‘Let’s just see if we can locate Rosette and talk to him,’ I said.
As we entered the casino Elvis said, ‘We don’t know what he does here.’
‘Shouldn’t be too hard to find out,’ I said. ‘If he’s dealing there’s only two tables. If he works on the slots, there are only twelve of them.’
Of course, there was a lounge and bar, a restaurant, and the motel. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded.
Unless we asked somebody.
FIFTY
While Frank was in LA and we were in Laughlin, Dino got off the helicopter in Lake Tahoe, looking for a man named John Golffe. ‘I’ve gotta take that one,’ said golf player Dino.
A limo met him at the airport and took him to Harrah’s, where he had taken a room. Dino’s job was harder than Frank’s – who only had to call Johnny Roselli to get a meeting – and mine. Tahoe was a bigger town than Laughlin.
Dean got to his room and broke out a Lake Tahoe phone book. He was surprised to find a phone number and address for John Golffe. He couldn’t believe his luck. After all, how many John Golffe’s could there be?
He went out to the limo and gave the driver the address. When they arrived, Dean looked at the house and decided that John Golffe couldn’t be Albert Kroner. Who would be stupid enough to embezzle millions, and then build a mansion like this, right on the lake?
Dino had decided to take the direct approach. Rather than wear a hat and sunglasses like Elvis to go unnoticed, he strode to the front door looking like a resplendent Dean Martin, and rang the bell.
The tall man in his forties who opened the door, stared when he saw who was standing there and stammered, ‘D-Dean M-Martin?’
‘Are you John Golffe?’ Dean asked the man.
‘I-I am,’ the man said. ‘Y-you know who I am?’
‘Mr Golffe,’ Dean said, ‘if it’s OK with you, I’d like to come in and talk to you.’
‘Well … well, sure, Mr Martin,’ the man said. ‘C-come right in. C-can I get you a drink?’
Dean crossed the threshold and said, ‘Coffee would be great.’
At the same time Jerry was tailing a man named Howard Cantrell. He was in his forties, tall and heavier than Albert Kroner supposedly was, but it was an easy thing to gain weight to try to change your appearance.
Jerry had decided not to use the direct approach, because Jerry’s idea of direct could get out of hand. He’d save that for later. Instead, he just tailed the man for a while.
This fella Cantrell wasn’t down on his luck, but he was pretty close. He lived in a downtown flophouse and dressed like he shopped at the Salvation Army. It was the perfect disguise for an embezzler. Jerry didn’t know exactly what Dean and I were finding our guys doing, but he was willing to put his money on Howard Cantrell.
Elvis and I had a drink in the lounge. The King of Rock ’n Roll was eyeing the ‘98 cent Chicken Dinner’ sign when I asked the bartender for the manager.
‘We have a kitchen manager, a bar manager, motel manager, a—’
‘I want whoever manages the whole shebang,’ I said. ‘Or Mr Laughlin, himself.’
‘The boss?’ the bartender said. ‘Oh, he ain’t here. But Mr Hassett runs the daily operations of the casino.’
‘Then let’s start there,’ I said. ‘I’d like to talk to Mr Hassett.’
‘And who can I say is askin’ for him?’ the bartender wanted to know.
‘My name is Eddie Gianelli,’ I said. ‘I’m here from the Sands in Vegas.’
Elvis had convinced me to go ahead and say who I was and where I was from. ‘Might open some doors,’ he offered.
‘You know,’ I said to him, ‘I might start lettin’ you call all the shots.’
Elvis was still studying the 98 cents sign.
‘The Sands?’ the bartender said, bucking up. ‘The big time. Hey, you need a good bartender?’
‘I might,’ I said. ‘If I get to talk to Mr Hassett.’
‘I can do more than just serve beers, you know,’ the man said. ‘Look, my name’s Connie Morton.’
‘Connie?’ Elvis said.
‘Well,’ Morton said, ‘actually it’s Conrad, but …’ He shrugged and Elvis went back to examining the sign. ‘Look, Mr Gianelli, lemme make you somethin’. I can whip up—’
‘You know what Frank Sinatra drinks?’ I asked him.
He straightened up to attention and said, ‘Martini.’
‘OK,’ I said, ‘get me Mr Hassett and make me a Martini, and we’ll see.’
‘All right!’ Morton said. ‘But, look, don’t tell Mr Hassett—’
‘I’ve got other things to discuss with Mr Hassett—’ I started to say, and then stopped. ‘OK, let’s try this. Make me a Martini … and point me in the direction of a guy named Ed Rosette.’
‘Ed?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Oh,’ Morton said, ‘you won’t find Mr Rosette in here.’
‘I won’t?’
‘No sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘He don’t work in here.’
‘I was told he worked at the Riverside.’
‘But not in the casino,’ Morton said. ‘He works outside.’
‘Outside?’
‘The motel,’ Morton said. ‘He works in the motel.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Caretaker.’
‘Care … you mean he’s the janitor?’
‘They call him a caretaker,’ Morton said. ‘He handles everything inside and outside the motel.’
‘Everything?’
‘You know, cleaning, repairing, gardening.’
‘What does he repair?’ I asked.
‘Whatever needs fixing. The guy’s an electrical genius, among other things. He can fix anything.’
Albert Kroner had been a lawyer, not a Mr Fix-It.
‘Connie,’ I said, ‘you better fix me that Martini.’
‘Vodka or gin?’
‘Vodka.’
‘Olive or onion?’
‘Olive.’
‘And I’ll have one of those, son,’ Elvis said, pointing to the ‘98 cent Chicken Dinner’ sign.
FIFTY-ONE
When Elvis got his chicken dinner it looked so good I ordered one for myself.
‘We gonna talk to this Rosette fella?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘we’re here, we might as well talk to him, but there’s nothing in Danny’s report about Kroner being anything
but a lawyer.’
‘Maybe he fixed things around the house.’
‘Connie says he’s an electrical genius.’
‘What does Connie know?’ Elvis asked. ‘He’s a bartender.’
Connie brought over a chicken dinner for me, and a Martini, which he set down with a flourish. He then stood there and regarded it proudly.
I lifted the icy glass and sipped it. Martinis weren’t my drink, but as Martinis went, it wasn’t bad. In fact, it was pretty good.
‘Not bad, Connie,’ I said.
Elvis pushed his plate of bones away and asked, ‘Can I have another of these?’
I’d finished my Martini by the time Connie brought Elvis his second chicken dinner, so I asked for a beer.
‘So, whataya think?’ Connie asked, as he set it down.
‘About what?’
‘My Martini,’ he said. ‘Think I can work at the Sands?’
He looked so damn eager. I took my business card out and passed it to him.
‘You come to Vegas and ask for me,’ I said. ‘We’ll give you a try out. But understand, I don’t hire the bartenders. That’s somebody else’s job. But I’ll put in a good word for you.’
‘Goddamn!’ he said, doing a little dance. ‘Thanks, Mr Gianelli. Thanks a lot.’
Elvis picked up a chicken breast and said, ‘You’re a nice guy, Eddie.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said, ‘let’s finish eating and go and find Ed Rosette.’
‘A lawyer?’ John Golffe said.
‘That’s rig
ht,’ Dean said.
‘I assure you, Mr Martin, I don’t know anything about the law.’
Dean looked around the expensively furnished living room and sipped his coffee. There was a fireplace, with many photos on the mantle – family photos.
‘What do you do, Mr Golffe?’
‘Real estate,’ Golffe said. ‘I buy and sell – in fact, I’m about to put this house up for sale.’
‘I see.’
‘Can I ask why you’re looking for this man? This lawyer? What’s his name?’
‘Albert Kroner. A friend of mine needs to find him.’
‘So Dean Martin comes to Lake Tahoe to do what? Act as a private eye?’
Dino perked up, smiled and said, ‘Well, yeah, pally, I guess that’s what I’m doin’.’
‘Oh,’ Golffe said. ‘Well … more coffee?’
Jerry followed Howard Cantrell home. All the man had done all day was hit bars. Jerry had the feeling Cantrell was a professional drunk, the kind who could consume alcohol all day, and still operate.
Jerry decided he knew how to handle people like this.
The direct approach, after all.
Elvis and I left the casino and walked over to the motel. There was no janitor or caretaker on the grounds at that moment, so we went inside.
There was a desk clerk who probably didn’t have a lot to do, not with only four rooms to rent.
‘Is Ed around?’ I asked.
The clerk was a woman in her sixties who had a small black and white TV behind the desk with her. She was watching an old movie.
‘Ed?’
‘Ed Rosette,’ I said. ‘He’s your janitor?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ she said, ‘he’s around, somewhere.’
‘Could you make an educated guess as to where, exactly?’ I asked.
‘Probably out back.’
‘How do we get out back?’
‘Go out and around,’ she said, ‘or go through.’
‘Thanks.’
I decided we’d try to walk through the building to the back. We found a corridor that led past the rooms and to a back door. As we stepped outside we saw a bald man in his forties wearing a green short-sleeved shirt and green short pants that looked like a uniform – a janitor’s uniform – washing out some garbage pails with a hose. Elvis and I exchanged a glance. Man, I thought, what a perfect disguise for a guy who didn’t want anyone to know he had millions of dollars in ill-gotten gains.
FIFTY-TWO
Over coffee John Golffe did his best to convince Dean Martin that he was not Albert Kroner.
‘You can check my bona fides,’ he said. ‘I can give you references. I moved here from up north, Seattle, where I did most of my business.’
‘Mr Golffe,’ Dean said, ‘I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t think you’re Kroner, but I will ask you for a couple of references we can check out, just so we can cross you off the list.’
‘That’s fine,’ Golffe said. ‘I’ll write them down for you.’
‘And then,’ Dean said, ‘I want you to come to Vegas when I’m performing. I’ll see that you get a free suite, and tickets to my show. How’s that?’
‘Well … that would be great. Thank you.’
While the man went to write down the information, Dean finished his coffee, wishing he could have come up with something more helpful for Danny Bardini’s case. He hoped the others were doing better than he was.
The guy ran.
As Jerry knocked on the door he heard the window open inside. He put his shoulder into the door and it cracked at the lock, slamming open. He saw Cantrell’s trailing leg go out the window.
‘Damn it,’ he said.
He was used to guys running from him in Brooklyn. But now he was going to have to chase this guy through streets and back alleys he didn’t know.
He leaned out the window, saw the guy going down a rickety fire escape. To his left he saw some of the bolts holding the metal to the building were loose. If he stepped out onto it, his weight would probably pull it loose.
He reached out, grabbed the fire escape with both hands, and pushed. With a sickening groan the rusty fire escape came loose from the building and fell. Cantrell was about halfway down from the fourth floor. The fire escape hit the ground with a loud crash. Jerry hoped the fall hadn’t killed him.
He turned and rushed to get down there and see for himself.
Elvis looked at me and shrugged.
‘Excuse me,’ I said. I had to say it again before the man looked up at us. He was so bald he had no eyebrows, no sign of facial hair, at all. There was a big wet spot on the front of his shirt.
‘Yeah?’
‘Is your name Ed Rosette?’
‘That’s right,’ Rosette said. ‘If you got a problem, though, you gotta go through the clerk.’
‘We’re not guests.’
‘Then I can’t help ya.’ He started to bend back to his task.
‘I just need a moment of your time, sir,’ I said.
‘Eh?’ he straightened up. ‘What for?’
‘Just to ask a few questions.’
Rosette frowned at me.
‘Are you the police?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘but I could call for one, if you like. Then you could answer his questions.’
‘No,’ he said, quickly. ‘Don’t do that. Ask your questions.’
‘Have you ever heard of a man named Kroner, Albert Kroner?’
‘Kroner?’ Rosette repeated. ‘Was he a guest here?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘The name doesn’t ring a bell,’ Rosette said.
And it didn’t register on his face, either. He looked annoyed, and he probably had something to hide since he didn’t want me to call a cop, but I didn’t think he was Kroner.
‘Why are you looking for him?’ Rosette asked. ‘This Kroner?’
‘Why does anyone look for someone?’ I asked. ‘He’s missing.’
‘Well, I’ve never heard of him,’ Rosette said. ‘You can check with the clerk if you want to see if he was ever a guest.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘Can I go back to work now?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘We don’t want to keep you.’
Elvis and I went back into the hotel.
‘D’ya think it’s him?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘What do you think?’
‘He didn’t seem to react when you said the name,’ he commented.
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘But if it is him,’ Elvis said, ‘won’t he run now?’
‘If he does, it would prove he was Kroner,’ I said. ‘No, whether it’s him or not, I don’t think he’ll be leaving. He should still be here if we decide to come back.’
‘But how will we know?’ he asked.
I thought a moment, then said, ‘We may have an inside man.’
‘You want me to what?’ Connie Morton asked.
‘Call me if Ed Rosette quits his job,’ I said. ‘Or disappears.’
‘What for?’
‘I’m looking for a missing man,’ I said. ‘A man who doesn’t want to be found. His name is Kroner. Sound familiar?’
Morton leaned on the bar and said, ‘No, can’t say it does.’
‘Well, in order to stay missing he might have changed his name.’
‘Ah,’ Morton said, ‘I get it. You think Ed might be Kroner.’
‘I thought it, until I spoke to him,’ I said, ‘but just in case I’m wrong …’
‘You want me to keep an eye on him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Will this help me get a job at the Sands?’ he asked, hopefully.
‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘this will help you a lot.’
Morton straightened up and with a grin said, ‘Then you can count on me.’
‘Thanks, Connie.’
I took Elvis by the arm and led him outside.
‘What are we gonna do now?’
‘Head back to Vegas,’ I said, ‘but f
irst I want to get to a phone.’
‘To call who?’
‘Kaminsky,’ I said. ‘I want to see if Danny got bailed out. If he didn’t then I want to talk to him, too.’
‘I bet Connie would let you use his phone.’
‘No, I don’t want anyone overhearing me,’ I said. ‘Let’s find me a pay phone away from here.’
‘Where?’
‘We passed a gas station on the way into town,’ I said. ‘That’ll do.’
FIFTY-THREE
Jerry found Howard Cantrell lying beneath the wreckage of the rusty fire escape. He was bleeding from a head wound, but was still alive.
Jerry grabbed two handfuls of fire escape and lifted it off the man. He tossed it aside with a racket.
‘Oooh,’ Cantrell moaned.
‘Wake up!’ Jerry said, prodding the man with his toe. ‘You ain’t dead … yet.’
Cantrell opened his eyes and squinted up at Jerry.
‘What happened?’
‘The fire escape came loose from the building. You fell.’
‘I coulda been killed.’
‘That’s what you get for running,’ Jerry said. ‘Why’d you do that?’
‘I thought you was the cops.’
‘What do you have to hide from the cops?’
‘I don’t need a reason to run when they don’t need a reason to roust me.’
‘Well, I ain’t a cop,’ Jerry said. ‘I just wanna ask you some questions. Come on, get up.’
Jerry put his hand out. Cantrell hesitated, then grabbed it and allowed the big man to pull him to his feet.
‘Oh, ow,’ he said, putting his hand to his back. ‘Jeez, my back.’
‘It ain’t broke, or you wouldn’t be standin’,’ Jerry said. ‘Answer my questions and then you can go to a doctor, if you want.’
‘No, no,’ Cantrell said, ‘it’s just bruised. Whataya wanna ask me? Who are you, anyway?’
‘Never mind,’ Jerry said. ‘Just answer my questions.’
Cantrell made a rude sound with his mouth and said, ‘You sound like a cop.’
‘Bite your tongue. You want a drink?’
‘I could use one.’
‘Well, come on,’ Jerry said. ‘I’ll buy you one. Would a cop do that?’
Dean had the limo take him back to the Tahoe airport, and the helicopter back to Vegas. Playing detective may have been fun, but he’d accomplished little. He was worried about what I would think of his efforts to help.
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