I deposited my bag in my room and went back down to the casino. My strategy was simple. I would use Eddie’s book to find myself a P.I. in Las Vegas who knew somebody in security at the Aladdin. The closest I got was a woman named Freddie O’Neal who lived and worked in Reno. As it happened, she knew somebody who knew somebody, and I took the elevator down to the main floor and started looking for him. I asked at the desk where security was, and after I convinced them that I was not having a problem with the casino or the hotel itself, they directed me.
His name was Kyle Morgan, and when I saw that he wore a suit and not a uniform, I assumed he wasn’t just a security guard.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Jacoby?” he asked while we shook hands.
“Don’t you want to see my ID?”
“You were described to me, sir. Just tell me how I can help you.”
“I will, but don’t call me ‘sir’, okay, Kyle?”
“Okay, Miles.”
I told him that Stan Waldrop had been killed in New York, and that this was the last place he worked.
“I remember him.”
That surprised me.
“Why?”
“I caught his act one night. I’m no critic, but I know what I like. He was bad.”
“How bad?”
“So bad that I figured there had to be another reason he was here. I thought it might be gambling, but if he gambled he didn’t do it here.”
“Did you see him with anyone?”
“Oh, sure. His friend was the one who gambled.”
“His friend? Could you describe him?”
“Sure, easy. He was an older man with bad teeth and a bad toupee. I heard some of the dealers say that he never shut up, just keep telling jokes the whole time he was gambling.”
“Did people complain?”
“Hell, no. They were too busy laughing. Apparently this guy was a lot better than Waldrop.”
“I see.”
It was pretty clear who the friend was. I doubted that Sam Friedlander had flown to Vegas just to catch his nephew’s act, so now it seemed that Stan and his uncle Sammy had both been there for some reason that had nothing to do with comedy.
A reason that had gotten Stan killed.
“Thanks very much, Kyle.”
Morgan looked surprised.
“That’s it? That’s all you wanted?”
“No, but as it turns out,” I said, “it might be all I need.”
62
“How can you say a charter was a bad idea?” Geneva complained.
“I found out what I needed to know within the first two hours I was there, but I still had to stay until Thursday.”
“So? You still saved money on the flight and the hotel.”
“I probably lost more than I saved on those stupid slot machines.”
“Well,” she said, with her arms folded across her chest, “who told you to gamble?”
“What else was there to do?”
“See some shows.”
“They cost money too.”
In fact, I had caught a show—two, but that was enough. I had even walked around and watched the volcano erupt in front of the Mirage, and the pirate boat battle in front of Treasure Island. I had seen the MGM Grand, and the Luxor, and the Excaliber, and while I was seeing them I was dropping quarters—okay, and then dollars—into the slot machines.
I had even gone to a girlie place called Glitter Gulch, but after a couple of hours of putting dollar bills between breasts, even that got boring.
This was Friday and I had gotten back late the night before. All I’d done so far was call Heck and tell him I was back. Actually, he wasn’t in, so I left the message with Missy. She couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell me anything about the Danny Pesce case, or what was happening with Ray Carbone. I’d have to hear that from Heck himself.
I had hauled out Eddie’s trusty book after breakfast and made some calls. I hoped to have some callbacks later that day so that I could catch Sammy Freed at one of his deli stops. That was why I was stuck to the phone at Packy’s, arguing with Geneva about what I should or should not have done in Vegas.
“Well, what about some of those legal pussy parlors? You mean you didn’t try one of them out?”
The legal chicken farms in Vegas were plentiful, and they advertised in flyers that were free on every street corner.
“There were so many, I didn’t know which one to choose.”
“Hey, some of them even come to your room. What about that?”
“I’m not in the habit of paying for sex, Gen.”
“Hey, Vegas is Vegas. You got to enjoy it to the fullest.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “They even have guys who come to your room. I saw that in some of the flyers. You mean that you—”
She held up a hand to stop me. “A girl’s got to try everything . . . at least once.”
“You didn’t!” I said, but she just smiled and went to unlock the door to let the day’s business begin.
The first person through the door was Steve Stilwell, and he was obviously happy.
“From the looks of you, things have gone your way,” I said.
“IAD dropped its investigation,” he said. “Bruce and I were reinstated this morning.”
“Well, good for you. Where is the big lug? I’ll buy you both a drink.”
“He’s celebrating with the lovely Veronica.”
“The lovely Veronica” was Taylor’s new love. According to him, she was his last love too. He’d gotten divorced some years back, badly, and Veronica was the first woman to make him forget how painful it had really been.
“Good for him. I’ll buy you a drink, then.”
“Why not? I don’t have anyone to celebrate with—unless—” He was looking Geneva’s way.
“Don’t even think it,” she said, putting a Rolling Rock in front of him. “I got better things to do with my time than entertain your skinny white ass.”
“So it’s just you and me,” Steve said to me. “When did you get back?”
“Last night.”
“Did the trip help?”
“I think so, but I won’t be sure for a while. I’m waiting for some information.”
“What kind of information?”
“Airline. I need to know if someone flew to Vegas last week.”
“Why didn’t you ask? I know somebody in airport security. He can get into any of the airline’s computers. What’s the name you’re looking for?”
“More than one,” I said, and gave them all to him.
“Geneva, the phone, please,” he said imperiously.
“Walkaround here and use it,” she said. “I ain’tyour slave, honey.”
With a less than imperious look he walked around the bar, used the phone, and got me the information I needed within the hour:
I thanked him, gave him carte blanche in my absence, and went to see what deli Sammy Freed was at today.
63
I’m a detective, that’s how I figured Sammy Freed was either at the New York Deli, or the Carnegie Deli. I’d already seen him twice, at the Stage and at Wolf’s, so I figured today he’d be at one of the others. I tried the New York, and he was there, at one of the tables on a balcony. Sometimes this business of deduction really works.
“It’s the honest Shamus,” he said when I appeared at his table. “Where you been all week? It ain’t been the same without you.”
I sat down. “I was in Vegas.”
Freed stared at me for a moment before speaking.
“Did you win? How much did they take you for?”
“A bundle, but it was worth it. I stayed at the Aladdin, Sammy, where Stan played last.”
“Stan at the Aladdin, huh? He must have a good agent.”
“They remember you there, Sammy. You’re hard not to remember, you know.”
“Sure, I know,” he said, grimacing and waving a hand at me. “I gotta get a hairpiece that fits. You think I don’t know it don’t fit? That it
looks like a fucking throw rug?”
“I’m thinking you killed Stan, Sammy.” It came from out of the blue, for him and for me. “Why am I thinking you killed your nephew?”
“The putz.”
“Your nephew the putz.”
He stared at me for a few moments, ignoring the remains of his brisket sandwich.
“I wish I had a gun, you know?”
“Why? What would you do? Shoot me?”
“Naw, naw,” he said, waving both hands. “It’s me I’d shoot, not you.”
“Did you kill him, Sammy?”
“Sure, I killed him. Who else would kill him?”
His admission surprised me.
“You said he had a lot of enemies.”
“Not people who would kill him.”
“Why did you kill him?”
“It was an accident. We argued, he got me all worked up, and I hit him.” He shrugged. “An accident. My sister’s boy.” He shook his head.
“What was the argument about?”
“Same thing we been arguing about for months. He was writing a book.”
“What kind of book?”
“The King of The Catskills, he called it. It was about me.”
“A biography?”
“Sure, whatever you call it.”
“Why the argument?”
“I didn’t want him to write it, but he was doing it anyway.”
“It was an unauthorized biography?”
“I didn’t want him to write it. Wouldn’t you call that unauthorized?”
“Why didn’t you want him to write it?”
“Because he was gonna talk about things I’d rather forget, that’s why.”
“I’m a little confused, Sammy. Was this some kind of tell-all book?”
“Sure, he was gonna tell everything.”
“What would have been so bad? I mean—I’m sorry, but did you have that interesting a career? Or life?”
He waited a moment, then said, “Look, Mr. Detective, back when I was trying to make it in this business you had to do things you didn’t want to do, you know? To get on that circuit you had to play by the rules.”
“And who made the rules, Sammy?”
“Who else? The people who are still making them.”
“The Mafia?”
“The Mafia. Back then they were called the ‘Mob’, the ‘Syndicate’. What do they call them now? Wise Guys? Always they’re coming up with new names, these Italians.”
“What else? What else was in the book?”
“I don’t know what was in the goddamn book. That’s what I was trying to find out, but he wouldn’t tell me. He said I’d read about it when everybody else did.”
“Did he have a publisher for it yet?”
“I don’t think so. If he did, he woulda told me, just to rub it in.”
I was still confused. Could it be that Sammy Freed had been bigger than I remembered? Come to think of it, I didn’t remember him all that well.
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” Freed said, staring at me. “So you don’t remember me, so what? I was big back then, Mr. Detective, and getting bigger.”
“What happened?”
“I stepped in shit, that’s what happened. I got caught shtupping the wrong twist.”
“And that did it? That did in your career?”
“Ha!” he said. “It almost got me killed too.”
I didn’t know whether to believe him or not.
“Sammy, you and your nephew, you didn’t get along?”
“Get along with a putz? How do you get along with such a man?”
“So you killed him.”
“I told you, it was an accident.”
Accusing him of the murder was a shot in the dark, but now that he was admitting it I didn’t buy the accidental part of it. Not knowing what I knew.
“Sammy, why’d you go to Vegas?”
“Why? To talk to him, that’s why. How do you think he got booked into Vegas?”
“You?”
“Sure, me. Who else? I know people, I got him booked. I wanted to show him I could help him.”
“Did you ever help him before?”
“No,” Freed said, “nobody helped me when I was trying to break in. I had to take all my lumps, dealing with those cocksuckers—you should excuse the expression.”
“So Stan was angry that you didn’t help him?”
“Always, he was mad, but I thought it would make a man of him, you know? Instead he became a nasty little shit!”
“Sammy,” I said slowly, “if you’ll excuse me for saying so, I don’t think you killed him by accident.”
“You’re the hotshot detective. Why do you say that?”
“Because I happen to know you flew to L.A. and then rented a car and drove to Vegas.”
I knew he had flown to L.A. thanks to Steve Stilwell. The part about the rented car was another shot in the dark.
“You didn’t want any record that you were in Vegas. That sounds to me like you meant to kill him, maybe even there.”
He didn’t respond.
“How am I doing?”
“Do you know who got John Healy to keep Stanley on when he was gonna dump him? Me. Uncle Sammy. Who got him the job in the Village? Me. Who got him Vegas? Me.”
“Apparently, Stan thought this was all too little, too late, Sammy.”
He pointed a finger at me and said, “That’s what the little shit said to me. Then he turned around and I hit him.”
“With what?”
“Huh?”
“What did you hit him with?”
“I don’t know. I picked something up, something that was there.”
“And then what?”
“I dropped it and ran.”
“And nobody saw you?”
“Who was looking? They’re all so busy putting on their show, like you could call what these comics do today a show. Filth, that’s what they call humor, these days. They all think they’re Lenny Bruce. Lemme tell you, there was only one Lenny Bruce.”
“Sammy, how did you get out of the club without being seen?”
“I got in and out because of this,” he said, pointing to the rug on this head. “I took it off, and wore glasses, and walked in and out like a doddering old fool. Nobody recognized me.”
Not even me. I didn’t remember seeing anyone remotely resembling Sammy that night, but he’d been there and I’d missed him.
“Sammy, you’re still lying. There was no murder weapon found at the scene.”
“So maybe I took it with me.”
“And dropped it along the way?”
“I guess.”
“Nothing was found in the neighborhood. I think you had your weapon with you, and when he turned around you used it. What was it? A gun? You knew a shot would be heard so you hit him with it? Or a blackjack? What?”
Sammy Freed’s look became crafty.
“If it was a gun, maybe I’d still have it on me.”
We stared at each other for a few moments.
“I’ll ask you what I asked you earlier. Are you going to shoot me with it?”
“I don’t have a gun.”
“I do.”
“What? Now you’re trying to scare me?”
“You intended to kill me, didn’t you, Sammy?”
“I don’t say nothin’ no more without my lawyer.”
“You want to call him now, or when we get to the police station?”
“What, call him now,” he said, “the gonif, he’d put me on the clock from the minute he picked up the phone. From the police station I’ll call him, and I ain’t goin’ on the clock until he gets there. Lawyers, they’re all crooks. Did you hear the one about the three lawyers havin’ lunch together? One lawyer says to the other two . . .”
Epilogue
When they took Sam Friedlander, aka Sammy Freed, into custody he was carrying an old army .45 tucked into his waistband. If he had taken it out at the New York Deli, he and I would pr
obably have made a mess in some kind of Wild West shootout. I probably would have ended up dead. Instead, he tried to kill me with bad jokes on the way to the nearest precinct.
Later they determined that Freed had indeed clubbed his nephew to death with the .45. It was probably also what he had used to hit Marty with at Waldrop’s apartment. Sammy was there trying to find the book that his nephew was writing about him. It was questionable whether Waldrop would even have been able to sell the thing to a publisher. Sammy killed his nephew over a worthless manuscript that never would have seen the light of day anyway.
I know the manuscript was worthless because Walker Blue had cracked the password—“jokes”—to that computer file while I was in Vegas, and had printed it out, all three hundred pages of it. I thought the short stories I’d read from Waldrop’s computer were bad, but this was even worse. I gave Sammy a copy so he could read it in prison.
(Walker had found something else, as well, something that had to do with Ray’s case. He did something I had never done. He listened to the other side of Ray’s message tape. Doing that had not dawned on me, but that’s why Walker gets the big bucks. There were some messages on there from Tyler, and from Pesce, during which they mentioned Mike Bonetti. He had even heard the name “Olivetti” once. We turned the tape over to the police working the Bonetti case.)
Andrea Legend’s real name turned out to be Andrea Chaiken. She was a little Jewish girl who had grown up calling Sammy Freed “Uncle Sammy,” even though her mother claimed that Sammy was the girl’s father. Apparently Sammy had cut himself a wide swath as a younger and not so younger man. After all, it was what he said kept him from becoming big, “shtupping” the wrong woman.
Andrea told me later that while Sammy had never acknowledged her as his daughter, he had gotten her the job at John Healy’s agency. Healy, as it turned out, had once represented Sammy Freed, which is how Sammy also got Healy to hang on to Waldrop when Healy wanted to drop him. The fact that Waldrop ended up being represented by Healy at all was a coincidence, but one that Sammy tried to cash in on. He had Andrea place Waldrop at the club in the Village, and at the Aladdin, and even had her trying to sweet-talk Stanley into showing her the manuscript. Her planned seduction of me, which had gone awry, was on Sammy’s behalf. Sammy didn’t want anyone else finding that manuscript and was afraid that I would.
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