[Rat Pack 11] - I Only Have Lies for You Read online

  He had an educated way of speaking, yet I had the feeling he was from the street, like me.

  “We missed each other last night,” he said, “which was lucky for you bud.”

  “I guess so,” I said. “So that was you?”

  “It was,” he said. “Rossi was a bit of business for me. You would have just been in the way, and I wouldn’t have had much of a choice. I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

  “So am I,” I said, with feeling. “So, why are you here now?”

  “Well,” he said, “first of all, I had a ticket for Frank’s show. Wasn’t he great?”

  “Terrific,” I said, “as always.” I was going to agree with everything this guy had to say.

  “And on the other hand, I wanted to have a nice talk with you.”

  “Well, that’s what we’re doin’,” I said, “havin’ a nice talk.” I sipped my drink. Mostly to wet my dry mouth. I figured as long as we were talking he wasn’t killing me.

  “Yes, we are,” he said. “Look, I know who you are, and I know where you live. You might think that once you’re back in Vegas I won’t be able to get to you, but I will. It doesn’t matter where you go.”

  “And why would you want to get to me?” I asked. “I don’t know anything. I haven’t even seen your face.”

  “And that’s lucky,” he said. “That’s very lucky for you. And the only reason I’m lettin’ you go home.”

  I sipped my drink again, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “But let me tell you somethin’.”

  “I knew there was gonna be a but.”

  “If you come back I won’t be so forgiving. If you try to help the police, same thing. I want you to go home, Eddie G., go home to Vegas and live your life.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said, not believing the words coming out of my mouth, “wouldn’t it just be easier for you to kill me?”

  “Maybe it would,” he said, “but I’m not getting paid to do that. Now, finish your drink, enjoy the rest of your stay, and when Frank’s plane takes off, be on it.”

  “Okay, but—“

  “Keep staring into your drink for the next ten seconds.”

  “You got it.”

  I stared into my drink and counted to twenty, just for good measure. When I turned my head the stool beside me was empty.

  I waved at the bartender.

  “Another one?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “and this time make it a double.”

  EIGHTEEN

  I’m not a fool.

  I called Detective Eisman right away. And not from my room. I had the bartender bring me a phone right then and there. And I arranged to meet him somewhere.

  Normally, my next step would have been to call Frank and get his driver to take me, but I decided against that. Instead, I went right out to the front of the hotel and had the doorman get me a cab. I thought if I didn’t stop to think, I wouldn’t change my mind.

  “Where to, pal?” the cabbie asked.

  I gave him the address the detective had given me, but added, “And I need to make sure I’m not being followed.”

  “Really?” the cabbie asked. “Not ‘follow that cab?’”

  “Twenty bucks over the meter if you make sure I’m not followed.”

  “Hang on, bub,” he said and pulled away.

  ***

  “We’re here,” the cabbie said.

  I leaned forward and looked.

  “Where?”

  “The far end of Collins Avenue. It ain’t the best neighborhood, lemme tell ya.”

  I remembered a few blocks back we passed a motel that looked a little rundown. It was called the Pink Grotto. That must have been what he meant. Kind of tacky.

  “Were we followed?”

  “Impossible.”

  I gave him two twenties and got out.

  “You want me to wait, Mac?”

  “No, that’s okay,” I said, through the open passenger window. I turned, then whirled back around. “Wait! Is there a bar around here?”

  “Down by the beach,” he said. “Follow that path. Booze beer and burgers, not much more.”

  This end of Collins Avenue was not in keeping with the rest of it. The buildings were burnt out and boarded up, there were homeless inside and in the doorways. But as I walked further along the path to the beach, the homeless faded away, and I could hear music.

  On the beach was a small, square box of a place with lights strung all over the outside. The music was coming from there. But when I got through the front door, the lights were gone and it was cool and dark.

  There was a long bar with a few people seated it, some four top tables, and booths. Sitting in one of the booths, with a drink in front of him, was Detective Eisman. The bartender gave me a glance as I walked by, but never stopped cleaning the glass he was holding.

  I walked over to the booth and slid in across from him.

  “Mr. Gianelli.”

  “Detective,” I said. “I’m taking a big chance coming here.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I don’t know who this button man is workin’ for.”

  “Button man?”

  “Maybe I better start from the beginning,” I said, as the bartender came over. “Beer, on tap.”

  “What kind?’

  “Anything.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  “So,” Eisman said, “from the beginning.”

  I stared at his drink. It was green. “Is that a grasshopper?”

  “A stinger.”

  “What makes it green?”

  “The crème de menthe.”

  “You’re supposed to use white.”

  “Don’t judge,” he said, “talk.”

  So I talked...

  ***

  “Let me get this straight,” Eisman said when I was finished. “A guy just sat down next to you in a bar and said he was the hitter who killed our vic? And that you should go home to Vegas and not say anything else about it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Eisman raised his hand to the bartender and asked just loudly enough, “Hey Vince, two more.”

  “Comin’ up, Boss.”

  The bartender carried two more drinks to us and set them down.

  “Boss?” I said. “You own this place?”

  “I’ve got a piece. I don’t want to be a cop forever. This was all I could afford with a Collins Avenue address, but things are lookin’ up. They’re going to clean up this end of the avenue. Or so they say. Anyway, back to your story.”

  “It’s not a story,” I said. “Check it out with the bartender at the hotel. I was just sittin’ there mindin’ my own business.”

  “You from Brooklyn?” he asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Your accent shows every once in a while,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, usually when I’m nervous, or agitated.”

  “Which one are you now?”

  “Both.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I did just what he told me not to do. I called a cop.”

  “Yeah, why’d you do that, Eddie?”

  “Maybe because I don’t like being told what to do,” I answered.

  “Well, you might just need a bodyguard for a while when you go back,” he said. “I mean until we watch him.”

  “I had the same thought,” I said, “and I’ve got somebody in mind.”

  “Good,” Eisman said, “’cause I’d kinda like you to stay alive. Think you can i.d. this guy by his voice?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “I’d know it anywhere.”

  “And you’re sure you never got a look at him?”

  “Not even a glimpse,” I said. “He said don’t look, so I didn’t.”

  “Probably a smart move,” Eisman said. “We don’t need to have the bar at the Fountainbleau get all shot up.”

  “So what’s your plan now?” I asked.

  “That’s easy,” he said. “You go home, we catch the guy, you come back and h
elp us i.d. him.”

  “You’re gonna let me go home?”

  “I’m pretty sure you didn’t kill the guy in the elevator, Eddie,” he said, “Did you?”

  “No!”

  “I’m also pretty sure you didn’t tell us everything.” He held up a hand to keep me from protesting. “But I think we’ve got enough of the truth to go on.”

  “That’s real understanding of you, Detective.”

  “Mind you,” Eisman added, “if I find out you actually lied to me, I’ll come to Vegas and get you.”

  “Call ahead,” I said, “I’ll make sure you have a suite at the Sands.”

  NINETEEN

  That night was our last one in Miami Beach.

  Frank, Dean and I went to the Eden Roc Hotel to see Sammy Davis Jr. open. Naturally, Sammy called Frank and Dino up on stage with him, and they had a mini-reunion of the Summit. It was hilarious. Afterward, we all went out to dinner. I had tried to invite my divorcee friend, Fiona Harpe, but I was told she had checked out and gone home. Might have been a missed opportunity, there.

  After dinner Sammy went back to his hotel, Frank, Dean and I went back to the Fountainbleau. We had a drink in the bar and I told them about the hitman and my conversation with Detective Eisman.

  “So what are you gonna do?” Dean asked. “You can’t stay here?”

  “We ain’t,” Frank said. “We fly back tomorrow.”

  “And I go home tomorrow,” Dean said. “So we’ve done Miami—again.”

  “Are you gonna be safe in Vegas?” Frank asked. “I mean, what if the button man changes his mind and decides you might have seen something you shouldn’t have?”

  “You need a bodyguard,” Dino said.

  “The detective said the same thing,” I told them, “and I have somebody in mind.”

  “So do I,” Frank said. “That private eye friend of yours, whatsisname, Bardini?”

  “No, not Danny,” I said. “I was thinking more of Jerry.”

  “Big Jerry!” Frank exploded. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that.”

  “He’ll be perfect,” Dino said. “He’d take a bullet for you, any day.”

  “Well,” I said, “hopefully it won’t come to that. I’ll give him a call as soon as I get back.”

  “And do what?” Frank asked. “Get him on a commercial flight? By the time he gets to Vegas you could be dead. No, no, as soon as we’re back in Vegas I’ll send my plane for him. I’ve got to go and spend some time at Cal-Neva, anyway. You know, bookkeeping.”

  Cal-Neva was a casino hotel in Lake Tahoe that Frank owned a piece of—Dean, too, at one time, but he had since divested himself of the property. I don’t think Dead appreciated having to do business with “the boys.” He was much too easy going to have to put up with that kind of nonsense.

  “Okay, thanks, Frank,” I said. “I’ll take you up on that. I’ll give him a call when we get back to the Sands.”

  “I’ve got a phone in the car,” Frank said. “You can call him on the way to the airport tomorrow.”

  “You’re just full of good ideas today, ain’t you, Frank?” Dean said, with a slow grin.

  “It’s just how I do business, Pally,” Frank said.

  “That’s why they call you the Chairman of the Board,” Dino commented.

  ***

  We all hit the sack after that and I met Frank by the car the next morning, with a bellman packing our suitcases into the trunk. Frank shook hands all around — bellman, doorman, assistant manager — leaving a $50 bill in each hand. That was also how he did business. I had no idea how much our driver, Paul, would be getting, but if I had my way it’d be a bundle.

  I tried calling Jerry from Frank’s car phone, but the big guy wasn’t picking up.

  “He’s probably out breakin’ some legs, kid,” Frank said, as I hung up.

  “There’s a lot more to Jerry than that, Frank.”

  “Hey, take it easy, pal,” Frank said. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Jerry’s a great guy.”

  “Yeah, he is,” I said. “Sorry. It’s just that when I first met him that’s what I thought. He was just a big legbreaker.”

  “But now he’s your friend,” Frank said. “I get it. You don’t want anybody badmouthing your friend. I feel that way, too.”

  I knew he probably felt that way about Dino. Dean Martin was about the only person who could do no wrong in Frank Sinatra’s eyes.

  When we got to the airport our luggage was loaded onto Frank’s plane, and we were off, headed for Las Vegas.

  Once we were seated and on our way with drinks in our hands—martinis, natch—Frank said, “Jackie had a lot of good things to say about you.”

  “Is that right?”

  “He really appreciated what you did for Marilyn.”

  “I didn’t do much, beyond finding a dead body.”

  “Well, don’t tell that to Jackie,” Frank suggested. “It can’t hurt to have one of the most powerful men in television feel indebted to you.”

  “Why do the most powerful men in television seem to be funny men?” I asked. “Sid Caesar and Milton Berle in the fifties, and now Jackie.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t asked myself the same question,” Frank replied, drolly.

  TWENTY

  When we got to McCarron Airport Frank took a helicopter to Lake Tahoe to the Cal-Neva Casino. We parted on the tarmac and I went to the parking lot to get my Caddy.

  Miami Beach was nice—or it would have been, without murder—but it was a pleasure to be back in Vegas. Driving down the street, even during the day when the marquees weren’t lit up, was exciting. When you see names like Nat King Cole, Louis Armstrong, Keeley Smith and Louie Prima, Alan King, Buddy Hackett playing at the Riviera, the Flamingo, the Stardust, Sahara, and Frontier, you can’t help but have your heart beat a little faster. At least, I can’t. And the Sands marquee, as I pulled in, said, as usual, “a place in the sun,” announcing Dionne Warwick and Charlie Callas playing the Copa Room. My boss, Jack Entratter, was making an attempt to attract the younger generation by booking acts like Warwick, Wayne Newton, and Bobby Darin.

  Back inside the Sands—more my home than my own house was--I checked in with my boss, Jack Entratter. He had another new girl working in his outer office. Since the death of his longtime assistant, he’d been having trouble finding a reliable replacement. This one was in her 20’s, pleasant-looking, not a knockout. Maybe the fact that she hadn’t been hired for her looks was a good sign.

  She had been hired a few weeks before I left, so she knew who I was when I walked in.

  “How was Miami, Mr. G.?” she asked.

  “Hot, Wendy,” I said. “Hot. Is he in?”

  “He is,” she said. “You can go on in.”

  “Thanks.”

  As I entered Jack’s office he looked up from his desk, sat back and smiled. He had a big cigar stuck in the middle of his face, as usual. His jacket — which was usually stretched to the limits by his shoulders — was hanging on the back of his chair.

  “Finally back, huh?” he asked. “You ready to do some real work?”

  I dropped myself into the chair opposite him and said, “I’m ready to work, all right.”

  “Why does that sound like Miami wasn’t such a good idea? Didn’t you get to meet the Great One and compare notes about your Brooklyn upbringings?”

  “I met him,” I said, “but there were other things happening.”

  So I filled him in on the Taylor sisters, the body in the elevator, and the hitman at the bar. It took a few minutes and he listened patiently.

  “You want a belt?” he asked when I was done.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  He got up, walked to a sideboard he’d had installed, with a few bottles and decanters on it. He poured two glasses of bourbon, handed me one and sat back down.

  “That’s quite a story,” he said, then. “We gonna have hitmen comin’ to the Sands lookin’ for you?. ‘cause if we are, I gotta tell somebody.”
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  “Somebody” meant he had to report to his mob bosses, who owned the casino. Texas tycoon Jake Friedman had built the hotel and was the owner of record, but it was generally known—or suspected—that people like Meyer Lansky and Frank Costello owned a share. Those were the people Jack Entratter worked for.

  “Well,” I said, “I did talk to the detective in charge of the investigation before I left, but we met at a pretty out of the way place.”

  The smile had long since faded from his face and now, as he chewed on his cigar, he was looking less and less happy.

  “And I’m thinking of, maybe, bringing in a bodyguard for a while.”

  “A bodyguard?” he asked. “Like who? Your pal Bardini?”

  “No,” I said, “I’m gonna give Jerry Epstein a call.”

  “Huh,” he said, rotating the cigar in his mouth. “I guess that’s better. At least he’s connected.”

  “In fact, I’m gonna give him a call as soon as I’m done here.”

  “Well,” he said, sitting forward, “finish your drink and you’re done. You can work things out with him, and then start back to work tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “There’s one more thing, though,” Entratter said.

  “What’s that?”

  “While you were away — in fact, you might’ve still been on Frank’s plane — Nat King Cole died.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “I know he collapsed here last year—December, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “and they found a tumor on his lung. The doctors told him to stop working, but he didn’t listen. He died in San Francisco. He was forty-five.”

  “When’s the funeral?”

  “It might’ve been today,” Jack said, “but I wouldn’t be able to spare you again so soon, anyway.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I knew Nat King Cole from his play dates at the Sands, but I wouldn’t say we were friends. It was a pity, though, to have that voice silenced so young.

  I’d only taken a few sips of the bourbon, so I downed the drink and I set the glass down on his desk. “Thanks for the drink.”

  As I left the office he was pouring himself another drink.