[Rat Pack 11] - I Only Have Lies for You

by Robert J. Randisi

  We took seats at a table all the way in the back where we wouldn’t bother the rehearsal. Of course, if Antonio spotted us he’d kick us out immediately, but at the moment he was too occupied.

  “Okay, what’s this about?” I asked Jerry.

  “Well, while you and Mr. Gleason were talking, Miss Taylor leaned over and spoke to me.”

  “You gonna make me ask?”

  “She said to tell you to check deeper into Philip Rossi.”

  “Rossi.”

  “She didn’t say who he was,” Jerry said. “You know him?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “he was the dead guy in the elevator.”

  “Oh, him,” Jerry said. “Why would she want you to check him out? Didn’t the Miami police do that?”

  “Maybe,” I said, “they didn’t look deep enough.”

  “So then, how do we do that?” Jerry asked. “Go to Miami Beach?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Maybe the dick can go,” Jerry suggested. “You should probably stay close to home.”

  “We’ll talk about it,” I said. “You, me and Danny. She say anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Jerry said, “she wanted me to tell you that she’s sorry. And she said you should talk to her sister.”

  “June?”

  “That her name? She didn’t say.”

  “Yeah, she’s the head of the June Taylor dancers.”

  “Those are the ones on Mr. Gleason’s show, that they shoot from above, right? They make all them designs with their legs?”

  “That’s right.”

  Jerry shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind meetin’ some of them girls.” He looked up at the stage. “Or them, for that matter.”

  “You’re such a bullshitter, Jerry.”

  He jerked his head back to me. “Huh?”

  “You’re way too much of a shy gentleman to meet those girls,” I said.

  “Maybe,” he said, almost indignantly, “I ain’t as shy as I used ta be.”

  He’d been super shy with the likes of Marilyn Monroe, Ava Gardner, and Judy Garland, but maybe he had changed since then. I remember he ended up being pretty friendly — and I mean big brother friendly — with all three of those ladies.

  “I guess we’ll find out, then,” I said.

  “In Miami Beach?” Jerry asked. “I ain’t never been there. All I know about it is what I see on Surfside Six, on T.V..”

  ”I don’t know if Jack’s gonna give me more time off to go there again so soon,” I said.

  “Who you kiddin’?” he asked. “If you tell him it’s for Mr. S. and Mr. Gleason, he’d drive you to the airport himself.”

  Jerry was right. Jack Entratter bent over backwards for certain people, especially celebrities. And for Frank in particular.

  “Yeah, okay,” I said. “Let’s talk to Danny and then we can make up our minds.”

  “Right,” Jerry said, “but before we talk to the dick, we gotta find ‘im, first.”

  FORTY SIX

  When Danny finally showed up hours later he was surprised when Jerry jumped on him. So was I.

  “Where the hell have you been? Why didn’t you call?” Jerry demanded as we let Danny into our suite.

  Danny grinned at Jerry.

  “Sorry, Dad, I didn’t know I had a curfew.”

  “The other cop from Miami is missing,” I said to Danny. “We were worried when we didn’t hear from you.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “We don’t know,” I said.

  “So right now he’s only missin’.”

  “Right.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “Help yourself,” I said.

  He went to the bar. “Anyone else?”

  “Not me,” I said, sitting on the sofa.

  “Me, neither.” Jerry sat in one of the armchairs.

  Danny poured himself a bourbon on the rocks and carried it to the other armchair.

  “This is what I’m startin’ to think,” Danny said. “Our guy may not even be a hitman.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Because there’s nothin’, not a peep, out there anywhere about a hitman who uses a blade like this guy. Hitmen are smart. They don’t wanna get close to their prey. They wanna shoot to kill from a distance. It’s safer.” He looked at Jerry. “{What do you think, big guy?”

  “That makes sense,” Jerry said. “I figured he hadda be a dope for working that close. Sooner or later, it’d backfire on him.”

  “So,” I said, “we have a killer, but not a hitman.”

  “Right.”

  “That changes things,” I said.

  “Why’d he kill the guy in the elevator if he wasn’t paid to?” Danny said.

  “And why’d he kill the Miami cop?” I asked.

  “Well, that makes more sense,” Danny said. “Maybe the cop was gettin’ too close.”

  “But Winter came here to see what I remember,” I said. “I don’t think he had a thing.”

  “Well, the killer didn’t agree with you,” Danny said. “And now maybe he’s killed the other cop.”

  “I think I’ll have that drink now,” I said and went to the bar. “Jerry?”

  “Nah. What’re we gonna do now, Mr. G.?”

  I poured my drink and then remained behind the bar.

  “If we’re gonna work on the premise that there’s no hitman, Jerry,” I explained, “then I think you and me are flyin’ to Miami Beach.”

  “Why do that?” Danny asked.

  “Jackie and Marilyn left this morning,” I said. “Jackie pretty much told me to mind my own business. But Marilyn told Jerry to tell me we should be concentrating on the dead man in the elevator, Rossi.”

  “So what about me?” Danny asked, smiling hopefully. “Do I get a trip to Miami?”

  “You better stay here, Danny,” I said. “See if you can find that other cop.”

  “Don’t you think the Vegas cops are lookin’ for him?” Danny asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, “Hargrove.”

  “I get your point,” Danny said. “But if the guy’s already dead—“

  “We’ll stay in touch,” I said. “If he turns up dead, there won’t be any point to your stayin’ here, and I’ll buy you a plane ticket.”

  “You got a deal!”

  FORTY SEVEN

  I asked Jack Entratter for two plane tickets the next day to Miami Beach.

  “Forget that,” he said. “I’ll have a plane waitin’ for you at the airport. But do you really think this is the way to go? I mean, back to Miami?”

  “The girl told Jerry that we need to check into Philip Rossi more,” I said.

  “The dead guy in the elevator.”

  “Right. Somethin’s goin’ on, Jack, something Jackie’s not tellin’ me. The only place to find anything out is back in Miami.”

  Entratter agreed and made a call to arrange for the plane. “It won’t be like Frank’s, but it’ll do the trick.”

  That was okay with me. I didn’t want to use Frank’s plane because I didn’t want him to know I was going back to Miami — mainly because I didn’t want Jackie to know.

  ***

  We got off the plane that afternoon in Miami and went out to the cab stand. We were both carrying one bag.

  “So where to?” Jerry asked. “The Fontainebleau?”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice,” I said, “but not on my dime. We’ll have to stay in a motel.”

  “As long as it’s got a pool,” Jerry said. “With girls in bikinis.”

  “No matter where we stay,” I said, “I think there’ll be a beach.”

  We got into the back of a cab and as the driver asked, “Where to?” something occurred to me.

  “Do you know a motel called the Pink Grotto, on Collins?”

  “I know it,” he said, “but that ain’t the best part of Collins Avenue.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “For us, it’ll do.”

  Not being in any of the luxury hotels also mad
e it less likely that somebody connected to Jackie Gleason would spot us.

  “Wow,” Jerry said, as we drove past some of the bigger hotels.

  “One of these days, Jerry,” I promised.

  “Sure, Mr. G..”

  ***

  The cabbie pulled up in front of the Pink Grotto, which didn’t look quite as bad as I remembered.

  “You won’t wanna go walkin’ around here,” the cabbie said, as I paid him. “Unless you take your big friend with ya.”

  “Thanks, I’ll remember. This place any good?”

  “Usta be,” the cabbie said. “It’s kinda fallen on hard times, like a lot of places at this end of Collins.”

  “Thanks.”

  I joined Jerry on the curb. He was looking at the two-story pink stucco motel.

  “Want to go somewhere else?” I asked.

  “I seen worse motels than this in Sheepshead Bay,” he said. “And they didn’t have a beach. Besides, we’re not here on vacation.”

  “Let’s check in,” I said, “if they have rooms available.”

  Not only were they available, but we were able to each get our own. I looked out the back window and saw the beach, but there were no girls in bikinis there. Neither were there any at the pool we’d passed on the way to the office.

  I’d left my door ajar, so Jerry knocked and came in.

  “Where to first, Mr. G.?” he asked.

  “How about we get something to eat,” I suggested, “and go from there.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  ”And I know just the place,” I said. “Beer and burgers.”

  “We need another cab?” he asked, as we went out the door.

  “No, we can walk. It’s a few blocks.”

  “That cabbie said we shouldn’t walk.”

  “Unless I took you with me,” I added. “Come on.”

  ***

  We did pass some homeless souls along the way, but nobody who was very threatening. As we took the circular walk down to the bar, Jerry asked. “How did you know about this place?”

  “I had a meeting with Eisman here last time I was in Miami.”

  “Is the food any good?”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t eat last time.”

  “Then why are we goin’ back?”

  “Because,” I answered, “Eisman told me he owned a piece of it.”

  We went inside and it looked pretty much the same as last time I was there. It even looked as if the four people seated at the bar were the same ones.

  I led Jerry to the same booth I’d sat in with Eisman. Before long, the bartender came over—the same bartender.

  “Get ya somethin’?” he asked.

  “Two beers, two burgers,” I said, “and some answers.”

  “Beer and burgers I got,” the man said. “Answers are harder to come by.”

  “Do you own this place?” I asked.

  “I do,” the man said, after a moment of hesitation. “What of it?”

  “I was here a few weeks ago with Eisman.”

  The bartender nodded. “I thought you looked familiar. We don’t get too much repeat business here, except for regulars. I couldn’t place you.”

  “But now you can?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “I’m Nate Morgan.”

  “I’m Eddie Gianelli. This is Jerry Epstein. Now that you know I was here with Eisman, you know he’d want you to talk to us.”

  “Why don’t you ask Eisman what you want to know?”

  “Because... he’s dead.”

  “What? When? Where?”

  “A few days ago, in Las Vegas. He was working on the same case that he and I were talking about here. And now I need your help.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Well,” Jerry said, “you can start by gettin’ us those beers and burgers.”

  “Right,” the man said. “Comin’ up.”

  He turned and went back around the bar, and then into a back room that was apparently the kitchen.

  “What kind of help do you think he can be?” Jerry asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but he knew Eisman. Maybe he can tell us somethin’ helpful that he doesn’t even know is helpful.”

  “Hopefully,” Jerry said, “we’ll know it’s helpful when we hear it.”

  FORTY EIGHT

  Morgan returned with two plates. The burgers were thick and juicy, piled high with onions, pickles, and tomatoes, on soft buns. Also on the plates were homemade potato chips.

  Jerry and I each took a bite and exchanged surprised glances.

  “If you can cook like this,” I asked, “why don’t you have more people here?”

  “The city said they were gonna renovate this whole end of Collins Avenue,” he said. “That’s why Eisman wanted to buy in.”

  “And it never happened,” I said.

  “The money went into some politician’s pocket, instead,” Morgan said.

  “This is probably the best hamburger I’ve ever had,” Jerry said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Can you sit and talk while we eat?” I asked.

  He didn’t even look at the bar. There wasn’t much going on there.

  “Sure thing.”

  Jerry and I were sitting across from each other, so Morgan chose to slide in next to me.

  “Whataya wanna know?”

  “The case Eisman was working,” I said. “Did he talk to you about it?”

  “He didn’t talk about any of his cases with me,” Morgan said.

  “Weren’t you friends?”

  “No,” Morgan said, “business partners. We only ever talked about this place, and maybe sports.”

  I looked at Jerry, who bit into his burger and shrugged.

  “Okay, then,” I said, “did he ever bring others around here like he met me here?”

  “Well...” he rubbed his jaw. “... on occasion, he’d meet somebody, sit right here like he did with you.”

  “Men?” I asked.

  “Men, women.”

  “Was it always police business?”

  “I wasn’t privy to what it was about, but to me it seemed that way.”

  “Did he bring anyone else here after me?”

  Morgan frowned before answering.

  “He did bring a woman in here a few days after he brought you.”

  “A woman. What’d she look like?”

  “Beautiful, classy, long dark hair, even longer legs.”

  “Like a dancer?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Morgan said, nodding, “a dancer.”

  “A dancer,” Jerry repeated.

  This time it was me who nodded. “A dancer.”

  ***

  After we finished the delicious burger and the perfect homemade chips I paid the bill and thanked Morgan for his help.

  “Did I help?” he asked, from behind the bar. “I don’t feel like I did anything.”

  “You did more than you know,” I said.

  “Well then,” he replied, “I hope you find out who killed Eisman.”

  “We’re gonna try our best.”

  Jerry and I left and walked back up to Collins Avenue. Once there we headed for our motel.

  “We need a car,” I said.

  “Do you wanna rent one?”

  “No,” I said, “we don’t know how to get around here. We need a car and a driver.”

  “A cab, then.”

  “No,” I said, “better than that.”

  “What then?”

  “I still have the phone number Frank gave me for his car and driver, here.”

  “But the driver’s dead.”

  “Then they can send a car with another driver,” I said. “Especially when they hear we’re trying to find out who killed their driver, Paul.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  “As soon as we get back to the room, I’ll make the call.”

  “And then what?”

  �
�And then you and I are gonna go and see a dancer.”

  “You know which one was with Eisman back there?”

  “I have a pretty good idea,” I said. “The description can fit a lot of dancers, but it fit June Taylor to a tee.”

  “You mean, that other one’s sister? The one with all the girls on Mr. Gleason’s show?”

  “That’s the one,” I said. “And she’s the first one who came to me and got me involved in this. Maybe she knows more than she told me.”

  “Why are people keepin’ things from you?” Jerry asked. “First Mr. Gleason, and now Miss Taylor?”

  “That’s what we’re gonna find out.”

  “Wait—“ Jerry said, grabbing my arm.

  “What?” We stopped walking but were within sight of our pink motel.

  “Marilyn Taylor,” he said, “when she told me you had to look into Rossi she also started to say something else, but stopped when Mr. Gleason came over and grabbed her arm.”

  “Somethin’ like ‘talk to June—‘” he said. “I thought she was talkin’ about the month.”

  “Okay,” I said, “so now we have two reasons to go and talk to June Taylor.”

  “Both of us?” he asked.

  “Yeah, both of us.”

  FORTY NINE

  We went to my hotel room, I fished the card out of my wallet and called the number of the car service. An operator answered and I asked for her boss.

  “What’s this about, sir?”

  I said the first thing I thought of that might get me put through.

  “Frank Sinatra.”

  “Just a minute.”

  After two minutes a man came on the line. “Mr. Sinatra. So nice to hear from you again so soon.”