“Good for you.”
I took a moment to finish the water in the glass and set it back down.
“I’ll be going, Jack,” I said, “but there’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Have you heard anything about Dean getting’ somebody mad at him?” I asked. “Mr. Costello, Mr. Giancana, anybody like that?”
Entratter hesitated a long moment, then took the cigar out of his mouth. This time when he pointed it was the wet end.
“How would I know that, Eddie?” he asked, slowly.
“Well,” I said, carefully, “Jack, I’d be a fool to think I was the only one who had the town wired. And not just this town. You worked in New York and Jersey. I just thought maybe you … heard something.”
He took a moment to pluck some tobacco from his mouth with the thumb and index finger of his left hand while he maintained his hold on the wet thing with his right. It wasn’t common knowledge that Jack Entratter represented the interests of Frank Costello in the Sands, but it was something Sands employees had all heard. In point of fact there were men with interests in the Sands living in New York, New Jersey, Miami, Boston, Chicago, New Orleans, St. Louis, L.A. and other places, and not all of them had Mafia ties. Some were just plain businessmen. Frank Costello, though, was a well-known Mafia figure in New York. To be blunt, he was the boss of the New York mob, and Jack was his man in Vegas.
“You sure these are the kind of questions you wanna be askin’, Eddie?”
“If I’m going to do this favor right for Frank and Dino,” I said, “yes, Jack.”
“Well … I ain’t heard anything like that, but if I do, I’ll let ya know.”
I smiled and said, “Frank and Dino and I would appreciate it, Jack.”
“Yeah,” Entratter said, “I know they will. Say, kid, you wanna gun?”
“What?”
“In case those two guys come back for ya,” he said, opening a drawer in his desk. “I can give ya one now, or get ya somethin’—”
“Thanks, Jack,” I said, “no gun. I’ll be fine.”
“Suit yerself,” he said, closing the drawer. “I’ll see ya later.”
“See you, Jack.”
Everybody was trying to give me a damn gun.
Eighteen
IF JACK ENTRATTER SAID he hadn’t heard anything about Dean Martin pissin’ off some mob boss, or made guy, I probably should have taken his word for it. Jack worked for Costello, who might not be keeping him in the loop on some things. On the one hand, Frank was friends with Mo Mo Giancana and maybe he’d heard something. But on the other hand, he was friends with Dean, too. If Giancana wanted to take Dean out, why would he mention it to Frank?
But maybe I was jumping to conclusions. So far nobody had said anything about killing Dean. There were just these threats. It was probably too soon for me to arrange another meeting with Frank. What I should have been doing was trying to get a line on Davis and Ravisi. According to Danny the two were small-timers. If the Mafia wanted something done in Vegas they had a lot better ways to go before they decided to use two nothings like those guys.
I had Danny working on finding the two assholes who’d worked me over, but I had my own contacts, too. I wasn’t a made guy or anything, but I knew some people who moved in those circles.
There was a guy named Lou Terazzo who came into the Sands to play blackjack all the time. He called himself “Lucky” Lou, but we all knew him as “Unlucky” Lou because the guy never won. Lou worked at the Riviera for Eddie Torres, who had taken over the operating duties of the Riv last year when the owner, Gun Greenbaum, was killed. It was pretty common knowledge that Torres was Meyer Lansky’s man. So Lou may not have been much of a gambler, but he had big ears and he liked to brag to women about who he knew and what he knew. I needed to find out if Lou knew anything at all, or if it was all just talk for the ladies.
I went to the pits to see if Lou had been in today. His main game was blackjack although he was known to dabble in roulette and craps, too. But he hadn’t been seen at any of those tables. Too early, I decided. He’d probably be in later, but I couldn’t wait. I decided to go over to the Riv to see if I could find him and get him to talk to me.
The Riviera had been on the verge of receivership when Gus Greenbaum had been brought back to save it. A few years earlier Greenbaum had been the big boss at the Flamingo, but his health had gone bad and his wife, Bess, had made him quit. But then the boys wanted Gus back to save the Riviera, and they wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Last year Greenbaum and his wife had gone to their retreat in Phoenix, Arizona, and there they’d been found one morning, in their bed, with their throats cut.
Word on the street had it that Gus had been killed for the same reason Bugsy Siegel had been killed, for being out of line. He’d wanted to sink two million bucks into an expansion of the Riviera, an expense the mob didn’t need. His usefulness was at an end, and he ended up dead. Eddie Torres was a 30 percent owner of the Riv, and he’d been appointed its chief operating officer soon after Greenbaum’s demise.
From what I knew the Riveria was now doing okay. As I stepped inside I could see that the place was jumping. The Riviera had more slot machines than any other casino on the strip, to go along with their table games and wheel of fortune. As well as lining the walls they had aisles of them bisecting their floor space. The slots were chrome and blue—the ones at the Sands were green—and in the square at the top where our slots said SANDS these said RIVIERA. If the slots were to become as popular as some said, I thought the casinos were going to have to get their own, rather than use the same models and simply put their names at the top.
I hadn’t heard any complaints from anywhere about the way Ed Torres was running things at the Riv, certainly not from the people who were packing the place.
I checked out the lounge and didn’t see Lou there, but I did see another face I knew, one of Unlucky Lou’s coworkers, a guy named Mike “Bear” Borraco.
But Mike was nothing like a bear. As I approached him I was once again struck, as I always was, at how small his hands and feet were. Mike had as much to say about his job and his contacts as Lou Terazzo did, the only difference being I knew Mike was full of shit. Lou was a torpedo, a strong-arm man, maybe even a hit man for all I knew, but Mike, he was a gopher.
“Hey, Eddie G,” Mike said as I reached him. “Whataya doin’, checkin’ out the competition?”
The bartender, whose ear Mike had been bending, gave me a grateful look and moved down the bar.
“I’m lookin’ for Lou Terazzo, Mike,” I said. “You seen him around today?”
“Lou? Yeah, I seen him.” Mike used his palm to smooth down his hair, which would have worked if his hair wasn’t so kinky. In his mind, though, he saw Elvis hair on his head. And since he looked a bit taller today than his usual five-four I was assuming he’d started wearing lifts in his shoes.
“But whataya need Lou for, Eddie?” he asked. “I can help ya with what you need.”
Mike was looking at me like he was a puppy and I had a stick. He was just dying for someone to give him something meaningful to do.
“Do you know two guys named Davis and Ravisi?”
“Lenny and Buzz? Sure, I know ’em. They’re freelancers. Bottom of the barrel, Mr. G,” he said. “You’d do better with me, ya know?”
“I’m not looking to hire them, Mike,” I said. “I’m looking to find out who sent them to my house to work with me over last night. Have they ever done any work for Mr. Torres?”
“Naw,” Mike said, “Mr. Torres wouldn’t hire them monkeys. Why would he? He’s got me and Lou and plenty of other good boys.”
“Do you know where to find those two?”
Mike pulled on his lower lip while he thought. It wasn’t a pretty sight. I could see that his bottom teeth were rotting away.
“Not off hand, but I’m sure I can find out.”
I took out a fifty and handed it to him.
“There’s another one when you give me an address,” I promised.
“You got it, Mr. G,” Mike said.
“Just call me Eddie, Mike.”
“Can’t,” he said. “I’ll get confused. Eddie’s my boss.”
“Okay, then call me Ed. Can you do that?”
“Sure, Ed,” Mike said.
“I’d still like to talk to Lou, though,” I told him, “so if you see him will you tell him I’m looking for him?”
“He owe the Sands money, Ed?” Mike asked.
“I can’t answer that, Mike,” I said. “That’s between Lou and the Sands.”
“He owes money to the Flamingo, the Dunes and the Sahara, too.”
I already knew that, but I didn’t let on to Mike that I did.
“Not my business,” I said.
“’Bout the only casino he don’t owe is this one,” Mike went on, “and that’s only ’cause they won’t let him gamble here.”
“What about you, Mike?”
“Whataya mean?”
“You gamble?”
“Hell, no,” he said. “I got better things ta do with my money then piss it away on cards or dice.”
Like pissing it away on women, was my bet, but I kept that opinion to myself, too.
“Okay, thanks Mike.”
“I’ll get back ta ya as soon as I know somethin’, Mr.—I mean, Ed.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
I left the lounge and walked the remainder of the Riviera, still looking for Lou. I checked a couple of the restaurants, and even asked one of the pit bosses I knew if he’d seen him.
“Earlier today, yeah,” the man said, “but not in the last couple of hours.”
I thanked him and moved on. I figured I’d wasted enough time looking for Unlucky Lou. The chances were good he wouldn’t be able to help me, anyway. And I really didn’t expect to hear anything useful from Mike Borraco.
“Hey, Eddie?”
I turned and saw the pit boss running after me. His name was Steve Pepper, and he was a tall, good looking guy who I knew to be in his forties, even though he looked ten years younger.
“Yeah, Steve?”
“I just remembered,” Pepper said. “Lou’s been chasing after one of the girls in the show, her name’s Carla. Maybe she can help you.”
The Riviera’s showgirls were the cream of the crop in town. I didn’t think any of them would give a guy like Lou the time of day.
“Thanks, Steve,” I said. “I’ll check it out.”
“Sure,” he said, and went back to his pit.
I was torn between leaving the Riv or going to talk to the showgirl, Carla. I could see the front door from where I was, could envision myself going through it … and then what?
I turned around and headed for the theater.
Nineteen
DORI ELLIS IS NOT the only showgirl I’d ever dated, but I’d been trying to cut down for a while. And it wasn’t because they were long on looks and short on brains. That’s a cliché. I’ve found showgirls who were pretty damn smart, with educations that came both from books and the street. No, they were simply driven by what they did, and had little time for anything else. Almost all of them I’ve known are either divorced or have been in and out of short-term relationships. Maybe that was why I asked Beverly to go with me to the Rat Pack show. Waitresses could be just as pretty and smart, but they certainly weren’t career-driven—not yet, anyway.
When I went looking for Carla, the showgirl Pepper told me Unlucky Lou was seeing, I walked in on a full dress rehearsal and was reminded of why I started dating showgirls in the first place.
They were so damn beautiful.
I watched as the choreographer put them through their paces on stage. Legs flashed, breasts heaved, high heels made rat-a-tat sounds on the boards, blond-brunette-red hair flew, and they sweated—I mean, they perspired. There was nothing quite like a statuesque showgirl swea—perspiring.
As I watched I realized that I recognized one or two of them. That’s the other thing about showgirls. Some of them are in it for the long haul, others come and went with the wind. While the core group was usually steady, there was a pretty good turnover rate, as well.
Big breasts were always good in my opinion, but for showgirls the most important thing seemed to be legs—long, long legs. Breast size varied, which made for a good variety, but when they were moving in perfect unison and those long legs were kicking and twirling, it was a sight to see.
Finally, rehearsal was over. I’d only had to stand and wait about fifteen minutes and then the girls started filing by me, heading for their dressing rooms. Some of them flirted in passing, others just threw me interested looks, while still others ignored me. The two I knew greeted me by name, but kept moving.
I also knew the woman who had been running the rehearsal. Her name was Verna and she had been a showgirl for a lot of years. Now she was in her forties, still striking, with red hair and the long, good legs. She came offstage dressed in a leotard, also glistening with perspiration.
“Hello, Eddie,” she said. “What brings you here? Checking out my girls for your next conquest?”
“I wish, Verna.”
“Or maybe you prefer them a little more … seasoned?” Verna was big-breasted, and since her retirement from full-time dancing she’d gained a few pounds which, from what I could see, had gone to all the right places. She wasn’t built for dancing anymore, but she was perfect for, uh, other forms of recreation. A few extra lines around her eyes and a streak of gray in her red hair did nothing to alter her appeal to men.
“I’m actually looking for a particular girl, Verna,” I said.
“What’s her name?”
“Carla?”
“I got two Carla’s, Eddie,” she sad. “Which one?”
“Um, she’s the one who’s supposed to be seeing Lou Terazzo?”
Verna made a face.
“That’s Carla DeLucca. Is she still seein’ him? I warned her off, but they’re young, they don’t wanna listen to me. Shit, I’ve been through enough of those torpedoes in my day to know better, but do they listen?”
“I guess they have to make their own mistakes, Verna.” I didn’t want to add anymore fuel to her anger.
She heaved a sigh that was very interesting to me visually and which apparently cleansed her emotionally and said, “I guess you’re right.”
“Was she at this rehearsal?”
“Yes,” she said. “A big brunette, too top-heavy for my taste—as a dancer, I mean—and her feet are too big. I don’t think she’ll be here past next year.”
“But she’s here now?”
“Yeah,” Verna said. She gave me a leer. “You wanna go into the dressin’ room and find her?”
“I’m tempted,” I said, “but I’m afraid if I go in there I’m not going to want to come out.”
She laughed, throwing her head back.
“If I let you go in there they may not let you come out,” she said, placing her hand on my chest. “A handsome man like you … well, I’ll go in and tell her you want to see her when she’s dressed. You just wait out here where it’s safe.”
“Thanks, Verna.”
She let her hand linger on my chest a little while longer.
“You and me have been in Vegas a long time, Eddie.”
“Long time, Verna.” She had been dancing at the Flamingo when I arrived in town.
“How come we never went out?”
I took her hand in mine, lifting it from my chest and holding it gently.
“You were always out of my league, Verna,” I said, and then to try to lessen the sting added, “but then, you’re out of everyone’s league.”
“Yeah,” she said, sliding her hand from mine, “that must explain why this old broad is alone.”
“Verna—”
“Shut up, Eddie,” she said. “I’ll go and tell Carla you’re waitin’ for her.”
I guess that was another thing about the g
irls who were in it for the long haul. By the time they stopped dancing they were alone. Men in Vegas were looking for young girls, so someone like Verna would have to find a way to stay in the game—like becoming a choreographer. If not they’d end up waitressing or, worse, dancing in some club on the outskirts of Vegas, where tits and ass were more important than long legs and the ability to dance. Verna might have been a little bitter, but she was also one of the lucky ones.
Twenty
I WAITED ABOUT A HALF an hour. During that time many of the girls had come out of the dressing room and either gone home or out to run their daily errands before returning later for the show. A couple of brunettes came out and when I asked if they were Carla they smiled politely and said no, Carla would be out soon. Finally, I got tired of waiting and approached the door to the dressing room. I knocked, opened it cautiously and said, “Hello? Anyone in here?”
“Come on in, handsome,” a woman’s voice said.
I entered and found myself face-to-face with a blond amazon. Even without the high heels she looked six feet. She was dressed for the street in blue jeans and a purple short-sleeved top that was being dangerously stretched by her breasts. In my opinion jeans were invented for dancers to wear. The denim clung tightly to their legs so you could see if a muscle even twitched. She had her long blond hair pulled back by a kerchief that matched her top.
“What can I do for you, lover?” she asked.
She had already applied her street makeup, which was considerably less than her stage makeup. Still, her lips were scarlet, and there was plenty of mascara surrounding her blue eyes.
“I’m, uh, looking for Carla De Lucca?”
“You mean I won’t do?” she asked, putting her hands on her rounded hips.
“Oh, any other day I’d say yes without even hesitating,” I answered.
“But not today.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You don’t know how sorry.”
“Well, don’t be too sorry,” she said. “There may be time after all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Carla beat it out the back way about twenty minutes ago.”
Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime Page 7