Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

by Robert J. Randisi

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Fifty-five

  Fifty-six

  Fifty-seven

  Fifty-eight

  Fifty-nine

  Epilogue

  Also by Robert J. Randisi

  Author’s note

  Copyright Page

  To Dean, Frank and Sammy

  Thanks for the memories, pallier

  Prologue

  Las Vegas

  November 26, 1996

  2:06 A.M.

  WHEN THE BUILDING IMPLODED it was like they ripped my fuckin’ heart out.

  I watched as forty-four years of history—forty-three of which I was a part—collapsed in a heap of mortar-and-brick rubble. But I was surprised when my shoulders came down with the building, and my insides unclenched.

  Only a few hours ago I was standing at my post in the pit among the blackjack tables. Forty-three years ago Jack Entratter had hired me, and three hours ago the current owner, Sheldon Adelson, had been decent enough to walk out ahead of me and allow me to be the last person to leave.

  At seventy-six I didn’t have that much time left to make memories, but that was one I wanted to have. Now I stood under the great Sands marquee with the other employees who had hung around—Sheldon standing on my right, Las Vegas great Wayne Newton on my left—to watch as the walls came tumbling down.

  Suddenly the air was filled with dirt and dust. People began to scatter pretty quickly, some coughing and covering their mouths.

  “Come on, Eddie,” Sheldon said, grabbing my arm. “Let’s get away from here. This stuff’s not gonna be good for your asthma.”

  I started coughing as Sheldon dragged me away and suddenly I felt my legs going out from under me. From my other side I felt Wayne Newton’s strong hands take hold of me and the two practically carried me away from the scene.

  “Eddie?” I heard Sheldon call.

  All of a sudden I wasn’t sure where I was. I turned my head and instead of seeing a pile of rubble I saw the great Sands Hotel as it had stood thirty-six years ago, in it’s glorious heyday, when Frank and Dino and Sammy were there, when I was a helluva lot younger and stronger and times were better and exciting … .

  “Eddie?” I heard Sheldon say. “Come back.”

  But fuck it, I didn’t want to … .

  One

  Las Vegas

  January 25, 1960

  WHEN I SPOTTED JOEY BISHOP walking toward me across the Sands casino floor, I figured he wasn’t heading for a blackjack table. Although a member of Sinatra’s Rat Pack—he called himself a “mascot” while Sinatra called him “The Hub of the Wheel”—Joey didn’t drink or gamble, and he didn’t party much. Even after the shows in the Copa Room—which Sinatra had started calling “The Summit”—while the others went out and partied the night away, Joey usually went back to his room. I’d heard him refer to himself more than once as a “Go-Home” guy.

  So, to see him walking toward the blackjack tables meant one of two things: either he had a friend playing, or he was coming to see me.

  I’m Eddie Gianelli. In Brooklyn they used to call me Eddie G, and I guess it was only natural the moniker would follow me to Vegas. For years I had come to Las Vegas like everybody else, to see some shows and play a little blackjack, but eventually I learned that it was Vegas itself I loved. It was the smell and the feel, the limitless food and sex and opportunities, the pulse of the place, not just the action, so twelve years ago I came and stayed. I got some jobs in casinos, working my way up to blackjack dealer in places like the Flamingo, the Desert Inn and the Sahara, but when the Sands opened its doors in 1952, I hustled my ass to put in my application for a job. The call did not come for a year, but once I got in I used five of the last seven years to work myself up to pit boss, where I am now—and pretty damned happy about it, too.

  When Joey reached the tables he waved at me. We met over a covered table that had not yet been opened. It was still early in the evening, and all of the tables weren’t in use yet. The slot machines, lining the walls all around us, were likewise only about half in use, with only the occasional sound of coins hitting the tray or bells going off. The slot machines were traditionally played by women—wives, girlfriends, both—who were trying to win a few bucks while their men dropped real money at the tables. Some Vegas insiders were predicting bigger things for the slots in the future, but I had my doubts about that. To me, the real money was always going to be at the table.

  As usual, Joey was decked out in a suit that would have cost me a week’s salary, maybe more.

  “Eddie G, my buddy,” Joey said, extending his hand.

  “Buddy” was stretching a point. I knew Joey, of course—knew who he was, and who he hung around with, and had seen him in the casino, though never gambling. We’d had conversations and coffee together once or twice. I knew Joey like I knew a lot of people because a total of twelve years working on the strip had put me in the know.

  “Joey,” I said. “What can I do for you, pal?” What the hell? If he could lay it on thick with “buddy” I could do the same with “pal.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly what you can do for me, Eddie, but for a friend of mine.”

  “A friend?” I knew who Joey’s friends were. “Uh, just who are we talkin’ about here, Joey?”

  He shrugged. “I’m talkin’ about Frank.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “What the hell would Frank Sinatra want with me?”

  “Well … can we go someplace for a cup of coffee?” Joey asked.

  I checked my watch.

  “I can meet you in the coffee shop in about twenty minutes. Can Mr. Sinatra wait that long?”

  “Hey,” Joey said, with another shrug, “if he has to wait, he has to wait. I’ll see you in half an hour.”

  I knew that Joey Bishop was probably one of two people in Las Vegas who wasn’t afraid of Frank Sinatra and his perceived connections to organized crime.

  I also knew that I wasn’t the second person.

  I found Joey sitting alone in a booth in the back of the coffee shop. I was willing to bet that he had signed more than a few autographs while sitting there, but at the moment he was alone.

  “Joey,” I said, sitting opposite him.

  “Thanks for coming.”


  The pretty waitress came over and I said, “Just coffee, Bev.”

  “Comin’ up, Eddie.”

  Joey and I watched her walk away, firm ass twitching with every step. When it came right down to it, all the waitresses in the Sands were knockouts. It was something the owner, Jack Entratter, made damn sure of. Jack was a confirmed tits-and-ass man and, since I shared the same appreciation for a great set of knockers and a firm, round butt, it made working there even better, especially since most of them were single and available—and some of the married ones were, too.

  As we watched Beverly walk away, the look on Joey’s face never changed. He looked perpetually bored with life, even when he was performing. He was looking at her appreciatively, but one of the other things I knew about Joey Bishop was that he didn’t cheat. It made him an even odder member of the Rat Pack, since those guys attracted babes like nobody’s business.

  “Okay, Joey,” I said, “you’ve got my attention and nobody else can hear us. What’s up?”

  “Frank wants to talk to you.”

  “To me? Yeah, sure. What’s the gag?”

  “No gag, kiddo.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “That’ll be between you and him.”

  “When?”

  “Now.” Joey looked at his watch. “He’s in the steam room.”

  “The steam room?”

  Sinatra had had the steam room built especially for him and his pals so they’d have something to do between shooting their new movie, Ocean’s 11, and their Summit show in the Copa Room. Very few people beyond those five—Frank, Dino, Sammy, Peter Lawford and Joey—were ever allowed in there.

  “Yep. We can go there right now, if you want.” Joey made as if to rise.

  “Hold your horses, Joe.” I put my hand out to stop him.

  “What? You wanna finish your coffee?”

  “No,” I said, “I’m just not sure I wanna go and meet Frank Sinatra.”

  Joey got comfortable again.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know … what could he possibly want with me?” I asked.

  “Eddie,” he said, leaning forward, “you’re not lettin’ all those stories get to you, are you?”

  “What stories?”

  “You know,” Joey said, touching his nose, “the Mafia, Giancana, all that stuff?”

  The rumors about Frank Sinatra’s connection to the mob had been around for years, even before they were supposed to have gotten him the part in From Here to Eternity that won him the Oscar and revived his career. There were many stories about that, but the one I’d heard the most was that Johnny Roselli had gone to studio head Harry Cohn’s office and simply said, “Frank gets this part or we’ll have you killed.”

  Did I believe it?

  “No … well, maybe … I’m not all that sure … Joey, I just don’t see what Frank—Mr. Sinatra—would want with me.”

  “I can’t tell you that, Ed,” Joey said. “Only Frank can.”

  “Well … I think I’m gonna have to pass, Joe,” I said. “I mean … if that’s all right?”

  “Sure, it’s all right,” Joey said, with another characteristic shrug. “You don’t wanna see him, don’t see him. It’s no skin off my nose.”

  “Okay,” I said, “okay.”

  Bev came with my coffee and put it down, then walked away. Neither Joey nor I watched her, this time.

  I dug into my pocket. “Lemme get the Java—”

  “Hey, I got it,” Joey said, waving his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I gotta get back to work.”

  “Sure,” Joey said, “go.”

  I stood up, but didn’t leave.

  “You’ll tell him I was, uh, flattered, but … I’m kinda busy—”

  “Hey, Eddie,” Joey said, spreading his hands, “forget about it, okay?”

  “Okay … then I’ll go back to work.”

  “Sure.”

  I started to walk away, then turned to look back at him. He was still sitting in the booth. He smiled and waved.

  Two

  I WAS ONLY BACK at my pit half an hour when one of the other pit bosses, Richie Castellani, came over and whispered in my ear, “Boss wants you, G. Now.”

  The boss was Jack Entratter, who had left his job as assistant manager and bouncer at the Copacabana in New York to come to Vegas to run the Sands Hotel and Casino for Frank Costeilo—or so the story goes. All of the entertainers who went through the Copa while Jack was there had come to love him, so not only had Frank, Dean, Sammy and the others made the Sands their place in Las Vegas but others, too, like Lena Horne, Nat King Cole, Milton Berle, Danny Thomas, Tony Bennett and Dean’s old partner, Jerry Lewis.

  Richie stepped into the pit and I left and headed for Jack’s office. I knew what this was about. Entratter and Sinatra were friends, and Frank was a two-percent owner in the casino; I had the feeling Joey Bishop had gone over my head.

  I knocked on Entratter’s door and he shouted, “Come in!”

  If Entratter was really running the Sands for Costello, he was the perfect choice. He wasn’t Italian, and nobody would ever take him for one. Jack was six three or four, a hulking brute of a man who had been left bandy-legged by the childhood disease osteomyelitis. As a twenty-six year old in 1940 he had signed on as bouncer at the Copa and over the next twelve years had moved up to assistant manager without giving up his bouncer job. At thirty-eight he had left the Copa to take over the newest casino in Vegas, the Sands. Now Jack was forty-six and ruled the Sands with an iron hand, but he was even better known as a showman. There were times he even got up on stage with the Pack. I envied him that. I was a shower singer who dreamed about being on stage.

  He was sitting behind his desk, alone in the office, when I entered. His suit was sharp, but it lost some of its edges because it was on Entratter’s body. His tie was askew and his shoulders were threatening his seams.

  “What the hell are you tryin’ to do to me?” he demanded.

  “Boss?”

  “Who’s my best friend in the world?”

  Well, the answer to that varied from week to week, but I knew what he wanted to hear.

  “Frank Sinatra.”

  “You bet your ass, Frank Sinatra,” he growled. “So when my best friend in the world asks you for help, what do you tell him? You tell him no.”

  “Well, uh, I told Joey I’d like to take a pass,” I tried to explain. “I never did talk to Mr. Sinatra—”

  “Don’t you think you should?” Entratter asked. “I mean, before you take a pass shouldn’t you find out what you’re takin’ a pass from?” He made it sound like the most reasonable request in the world.

  “Jack, I—”

  “You work for me, don’t ya, Eddie?”

  “Well, yeah, Jack, I do, but—”

  “So if I ordered you to talk to Frank you would, right?”

  “I, uh, well, sure—”

  “But I ain’t gonna do that.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Siddown, Eddie.”

  I sat across from him.

  “You’re from New York, right?” He knew that, but I answered the question, anyway.

  “That’s right. Brooklyn.”

  “I never saw you at the Copa.”

  “I never went,” I said. “It was more than I could afford back then.”

  “Yeah, it was kinda expensive.”

  For a moment Entratter retreated a dozen or so years inside his head, then shook off the reverie and looked at me again. “I ain’t gonna order you to talk to Frank, kid.” He called me “kid” a lot, even though he was only about six years older than I was.

  “I appreciate that, Jack—”

  “I’m gonna ask ya to do it as a favor to me, Eddie,” he went on, cutting me off. “Go and talk to him, see what he wants. If you can help him, help him. If not …” he shrugged.

  I owed Entratter a lot and he knew it. That’s why he was asking me instead of telling me.

&nb
sp; “You’re the man here in Vegas,” Jack said, then. “You know everybody there is to know in this town. You got it wired. Hookers, pimps, valets, doormen, high rollers and bums, you know ’em all. If anybody can help Frank it’s Eddie G—”

  “Okay, Jack, okay,” I said. “Geez, enough. A guy can only take so much stroking. I get the picture. I’m your man.”

  “Great!’ Jack said, clapping his big hands together.”Joey’s down in the casino waitin’ for you.”

  “You knew I’d say yes?”

  “If ya hadn’t,” Jack said, “I woulda ordered ya to. But I knew I could count on you, kid. Now get out. I got work to do.”

  I headed for the door, but never made it.

  “Eddie.”

  “Yeah, Boss.” I turned to face him with my back to the door.

  “I’m curious,” he said. “Why’d you refuse in the first place?”

  “Like I said,” I replied, “I’m from Brooklyn.”

  “So?”

  “Frank’s from Jersey.” I made a face.

  “Get out!”

  I left Jack’s office and made my way back to the casino floor. Joey was seated at an empty blackjack table, waiting for me. As I approached him he stood up, his face expressionless.

  “Steam room?” I asked.

  “Steam room,” he said.

  Three

  THE STEAM ROOM was in the bowels of the Sands. Since it was so exclusive—just the Rat Pack and their close friends—I half expected there to be a guard on duty. According to Jack Entratter I was “the man,” but I’d never been down there before.

  When we got there I spotted some robes hanging on the wall. On the backs were written the names “Smokey,” “The Needler,” “The Dago” and “Charlie the Seal.” There was an empty peg, which I assumed would hold Frank’s robe, but hanging on it at the moment was a shoulder holster.

  “Charlie the Seal?’ I asked.

  “That’s Peter,” Joey explained. “He has a smoker’s cough.”

  “The Needler has to be you.”

  “Correct.”

  “The Dago is Dean; Smokey is Sammy?”

  “Right,” Joey said, “because Sammy smokes.”

  “Right. And what does Frank have on the back of his robe?”