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

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Finished already?”

  “No,” I said. “We’re going to have to be in town a little longer, talking to some people. So... can you tell us where the closest motel is?”

  “You’d have to get back on I-four and go a few exits,” he said. “Or... you can stay here.”

  “So you do rent rooms?”

  “Of course, we’re a hotel, after all. Do you need one or two?”

  “Three, actually,” I said. “We have a driver outside.”

  “Three rooms,” he said. “Excellent. And, of course, you’ll pay?”

  “Of course.”

  “Come with me to the front desk.”

  At the desk, he instructed the clerk to check us into three rooms, and then excused himself to go back to the seminar. While I got us signed in, Jerry went out to get Esteban.

  By the time they came back I was holding three keys. Jerry and Esteban were carrying not only our bags but an overnight bag Esteban must have had in the trunk.

  “How about the car?” I asked.

  “I parked it down the street,” Esteban said. “I think it’s legal. I didn’t see any signs.”

  “It’s probably fine,” I said. “I didn’t see any tow trucks in town.”

  A young man, presumably a bell boy, although he was wearing a simple suit, carried two our bags and led us to rooms on the second floor.

  “Must be busy,” I commented, “what with the seminar and all.”

  “Oh, most of the people attending aren’t staying here,” he said. He didn’t explain any further.

  He showed us to three identical rooms, two in a row on one side of the hall, and one across the way. The two on the same side had connecting doors, so Jerry and I took those. We put Esteban across the hall.

  “Thank you,” Esteban said, and closed his door. He’d been carrying his own bag.

  The bellboy put our bags in our rooms, and I tipped him. That done, and the doors closed, I went to the connecting door and knocked. Jerry opened it.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “We need to talk to as many people in town who might have known Rachel Foster or seen her with one or two of her male friends. We need a description or more.”

  “What’s that?” Jerry asked. He walked to the window and looked out. “It’s rainin’.” He turned and looked at me.” I thought it didn’t rain in Florida.”

  “It rains everywhere, sometime,” I said.

  “And there’s somethin’ out there. See it?”

  I walked over, stood next to him and looked out. For a moment I thought I saw a dark shape, but it could have been someone running from the rain.

  “I don’t see anything,” I said, only half lying.

  “Maybe this whole town is haunted.”

  “Ghosts, Jerry?”

  “Ain’t that what psychics do?” he asked. “Talk to ghosts?”

  “You mean, real psychics?”

  “If you believe that hotel manager, then some of these people are real.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in this stuff?”

  “Yeah but... it’s rainin’. Somethin’s up.”

  I couldn’t believe the big buy was getting spooked, so to distract him I said, “I’m hungry. Let’s go downstairs and see what we can rustle up.”

  We considered knocking on Esteban’s door, but after all, he was our driver, not our buddy. And we might have to do it later if we needed him to drive someplace for food. We left it at that.

  Downstairs it was oddly deserted in the lobby, and in the room where the seminar was being held.

  “Where’d everybody go?” I asked the desk clerk.’

  ”Home,” the young man said. “The weather.”

  “The rain? Is that unusual?”

  “It’s the rain and the cold.”

  Jerry nudged me. “See?”

  “It’s a little cool,” I said, “but not exactly cold.”

  “Folks around here don’t like this kind of weather,” the clerk said. “They say it brings bad... things around.”

  “Things?”

  “You know,” the clerk said, poking at the air, “things.”

  Jerry nudged me again.

  “Cut it out!” I hissed, then went back to the clerk. “Look, is there any place we can get some food?”

  “There are some restaurants along I-four,” he said, “but you don’t want to go out in this weather.”

  “Nothing closer?”

  “We have a kitchen,” he said. “I can have them make you some sandwiches if you like, and the bell boy can bring them to your room.”

  “Do you have a dining room, here?”

  “That would be the room where they were holding the seminar,” the clerk said, “so it’s closed tonight.”

  “I see. Well, I guess sandwiches are okay.”

  “I can’t promise anything fancy,” the clerk said.

  “Just send anything up,” I said. “Enough for three. And some cans of beer, if you have ‘em.”

  “Yes sir,” the clerk said. Jerry had wandered over to take a peek out the front door. “Is he one of the three?”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  “Okay,” he said, “I’ll have them make plenty.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walked over to where Jerry was standing.

  “What do you see?”

  “It’s rainin’,” he said, “and cool, and it’s dark. It ain’t supposed to be dark this early.”

  “So it’s overcast.”

  “No,” he said, “it’s dark.”

  “Come on,” I said, “they’re gonna send up some sandwiches and beer.”

  We headed for the stairs.

  “What kind of sandwiches?” he asked.

  SIXTY

  It took about twenty minutes for the young bell boy to knock on my door. Jerry was there with me, and we had the t.v. on. Jerry had managed to find a rerun of an old Mike Hammer with Darren McGavin.

  “Here you go, sir,” the boy said. “The cook did the best he could. And we had this in the kitchen.” He handed me a six-pack of Piels.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Here you go.” I tipped him a few bucks.

  “Thank you, sir!”

  “Tell me something,” I said. “Are you afraid that this weather might bring out some... things.”

  “Things, sir?”

  “That’s what the desk clerk told me,” I said, pointing at the air. “Things.”

  “Oh, sir,” he said, with a smile, “that’s just a bunch of hooey.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

  As he walked down the hall I stepped out and knocked on Esteban’s door. I figured it would only be fair to share the sandwiches with him. But there was no answer. Just in case he had gone to sleep — after all, he had been driving all day — I didn’t pound any louder on it, and went back to my room.

  Jerry had already unwrapped a sandwich and popped the top off a beer.

  “This ain’t bad, Mr. G.,” he said. “Ham and cheese on this one. And some good mustard.”

  I wasn’t crazy about mustard, so I looked through the sandwiches and found one without it. It was roast beef, which suited me. It had mayo, which didn’t suit me but beggars couldn’t be choosers at that moment.

  I popped a beer and sat on my bed. Jerry was sitting at the small table by the window.

  “So where do we start tomorrow?” he asked, starting on his second sandwich — pastrami.

  “The neighborhood of the house she lived in,” I said. “Somebody must have known her, or seen something.”

  “Like in Altamonte Springs?” he asked.

  “You know,” I said, “I can’t figure out what Rossi was doing living there.”

  “He must not have had enough money to live anywhere else.”

  “Why didn’t he live here?” I asked. “If he was working with this Rachel Foster — Merlina — why didn’t he live with her?”

  “Maybe she already had a man livin’ with her,” Jerry said. �
�The killer.”

  “Why would a psychic have a killer working for her?”

  “Psychics — most of them, anyway — are flim-flam artists. Criminals. Why not have a killer work for them?”

  “But why kill their marks? They can’t get money from them if they do.”

  “Maybe they kill relatives of the marks,” Jerry said, “so they’ll inherit more money.”

  “That’s crafty thinking,” I said.

  He waved that away. “It’s an old story, done all the time so the con artist can get to the family money.”

  “Then why was the killer in Miami Beach, following Marilyn Taylor? Or Rossi?”

  “And why was Rossi there?”

  “These are the questions we need answers to,” I said. “Along with who killed Detective Eisman, and why?”

  “And what about Mr. Gleason?” Jerry asked. “He’s at the center of this, ain’t he?”

  “Definitely,” I said, “only I can’t believe it’s only his belief in psychics he was trying to hide. There’s something else, something he may not have even told Frank.”

  “What about Mr. Martin?” Jerry asked. “He was gonna try to find out something from Mr. S. for you.”

  “Good point,” I said, finishing my last bite of my sandwich. “I’ll call Dino.”

  ***

  But Dean had nothing for me. He said he called Frank, trying to make him believe that it was important for him to tell me what he knew.

  “I tried to make him see the light,” Dino said, “but he wouldn’t even tell me. He did say he’d think about telling you.”

  “Well, I hope he does,” I said, “before somebody else dies.”

  “Good luck, Pally.”

  I hung up and looked at Jerry. He was on his third sandwich.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be watching what you eat?” I asked him.

  “Hey,” he said, with his mouth full, “we been busy, and I’m hungry.”

  I looked at the table. There were two sandwiches left, which meant they’d given us six. I decided to have another, and leave the last one for Esteban -- if he ever woke up, of course.

  I ate and told Jerry what Dean had said.

  “You know, Mr. G.,” he said, “if somebody had just told the truth from the very beginnin’, this all might have ended much sooner.”

  “Believe me,” I said, “when this is over, I’m gonna make that point very clear.”

  ***

  The rain continued to come down and, in fact, began to fall harder. So hard, in fact, that we lost our television reception.

  We stayed in my room, talking about everything from sports, family, show business and the case. We finished the six-pack of beer, and Jerry kept eyeing that final sandwich sitting on the table.

  “Go ahead and eat it,” I said. “He’s probably gonna sleep all night.”

  He reached for it immediately and started eating.

  “When you’re done I guess we better get some sleep,” I said. “Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day, and I only want to spend one more night here, if that.”

  He finished the sandwich, said goodnight and went back to his own room.

  And then somebody tried to kill me.

  SIXTY ONE

  I wasn’t sleeping soundly, which saved my life. Somebody entered my room and was moving through the darkness. For a moment I thought it might be Jerry, but I saw a dark figure and it wasn’t that big.

  I think because it was my room and I‘d been staring at the ceiling, my vision in the dark was better than his. When he raised his hand I knew he was pointing something at the bed. I reacted immediately, rolling off the mattress and to the floor just as there was a phhht sound and something took a chunk out of the headboard above where my head had been.

  I reached out for something, anything to defend myself with. I ended up grabbing the lamp off the night table and throwing it at him. He ducked away and fired again. This time the bullet buried itself in the mattress just in front of me. I grabbed something again from the table, a clock, but this time I threw it at the door, which was open. It sailed out and bounced soundly off of Jerry’s door across the room.

  “Jerry! Jerry!” I shouted.”

  My assailant must have known Jerry would be trouble. As soon as I yelled he turned and ran out the door. I got up and chased after him like a fool, running after a man with a gun. The connecting door opened and Jerry came out, .45 in his hand.

  “Mr. G. wha—“

  “Down the hall!” I shouted and pointed. “He took two shots at me.”

  Jerry took off past me, down the hall, and I followed. I noticed that he was still wearing his pants, but his torso and feet were bare. I still had my shirt and pants on, but my feet were bare, as well.

  We went bounding down the stairs to the lobby, stopping there to look around. The front desk looked deserted, but suddenly the clerk stood up from behind it and saw us.

  “He went out the front door!” he shouted.

  We took off out the door, into the rain. The shooter must have stumbled, because he was just getting up from the grass in front of the hotel, preparing to run again. Jerry raised his .45 and fired. The man kept running into the darkness, and we took off after him. However, we didn’t get very far. Once we got to the sidewalk, he made better time than we did, since he had shoes on and we didn’t. We ran for what seemed like blocks but finally had to give up. We’d lost sight of him.

  “Damnit!” Jerry shouted. Then he turned and looked at me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Scared, but fine.”

  The rain was pouring down and we were drenched.

  “Let’s get inside!” I said.

  He nodded.

  As we reentered the hotel Lonny, the clerk was still crouched behind the desk, but the manager, Mr. Westfied, was there, in front of the desk.

  “Get up, damn it!” he was snapping at the clerk.

  Lonny stood, then yelled, “There they are. They have a gun!”

  Westfield turned and looked at us.

  “Why am I not surprised? Why are you running through my lobby with a gun?”

  “Somebody broke into my room and took two shots at me,” I said. ”We were chasing him.”

  “Did you catch him?”

  We stared at him.

  “No, of course not. That was a stupid question.”

  “You!” Jerry said, pointing at the clerk.

  “Me?” he squeaked.

  “You saw him run out.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Did you see him come in?”

  “Nossir!”

  “Were you here the whole time?”

  “Yessir, the whole time.”

  “Then how did he get into the hotel?” Jerry asked.

  “And how did he get into my room?” I demanded.

  “Did he damage the door?” the manager asked. “Let’s go up and have a look.”

  Jerry and I went up the stairs with the manager while the clerk remained hidden behind the desk. The door to my room was wide open.

  “Well,” Westfield said, “it doesn’t look damaged.”

  “It doesn’t even look jimmied, Mr. G.,” Jerry said, bending over the lock.

  “So somebody had a key,” I said. “I must’ve heard it in the lock. If I wasn’t lying half-awake I’d probably be dead, by now.”

  “Look at the headboard!” Westfield snapped.

  “Fuck the headboard, that could’ve been my head!” I snapped back at him.

  ‘Yes, of course.” He stared mournfully at the scorched mattress and sheet.

  “Is there another way into the hotel other than through the lobby?” I asked.

  “There’s a back door from the kitchen where there are trash dumpsters, but anyone coming in that way would still have to go up the stairs in the lobby.”

  “So the desk clerk must’ve seen them,” I said, “or been away from the desk.”

  “Or,” Jerry said, and we both looked at him, “the shooter was al
ready in the hotel.”

  “One of my staff?” Westfield asked, aghast.

  “Or,” Jerry said, “a guest.”

  “Speaking of guests,” I said, “where’s Esteban? All this ruckus must’ve woken him up.”

  We went out the door and across the hall. Esteban’s door was still closed.

  “Nobody’s that heavy a sleeper,” I said and pounded on the door.

  There was no answer.

  “Do you have a master key?” I asked the manager.

  “Of course, but—“

  “Open it!” I told to Westfield.

  “A guest’s privacy is—“

  “If you have a dead guest how are you gonna explain it to the cops?”

  He hurriedly produced his master key and unlocked the door.

  “Let me, Mr. G.,” Jerry said. Leading the way with his gun, he went inside. I followed. It was dark, but Jerry found the lamp on the night table and turned it on.’

  “Oh my God!” Westfield said.

  There seemed to be blood everywhere. Esteban was half on, half off the bed, dressed, soaking wet, with a hole in his side. He had obviously tried to staunch the flow of blood with pillowcases, but to no avail. The window was open, indicating somebody had come in that way.

  Jerry checked his carotid artery.

  “He’s dead, Mr. G..”

  “So the killer got him first, and then me?” I said. “But why him?”

  Jerry examined the body, then pointed out, “He’s all wet, Mr. G.. He was outside, and came in the window.”

  “Are you saying—“

  Jerry nodded.

  “Esteban’s the one who tried to kill you.”

  SIXTY TWO

  Jerry was convinced that the wound in Esteban’s side was made by his .45.

  “I got him as he was runnin’ from us,” he said. “I don’t even know how he managed to climb back up here.”

  “You killed him?” Westfield asked.

  “After he tried to kill me,” I pointed out, “but if I was you, I’d call the police. We’re gonna have a lot of explainin’ to do.”

  Somebody else was going to have a lot of explaining to do—the agency who sent us the car and driver. But that would have to wait until morning.