Neon Nights: Daymond Runyon meets James Ellroy in the Nevada Desert

by John Hudson

  Danny tried to get me interested in a game of pool but I declined. I asked Danny if he'd heard anything recently about Johnny Del Rio or Tony Gatti's murders. Danny shook his head and said, "Nothing new about Johnny boy and nobody seems very interested in Tony." Danny spotted one of his favorite pigeons across the room, and waved at him. He gave me a knowing wink, slid off the bar stool, and said, "I got a little business to conduct on the pool table."

  I'd had enough of Benny's high prices and I walked outside. Across the parking lot was Southside Sammy hustling some rube. His long skinny fingers fluttered in the air like he was directing an imaginary orchestra. As I got closer, I could hear his spiel, "Now looke here. This watch is made in Switzerland and it's got twenty-one jewels in it and if you go into any big jewelry store they're going to ask you for twenty dollars for it. But I'm going to let you have it for only ten." The guy shook his head and started to walk off but Sammy went after him. "Okay, so you don't want to pay ten. How’s about five. Here listen to it." Sammy shoved his arm against the guys' head. "See, don't that sound nice?" The guy started to move off and Sammy pulled up his jacket sleeve revealing several more watches on his arm. "If you don't like the style, I got more. Here just look." The guy didn't turn around and Sammy walked back toward his car.

  I'd hung back in the shadows and Sammy hadn't seen me yet. I was almost upon him when I said, "Could I see one of your watches."

  "You surely can." Sammy spun around and when he saw it was me he slammed the trunk of his car shut. "Well...well if it isn't Mister O'Brien. Come out to see the fight did you?"

  "No, I was looking for you."

  "Now why would you be looking for old Sammy?"

  "I wanted to ask you some questions about Tony Gatti's murder."

  "Can't say I ever heard of him--who is he?"

  "Gee, that's strange because I heard you knew who killed him."

  Sammy's pressed his mahogany hand in the middle of his gold silk shirt. "Me? Know something about some Italian gettin' killed? Just in case you haven't noticed, they don't hang around with colored folks."

  Sammy was too smooth for me to rattle just by mentioning a few names. If I was going to get him to talk, I had to have something stronger, but squeezing him might not do any good. Not everything Sammy sold was stolen. Sometimes he'd buy cheap junk and pass it off as stolen. I pounded on the trunk of his car and asked, "What you got in here Sammy?"

  Whatever was in there Sammy didn't want me to see. "Nothin..nothin at all." He answered.

  "Why don't you let me have a look?"

  "I don't expect I'll do that unless you have a warrant. Do you have one?"

  I didn't and he knew it, but I still might be able to get to him. "No, but I can shake you down. Let me see your arm."

  "No sir. I don't believe I'm going to let you do that and I don't think you can make me either. Since I heard you wasn't a cop no more."

  "I don't have to be. I'll make a citizens arrest and hold you until the deputies arrive."

  Sammy thought about it for a few seconds and flashed a toothy grin. "You'd do that too wouldn't you? Well it ain't no thing anyway so I might as well tell you. Now, I want you to understand this is only a whisper I heard, nothing else, and if you try to make me say this again, old Sammy is goin’ forget everything."

  "Are you going to tell me sometime tonight Sammy?"

  "Just you settle down. Sammy's getting to it. You see what you got to know about Tony is that he once worked in New York. He worked in some sporting club and his wife met a card dealer at that same club. Well, they got to know each other in the way the bible says. Then Tony he gets sent out here and he brings his wife with him. Next week the card dealer he shows up. The dealer and Tony's wife well they get reacquainted right away and the next thing Tony's wife she's buying a cross cut saw down at Lawson's hardware. I can't say I blame her--she being such a pretty little thing and him being such a big old ugly thing."

  "Okay, so they cut off his head. Where's the rest of him?"

  "They shipped it off. That's why they cut his head off. It wouldn't fit into the crate."

  "Where did they send it to?"

  "I don't know but someone's going to get a big surprise when they open that crate ain't they?"

  "How do you know all this?"

  "Oh, the little birds told me." Sammy ran his hand down the over sized brim of his hat and slid into his car. "Old Sammy's got to be going now." He flashed me another grin and said, "You want to buy watch?" He giggled, dropped his old Studebaker in gear and rumbled off into the night.

  Vinnie apparently was right. Tony's death had nothing to do with Johnny. I'd pass on the information about Tony's wife to the Sheriff's department and let them run it down.

  As I drove home, I kept an eye on my rear-view mirror. I couldn't see anything but I knew someone was out there watching me. There was no other way Al Bernstein could have known I was doing road work because I only started a couple of days ago. It was the one thing that settled me down. The idea of some goon following me around wasn't one I enjoyed much more than some FBI goon following me.

  I also didn't enjoy the idea of meeting with these people again. Each time I did I exposed myself to considerable risk. But I didn't have any choice.

  Early in the morning the desert sun is so bright it hurts your eyes. I half closed my eyes and ran about a mile. I was starting to work up a good sweat. I peeled off my sweatshirt, and even though it was probably eighty-five degrees, the air felt cool. I tied my shirt around my neck and started running again. After another mile, my chest started to hurt. If I could run through the pain, I'd be okay. I forced myself to keep my legs moving, and the pain started to ease up.

  The pain subsided by the time I reached an old farm house. I stopped and took off my sweat pants, and lingered for a few minutes wondering if I'd be contacted, but nothing happened. I tied the pants around my waist and took off running back toward my car. I scanned the area looking for something--anything which would indicate I wasn't alone. I didn't see a thing. No cars, no trucks, no people, nothing was moving but the leaves on the trees.

  I wondered if Al Bernstein changed his mind. When I got back to my car, I sat on the running board and slipped on my sweat pants. I unlocked the car, and sitting on my steering wheel was an envelope. I tore it open. A typewritten note said, "Pecos Pete's--3 PM" and taped to the bottom was a key. Whoever worked for Bernstein was good. They could move without being seen and open locked cars without a key.

  Pecos Pete's is a dude ranch ten miles out of town on Highway 160. During the summer it was too hot for anyone to want to stay there, but in the winter lots of people from back East come out to enjoy the warmth and play cowboy.

  At 2:45 I turned off the highway at the Pecos Pete sign, which said, "A Little Bit of Paradise" was only three miles away. To reach paradise I had to go though a gate which had a log-chain wrapped around it fastened with a padlock. The key that came with the note opened the lock. Half a mile further down the road a large black Packard blocked the road. Two men got out. One carried a double-barreled shotgun. He walked around and stood in front of my car. The other one leaned inside the car and looked around.

  "Give me da keys!" He demanded. He took my keys and opened the trunk. He returned and asked, "You packing any heat?"

  "No," I replied. Which wasn't exactly true, I had an old Colt forty-five stashed under the spare tire, but I wasn't going to tell him.

  "Get outa the car so I can see." He patted me down, looked under the seats and in the glove compartment. "Okay," he said to the guy with the shotgun. He tossed the keys to me and told me, "Drive to the ranch house and don't stop nowhere along the way." I crested a hill and in the distance I could see the "Little Bit of Paradise," three long ranch style buildings and a swimming pool.

  As soon as I parked, another goon frisked me again and took my car keys. He escorted me to the main building. Julio dismissed him and took me to Al Bernstein. Al got up and said, "I know you said you only wanted to be con
tacted through your friend Billie, but I wanted to thank you personally for helping a friend of mine, Saul Silverman. He no doubt would have been severely injured if you hadn't come to his defense when you were in Los Angeles." Al sat and indicated I should do the same.

  "It wasn't that big a deal."

  "Nonsense, saving someone's life is always big deal. In return for helping Saul, and I'd like to offer my assistance as an intermediary.”

  I wasn't sure I wanted to have anything more to do with either Al or Vinnie. Mob guys have a way of wanting too much in return for their favors, especially from cops. I didn't want to make the mistake of trading one impossible situation for a worse one.

  "Look, I'm a cop and what I did for Saul was my job. As to my personal problems, I can solve them by myself!"

  "You're a brave if somewhat foolish man to believe that. In fact, I'll give you a-thousand-to-one odds you will not be able to solve your problems by yourself. Are you interested in placing a bet, Mister O'Brien?"

  "No, but I'm not sure it would be smart to have any further involvement with Vinnie Costello either."

  "I can understand your reluctance, but the odds are better than a-thousand-to-one you are going to be charged and convicted of taking a bribe. You'll have no defense because your enemies have convinced someone to lie for them. His lies, along with some cleverly manufactured evidence, will convince a jury you are guilty. Believe me when I say, the game has been rigged against you--you can not win!" Al motioned for Julio and said to him. "Get our guest something to drink." Julio gave him a questioning look and Al said, "Rum and water with a little ice." This whole thing was getting bizarre. Not only was Al well‑versed in what I was doing, he even knew what I liked to drink. That amount of familiarity wasn't something I welcomed. Julio brought the drink, and Al told him, "Go check on the boys, and see if they need anything to drink. It's hotter than the hubs of hell today, and I don't want someone passing out." Julio disappeared and Al asked, "So, how's your drink?"

  "It's fine."

  "Good, because it's necessary to drink lots of fluids out here," he peeled a cigar out of its wrapper and momentarily disappeared in a smelly haze of cigar smoke. "What did you think of my old friend Saul?" He asked.

  "He's got a lot more mouth than brains."

  "Very true, he's always had a mouth, but he also was one of the best bookies I ever saw. He kept everything in his head--never any records. But he's getting old. His arteries are starting to harden and he forgets things. Unfortunately, that's the one fault a person in our business can't have. More than once, I've tried to get Saul to quit and come live with me, but he refuses to listen to reason. In that way you're both similar. He can't admit he forgets things, and you can't admit your problems are bigger than you are. Both of you are wrong, and both of you will suffer for you stubbornness!"

  "I'm not being stubborn. You just don't understand..."

  Al cut me off and said, "Understand what? That you're a cop and you don't want to compromise yourself with a man you view as an enemy? That position would be understandable if you could afford the luxury of playing by the rules. What you fail to understand is there are no rules anymore. They disappeared the moment your enemies started manufacturing evidence against you. If you're going to survive, you can't let some over-blown sense of duty keep you from doing what's best for you!"

  "Okay, let's say I agree to your help—then what?"

  "The only thing you must do is to find someplace tomorrow where a lot of people will see you all day long."

  "Why?"

  "It's better you don't know. All you need to know is you have to be with people who will swear to your whereabouts."

  It didn't take a genius to figure out something ominous was going to happen tomorrow, and I didn't want to get sucked into it.

  "Ah, count me out. Tell Vinnie thanks but to call off whatever he's got planned. I'll take my chances in court."

  Al flicked an ash into the ashtray and shook his head. "It's not that simple. Certain things have been set into motion and it's impossible to stop them. Take my word for it. You will benefit--if you follow my instructions, and you'll only make matters worse if you don't." He crushed out his cigar and stood up. "It's your decision if you take my advice or not. I've done all I can do. Your fate is in your own hands not mine. Now, you must excuse me. I must get something to drink." He walked across the room and stopped by the door. "Remember, make sure lots of people see you and they're people who'd be believed if they're asked."

  Julio suddenly appeared and held out his hand. He said in perfect English, "Here's your keys, please drive carefully back to town." He escorted me to the door. He opened the door but I didn't walk through. "Is there something else?" he asked.

  "Yeah, I want you to tell Al and Vinnie I don't like being followed and to knock it off."

  Julio smiled and guided me out the door. "I'm sure," he said. "No one meant any disrespect but I'll advise Mister Bernstein of your wishes--please be careful driving."

  This time the black Packard moved out of the way and let me pass. The guy with the shotgun waved me through and I got out of there as fast as I could.

  As much as I hated to admit it, Ted Kemper was right and Dick was wrong. Al Bernstein was no minor league bookie. I had no idea who or what he was but he for sure was a major leaguer.

  There were several things on my mind on the drive back to Las Vegas and I didn’t pay much attention to my rear view mirror. I was tired of worrying what they might find if they followed me. If I was being followed, they probably would wonder why I was at Pecos Pete's but proving anything would be hard since Al Bernstein was very careful, but this was a very dangerous game I was playing. The more I tried not to--the more I was being sucked in further and further all the time. Where would this all end up taking me? It seemed to me I was ending up in about the same place as if I’d taken Vinnie’s bribe.

  If my involvement with either Al Bernstein or Vinnie Costello, ever became known I would have no chance of proving my innocence. I’d be convicted by association. But what was really worrying me was just how far would I be willing to go to shield my involvement with Al and Vinnie and, more importantly, what would be their price for their help? Vinnie would gain by finding the snitch but would he leave it at that? Also, was Al Bernstein really doing this because of my helping his friend?

  I was worn out when I arrived home from wondering and worrying. I remembered what an English teacher in high school said, “The saddest words in the English language are what if.” She was so right. What if Vinnie was planning on killing his snitch? I’d be an unwitting accomplice to murder but would anyone believe I didn’t know, or worse maybe I didn’t care? What if I had listened to Billie about getting involved with these people? I didn’t have much of a choice but did I make the right one? Just how far down the road to survival was I willing to walk? What if I had told Dick about Vinnie when Vinnie first approached me? I didn’t mean not to but things started happening down in Arizona and I forgot, but was that defense anyone would believe? I could go back even further than that with the what if’s. What if I hadn’t wanted a pastrami sandwich for lunch that day? Then Vinnie wouldn’t have offered me the bribe in the first place. Or even further back. What if I hadn’t clocked Ted Kemper? I knew he was gunning for me so why wasn’t I more careful? I should have known he was watching Vinnie and I should have reported any contact with him instantly. What if I had said no to my captain when he asked if I wanted to be temporarily assigned to the Clark County Sheriff’s Office? I thought it would be fun. Just how much fun was it now? I could keep playing this game for the rest of the day and night right up to what if my mother had said no to my dad when he asked her to a barn dance?

  The demandable part was there wasn’t anything I could do. All of my what if’s were gone and there wasn’t anything left. Al was right. I couldn’t go in and tell Dick that tomorrow Vinnie could be responsible for a murder. If I did that, I might as well drive to the penitentiary and ask which one was my ro
om. I was in a position that I didn’t want but couldn’t avoid.

  After it was all said and done, what was really bugging me was that despite my lofty ideals when it can down to it, I folded my hand without playing it out but as a card sharp once told me, “Some times your best hand is to fold.” The illusion of I’d do the right thing no matter what the cost had been shattered and wasn’t likely to be put back together again any time soon.

  I didn't like being involved with these people, and the true cost was yet to be determined, but I'd do as Al Bernstein suggested. As he pointed out, if I kept playing by the rules, I was going to jail and a cop in jail was as close to hell on earth as you’d find. If surviving meant dancing with the devil, then strike up the band and to hell with what it cost.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Prodigal Returns

  I couldn’t sleep and was up way before the sun. I doubted whatever was going to happen would be early in the morning. So I had to wait and it was hard. Time seemed to drag on at an excruciatingly slow rate. About nine, I made my way down to the Sherriff’s office. I figured the Sherriff’s office would be the perfect place to be seen and I even had an official reason for being there. Hoyt Turner asked me to write a report on my investigation in California. Considering how I typed, a report of that length could take six or seven hours to do. That should be enough time for whatever Vinnie had in mind to happen.

  Jimmy Johnson looked surprised when he saw me. He made no attempt to stop or challenge me when I walked into the squad room. I opened my desk and it still had all my stuff in the drawers. The fact my desk hadn't been cleaned out made me feel good. I brought my notes with me from California, and I was so engrossed in reading them, I didn't hear Dick Pearson walk up behind me.

  "What in the hell are you doing here?" he asked coldly.

  I glanced over my shoulder and said, "I've got to write a report about my California investigation for Hoyt Turner."