“No, sir. I make them special order for the Stardust. What they do with them is their business.” He flourished the statement with a hand swoop, further distancing himself from any possible state of interest.
“But I was told you might have a record of those clients.”
“Oh no,” he said, “I don’t. Never have. I’m just a jeweler, I have no affiliation with the casino whatsoever. It’s a business arrangement. Now, really, sir, I have to get back to my opals here.”
I stared at him intently, watching his eyes.
“So you have no idea who they give the cuff links out to?”
He didn’t bat an eyelash, said, “No, sir, I don’t. Why would I?”
I whistled out loud, sat back in the chair, and mouthed the words You don’t say? It was just beginning to hit me that I was the guy P. T. Barnum had been talking about.
I sat there a second, waiting for the light to come on. While I did, a faint, almost imperceptible odor caught my attention. A cloying scent, like cheap musk cologne. The store was empty except for Fine and me. I swiveled my head a few times, spotted an open transom over the back door, and felt a bit of a breeze coming through the store from that direction.
Then the connection clicked in my mind like a generator kicking on-line. It was the same smell I’d picked up in Betty’s place the day before. The flashy guy who left just before I arrived was probably shadowing me, and he, or a partner, was hiding out back, maybe listening in.
I stood up. “Mr. Fine, has anyone else been in here this morning?”
“Ahh, no, you’re the first person.” His eyes darted as he spoke, his head making an involuntary turn toward the back of the store.
“What’s out the back door?” I whispered.
“Just an alley. Runs behind all the stores—no one’s ever back there. Hey, where are you—”
I was already on my way. I slipped the Colt out of the holster and held it under my suit coat as I turned the handle on the heavy door and pulled it inward. I made a quick scan, then stepped out into the alley. I looked to my right past empty boxes and several garbage cans but didn’t see a soul.
As I turned, the door slammed shut behind me. Half a beat later the deadbolt locked, then the sound of a weapon being charged clicked in with chilling finality. I winced as that oh shit! feeling arose, then dove toward a steel dumpster several feet away.
The report of a large-caliber pistol ripped through the alley as I hit the asphalt behind the trash bin, the gunshots echoing like a howitzer in the narrow lane. Pieces of stuccoed plaster erupted from the wall and fell on me, followed by a powdery brown dust that filtered down on my face like it was Ash Wednesday in a shooting gallery.
I flicked the safety off my .45, pointed it in the air, and squeezed off several shots. The booms rang loudly in my ears, punctuated by the pings of the shell casings as they hit the asphalt and spun away. There wasn’t any return fire.
Then I got up into a crouch and pressed myself against the dumpster, breathing fast and peering through the narrow gap between the metal and the wall. I didn’t see anybody, but I could hear the sound of footsteps clattering out of the alleyway and fading.
After several beats, I eased out into the open, gun first. The smell of gunpowder was heavy in the air as I stood and pointed my weapon down the alley. As much as I wanted to wring Mr. Murray Fine’s neck, I decided it might be in my best interest to make myself very scarce at that moment. I’d already found out what I wanted to know anyhow.
I glanced behind me at the wall. The bullets had chewed nasty holes in the stucco where my head had been a few seconds before. It was safe to say it would have been a closed-casket affair if they’d hit me. I brushed some plaster off my jacket and moved out.
At the end of the alley I stopped, poking the .45 out before edging onto the sidewalk. Walking quickly, I eyed each entranceway on both sides of the street, holstering the pistol before turning down Freemont and making for the Fleetwood. I crossed the street before reaching Fine’s but I couldn’t see him in the store when I glanced back. Chances were that he was halfway to Carson City by then anyway.
I fired up the Caddy and pulled right out. Several people were standing around in front of their stores, but no one seemed to make me for anyone other than another bystander. The wail of a police siren howled in the distance as I made the corner at Las Vegas and zipped away. Exhaling deeply, I pulled a cigarette from the pack, my fingers shaking with adrenaline as I reached for the lighter.
20
I made for the Stardust. That worm Raspiller was on the hook now.
The tumblers clicked in as I drove—it was a setup all the way. Raspiller had tipped off whoever tried to shellac me. He’d had half a day to do it since Entratter had contacted him. Somebody knew that I’d found the cuff link in the bathtub and made the pieces fit. And that person had already seen me at Betty’s, but at that point he didn’t know who I was, so I got a knock on the block instead of a shell. That was his mistake, but he was working hard to correct it.
* * *
They told me at the Stardust that Mr. Raspiller had gone home early due to illness. Two bucks and a bullshit story about us being old army buddies got me his address from a kid I saw in the break room.
Army buddies, right. I had Wally for 4F all the way.
His place was a fleabag apartment complex off Las Vegas Boulevard, a two-story catwalk job with a postage stamp–size pool in the front. Other than a hooker meandering the weed-pocked sidewalk out front, the place was deserted. She gave me a hopeful look when I pulled in but I didn’t have the time.
Raspiller’s place was number nine, on the second floor. I took the stairs two at a time and stopped just short of the picture window in front. The curtains were drawn, but there was a small gap between them. I listened for voices, then peeked in. He was inside, cooking eggs and bacon on a small stove. He was alone.
Part of me felt sorry for him. A much bigger part of me felt like kicking the shit out of him. The big part won.
I leaned back, then put my foot to the door with everything I had. It flew open, banged off the wall, and ricocheted back toward me. I stopped it with a forearm shiver as I burst through. Raspiller turned at the sound and dropped his spatula. I’m pretty sure he wet his pants on the spot when I pointed the gun at his head.
“M-M-M-Mister Buonomo,” he sputtered, “what, what are you doing here?”
“I’m going to kill you, Raspiller,” I announced as I crossed the room.
Before he could reply, I backhanded him across the cheek with the Colt. He went down like the Hindenburg, bouncing off the stove and crumpling down to the linoleum in sections. The skillet clanged down a half second later, followed by the eggs and then the bacon, a spray of grease splotching Wally’s rayon slacks. That was going to call for some dry cleaning.
I stood over him and looked down, seething.
“Wally, I don’t like being lied to. I really don’t like it when the lie gets me into a setup. And I really, really just fucking hate it when the setup has some goon trying to finish a job Japan’s best fighter pilots couldn’t.”
I reached down and grabbed his shirt, yanking him back up to his feet. He slipped on the bacon grease and fell against the stove, scorching his hand on the burner. His yelp sounded like a dying hyena.
I tossed him against the refrigerator to prop him up. Things fell inside it and broke as it rocked back and forth like a pinball machine. Wally went on tilt himself, his eyes blinking rapidly several times then fixing wide open.
I leaned in close, bracing him with my forearm and pressing the gun into his bleeding cheek. “Wally, you are in a world of hurt right now, but you still have this one last chance if you do as I ask, okay?”
He nodded his head up and down several times, his lips convulsing as he tried to form words. He just hung there quivering and staring, sagging like The Blob in my hands. I was already feeling a little guilty for pistol-whipping him.
“Wally, who tried to take m
e out over at Fine’s?”
“T-take you out?”
I cranked up the thermostat. “Wally,” I shouted, “somebody tried to shoot me over there. Used an elephant gun, may as well have been a bazooka. Who was it?”
He made wild eyes back and forth to nobody then began hyperventilating a little, but he didn’t say anything.
I casually slid the safety to off with my thumb, dropped my voice an octave. “Someone very close to me is missing and that man has something to do with it. Now, you are going to tell me exactly what I want to know right now or, so help me God, I am going to unload this entire magazine into your head.”
His mouth dropped open. Something dark oozed out from the refrigerator onto the floor.
“But, Wally,” I said softly, “I do have some good news.”
“Y-y-yes?” he stuttered. “What?”
“The last six shots won’t hurt.”
As bluffs go, it was a pretty good one. I wasn’t going to kill that wretch but he didn’t know that. Wally sucked wind several times, slid his hands in his pockets, and squirmed a little bit more. Then he gave them up.
“Carmine Ratello and Johnny Spazzo,” he said in a tiny voice.
I’d heard the first name before. The second guy didn’t jibe.
“Carmine the Rat?”
“Yes, yes, that’s him.”
I relaxed the gun, resting the barrel on his temple. “And who are they to you? Does either of them qualify as the kind of VIP at the Stardust who’d get a set of those cuff links?”
Wally’s face was warped, his eyes fixated on the pistol alongside his head.
“Oh, sorry.” I took a step back, then lowered the weapon to the ready position. That seemed to improve his diction.
“Yeah, Carmine got a set last year. He moves with a lot of the right people around here. He’s wearing those things every time he comes in. Johnny’s his pal. They’re thick as thieves.”
“They are thieves. What’s your angle, Raspiller? Why did you tip them off about me and send me over to Fine’s to get scalped?”
“I guess I was just trying to make a little noise for myself, get noticed by them. Guys like that can put you in with the girls, or get you a front-row seat at the big shows.”
“Hey, chumbolone, don’t you work at a casino?” I gave him a playful slap, but he flinched like I was swinging a sledgehammer. I couldn’t suppress my smirk.
“Yes, but they’re somebodies; I’m just Wally Raspiller. When I heard that some buddy of Sinatra’s was flying in to ask about those cuff links, I figured it was something they might wanna know. They just told me to send you over to the jewelers … but I didn’t think they were going to kill you. Why would they? What do you have on them?”
“Wally,” I chided, patting his shoulder, “best not to ask those kinds of questions.”
He didn’t flinch that time. I safetied the weapon and holstered it. Wally Raspiller exhaled deeply, his shoulders slumping down in relief. His hands shook as he reached for a cigarette from his shirt pocket. Pall Malls—I could’ve guessed.
I held up a light. He whiffed three times before he got the nail over the flame.
“These guys come to the Stardust every night?” I asked as he sucked in a third of the cigarette.
“No,” he whispered in an inhalation falsetto, “the Flamingo, too. Sometimes the Tropicana and the Dunes.” He blew out several ragged smoke clouds after he spoke, regaining a touch of composure with each herky-jerky puff.
I placed my arm around him, went friendly. “Listen … they don’t know I was here—and they don’t have to. Don’t contact them again, they’re wrong numbers, savvy? They won’t give you the chance I just did.”
“What, what am I supposed to do now?” he asked, his voice sharpening. “Carmine will kill me on the spot if he finds out I gave him up.”
“Take a week or two off. Go visit your aunt in Elko or blow off some steam at a cathouse. You look like you could use it, brother.”
He just shrugged, raising his palms helplessly.
I soft-punched his chest. “Don’t lose any sleep over Ratello … I really don’t think you’ll be seeing him again.”
He half nodded in nervousness, but his eyes betrayed him.
“And Wally … ?”
“Yes, Mr. Buonomo?”
“Sorry I hit you.”
I handed him a dishtowel and some ice for his cheek, gave him ten bucks for the busted door, and trudged out, feeling like a total shitheel with every step.
21
I drove back to the Sands and parked nearby at the Desert Inn. Then I walked across the street and took the side entrance up to the suite. After listening outside the door a minute, I slipped the key in.
Once inside, I loosened my tie, took my shoes off, and sat on the bed. The telephone message light was blinking so I called the desk.
There were five messages from Frank. The first asked me to call him when I got in. The second said don’t bother, he didn’t have any news. The third said Betty made page three of the L.A. Examiner, but both our names were out of it. The fourth said Alhambra had called the Hollywood police about Betty and that HPD was looking for me. The fifth said he’d spoken to his lawyer—they thought I’d make bail, no problem.
That did it for the messages. I’m pretty sure the sixth would have said the empire of Japan was suing me for destruction of government property.
It was nearing noon. I started to go downstairs to grab some lunch, then thought better of it and ordered up some room service. It was just as well that I stayed out of sight now. I dialed again for the valet, told him where the car was, asked him to return it to the stable and get me something a little less conspicuous, maybe a solid-gold Rolls-Royce.
* * *
The waiting was the worst part. It always is. I had the whole afternoon to kill before hitting the casinos in the evening to find Ratello and Spazzo. It was frustrating sitting around doing nothing, but it was my only play.
At one o’clock Frank called. I detailed my morning’s adventure and gave him the names. He said he’d heard of Carmine but never met him. I told him I could use a little help covering the casinos but recommended we not send in the cavalry, just a man at each place to keep an eye out and place a phone call. Frank told me not to kill them before he got his hands on them.
I reminded him that we still didn’t know where Helen was and Ratello probably didn’t either. But it also occurred to me that he could have killed her already if he’d found her, something that would account for her continued silence. That sent a cold chill through me from the back of my head on down to my heels. I didn’t offer this thought to Frank.
Twenty minutes after we spoke, Jack Entratter came up to the room. His face was balled up with worry, as if he’d just found out that Eliot Ness was the new head of the Nevada Gaming Commission. He said Frank had asked him to get any info he had on Carmine and Johnny up to me ASAP but hadn’t said why. He shook his head disapprovingly over the request.
“What’s eating you, Jack?” I asked.
“I don’t like it. Carmine Ratello is a bad hombre. He’s a small fish, but he’s on a fast burn to move up. Some people who crossed him out here have gone missing.”
“That makes him a standard-issue Vegas thug, doesn’t it?”
“A little more. He’s not that bright—and Spazzo’s a bona fide idiot—but Ratello is wild, and he’s mean, even by mob standards. He put one of our showgirls in the hospital last year, busted her up pretty bad.”
That was ugly news, but it didn’t surprise me.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Why is Frank asking around about these schmucks? They couldn’t wipe his ass.”
“I can’t discuss it—it’s just better all around if I don’t. But trust me, Frank doesn’t want anything to do with those jamokes—they’re crashing his party.”
Jack crossed his arms and shook his head, anxiety lines creasing his face.
“Can you tell me what they l
ook like?” I asked.
“Ratello’s built like Chuck Bednarik and twice as ugly. Big guinea nose, heavy brows, mean dark eyes. Jaw like an alligator. Maybe thirty-five. About five nine, two twenty—a real steamroller.”
It sounded a lot like the sandman who put me under at Betty’s place.
“And Spazzo?”
“They call him Johnny Spazz. Good-looking fucker—tall, dark, wiry. Thirty-three, thirty-five. Slicks his hair back, wears suits with big lapels. Looks like a goddamn pachuco—no one ever told him the forties are over. Total clown.”
The guy I saw ducking out of Fine’s in the morning. It was my turn to shake my head.
“I understand they’re bookends, is that right?”
He nodded. “Yeah, find one of these guys, you’ll find the other. Like Heckle and Jeckle with heaters.”
“They ever come here?”
“No, not anymore. Ratello pissed Frank off at the craps table a year or so ago and we threw them out. Frank was really bent over it. They are officially barred from the Sands from here until the resurrection, my friend.”
I made a sour face.
“Frank just told me he doesn’t know those two guys. What gives?”
“Joe, Frank was hitting the gasoline pretty hard that night. He wouldn’t remember if it was Jackie Gleason. Besides, the list of guys who’ve pissed off Frank Sinatra would run out the door and wrap around the casino two or three times, dontcha think?”
I managed a smile at that. He smiled too, then walked to the door and opened it. He leaned against the frame and looked back.
“Be careful, Joe Bones, we don’t want to lose you.”
“Promise. Say … Jack?” I said, turning toward him.
“Yeah?”
“No one told me, either.”
“Told you what?”
“That the forties are over.” I winked once and flashed a grin.
He shook his head and went out, pulling the door shut behind him.
22
My plan was somewhere between mediocre and piss-poor. At five o’clock, Frank blew it all to hell. He called me in the room. He’d been drinking.
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