One for Our Baby

by John Sandrolini

  “Don’t tell me …”

  “It’s her friend Betty. She’s dead. Drowned in her bathtub.”

  Silence.

  “Frank?”

  “Yeah, Joe?” His voice was thin, far off.

  “This is bad. Real bad. I’ve got to call the cops, too—it’s murder now. And when I do, they’ll put me in hack on Suspicion if they find out she and Hel—uh—Lilah were friends. You want me out, you better get your best lawyer on this.”

  “Mother of Christ. The press will devour this.”

  “That what you’re worried about—or Lilah?”

  He didn’t answer.

  I gave him the quick lowdown on what I’d found and described the cuff link to him. He said he’d make a few calls to Vegas and Tahoe to check it out. We hung up.

  Then I decided to get my plane out of Burbank and back down to Long Beach. There was a chance Helen might have stopped by my hangar, and I was fresh out of leads in L.A. anyway.

  I put another dime in and called my hangar. After ten rings, Roscoe picked up.

  “Goldbrickin’, partner?”

  “Like hell. I was up under the DC-3, changing out an oil sump. It’s always something on that Gooney Bird, you know.”

  “Anybody stop by today?”

  “Like who?” he said, his natural skepticism coming through the line.

  I shifted the receiver in my hand, leaned back in the booth. “Oh, I don’t know, say a very beautiful woman, dark hair, green eyes.”

  “You mean the one from the picture on your desk?”

  “That would be her.”

  “No chance. Stop dreaming, hotshot.”

  I exhaled, then paused a second before continuing. “Brother, I’m going to need a favor again.”

  “Let me guess, you need ol’ Roscoe to pick up your routes for a couple of days, right?”

  “You got it. I’m helping out you-know-who again—and myself as well this time. I’ll pick you up double when this deal is over. Just keep taking them until you hear back from me.”

  “Couple of days, no more, Joe. Wanda Mae’s gonna have my ass. And someday you’re gonna tell me what I actually get out of this partnership.”

  “Thanks, Roscoe, you’re all aces, brother.”

  “I was once,” he laughed, then hung up.

  I replaced the receiver and headed back to the car. It took me an hour in afternoon traffic to reach Burbank.

  17

  I pulled into the airport about four thirty. To my surprise, they didn’t have me arrested at the charter office. The Electra had been topped off and serviced, but there was no bill, so I knew that Frank had called them and smoothed it out. He probably sent about five hundred bucks over just to be sure.

  I grabbed the slacks and shirt I kept onboard and headed to the pilot’s ready room to take a shower.

  A haggard face stared at me in the mirror—it looked like someone had made a carrier landing on it. My nose was reddish, and a discolored welt was spreading beneath my eye. Fatigue had left deep creases in my cheeks, and gray stubble speckled my beard. I felt every bit of forty, maybe fifty. It occurred to me then that I hadn’t eaten all day.

  The long, hot shower helped. I even tried feeling my nose for the first time since Fatso had socked me. It wasn’t broken but it hurt like hell. When the steam loosened up the clot in it, blood began trickling down my face, pooling below on the shower floor. I watched it mix with the water and whirl down into the drain, shaking my head at the number of times I’d seen that before.

  I toweled off then reached for my razor, pulling out the small hip flask from my shower kit instead. It was a happy mistake and I took a long drink of the whiskey, a surge of life shooting through my veins when the rye sank in. I scraped my face with the blade, ran some Vitalis through my hair, and got dressed. The Ray-Bans did a decent job of covering up the welt, but I did get a couple of who the hell do you think you are? looks for wearing them inside.

  I didn’t file a flight plan, no point making it easy for the police. Those small-timers in Alhambra weren’t very likely to make a connection, but they would go all out for me if they did. They didn’t have much to tie me to Betty, but I’d be back in the tank for a couple of days thanks to that laundry slip they’d found on me. That wasn’t going to work if Helen was still missing. I needed a day or two.

  Outside, I struck a Lucky and grabbed the pay phone on the wall. I got the number for the Hollywood Police Department from the operator and rang it.

  A put-upon voice answered, “Hollywood PD, Sergeant Cooley.”

  “6344 Afton, number four,” I said. “You got a dead mermaid in a bathtub.”

  I hung up the phone—they weren’t going to get a trace on that one. Then I walked back through the lounge and headed out to my plane.

  * * *

  I made Long Beach in twenty minutes, rolled off 25 Left, and coasted up to my hangar. My best hope was that I’d find Helen inside, or at least a phone message or a note from her on my desk. I got exactly nothing.

  I sat down on the swivel chair, closed my eyes, and put my hands over my face, decompressing, trying to make a few connections.

  I didn’t know Helen anymore, didn’t know her habits or hangouts, and I had no idea how well she had known Betty, but the facts strongly suggested that Miss Benker had some rather unsavory playmates. Helen had always liked excitement, but she wasn’t the kind of girl to mix it up with the bad boys. No, she didn’t fit in this puzzle at all.

  The phone rattled and I snatched it mid ring. It was Frank.

  “Buonomo, that you?”

  “Yeah, just got here. Whaddyagot? Anything?”

  “The cuff link. Jack Entratter just called me from Vegas, says cuff links like those are given out to high rollers and VIPs at the Stardust. Maybe a dozen or so a year. Pretty exclusive, only been doing it a year or two.”

  “Would these VIPs include guys like Johnny Stomp and his cronies?”

  “Could be, Joe; you know as well as I do who runs the Stardust, and it’s not Estes Kefauver. But Johnny took the knife from Lana’s kid two years ago, remember? If he’s wearing them, it’s in an upholstered box over at Forest Lawn.”

  “I recall. But I saw him in a picture with Betty at her place, and they were making time together and then some. I’m getting a bad feeling here, Frank.”

  We compared notes. Helen hadn’t contacted Frank or any of his friends. She hadn’t contacted me, either, but I didn’t go into that. Helen had to know that Frank and I would be together and was bound to call one of us soon.

  I asked him point-blank if he had any idea what Helen might be into that could cause her friend to be murdered.

  He paused a little too long for my liking, then said, “I’ve known this girl for less than a month. How much is a guy supposed to know about someone’s past after that much time? What are you driving at here?”

  It was the first time I ever felt that Frank hadn’t leveled with me. He seemed to be holding something back but I wasn’t sure. It had been one hell of a long day. I let it pass.

  “I don’t know, Frank, it’s just an awful big mess for someone as sharp as she seems to be. It just doesn’t add up.”

  “Look, she’s a good kid. She drinks a little, but who doesn’t? Let’s just find her and then worry about the details later.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do, buddy.”

  “What happens next?”

  “You’re gonna sit tight here in L.A. That puts you close in case she turns up. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

  “From where?”

  “Las Vegas.”

  “Vegas?”

  “Yes, Vegas. As in the Stardust Casino. Whoever killed Betty is somebody important there.”

  “Yeah, but Lilah’s down here,” he said, frustration creeping into his voice.

  “Yes, Frank, somewhere in the midst of three million people—and hiding. If I can find out who that cuff link belongs to, I’ll be a lot closer to finding out what’s going
on with Lilah. There’s no way her disappearance isn’t tied to Betty’s snuff.”

  “Ohh, easy. Do you have to talk that way?”

  He was right, that was out of line. “Sorry, pal. Now, listen, in the meantime, there’s a very good chance she’ll call you and we’ll get this whole thing cleared up.”

  “I sure hope so,” he said without any conviction. The famous voice sounded weary and flat. He was all torn up.

  18

  I had a load of showgirl costumes to take to a guy in Henderson and fifty cases of Hawaiian beer for some bullshit Bali H’ai joint on the strip, so I took the DC-3, which is bigger than the Electra—but slower. The trip took almost two hours. Every minute crawled.

  Frank set me up pretty good in Vegas, though. He had a new suite at the Sands just for him, which he made sure was ready when I arrived. A limo met me at the airport and took me to the hotel.

  Jack Entratter, a Sands exec and close friend of Frank’s, was waiting at the door when I arrived. He promised me any assistance I needed. I told him I was going it alone but asked if he’d take all calls for Frank’s room personally.

  I also told him I’d need a car. He offered a Lincoln Continental. I told him I’d need a little less car. He said he’d take care of it.

  Frank’s suite was about what I’d expected—not quite as large as the Vatican but plenty big and well appointed. Walnut furniture, plush orange carpeting, velvet drapes, a full bar, and a television in each of the five rooms. It would do for a weekend.

  The valet knocked while I was fiddling with the remote control. He brought in two Saville Row suits and Frank’s personal Vegas tailor.

  Room service arrived ten minutes later with rations for the Russian army: a New York strip steak, baked ziti and eggplant Parm’, accompanied by steamed asparagus, a baked potato, and a Caesar salad. A bottle of Chianti, a six-pack of Ballantines, and a magnum of Dom Pérignon were presented for my consideration. I told the tailor to give me an exta half inch in the waist after surveying the feast.

  I put a sizable dent in most of it. While I was eating, the valet returned with both suits and two pairs of shoes. They were all perfect fits. Thirty minutes later, a masseuse arrived and worked over my weary bones until I was nearly asleep on the table.

  I was beginning to realize how good it was to be Frank Sinatra.

  Jack called and gave me the name of the manager to ask for at the Stardust in the morning, Wally Raspiller.

  I looked over at the sunburst clock on the wall. It was eleven thirty. Some days you do more living than others.

  A sleek silver dish atop a big walnut credenza caught my eye. The dish contained a couple dozen Camel cigarettes, stacked up neatly in a little pyramid. It was a nice presentation—pure Frank. I snatched one off the top and lit it with the accompanying gold lighter. I burned the smoke and looked out the window at the strip beyond, letting fatigue have its way with me.

  When the cigarette burned out, I headed to the bedroom and undressed. I turned out the light, lay down in Frank Sinatra’s bed under Frank Sinatra’s silk sheets, and thought about Frank Sinatra’s new girl until I faded away.

  19

  I hit the ground running at seven. I showered, then threw on the tan suit and maroon tie, choosing the brown lace-ups over the black wingtips—an easy decision. They don’t tell you in Esquire how to stash a .45 under your arm so it doesn’t show but I made it happen. It was a lot of gun, but I’d learned during the war that too much firepower was something you never regret. Based on what had already happened it seemed like a smart play.

  I went down to the lobby at seven thirty, walked up to the jazzy modern counter and floated my name. The desk clerk nodded and handed me a set of car keys with the Cadillac logo on the fob. He told me the car was parked right out front in Mr. Sinatra’s space. He asked if I needed directions to the Stardust. I shook my head, thanked him, and headed out.

  The morning air was cool. So was the car: a ’59 Fleetwood, champagne with a brown top and beige leather interior. Tail fins like a B-25. So much for subtlety.

  The engine growled when I turned her over then settled into a subdued chuff when I put her in gear. But the big Caddy simply glided down the Vegas streets, the V-8 purring like an iron tiger the whole time. It was a helluva nice car. It was a Frank car. I made the Stardust in four minutes and parked out back.

  I walked around front, beneath the hideous astro-marquee, and pushed through the revolving door. Inside, I adjusted to the unnatural light and smoky air, then made straight for the cashiers’ cages, catching the eye of a plump, middle-aged woman under an enormous blond beehive. Her name tag said Edna.

  I asked Edna where I might find Mr. Wally Raspiller. She said he was somewhere on the floor but she’d call for him. I thanked her and leaned against the wall, watching the winking lights reflecting in the empty eyes of the all-night gamblers. They looked like extras from Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

  A minute or so later, a gelatinous form approached and officiously announced himself as Mr. Raspiller, the morning manager, how might he help me? He gave me a gassy smile that was just the cat’s ass with his horn-rimmed glasses and awful pencil mustache. Then he held out a pale hand that could have passed for mashed potatoes. I took the measure of the man: 38 Short, all the way.

  I gave him my name and nodded toward the front of the casino, suggesting we talk alone. Then I made for the doors, Raspiller following dutifully behind me.

  Once outside, I made a quick scan then bored right into his black-framed eyes.

  “I understand that the Stardust gives custom cuff links to certain favorite customers.”

  “Yes, Mr. Buonomo, that’s correct. Black onyx dice on a twenty-four-carat stud. A pair of fours. Eight—”

  “The hard way. I’m familiar. Do you have a list of who you’ve given them to? I understand you’ve only been doing it for a couple of years.”

  He broke into a disingenuous smile. “Well, that’s confidential information. The casino likes to respect the privacy of its clientele, you know.”

  Then he folded his arms and gave me his very best ballsy look—had to have practiced that one in the mirror a few times. I went for the jugular.

  Narrowing my eyes down, I scowled, “Mr. Raspiller, you are aware of who told me to contact you here, yes?”

  “Uhh, ahh, I believe that would be Jack Entratter.”

  He was waffling already.

  I raised my voice. “That’s right. And you are, of course, aware of whom Jack Entratter is close personal friends with, and on whose behalf he’s asking?”

  “I, uhh, I imagine that would be Mr. Sinatra, wouldn’t it?”

  Here I went soft and low. “Yes, it would.” I let the words hang there, like straight razors, watching his face as it twitched. I leaned in, put my arm on his shoulder, and squeezed just a little. “Wally … work with me here, brother.”

  I stared into his horn-rims for a good ten seconds. He swallowed a few times, blinked some more, then broke.

  He told me there was a jeweler in town, Murray Fine, who made the pieces for the casino upon request. He said if there was a list, he’d have it. He recited the address for Fine’s Jewelry and told me they opened at ten. I checked my watch—it was 7:55.

  I thanked Mr. Wally Raspiller for his assistance. He smiled disingenuously again, straightened his tie, and then mopped his forehead before heading back into the casino.

  I had some time to kill so I walked down to a coffee shop and downed some eggs and hash. I leafed through the newspaper awhile and managed to drink a second cup of coffee without doing any permanent damage to my digestive system. I asked the waitress if she’d ever seen anyone in there with black dice cuff links but got nothing.

  It was a long shot.

  * * *

  I swung by the Sands to check on messages but there weren’t any. It was going on nine thirty so I headed over toward the jewelers, figuring I’d catch him when he opened up. It was a fifteen-minute ride in morning traffic
over to Freemont St. I arrived at a quarter to ten and parked across the street, half a block down.

  Fine’s Jewelry stood in the middle of a typical commercial block in outlying Vegas. All the buildings were brown stucco with glass doors. A rather nice neon sign set the jewelry store apart from the beauty parlor and pharmacy that bookended it. As I crossed the street, a wiry man in a busy suit exited Fine’s and strutted off. When I reached the store, I saw the hours of business painted on the glass door. It said they opened at nine thirty. I gave that and the wiry man some thought as I pushed the door open.

  A thin, middle-aged man with a jeweler’s eyepiece on his forehead looked up from a desk as I entered. I took a wild stab and asked if he was Murray Fine. He said he was and that he had a fine selection of opals on sale.

  “I didn’t come here for jewelry, Mr. Fine.” I replied.

  “Well, this is a jewelry store, sir.”

  I minted up my very best million-dollar smile. “Can we talk?”

  He gave me the once-over, then motioned me to sit down with a small gesture of his hand. I did so. We made a little small talk, then I flashed him my P.I. license and put it away. I didn’t really care at this point if anyone knew I was asking questions. So far I was in the dark and Helen was still missing, and I needed to make some connections.

  “Mr. Fine, I understand you make those fancy cuff links that the Stardust gives to big shots and high rollers, the black dice on the gold studs.”

  He hesitated a second then said, “Yes, I do. Would you like to see one?”

  “Please.”

  He reached down and opened one of the desk drawers, fished around a bit, then pulled out a small plastic case. He opened it up, took out a cuff link, and handed it to me. It was identical to the one I’d seen at Betty’s. I gave it back to him and he put it away.

  “Nice work,” I said. “I don’t suppose they give those out to just anyone.”

  “No, I don’t suppose so,” he said, sounding rather tired of the whole affair.

  I leaned toward him, my hands gripping the edge of his desk. “Would you happen to know who gets them? Any of them personalized?”