[Rat Pack 11] - I Only Have Lies for You Page 4

  I didn’t see what June was driving because I watched Marilyn walk to a late model Chevy and get in.

  “I’m gonna want to follow that blue Chevy,” I told the driver.

  “Yes, sir.” He started the motor.

  “But first I want to see if anyone else follows.”

  “I got you, Mr. G..”

  That was the first indication that Frank had told the driver who I was.

  “Nobody else pulled out, Mr. G.,” he said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Paul, sir.”

  “Okay, Paul, let’s follow her at a respectable distance so she doesn’t see us.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. G.,” he said. “I’ve been drivin’ for a long time.”

  I sat back in my seat and let Paul do all the work. Checking my watch, I resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn’t see Frank open, but maybe I’d get there a little later and fill the empty seat next to Fiona.

  NINE

  “She’s pullin’ in, Mr. G,” Paul said, breaking into my

  reverie.

  “Where?”

  “It’s an apartment building, up on the right,” he said, pointing with one hand and keeping the other on the steering wheel. “It’s got an underground parking lot.”

  I sat forward to take a look.

  “Are we still in Miami Beach?”

  “Yep.”

  “You know the building?”

  “Yes, I do,” he said, “I’ve driven some people here, before.”

  “Can we follow her in without giving ourselves away?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do it, then.”

  He drove down a ramp into the underground parking structure.

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  “Brake lights to the right,” he said, pointing again.

  I looked out the right passenger window and saw what he meant.

  “Can you stop here?”

  “Yup. But if I have to move,” he said, “I’ll come back around.”

  “Okay, Paul. Thanks.”

  I got out, walked between some parked car toward where we had seen the brake lights, hoping they were indeed hers. If they weren’t, then I’d lost her.

  But there she was, walking across the parking lot to the apartment elevators. There was no way I could get into the elevator with her because she had seen me around the studio, but I could make sure no one else got in there, with her.

  As I watched she reached the elevator, pressed the button for it. The doors opened, she stepped in and no one else came along. When the doors closed I rushed to them to check the indicator and see what floor she went to. Lucky for me it was 4. I found the stairwell and hot-footed it up to 4. Earlier, June had given me Marilyn’s address, and apartment number. I made my way along the hall to apartment 4K. There was no one else around, so I pressed my ear to the door. I heard music, as if Marilyn had put on a record or turned on the radio.

  I was tempted to knock and ask her if she was all right, but June had said she didn’t want Marilyn to know I was there. So I gave it up, figuring she was safely home for the night, and went back down, this time taking the elevator.

  As I stepped out at the parking lot level, something hit me in the back of my head, and everything went black.

  TEN

  I woke up to somebody shaking me and saying my name.

  “Mr. G.!”

  I looked up and saw Paul crouching over me.

  “What happened?”

  “I got worried, so I came lookin’ for you, found you lying here in front of the elevator.”

  He helped me sit up, and I put my hand to the back of my head.

  “Somebody hit me,” I said, feeling the lump. “Did you see anybody?”

  “I didn’t see a thing,” he said. “Nobody pulled in after us.”

  “Did somebody pull in right before her?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Help me up, will you?”

  “Sure thing.”

  He put his hand beneath my arm and yanked me to my feet.

  “Whoa,” I said, feeling dizzy.

  “Hang onto me,” he said, and I did, gratefully.

  “Did you go up?” he asked.

  “I did,” I said. “She took the elevator, and I took the stairs.”

  “See anybody up there?”

  “Not a soul. I went to the door, listened in, heard some music, figured she was safe. When I came back down I used the elevator, and when I walked out ... boom.”

  “You still got your wallet?” he asked. “Maybe it was just a mugger.”

  I released my hold on him, remained upright, checked for my wallet and found it.

  “Nope,” I said, “still got it, and my watch.”

  “So what do you figure?” he asked.

  “He must’ve been here all along, waitin’ for her,” I said. “When he saw me he couldn’t follow her to the elevator.”

  “So he waited for you to come down and blasted you.”

  “Sounds right.”

  “Then whataya wanna do, get outta here or go up and check on her?”

  “I guess we better make sure she’s safe,” I said. “Her sister’s not gonna lit it, but what else can we do.”

  I pressed the button for the elevator. As the doors opened we both froze and stared at the body inside. It was a man in a suit. He’d been stabbed, and the floor of the elevator was pooled with his blood.

  “I guess we gotta call the cops,” he said.

  But I heard sirens, and they were getting closer.

  “I think somebody already did.”

  ELEVEN

  Before we could do a thing—like get to the car and hustle out of there—a police car came down the ramp with its lights still going. As the siren wound down and stopped, two cops got out. We could have run up the stairs, but why? We hadn’t done anything except follow Marilyn to make sure she got home safely. So we stayed right where we were and waited for the cops to reach us.

  Miami’s finest—one older, one younger--stared at us and the older one asked, “You guys call in?”

  “Not us,” I said, “but I’m guessing this is what they called you about.”

  Paul and I stepped apart so they could see into the elevator.

  “Jesus!” the older one said.

  The younger one had a different reaction. He drew his gun and pointed it at us.

  “Just stand still and don’t move,” he commanded.

  “We’re not movin’,” I promised him.

  “Put that away, Peters,” the older cop said.

  “But—“

  “But nothin’,” the more experienced man said, “they ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  Peters holstered his regulation revolver but kept his eyes on us, and his hand on the butt.

  “Is this guy as dead as he looks?” the older one asked.

  “We haven’t had time to check,” I said.

  “You guys found him?”

  “Well,” I said, “the doors opened and there he was, so I guess you could say we found him.”

  “But you didn’t call it in?”

  “We would’ve,” I said, “but here you are. Obviously, somebody else called.”

  “Who?”

  “The killer?” I asked.

  “How do you know he was killed?” Peters asked.

  “Because,” I said, looking at him, “I don’t think he cut himself shaving, and bled to death in the elevator.”

  “What’re you, some kinda wise guy—“ Peters started, but the older cop cut him off.

  “Simmer down, Peters,” he said. “Go to the car and call this in. Get everybody: the sergeant, a meat wagon, and the detectives.” As Peters walked away, still eyeing us warily, the other cop said, “You guys relax, we’re all gonna be here a while.”

  **

  While we waited for the entire crew to arrive, Paul and I were able to stand off to one side and talk.

  “I think we can keep Marilyn out
of this,” I said, keeping my voice low.

  “Is that her name?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Marilyn Taylor. She’s June Taylor’s sister.”

  “The dancer chick on Gleason?” Paul asked. “My wife loves that stuff!”

  “We’d be doin’ Gleason and June a favor by keepin’ them out of this,” I said. “Bad publicity, and all.”

  “Yeah, but they’re gonna ask us what we’re doin’ here,” Paul said. “What do we say?”

  “Good point. But if we say we came to see her, they’re gonna drag her down here.”

  Paul shrugged. “Maybe she knows the guy.”

  “Maybe ...”

  In the end, I decided to go ahead and tell them who we were there to see. When they brought Marilyn down, I’d have to leave it to her if she wanted to keep Gleason and her sister out of it.

  “Okay,” the older cop said. We never did find out his name. “The detectives are here. Time for you guys to cough up.”

  “Sure,” I said. “We’re ready.”

  TWELVE

  They questioned us right there in the parking lot, but eventually all of us—Paul, Marilyn and I—ended up being taken to police headquarters.

  I didn’t have a chance to talk with Marilyn before they hustled us into three police cars, keeping us apart so—presumably—we couldn’t coordinate our stories. At police headquarters, I was put into an interview room that looked much like the ones I’d been in before, in Las Vegas—grey walls, grey table, and chairs. I assumed Paul and Marilyn were in similar rooms. After about a half-an-hour—probably long enough for them to move the body, maybe even find out who he was—the door opened and the two detectives entered.

  “Can we get you anything, Mr. Gianelli,” they asked. “Coffee, tea ... water?”

  “Some coffee would be fine,” I said. “Black, no sugar.”

  “Easy,” said the detective who made the offer. He looked at the other man, who left the room. He walked to the table and sat in one of the chairs across from me.

  “I’m Detective Eisman, that was my partner, Detective Winter. He’ll be back with your coffee.”

  “What about my driver, and Miss Taylor?”

  “He took coffee,” Eisman said, “she asked for tea.”

  “I meant—“

  “I know what you meant,” the detective said, chuckling. “You gotta excuse me. My wife says I think I’m funny when I’m not.”

  Winters came back in, carrying a white mug. He put it down on the table where I could reach it, then sat next to his partner. They were both in their late thirties, sun-tanned and fit, Eisman taller and Winter heavier. Eisman’s hair was thinning, though, while Winter had a full, bushy head of healthy locks.

  “Okay,” Eisman said, “we’re ready.”

  “For what?”

  “To hear your story.”

  I wondered if Paul had already told his story and, if so, what had he said? If our stories didn’t match, we were going to be there a lot longer than we should.

  “Okay,” I said, “I came here to see Miss Taylor.”

  “Marilyn Taylor?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “She works on the Jackie Gleason show,” I said. “Her sister is June Taylor—“

  “Hey,” Winter said, “the June Taylor dancers, right?” These were his first words.

  “That’s right.”

  “My mother loves them.”

  “Well, I was watching them rehearse today, and I saw Marilyn—“

  “Whoa, whoa,” Eisman said, “back up. Who are you, and why do you get to watch them rehearse the Jackie Gleason Show?”

  “My name’s Eddie Gianelli,” I said, “I worked at the Sands Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas—“

  “Doin’ what?” Eisman asked, opening a small notebook and taking a pen from his pocket.

  “I used to be a pit boss, but now I’m sort of a ... a casino host.”

  “What’s that?” Eisman asked. “A casino host.”

  “If a guest in the hotel, or a player in the casino, has a problem, or something special they want, they ask for me. I try to satisfy them.”

  “You mean like gettin’ them a prostitute?” Winter asked.

  “No, not like that,” I said. “Mostly, I see to it that people—celebrities who come to play the Sands—have a good time.”

  “But no whores,” Winter said, sounding disappointed.

  “No whores.”

  “Happy now?” Eisman asked his partner. He looked at me. “Go on. You work in Vegas, so what are you doin’ here?”

  “Frank Sinatra is opening at the Fountainbleu—well, he opened tonight,” I corrected. “He asked me to come with him to Miami Beach—“

  “Wait, wait,” Eisman said, interrupting me again. At the rate we were going I was going to be there all night. “You know Frank Sinatra’s.”

  “I do, yeah,” I said. “We’re friends.”

  “And Dean Martin?” Winter asked.

  “Him, too.”

  “Get outta here,” Winter said.

  “I told you,” I said, “when celebrities need somethin’, they ask me. That’s how I met Frank and Dean, and Sammy—“

  “Sammy Davis, Jr.?” Eisman asked.

  “Yes, him, too,” I said.

  “What,” Winter said, “no Joey Bishop?”

  “I know Joey, too.”

  “And Lawford?” Eisman asked. They both seemed starstruck.

  “I know Peter, but I wouldn’t say we’re friends.”

  “But you’re friends with the other members of the Rat Pack,” Winter said.

  “Yes, but they don’t like to be called that. The newspapers call them that.”

  “What do they call themselves?” Winter asked.

  “Frank likes to call them the Summit.”

  “The Summit?” Eisman repeated.

  “That’s terrible,” Winter said. “I like ‘the Rat Pack.’”

  “Fine,” I said, “we’ll call them the Rat Pack. Can I finish my story?”

  “Sure, sure,” Eisman said, “go ahead. Finish your story. We’ll try not to interrupt so much.”

  “Okay,” I said, “so Frank asked me to come with him...

  THIRTEEN

  I told my story. They interrupted, but only once or twice more. Eventually, I got it all out.

  “Okay,” Eisman said. “Sit tight.”

  “Have you talked to my driver, yet? Or Marilyn? You’re gonna compare our stories, aren’t you?”

  “Like he said,” Winter spoke up, “just sit tight. I’ll bring you some more coffee.”

  They both left the room. I pushed away the half a cup of cold coffee that was left. My story was that I found out where Marilyn lived, had Frank’s driver take me there so I could talk to her, maybe ask her out. If that didn’t match what Paul told them, we’d be in trouble. I had no idea what Marilyn was going to say, but it wasn’t as important. It was only Paul’s and my story that had to match... sort of.

  I waited another half hour, and then the door opened and Eisman entered without Winter.

  “What, no more coffee?”

  “You don’t need it,” he said. “You’re free to go.”

  I stood up.

  “I guess our stories matched.”

  “Enough,” Eisman said.

  “Can I leave town?”

  “You in a hurry to do that?”

  “Actually, no,” I said. “Frank’s playing three nights at the hotel, so I guess we’ll be here a couple of more days, at least.”

  “That should be enough.”

  He opened the door for me.

  “Your driver’s waitin’ outside.”

  “And Miss Taylor?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “We let her go.”

  “Alone? At night?”

  “We offered her a ride home, but she said no, she’d get a cab.”

  “Right after somebody in her buildin’ got killed?” I asked. “You should’ve given
her an escort home.”

  “If you’re that worried,” he said, “maybe you can catch her.”

  “Yeah, maybe I can.”

  I made my own way to the front of the building and out the door. Not only was Paul waiting for me there, but he had the car.

  He got out to open the door for me.

  “Glad you got the car.”

  “I went back and got it,” he said. “They let me out way before you.”

  “Well, let’s get movin’,” I said. “We’ve got to see if we can catch up to Marilyn Taylor. She’s all alone, lookin’ for a cab.”

  “Oh, I don’t really think we have to worry about her,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll see.”

  And I did.

  As I climbed into the back seat Marilyn was sitting there, smiling at me.

  “Oh,” I said, as Paul closed the door behind me.

  “Hello, Eddie,” she said.

  “Miss Taylor.”

  “Oh, I think since we’ve been in jail together you can call me Marilyn.”

  “Okay, Marilyn.” For someone who had spent some time in jail, she looked pretty damn good. She still had some of the makeup on that she’d worn to rehearsal. She was a very lovely woman.

  Paul got behind the wheel. “Where to, boss?”

  “Let’s take Marilyn home.”

  “Right.”

  FOURTEEN

  “So,” Marilyn said, “who put you on my tail, Jackie or my sister?”

  I considered not telling her, but I finally said, “June asked me to look after you.”

  “For how long?”

  “Well,” I said, “I’ll only be here a few more days. I told her I’d see what I could do about finding out who’s been following you.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I can tell you that.”

  “Can you?”

  “Yes. The dead man in the elevator.”

  “You recognized him?”

  “The police made me look. It was him.”