’d do anything to keep Frank Sinatra happy.

  “Okay, Joey,” I said. “You callin’ Frank tonight?”

  “As soon as I get back to my room.”

  “Tell him I’ll be there.”

  “Thanks, Eddie.” Joey slid off his stool. “You finish your drink. I’m gonna turn in.”

  “I’ll have to talk to Jack first thing,” I said. “Tell Frank to have his helicopter ready by ten.”

  “I’ll tell ’im,” Joey said. “ ’Night, Eddie.”

  “Thanks for the show and dinner, Joey.”

  “Sure, anytime.”

  The bartender came over. I could tell he was impressed. “Still hobnobbin’ with the stars, huh, Eddie?”

  I finished my drink and set the empty glass down on the bar.

  “You got it wrong, Harry,” I told him. “They’re hobnobbin’ with me.”

  Two

  FRANK ANSWERED THE DOOR HIMSELF, holding a paperback novel in one hand.

  “Eddie G! How the hell are ya, pally?” He grabbed my hand and pumped it, then pulled me in, slamming the door. I looked around the cabin. His majordomo, George, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Flyin’ solo this time,” he said, reading my mind. “Come on, come on, sit down. I’ll get you a drink. Bourbon?”

  “Bourbon’s good, Frank.”

  He put the book down on the coffee table and went to the bar. There was a girl in a black dress against a yellow background on the cover. The title was Miami Mayhem by Anthony Rome. I picked it up and was still reading the back when he returned with the drinks.

  “That came out last year,” he said, handing me the glass. “I’m thinking of makin’ a movie out of it. I’d play the lead, Tony Rome, a Miami private eye. There’s another one, too, came out last month. It’s called The Lady in Cement.”

  “Sounds interesting,” I said. “Any parts for the other guys?”

  “Naw,” Frank said, sitting in an armchair across from me. “Well, maybe Nick Conte. I just need somebody to play the cop. Nick looks like a cop.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “ ‘Tony Rome’ is the P.I.? And the author is Anthony Rome?”

  “It’s a pen name,” Frank said. “The guy’s real name is Marvin Albert. I’ve talked to him once, already.” He leaned forward, picked the book up, looked at it, put it down and said, “It’s gonna be good. Kinda like The Maltese Falcon my buddy Bogey made, only in this one the guy’s ex-partner is killed, and there’s no Falcon, just a pin, a piece of jewelry. It’s gonna be good,” he said, again.

  “I’m sure it will be.” I was wondering if he was trying to convince me, or himself. I sat back and sipped my drink.

  “How do you like the cabin?”

  “It’s great. Kind of like a rustic suite.”

  “Exactly,” Frank said. “It’s got a h
uge bedroom. Three, four and five never get rented out.”

  “Never?”

  “Five is mine,” Frank explained, spreading his arms. “Three is for broads—like when Marilyn comes out. She’s in Reno now, making The Misfits with Clark Gable. I asked her to come out here, but they’re givin’ her a hard time about bein’ late to the set.”

  I nodded. I’d read about that in the papers.

  “And four is for guys. If you stay here, Eddie, you get four.”

  “That’s what I’m here to talk about, isn’t it, Frank?” I asked.

  Not only had his copter flown me from Vegas, but his driver had brought me to cabin five from the heliport in Frank’s car. Now it was just him and me, no Rat Packers, no hangers on.

  “You’re right, Eddie,” Frank said, “and I didn’t thank you for comin’. I guess Jack had to give you some time off, huh?”

  “When Jack heard you wanted to see me, he gave me all the time I’d need,” I said. “So now all I have to find out is, how much time will I need?”

  “I don’t know, Eddie,” he said. “Maybe I should just tell you what the problem is, and then we can figure it out.”

  “I’m all ears, Frank.”

  The Chairman of the Board sat back in his chair and said, “It’s Sammy, this time.”

  “Joey said he was playin’ Harrah’s, up here.”

  “He is,” Frank said. “I offered him a cabin, but it seems like Harrah’s is lettin’ him stay on the premises.”

  “Things are startin’ to change,” I said.

  “Not on their own, they’re not,” Frank said. “You know I made Jack Entratter let Sammy stay in the hotel when we play the Sands.”

  “I heard that.”

  “Well, Sammy told them at Harrah’s he wasn’t gonna play their place if they didn’t let him have a room. So they did.”

  “Good for him,” I said. “Now tell me he got some threatening letters, or phone calls, and I won’t be surprised.”

  Frank laughed.

  “Naw, Smokey’s used to that,” he said. “That wouldn’t bother him at all. Ya know, he’s a little guy but I don’t know if the biggest part of him is his talent, or his balls.”