Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime Read online

  “What else? ‘The Leader.’”

  “And who gave out the names?”

  “Frank.”

  “Figures.”

  Joey walked to the robes on the wall and took down “The Dago.”

  “This looks like your size.”

  “I—I can’t wear Dean Martin’s robe,” I said.

  “Wrong,” Joey said. “You can’t wear mine or Sammy’s because they’d be too short.”

  “But—Dean Martin?” Joey didn’t know it—few people did—but I was a huge Dean Martin fan. In my opinion his level of cool was head-and-shoulders above the rest of the Rat Pack combined.

  “Okay,” Joey said, with a shrug, “wear Peter’s.”

  He started to put “The Dago” back on the wall and I said, “No wait … I’ll wear Dean’s.”

  Joey smiled and handed me the robe.

  “I’ll be upstairs,” he said. “Frank wants to talk to you alone. Think you can find your way back out?”

  “I’m sure I can.”

  “Then I’ll see you upstairs.”

  As Joey left I undressed, put on Dean Martin’s robe and then approached the steam room door. I wasn’t sure what to do at that point, knock or just walk in. I hesitated, almost knocked, then figured, “What the hell,” and walked right in.

  “Over here.”

  In just two words the familiar voice made chills run up my spine. The Jersey accent was never very far removed. Being from New York I recognized even a hint of it. I’d been out of Brooklyn for twelve years and still hadn’t completely lost my accent.

  The steam was kind of thick but I followed his voice and gradually he came into view.

  The Leader.

  The Chairman of the Board.

  Sinatra.

  Frank.

  “Eddie Gianelli?”

  “That’s right.”

  Frank extended his hand. For a moment I wondered if I was supposed to kiss it, but in the end I just shook his hand. I was surprised at how small it felt in mine. I was also surprised at how frail he looked, sitting there in his robe.

  “How’s your bird?” This was Rat Pack-ese for “How are ya?” They were so cool they had their own language.

  “Good, Frank. I’m good.”

  “Have a seat.”

  Rather than join him on the set of risers he was sitting on I climbed the ones adjacent to him. He was seated on the upper most level of his, so I chose to sit one from the top on my side. Later I realized it had been a kind of unwitting deference.

  “First, thanks for coming.”

  “No problem.” I was already sweating, probably from the steam.

  “Here,” he said, tossing me a towel. “It’s clean.”

  “Thanks.” I caught it and wiped my face. Okay, so maybe I was nervous.

  “I see Joey gave you Dean’s robe.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I hope that’s okay. It’s the only one that fit.”

  “Hey, it’s jake with me,” Frank said, “and I’m sure Dino won’t mind.”

  I was kind of annoyed at my reaction to meeting him, being in the same room with him—the steam room. I was impressed, there was no denying it, but I’d once heard him refer to himself as just “a lounge singer.” That’s what he was, an entertainer. I mean, it wasn’t as if I was in the presence of Ike, or even Joe DiMaggio, for Chrissake.

  But then again, he wasn’t just some entertainer, he was Frank Sinatra. By anyone’s standards, that was big. By Las Vegas standards, it was huge!

  “I guess you’re wonderin’ why I asked you down here,” Frank said.

  “Yeah, you could say I’m curious.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I guess you would be.”

  Sinatra paused long enough to wipe his forehead on the towel he was wearing around his thin shoulders. His chest looked almost concave to me. I wondered if being on the big movie screen added weight, or bulk, or if it was just a matter of the image being so big.

  “They call you Eddie G, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Eddie, I’m told you know a lot of people in Las Vegas.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “And I’m told you can get things done.”

  “Well … you can get things done, Mr. Sinatra—”

  “Oh no, Eddie,” Sinatra said, waving his forefinger at me, “no, no, no …” He pursed his lips, the way I’d seen him do in countless movies. “Not ‘Mr. Sinatra.’ Call me Frank.”

  “Okay … Frank.”

  “You’re from New York, aren’t ya?”

  “Yes, Mr.—yeah, Frank, I’m from New York—Brooklyn, to be exact.”

  “I didn’t catch the accent the first time we talked, but I got it now.”

  “I’ve been away a while,” I said. “It comes and goes.”

  “You don’t mind that I call you Eddie, do ya?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t mind.”

  “Okay, Eddie,” Frank said, “I need a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  Frank frowned.

  “‘Name it,’ means you’ll do it, no matter what I say. Did Jack tell you that you had to do what I asked?”

  “As a matter of fact,” I answered, “what he said was he’d consider it a favor if I came and listened to what you had to say.”

  “So you had a choice.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I could come and listen, or eat shit for a while before he forgave me.”

  “Would he fire you?”

  “Nah, he wouldn’t fire me,” I said, “I’m too good at my job, but he’d make me miserable for a while.”

  “But he didn’t say that, exactly?”

  “It was understood.”

  “Well, understand this,” Frank said. “I’m gonna ask you a favor, and you’ve got a choice. You can say yes, or you can say no. No consequences. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir—Frank.”

  “So nothing’s ‘understood,’” Frank said. “Everything’s clear?”

  I hesitated a moment, getting it straight in my head, then said, “Everything is clear.”

  “Okay.” He wiped his forehead again, then leaned forward.

  Four

  “WHAT’S THE FAVOR, Frank?” My curiosity was killing me, but I tried to appear cool. It wasn’t easy, though, since I was in a steam room with Mr. Cool, himself.

  “A friend of mine has been receiving death threats,” Frank explained. “I want you to find out who’s sendin’ them.”

  “You need a private detective for that, Frank, not me.”

  “If that’s what you think, then you hire him,” Frank said, “but I want you takin’ care of this for me, Eddie. You pay the detective, and I’ll pay you.”

  I figured this must be a pretty good friend of his if he was willing to foot the bill.

  “Who recommended me for this?”

  “Nobody recommended you for this specific job because I haven’t told anybody about it,” Frank said. “I haven’t even told you the whole story, yet. But Jack speaks very highly of you, and I asked around. Your name always comes up when I tell people I need something done in Vegas. ‘Get Eddie G,’ they say, so I got you. Now ask me the other question you wanna ask.”

  “The other question?”

  “The obvious one.”

  “Oh,” I said, “who is this friend of yours whose life’s been threatened?”

  Frank pointed at me.

  “Me?”

  “On your back, pally,” he said, and I realized he was pointing to the robe I was wearing. “The Dago.”

  “Dean?” I asked. “Dean Martin is the man we’re talkin’ about?”

  “That’s right,” he said, “Dino.”

  “Why would somebody threaten Dean Martin’s life?” I asked.

  “Who knows why a wacko does what he does?” Frank asked. “If they were threatenin’ Sammy I’d say it’s because he was black, or a Jew, or both. Joey? Maybe somebody don’t like his jokes. But Dean? He’s a pussycat. Everybody loves
the guy.”

  “Not everybody, I guess.”

  “No, you’re right,” he said, “not everybody.” He leaned forward, put his hands on his bony knees. I always wondered what Ava Gardner saw in the guy, but let me tell you, up close, when you’re in the same room with him, he’s got something. It worked on women better than on men, but it was still there. Sex appeal. Charisma. Whatever you wanted to call it. It made women love him, and men want to be his friend.

  “Look,” he said, “we’re filmin’ this picture here in town.”

  “Right, Ocean’s Eleven,” I said. “Everybody knows about it.”

  “Yeah, well that’s probably part of the problem. Too damn many people know about it. We got a three-week shoot on this thing, startin’ tomorrow.”

  “Why don’t you put it off until you can find out who’s sendin’ the threats?” “Can’t,” Frank said, “it’d cost too much money.”

  “Then why not give Dean some time off, shoot around him?” I asked. “You do that sometimes in the movies, right? Shoot around somebody?”

  “Yeah we do it,” Frank said, “and I’ve suggested it to him, but he won’t have it. He’s not takin’ these threats serious enough.”

  “But you are?”

  “I’ve had death threats, pally,” Frank said, “and you don’t want to know who from. They’re no fun, and a lot of the times they’re serious.” He picked up a towel that was sitting on the riser next to him and I saw a .38 Smith & Wesson. He dropped the towel back down. Now I knew why there was a shoulder holster hanging on a peg outside. I wondered if the steam was bad for the gun. “I pack heat wherever I go now. And yeah, I got a license for it.”

  “Why not go to the police?’

  “Publicity,” Frank said. “I know, you’re thinking that there’s no bad publicity. If it was me I’d go to the cops and let it get out, but Dean’s a private person. He’s not like me. He doesn’t want to go to the police.”

  “Does he know you’re talkin’ to me?”

  “No,” Frank said. “If he knew he’d take my head off.”

  “Well then, how can I help him?”

  “You come to the show tonight,” Frank said. “Joey’ll give you tickets. Bring a dame. After the show Joey’ll take you to Dean’s suite. Once you’re there he won’t toss you out. He’s too much of a gentleman.”

  “I get to meet Dean Martin?”

  Frank regarded me with an amused look on his face.

  “So you’re a fan?”

  “Well … yeah …”

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” Frank said. “I’m a big fan of Dino’s, too. He’s the real deal. I may be a crooner, but he’s a singer. He’s got the pipes.”

  I was surprised to hear Frank talk that way about somebody else.

  As if reading my mind Frank said, “Does that surprise you, to hear me talk that way about Dean?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Hey, relax,” Frank said. “Dean doesn’t have a bigger fan than me. He’s so cool he doesn’t care about all this.” He waved his hands to encompass—I assumed—all of Las Vegas. “He’s only doin’ the movie as a favor to me. That’s why I want to help him, why I want you to help him.”

  “Frank,” I said, groping for the right words, “I’ll do what I can.”

  It sounded lame to me, but apparently it was what Frank wanted to hear.

  “Hey,” he said, “that’s all I’m askin’.”

  Five

  I LEFT THE STEAM ROOM before Frank, feeling like a dried out prune. I don’t know how he could spend so much time in there, but it may have had something to do with his being so thin—or cool. I replaced Dean’s robe and took a quick shower before getting dressed.

  When I got back to the casino floor I didn’t see Joey anywhere. Instead of looking for him, I went to the bar and ordered a cold beer, to replace some of the fluids I’d lost in the Rat Pack steam room.

  A hand fell on my shoulder from behind and Joey Bishop said, “There you are.”

  He took the stool next to me.

  “Drink?” I asked.

  “Not for me,” he said, smiling. “Where do we stand?”

  “You’re supposed to give me a ticket to tonight’s show.”

  “How about two?” he asked, plucking them from his pocket.

  “That’ll be fine.” I grabbed them and put them in my breast pocket, then had some more beer. I checked my watch. I needed a change of clothes and a second, more thorough shower. Luckily, I’d be able to do that without leaving the hotel, one of the perks of being a pit boss, and somebody Jack Entratter—usually—liked.

  “Well,” Joey said, “I’ll see you after the show and we’ll go to Dean’s suite.”

  “Hey, hey,” I said, turning in my stool and grabbing his arm, “what’s the story between Frank and Dean?”

  “Truthfully?”

  “Yeah, truthfully.”

  He settled back onto his stool.

  “You tell anybody I told you this and I’ll deny it.”

  “Agreed.”

  Joey took a moment to form his thoughts.

  “Frank and Dean are two very different people,” he said, finally. “Frank likes to surround himself with people who need him. Dean doesn’t need anybody. He’s very secure in who he is.”

  “And Frank’s not?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth,” Joey warned. “Just let me tell it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “The truth of the matter is Frank has wanted to be Dean’s friend since he first met him. He thinks Dean is the coolest cat he knows. Personally, I agree. As for Dean—well, he’s Dean. Talk to him about being part of this Rat Pack and he can take it or leave it.”

  “And the rest of you?”

  Joey hesitated, then said, “Let’s just say that Dean is the only one who doesn’t absolutely need Frank on some level.”

  I figured that was fair. I couldn’t really expect Joey Bishop to say that Joey Bishop needed Frank Sinatra. But I thought pretty much anyone who paid attention to the news knew what Peter Lawford brought to the table. Personally, while Dean Martin was the one I wanted to meet, I thought Sammy Davis Jr. had the most talent. Unfortunately, there were things in Sammy’s life that held him back. He probably needed Frank in order to get around those things.

  But I wasn’t really interested in the inner workings of the Pack. I was concerned with the Sinatra/Martin relationship.

  “So Frank and Dean are friends?”

  “Frank and Dean are good friends,” Joey said.

  “That’s what I wanted to know.”

  “Then I’m out of here,” Joey said, getting down from his stool. “I’ve got to get ready for the show. Meet me backstage when it’s over, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Joey waved and left the bar. I was finishing the last of my beer when Beverly sidled up next to me.

  “You gettin’ friends in high places, Eddie?” she asked.

  I turned and looked at her. She was a redhead in her thirties, and fit her Sands uniform very nicely. She probably didn’t have the legs to be a showgirl, but she sure had everything else. Her red hair seemed natural, her green eyes sparkled, and she had full, kissable lips. I knew from other conversations that she was the sole support of a kid, although I didn’t know if it was a boy or girl, or how old the child was.

  I slid the two tickets from my pocket and said, “How would you like to go to a Rat Pack show with me tonight, doll?”

  “Really?” She sighed and her eyes got wide. “I love Frank Sinatra.”

  “Have you been to see the show?”

  “I haven’t had the time,” she said, “or the money—not for tickets, and not for a babysitter.”

  “Well, I’ve got the tickets,” I said, waving them, “and I’ll pay for the babysitter. Whataya say?”

  “Eddie,” she said, breathlessly. “I don’t know what to say.”

  I looked down at the creamy white of her swelling cleavage and replied, “Please say yes
.”

  She took a deep breath—which inflated her cleavage even more—and said, “Yes!”

  Six

  DEAN MARTIN PICKED Sammy Davis Jr. up, walked to the microphone with him and said, “I want to thank the NAACP for this award.” The audience—and Sammy—cracked up.

  Frank, Dean, Sammy, Joey and Peter sang, danced, joked, did impressions (Sammy), smoked, stood around (Lawford) and the crowd loved it. This was Frank’s “Summit of Cool,” as he called it, because during that same month Eisenhower, de Gaulle and Khrushchev were having their summit conference in Paris.

  Beverly hung on my arm and released it only to clap her hands together gleefully at the Rat Pack’s on-stage antics. She was also excited to see some of the celebrities in the audience, specifically some of the other players in Ocean’s 11 like Angie Dickinson, Henry Silva and Richard Conte who, I later learned, was called “Nick” by Dean and other friends.

  When the show was over I leaned over and whispered in Beverly’s ear, “I have to go back stage. Would you like to come?”

  “Oh, my God!” she said, which I took as a yes.

  There was a security force to keep the Rat Packers safe—Frank alone had eight guards. I wondered if he was sharing them with Dean. All I had to do was give my name to one and he allowed us to go backstage, where it was already crowded with celebrity well-wishers and hangers-on.

  Booze flowed freely, and I saw Frank standing in a corner with a brunette stunner named Judith Campbell on his arm. I was able to introduce Bev formally to Joey Bishop, and then said to Joey, “Bev would love to meet Frank and Dean.”

  “Dean’s already gone up to his suite,” Joey said, “but we can do Frank.”

  Joey tugged us over to where Frank was holding court with Henry Silva and Nick Conte. I looked around, but Angie Dickinson was nowhere to be seen. She had been the one I wanted to meet. I wanted to see if she was as sexy off-screen as on. Maybe another time …

  “Frank,” I said, as he looked at me, “the show was great.”

  “Who’s the pretty lady, Eddie?” Frank asked, and I felt Bev’s nails dig into my arm.

  “Frank Sinatra,” I said, “meet Beverly Carter.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Frank said, graciously. He took Bev’s hand and kissed it. He didn’t bother to introduce Judith Campbell to either of us, and the buxom brunette stood there staring daggers at the equally buxom Beverly, who didn’t notice at all. She only had eyes for Frank.