You Make Me Feel So Dead

by Robert Randisi

  ‘Yes.’

  He went in, looked around, then came back.

  ‘You’ve done OK for yourself, Eddie,’ he said. ‘It’s comfortable. It’s … a home.’

  ‘It’s good for me,’ I said. ‘I’ll make some coffee and then read the file.’

  ‘Let’s both read it,’ Elvis said. ‘I want to know what you know.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Here, you start while I make the coffee.’

  He took the file, sat down on the sofa and opened it.

  I came back to the living room with two cups of coffee to find Elvis leaning over the coffee table, the contests of the file spread out before him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, accepting the coffee. He had set aside the hat and dark glasses.

  I sat down next to him, a cushion between us, and looked at the contents of the file. There were even some photos.

  ‘Whataya got?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re gonna read it,’ he said.

  ‘I know, but give me your thoughts.’

  ‘Well,’ Elvis said, ‘your friend Danny has photos of three men he thinks might be this fella Albert Kroner.’

  ‘He can’t tell?’

  ‘According to his notes,’ Elvis said, ‘he thinks Kroner may have had some plastic surgery. These three men physically match his description.’

  ‘Are they all here, in Las Vegas?’

  Elvis leaned over to look at something.

  ‘One here, one in Lake Tahoe, and one someplace called Laughlin?’

  ‘South of here,’ I said. ‘Small gambling town on the river.’

  ‘Looks like he had an original list of eight possibles,’ Elvis said, ‘and he’s whittled it down to these three.’

  He sat back, sipped his coffee.

  ‘I need a shower,’ he said. ‘Those press things always make me sweat.’

  ‘Help yourself,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I have any pants that’ll fit you, but I bet you can find a shirt.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll take this with me.’

  ‘I’ll give the file a read myself while you’re doing that.’

  ‘Be right back.’

  I pointed and said, ‘Right through there.’

  He went into my bedroom and I started reading. I got pretty much the same thing out of it that Elvis had. Danny had three suspects he thought could be Albert Kroner. He had been planning to do a thorough investigation into each. What I didn’t know was whether or not he was going to go to Laughlin and Tahoe himself, or farm those jobs out.

  I sat back, lifted the cup to my lips and realized it was empty. I went back to the kitchen for more.

  The phone rang before I got out of the kitchen. I picked up the wall unit and said, ‘This is Eddie.’

  ‘Eddie, it’s Frank.’

  ‘Hey, Frank. What’s up?’

  ‘Dino and I have some info for you,’ he said. ‘You better come on over and get it, though.’

  ‘The Sands?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘we’ll be there soon.’

  ‘We? Jerry with you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Elvis.’

  ‘Hey, crazy,’ Frank said. ‘Yeah, bring ’im over. I’ll order up.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘give us half an hour.’

  ‘Bye, Clyde.’

  As I hung up, Elvis came walking in.

  ‘This one OK?’ he asked, modeling the T-shirt he’d grabbed. It was green and said UNLV on it. Someone had given it to me in ’62, when the University of Las Vegas was first formed.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘More coffee?’

  ‘We got time? You were tellin’ somebody we’d be there in half an hour.’

  ‘Yeah, we got time,’ I said. ‘I’m gonna wash up and then we’ve got to go to the Sands. Frank and Dino have something for us.’

  ‘Hey, I’d like to see those guys,’ Elvis said.

  ‘And they’d like to see you,’ I said. ‘Gimme a minute and then we’ll go. Have some more coffee.’

  He was pouring himself a cup as I left, carrying mine into the bedroom. I washed up in the sink and changed out of the suit I was wearing into a T-shirt and jeans.

  ‘Ready to go?’ I asked.

  Elvis had collected the file off the table and put it back together.

  ‘I’m ready.’

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Frank opened the door and he and Elvis grinned and gave each other a hug.

  ‘How you doin’, kid?’

  ‘Just fine, sir.’

  ‘Drop that sir stuff,’ Frank said. ‘It’s Frank, remember?’

  ‘Sure, Frank.’

  ‘Hey, Eddie,’ Frank said.

  ‘Frank.’

  He closed the door and waved. ‘We ordered up some food. Dino’s tendin’ bar.’

  We walked into the suite and Dino waved from behind the bar.

  ‘What’ll ya have, boys?’ he asked. ‘Let’s have a drink before we eat.’

  There was a cart on wheels in a corner with some covered dishes.

  Elvis approached the bar and stuck his hand out.

  ‘Nice to meet you, sir.’

  ‘Dean,’ Dino said, ‘just call me Dean. Nice to meet you too, kid. Hey, Eddie. Drinkin’?’

  ‘Bourbon,’ I said.

  ‘Elvis?’

  ‘Pepsi, if you’ve got it.’

  ‘We got it.’

  Frank, Elvis and I sat at the bar while Dino laid out some drinks, his ever present cigarette in his right hand. He may not have drunk to his reputation, but he smoked like a chimney.

  Frank, Dino and Elvis talked music for a few minutes before we got down to business. I told Frank and Dino what we’d found out, what Jerry had told us, and about Elvis putting up Danny’s bail.

  ‘That was damn nice of you, Elvis,’ Frank said.

  ‘We can pitch it so you don’t have to foot the whole bill,’ Dino said. ‘In fact, Eddie, you should’ve asked us.’

  ‘For what? Two hundred thousand dollars? I’d never do that, Dean.’ I would have accepted it, but I never would have asked for it.

  ‘The Sands might have put it up,’ Frank said.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask Jack for that, either,’ I said. ‘This worked out fine. As long as Danny doesn’t skip town, Elvis will get his money back. So, what was it you guys wanted to tell me?’

  Frank and Dean exchanged a glance.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘You guys want me to leave?’ Elvis asked.

  ‘No, no,’ Frank said, ‘you can hear this, too.’

  ‘Eddie,’ Dino said, ‘we made a few calls, and found out that your man Reynolds was hanging around in LA with Joey Scaffazza.’

  ‘Why don’t I like the sound of this?’ I asked.

  ‘Scaffazza,’ Frank said, ‘worked for Johnny Roselli.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ I said. Roselli was the boss of the LA Mafia. But he was also a friend of Frank’s. Frank had sponsored Roselli to become a member of the Friar’s Club.

  ‘Frank—’

  ‘I know what you’re gonna say,’ Frank said. ‘I’m flyin’ to LA tomorrow to see Johnny and see what I can find out.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ve got to warn you, though,’ Frank said. ‘These guys are your friends as long as it doesn’t hurt them. We can’t depend on Johnny talkin’ to me just because we’re friends.’

  ‘I get it.’

  ‘This sounds like dangerous stuff,’ Elvis said.

  ‘Murder’s always dangerous, kid,’ Frank said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I marveled at the way Elvis always maintained respect for whoever he was speaking with. But I had spent hours with him now and I had seen the intelligence behind his eyes. He rarely spoke impulsively, thought about his answers to questions, whether he was on stage, or speaking in private.

  ‘You going to LA, Dino?’ I asked.

  Dean shook his head.

  ‘Frank’s going to talk to Johnny alone. Why, you need something else?’
/>   ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I do need somebody to go to Lake Tahoe …’

  FORTY-EIGHT

  The next morning Elvis and I were on the road, driving to Laughlin. Frank had taken his jet to LA, while Dino had taken the Sands helicopter to Lake Tahoe. Jerry was going to check on Danny’s suspect in Vegas.

  One of my ‘team’ had to find out which man was Albert Kroner. But Frank’s task was a little different. He was going to try to find out what – if anything – Johnny Roselli had to say about William Reynolds. Of all our tasks, I was most interested in his …

  Frank landed at LAX. He had already called Roselli to make an appointment, and the gangster had agreed to see him. They decided to meet at Musso’s & Frank’s Grill, on Hollywood Blvd.

  Musso’s was Old Hollywood. All of the greats had eaten there, not only Hollywood’s elite actors like the Barrymores and Charlie Chaplin, but writers like Raymond Chandler, Jim Thompson and Budd Schulberg, who used to take breaks from writing his book What Makes Sammy Run to eat at Musso’s.

  And, of course, Frank, Sammy, Dino and Joey were seen there all the time. Johnny Roselli, who thought he was a Hollywood star, looked and dressed the part, and showed up in all the right places. He was already seated in a red leather booth when Frank arrived.

  ‘Hello, Johnny,’ Frank said, shaking the gangster’s hand.

  ‘Frank,’ Roselli said. ‘How you doin’?’

  ‘Great,’ Frank said, sitting across from Roselli in the U-shaped booth. ‘You’re lookin’ good.’

  Roselli patted his stomach and said, ‘I like to stay fit.’ His silver hair was slicked back and he had a deep tan which he thought made him look younger. He was impeccably turned out in a five-hundred-dollar suit.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about what happened to Frank Jr last year,’ Roselli said. ‘I called, but I couldn’t come around …’

  ‘I know,’ Frank said, ‘the cops and FBI were all over me. I understand, Johnny, and I appreciate the thought.’

  This was the Frank and Johnny dance that went on all the time. I truly believe they thought of each other as friends, showing the proper respect. But they really just had a use for each other. In fits of rage I’d heard Frank refer to Roselli as ‘that puffed up blowhard’, and years later discovered that Roselli had often referred to Frank as ‘that fuckin’ lounge singer.’

  But on this day they were two friends meeting for lunch.

  After Aurelio, the waiter, took their orders and brought Martinis, Johnny Roselli said, ‘What’s this about, Frank? I mean, it’s always nice to see you, but you said you had a problem.’

  ‘Actually,’ Frank said, ‘a friend of mine in Vegas has the problem and, you know me, I’m always tryin’ to help.’

  ‘That’s true, Frank.’ Roselli said. ‘I’m the same way.’

  ‘I know that, Johnny,’ Frank said. ‘That’s why I called you.’

  They leaned back and allowed the waiter to set down their lunches. Frank had the fried calamari, Roselli a plate of mussels and clams.

  ‘So here’s the problem,’ Frank said.

  ‘Frank,’ Roselli said, ‘can we put this off until we eat? I mean, come on, paisan, look at this food, eh? It deserves our full attention, no?’

  ‘You’re right, Johnny,’ Frank said. ‘When you’re right, you’re right.’ Frank told me later that the best way to handle Roselli was to keep telling him he was right.

  So they ate, and only exchanged small talk for the next twenty minutes.

  Roselli sat back twenty-three minutes later and patted his stomach.

  ‘Thanks to you I’m gonna have to work this off, Frankie,’ he said.

  ‘Worth it, though, huh, Johnny?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Look at you, ya mook,’ Roselli said. ‘You’re like a rail no matter what you eat. Fongool!’

  Frank had no answer for that.

  ‘Let’s have some dessert. We can talk over that.’

  They had coffee and pastries, sfogliatelle and cannolis.

  ‘OK, paisan,’ Roselli said, ‘what’s it about, this trouble a friend of yours has in Vegas?’

  ‘It has to do with a guy named William Reynolds,’ Frank said. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Reynolds,’ Roselli said, frowning. ‘That don’t ring a bell, Frank.’

  ‘Supposedly he hung around with Joey Scaffazza.’

  ‘Scaffazza?’ Roselli said. ‘That scumbag? That pompinara.’ Frank knew Roselli had to dislike the guy to call him a cocksucker. Or wanted Frank to think he disliked him.

  ‘Then you know him.’

  ‘Yeah, he used to work for me,’ Roselli said. ‘I fired his worthless ass when I found out he was in business for himself. If it was the old days I woulda … ah, never mind. If your friend was mixed up with Scaffazza there’s no tellin’ what they was into.’

  ‘Look, Johnny, I want to level with you,’ Frank said. ‘Reynolds is dead. Somebody killed him in Vegas. Shot him.’

  ‘You think it was Scaffazza?’

  ‘Maybe, but a friend of mine is on the hook for it. I’d like to make sure he doesn’t hang for it.’

  ‘Whataya want me to do, Frankie?’

  ‘I’d like to find Scaffazza,’ Frank said.

  ‘Frank, no offense,’ Roselli said, ‘Scaffazza’s a hard guy. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt. You got somebody can back you up?’

  ‘Not here, but I got somebody in Vegas. I could get him here …’

  ‘I tell you what,’ Roselli said, ‘I’m gonna help you, because I don’t like that scumbag. You go back to Vegas. I’m gonna have somebody bring him to you.’

  ‘Alive, Johnny?’

  ‘Of course alive. Che cazzo, what the fuck I look like to you, some mad dog killer?’

  ‘No, Johnny,’ Frank said, hurriedly, ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Forget it,’ Roselli said. ‘Consider this a gift, from me to you, Frank. I’ll bring him to you. Where you gonna be?’

  ‘The Sands.’

  ‘I’ll call you when I set it up. Ve bene?’

  ‘Va bene,’ Frank agreed. ‘All right.’

  ‘Now, let’s get the check—’

  ‘It’s on me, Johnny,’ Frank said. ‘I invited you.’

  ‘Bene,’ Roselli said. ‘Thank you, Frank. I gotta go, but I’ll call you, eh?’

  ‘Thanks, Johnny.’

  The two men shook hands and Roselli left. When the waiter came with the check Frank asked, ‘Can you bring me a phone? Thanks.’

  FORTY-NINE

  The conversation between Frank and Johnny Roselli took place while Elvis and I were in Laughlin.

  Laughlin was a small town nobody knew about until a guy named Don Laughlin decided to build a casino and motel. The Riverside Resort and Casino had twelve slots, two tables, .98 cent chicken dinners, and eight rooms, of which four were available for rent. Laughlin and his family lived in the other four. Laughlin actually got to name the town himself when the US Postal Service asked him to do so.

  The place was always busy. Laughlin saw a great potential for tourism in the town, but it hadn’t happened yet. The place was located in the southernmost tip of Nevada, right on the Colorado River, where the state came together with Arizona, so maybe he was right and it would grow. Time would tell.

  Danny had tracked down a guy named Ed Rosette who actually lived across the river in Bullhead City, Arizona. But he currently worked at the Riverside. What better way to hide the fact that he’d embezzled millions of dollars than to move somewhere and get a job?

  If Rosette thought Danny might discover that he was really Albert Kroner, successfully framing him for murder would have been a great way to get rid of him. But Elvis came up with a good question as we drove into Bullhead City.

  ‘If this feller Rosette killed Reynolds to frame Danny,’ he asked, ‘why not just kill Danny?’

  Out of the mouths of babes, and kings of rock ’n roll.

  Rosette had a house in Bullhead City. He wasn’t there, but he also had a very helpful neighbor
.

  ‘Lookin’ for Ed?’ he asked. He was putting out his garbage.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You’ll find him at work right now,’ the man said. He put his garbage can down, then placed his hands on his hips and regarded us. ‘The Riverside Casino. He’ll be working til around midnight tonight.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’re very helpful.’

  ‘We’re neighbors,’ the man said. ‘We try to look out for each other. When Ed’s not around I keep an eye on his house. Same thing when I’m away.’

  ‘How long have you been neighbors?’

  ‘Oh, I guess Ed moved in a few months ago.’

  That was within the time frame we were working with.

  ‘Well, thanks very much.’ We started back to the car.

  ‘Want me to tell him you were here?’ the man asked.

  ‘That’s OK,’ I called back. ‘We’ll find him at the Riverside.’

  We got in the car and headed for Laughlin.

  We could see the Riverside from Bullhead City, but had to drive around the river to get there. We could have looked for a boat to cross over with, but I wanted to have the car available to us. Besides, if he was working til midnight we had time.

  ‘We ain’t drivin’ back to Vegas tonight, are we?’ Elvis asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Even if we find Rosette we’ve got to figure out how to approach him. We won’t have time to drive back tonight.’

  ‘What if we can’t find out if he’s Albert Kroner? What do we do then?’

  ‘I don’t know, Elvis,’ I said. ‘I’m still thinking about that.’

  We pulled into the parking lot in front of the Riverside.

  ‘What about stayin’ here?’ he asked as we got out of the car.

  I explained about the four hotel rooms and said, ‘I’m sure they save them for their best customers.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re from Vegas,’ Elvis said. ‘The Sands. What about professional courtesy?’

  ‘I guess that’s a possibility,’ I said. Laughlin used to have a casino in Vegas until he sold it some years back. But if I remembered correctly, Laughlin didn’t get along real well with Jack Entratter. He’d kept the mob out of his place, which had been called the 101 Club.