Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

by Robert J. Randisi

  “We better go,” Jerry said, looming behind me and speaking in my ear.

  I nodded and we headed for the door.

  Forty

  JERRY LIKED MY CADDY so much that I’d let him drive again. He’d gotten directions to the shoot, so I didn’t pay attention while he drove. Now that we were outside I suddenly realized where we were.

  “Oh,” I said, “this is bad.”

  “What?” he asked. “What’s bad?”

  “That’s Industrial Road,” I said, pointing.

  “So?”

  “Get in the car. You drive.”

  We got in and he started the engine.

  “Drive around the building.”

  He did as I asked, circling the building until I said stop.

  “Look familiar?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Look around.”

  He did, craning his neck. I watched the expression on his face, which was usually pretty blank. In the short time since we’d met we’d spent a lot of time together. I was able to tell when he realized something was wrong.

  “I get it.”

  “That trash bin over there,” I said. “That’s where we found Mike Boracco.”

  We could still see the flash of red from the piece of Boracco’s shirt that had gotten torn off.

  “Okay,” I said, “get us out of here.”

  “Where to?”

  “Binion’s,” I said. “Let’s go to Binion’s. They’ve got a killer coffee shop and I have to think.”

  I gave him directions.

  When we got to the Horseshoe, Jerry remembered that was where he’d had the two dozen pancakes.

  “They were good.”

  “Have some more,” I suggested, even though we already had breakfast.

  “I think I will.”

  He ordered the pancakes and I ordered a turkey sandwich on toast with fries. We shared a booth—well, actually, we didn’t share it. He took up two thirds of it.

  “So what’s it mean?” he asked.

  “You’re not as dumb as you seem, remember?” I asked.

  He smiled again, only the second time since I’d met him.

  “Everything is connected.”

  “I don’t know how it got that way,” I said, “but yeah, everything is connected. Look, sit tight. I’m gonna call Danny Bardini and have him join us. He can walk here from his office.”

  “Fine with me,” he said. “I hate cops, but I got nothin’ against P.I.’s. They’re workin’ stiffs, just like the rest of us.”

  I left him there with the waitress pouring us each coffee and went to the pay phone. The coffee shop was on the lower level, underneath the casino, so there was no noise in or around the booth. I got Penny, who put me through to Danny, who said he’d be right over as long as I was buying.

  When I got back to the booth Jerry had already started on his pancakes, and my sandwich was waiting for me.

  “Get ’im?” he asked around a mouthful.

  “He’ll be here in a minute.”

  “You go back a way with him?”

  “His brother was my best friend in Brooklyn, when we were growing up.”

  “That’s a long ways,” he said. “I got nobody from when I was a kid. Everybody’s gone.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Maybe.”

  Jerry still had a dozen to go when Danny arrived. He used his detective skills and immediately deduced that he couldn’t fit into the booth, so he pulled a chair over and sat on the outside.

  “You guys already met,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Danny said. “This mornin’ at the Sands. How are ya?”

  Jerry nodded.

  The waitress came over and Danny ordered a burger platter. “What’s up?”

  I told him about going to the Ocean’s 11 set and then finding out that it was inside the warehouse where we’d found Mike Borraco.

  “So everything is connected,” he said.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Unless it’s just a coincidence.”

  “Borraco just happens to ask me to meet him outside the building that houses Ocean’s Eleven? I don’t think so.”

  “How much of the movie is being shot here?”

  “They’re supposed to shoot for eleven days. This is day three, I think. Then they go back to Hollywood to finish.”

  “So if Dean Martin makes it through the next eight days he should be okay. Or, at least, out of Las Vegas. Did he receive any threats before he arrived?”

  “No,” I said, “only here.”

  “So something’s gonna happen in the next eight days,” Danny said.

  “Unless they’re just threats,” Jerry said.

  “Well,” Danny replied, “the fact that two guys worked Eddie over would make it more than just threats, I think.”

  Jerry eyed Danny carefully, I had not told him that I’d filled Danny in on the whole story, and that Danny knew he’d killed Buzz Ravisi. But now Jerry knew how far back Danny and I went, he could probably guess. I wondered if I’d just put Danny in a bad spot. I trusted him, but why should Jerry?

  “You got a point,” Jerry said, and went back to his last half-dozen pancakes.

  The waitress brought Danny his burger platter. It would have made any Brooklyn diner proud. Burger, bun, lettuce, tomato, red onion and large pickle slices. And fries. Danny assembled it all and took a bite.

  “I suppose you’re not goin’ to the cops with this information?”

  “No,” I said, “no cops.”

  “So it’s just the three of us who know, huh?”

  “Unless the cops check out that warehouse and find out it’s being used to film a movie.”

  “Danny shook his head.

  “That wouldn’t get them to the Rat Pack,” he said. “Just to the producers.”

  “So okay,” I said, “only the three of us know that all the killings are somehow related to the threats on Dean Martin’s life. And also, maybe, to the filming of Ocean’s Eleven.”

  “Now the question remains,” Danny said. “What do we do with this knowledge?”

  “You guys are the pros,” I said. “Help me out here. Suggest something.”

  Jerry looked at me, jerked his head towards Danny and said, “He’s the P.I. He’s a pro. Me, I’m just muscle sent by Frank to keep you safe.”

  “And doin’ a helluva job, from what I hear,” Danny said.

  Jerry did not look like he appreciated the compliment.

  Forty-one

  “WELL,” DANNY SAID, “as a pro I’d say you’ve got somebody inside the Sands workin’ on this.”

  The waitress had cleared the table and we were all having coffee.

  “I talked to the staff,” I said, “especially the people on the front desk.”

  “Eddie,” Danny said, “somebody’s lying to you. Somebody saw somethin’ they’re not tellin’ you, or did somethin’ they’re not tellin’ you. What you have to do is find out who and what it is.”

  “I can help with that,” Jerry said.

  “How?” I asked.

  “Just let me pound on some people until they talk.”

  “I think I’ll save that as a last resort, Jerry,” I said.

  “It usually works,” he grumbled.

  “My guess would be it’s someone who was recently hired,” Danny went on. “Maybe because they knew that Frank and Dino and the others would be here. There have been no threats against the others? Sammy Davis? Joey Bishop? No Jew bashing? No bigots because Sammy’s a Negro?”

  “Nothin’,” I said. “Just Dean.”

  “If it was Peter Lawford it could even be political, since he’s part of the Kennedy clan.”

  “Not a peep,” I said, “unless they’re not tellin’ me.”

  We all sat there in silence for a few moments. The only sound was Jerry chewing the last of his pancakes, washing it down with the final swigs of coffee.

  “Why would they not tell you?” Danny asked. “Why tell you abou
t Dean Martin and not the others?”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Unless,” Jerry said, “the others have had threats and are clammin’ up about it.”

  Danny and I looked at him.

  “Why would they not say anythin’?”

  Jerry shrugged.

  “Maybe Sammy Davis is so used to threats he doesn’t mention them,” Danny offered.

  “And maybe Lawford does think they’re political, and have nothin’ to do with Vegas,” I said.

  “Have you met them yet?” Danny asked.

  “No,” I said. “And I’ve been wanting to meet Sammy. I only know Joey, Frank and Dino, right now. I’ve been introduced to Richard Conte and Henry Silva—”

  “Angie Dickinson?” Danny asked, hopefully.

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, Conte and Silva, they’re just actors, not really part of the Rat Pack.”

  “Frank is the only one who was part of the original Rat Pack,” Jerry said.

  “That’s right,” Danny said. “I read about that. It was Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall who started it. After Bogie died, Frank sort of took it over, changed some of the members—”

  “He calls it the Summit,” Jerry said. Again, we looked at him. “The newspapers, they stuck them with the Rat Pack name. Frank even tried callin’ it the Clan.”

  “That wouldn’t fly in the papers,” Danny said. “Not with Sammy as a member.”

  I waved at the waitress and made a writing motion in the air, asking for the check.

  “Seems like I suddenly have a lot to do,” I said.

  “Do you know somebody in employment at the Sands?” Danny asked. “They could get you a list of recent employees.”

  “And then I’ll have to interview all of them,” I said. I looked at Danny. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested—”

  “I’ll interview Angie Dickinson,” he said. “Or even Shirley Maclaine. I hear she’s got a bit part.”

  I stared at him.

  “Look, I’ve done some work for you already on the house. Get me on the payroll and I’ll help out.”

  “Well,” I said, “Frank did tell me to hire somebody if I thought I needed help.”

  “There ya go,” Danny said.

  Jerry stared at Danny, like how dare he ask for money to help Frank Sinatra.

  “Hey,” Danny said, “I’m Italian, but I need to make a living. Capice?”

  “I getcha,” Jerry said.

  “I sure ain’t getting’ comped at the Sands,” Danny added.

  Jerry raised a hand, as if to wave away any further justification from Danny.

  “Okay,” I said, “you’re on the payroll.”

  “Get me the names, addresses and phone numbers of any employee who were hired in … oh, say the last six months.”

  “Okay.”

  “You talk with the other Rat Packers—Lawford, Sammy, even Joey Bishop. See if any of them have received threats.”

  “I better talk to Frank first.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll have to see if he objects to me talkin’ to the others. It may be that only he and Dean know about Dean’s threats. If I spill the beans to the others what if they take a hike? Get scared off?”

  “Well, Sammy Davis doesn’t strike me as the kind who scares,” Danny said, ‘but I don’t know about the others. Okay, do what you gotta do, talk with Frank, first. And while you’re at it, see if he’ll let you talk to all the guys in the movie. Somebody might know somethin’, and the only reason they’re not talkin’ is that nobody is askin’. It’s my experience that unasked questions don’t get answered.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “You ain’t gonna write none of this down?” Jerry asked.

  “I’ve got it all up here,” I said, tapping my temple.

  “That’s okay,” the big man said. “I gotta write a lot of stuff down.”

  I didn’t know if that was true, or if it was Jerry trying to act dumb, again.

  “What’s good ol’ Jer gonna be doin’?” Danny asked.

  “I’m gonna do my job,” Jerry said, before I could say anything. “I’m gonna keep yer friend, here, alive.”

  “Suits me,” Danny said.

  “Suits the hell out of me, too,” I said.

  Forty-two

  WE PARTED COMPANY in front of the Horseshoe. Danny walked to his office while Jerry and I drove back to the Sands. This time I got behind the wheel of my own Caddy.

  “That guy any good?” Jerry asked in the car.

  “He’s very good at what he does,” I said.

  Jerry nodded, but didn’t comment.

  As I drove down the strip, Jerry craned his neck to look at all the marquees. Nat King Cole was in town, along with Alan King and Shecky Greene. Buddy Hackett and Patrice Munsel were at the Riv. Donald O’Connor was playing the Sahara.

  The one he paid special attention to, though, was the big Sands marquee that said Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Peter Lawford and Joey Bishop.

  “I don’t get it,” he said as I pulled the Caddy into the Sands lot.

  “Get what?”

  “The actor,” he said, “Lawford. What’s he doin’ up there with the rest of those guys?”

  “He’s part of the group, isn’t he?”

  “I guess,” Jerry said. “I don’t get it, though. He ain’t got no talent.”

  “He’s an actor.”

  “So what’s he doin’ on stage with those guys?” he asked again. “I can even see Joey Bishop, he’s a comedian, he kibbitzes with them. What’s the actor do?”

  “I guess you’ll have to take in the show and see for yourself.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  As we entered the casino Jerry asked, “Whatta we gonna do now?”

  “You can take some time off,” I said. “I’ve got to talk to somebody in the employment department, get Danny that list of names he needs.”

  “You don’t need me to watch your back?”

  “I don’t think I need my back watched while we’re inside the Sands,” I said.

  “And whatta ya gonna do after you get the list?” he asked.

  “That’s when I’ll have to talk with Frank.”

  “I can arrange that.”

  I was about to say no, and then I thought, why not? He was working for Frank and could probably get in to see him easily.

  “Okay,” I said. “Okay. See if you can set it up for later today.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “I’ll have to talk to Dean, too. Then Sammy and Joey Bishop.”

  “Those guys I don’t know so good.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll set it up with Frank. I just need a few moments of his time tonight.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’ll meet you in the lounge in two hours,” I told him. “Can you get in to see him and be back by then?”

  “No problem. He wants me to report to him each day, anyways.”

  “On me?” I asked.

  “Not on you,” he said, “just … about you. You know, whether you’re okay or not. How you’re holdin’ up.”

  That was how Frank and Dean knew I’d been through something “intense.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I said. “So I’ll see you later.”

  “In the lounge,” he said. “You need me before the two hours, that’s probably where I’ll be.”

  So just as we’d done with Danny a little while before, we split up and went our separate ways.

  There was two ways I could go about what needed to be done. I could go to Jack Entratter and have him get me the list. Or I could go to the source itself. Marcia Clarkson worked in employment, kept the records of everyone who worked in the Sands. Without Marcia nobody at the Sands would get paid. Next to Jack Entratter, she was probably the most important person in the place. Hell, maybe she was the most important. I didn’t know Jack’s deal with Frank Costello, so maybe Marcia controlled his paycheck as well.
>
  I went to the second floor, where the Sands’ business offices were. I walked past Jack’s office and headed down the hall to Marcia’s inner sanctum. When I entered she looked up from her desk and smiled at me.

  Marcia was pretty, there was no two ways about it. Her brown hair was kind of frizzy, and her glasses were so thick they magnified the beautiful blue of her eyes. She was in her mid-thirties and one might have called her mousy, but I knew her better than most. We’d gone out a few times. Nothing had developed romantically; now we were friends.

  “Hello, Eddie,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need a big favor, Marcy.” Yeah, I knew her well enough to call her by her nickname, the one family members usually used.

  “Is this gonna get me in trouble?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is it something I’m gonna have to check with Mr. Entratter about?”

  “Definitely not,” I said. “I’ve got carte blanche from Jack. Access to anything I need.”

  “For what?”

  “A favor I’m doing.”

  “For Mr. Entratter?”

  I shook my head.

  “For Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin.”

  Her eyes widened and for a moment I thought they’d leap right through her glasses at me.

  “Is this on the level?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  She looked around her small office, even though it was just her and me in the little room, and lowered her voice.

  “Can you get me in to meet him?”

  “Meet who?”

  “Frank Sinatra, of course.”

  “Well …”

  I almost felt bad now that I had taken Bev to see the Rat Pack show and not Marcia.

  “We might be able to take in their show and then go back stage.”

  “Might?”

  I nodded.

  “First I have to do this favor for you?”

  “Right.”

  “And I have to do it without asking any questions?”

  “Right again.”

  “I’d feel better if you let me clear this with Mr. Entratter.”

  “Sweetie,” I said, “I want you to feel better, so call him.”

  “Really?”