[Rat Pack 02] - Luck Be a Lady, Don't Die

by Robert J. Randisi

“Any idea what this is about, Mack?”

  “That’s for the boss to tell you.”

  Dean had left Mack in the dark last time, which had hurt the big guy’s feelings and led to all the trouble. It was my guess that Dean had filled him in this time, and he was just being tight-lipped.

  We didn’t have far to go, just down the strip, because Dean was playing at the Desert Inn Golf Club, a course that had opened in 1952.

  The limo pulled us in close to the greens, and not the clubhouse. As Mack and I got out he checked his watch.

  “The boss should be on the eighth hole by now.” He looked at me. “There are clubs and shoes in the trunk for you.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t play.”

  He just shrugged.

  We walked a few feet to a golf cart, which barely fit the two of us. Mack drove, and because of his bulk every time he executed a turn I had the feeling I was going to be thrown.

  We drove across green grass and over some hills and finally came within sight of the eighth hole. Mack’s estimate was correct. Dean and another man were about to tee off, their caddies standing off to one side. They stopped when they saw us coming, and waited for us to reach them.

  As I got out of the golf cart, Dean walked over with his hand out. He was wearing tan slacks and a light blue polo shirt with a white collar. No argyle golf beanie for Dino. The other man however, was decked out in plaid pants and a matching beanie.

  “Eddie, how the hell are you?”

  “Good, Dean, I’m fine,” I said, as he pumped my hand.

  “Fine? If I was you I wouldn’t be fine, I’d be pissed.” He looked over his shoulder at Mack, who remained in the cart. “Think he’s pissed, Killer?”

  “Killer” was Mack’s nickname left over from his days in boxing.

  “I think so, Boss.”

  “Pissed?” I asked.

  “You must’ve heard I was in town,” Dean said, “playing the Copa, and I hadn’t called you yet. We’re friends, right?”

  “Well... I thought so—”

  “Don’t think, Eddie,” Dean said, grabbing my shoulder. “After what you did for me, we’re friends.”

  I didn’t point out that it was he who had probably saved my life—and Bev’s—in the Sands parking lot. That would have put a different slant on the moment.

  “I’ve just been caught up with work, you know? And family stuff. And we got this premier comin’ up.”

  “And the Cal Neva,” Mack reminded him.

  “Right,” Dean said, flinging his arms. “Frank and I bought into this casino in Tahoe, but I’m gettin’ out. I don’t like bein’ in so tight with the boys, you know?”

  I knew. Frank was from Jersey and Dean from Ohio, but it was Dean who had dealt with mafia types his whole life. He was not as impressed with them as Frank was.

  “Anyway, I asked you up here so I could apologize, and give you these.”

  He brought his hand out of his pocket and offered me two tickets. I accepted them and saw that they were for the special performance down on Fremont Street. The movie was included.

  “Thanks, Dean.”

  “Bring that beautiful redhead you were with the last time we were here,” Dean said, “or whoever your lady of the moment is.”

  “I will,” I said, without specifying which.

  He looked me over.

  “You’re not dressed for golf.”

  “I don’t play, Dean.”

  “Then I won’t make you follow me all over the golf course. We’ll go to the club and I’ll buy you a drink.” He turned and called to the other man. “Bob, I’ve got to go. Thanks for the eight holes.”

  The man waved and said, “See you, Dino.” He looked up and flashed a famous grin.

  “Mack,” Dean said, “I’ll drive. You can walk back, can’t you?”

  “Sure, Boss.”

  “Come on, Eddie.”

  We got into the cart and he executed an expert turn and headed us back to the club.

  “He’s gonna play his eighteen holes,” he said, about the other player. “Seven was more than enough for me today.”

  “Dean?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Was that Bob Hope?”

  He looked at me and smiled.

  “Yeah, Eddie, that was Bob Hope.”

  * * *

  We each ordered a bourbon when we got to the bar in the clubhouse. Celebrities were not news there, and no one really fawned over Dean. And while my contacts stretched from the highest rollers in the casinos to the lowest denizens of the streets, I didn’t know anyone in this club. This may have been the only place on Vegas where I was out of my element.

  The bartender said, “Here’s your drink, Mr. Martin,” when he put the glass down, but that was it.

  We drank and talked, caught up a bit. He told me stuff you couldn’t find in Hedda Hopper’s column, things about his family, his films, his albums. He had done an album of Italian songs that he thought was horrible, the reasons having nothing to do with his voice, which was still as smooth as silk.

  By the time he finished Mack Gray had joined us, looking flushed and sweaty. I had the feeling Dean had been killing time until Mack got there. He got a cold drink from the bartender, cleared his throat and said, “Boss?”

  “Yeah, Mack?”

  “Ain’t you gonna ask ’im?”

  “Ask him what?” Dean turned and looked at the big man.

  “You know . . . about helpin’ out?”

  “I can’t do that, Mack,” Dean said. “I don’t want Eddie to think that’s the only reason I asked him here.”

  I didn’t know if they had worked out this song and dance routine before I got there, or if Dean was being sincere.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  Dean looked at me. I thought he appeared conflicted and I preferred to think he was being sincere.

  “It’s not my problem, really,” he said, finally. “It’s Frank’s.”

  “Is Frank in town?”

  Dean nodded and said, “He got here today, on the q.t. Nobody knows. Sammy and Peter are here, also.”

  “How did they manage that?” I asked.

  “Limos, tinted windows, a few bucks spread around,” Dean said.

  “So what’s Frank’s problem?”

  “That would probably be better coming from him,” Dean said. “Only he doesn’t really want to talk about it.”

  “He doesn’t want help?”

  “Oh, sure,” Dean said, “but he doesn’t want to ask. Does that make sense to you?”

  “Only because I know Frank.”

  “Yes, you do,” Dean said, “or you wouldn’t understand. I tell you what. I’ll leave a couple of tickets at the Copa for you for tonight’s show. After it’s over, come backstage. Maybe he’ll talk to you then.”

  The first time I’d met the Rat Pack it’d been Frank enlisting me to help Dean. Now it was the other way around. I drained my drink and put the glass down.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

  Dean walked me to the door, his arm around my shoulder, Mack trailing behind us.

  “I mean it, Eddie,” he said. “I asked you here to apologize and give you those theater tickets. But it occurs to me that you could be a big help to Frank. I’m not trying to manipulate you.”

  “I know that, Dean.”

  “If you can help Frank, I’d be grateful, and I know he would be, too.”

  “Well,” I said, “let’s see if he’ll let me.”

  Dean slapped me on the back and said, “I think I’ll join Bob for his last few holes.”

  I looked past him and said, “See you, Mack.”

  “S’long, Mr. G.”

  It didn’t matter that I had saved Mack’s ass last time. In fact, maybe he liked me even less for that. But he was being courteous.

  I rode back to the Sands in the limo alone thinking—foolishly or not—that I was once again “in.”

  Three

  A
FTER DEAN SANG "THAT'S AMORE," he surprised everyone in the room—except me—by bringing Frank, Sammy, Joey and Peter on stage. From that point on it was another Summit Meeting, the Rat Pack at their best, interrupting each other, never finishing a song or joke, bowing to all the applause and hugging each other before they left the stage.

  I hadn’t brought anyone with me, the extra ticket still tucked away in my pocket. I’d told Harry the bartender that Bev and I were on again, off again, but we’d been sort of off again, off again for a while, now. I still thought she was beautiful, a great gal, and believe me, I was never being modest when I said she deserved better. Actually, it was me pointing out that fact once too often that had been the last straw for her.

  “Call me,” she said, without anger, “when you decide that you are good enough for me.”

  So I was alone as I worked my way through the crowds to the stage where a couple of the Pack’s bodyguards recognized me and passed me through.

  Backstage was a madhouse, but most of the mob was made up of civilians out in the halls, not celebrities in the dressing rooms. Somehow, the boys had managed to keep it a secret that they were in town.

  The crowd was mostly hangers-on, and not A-types. If the word had gotten out, believe me, Buddy Hackett, Rickies, Nat King Cole, they all would have been there. The other reason it was easy to tell they’d kept the secret was that there weren’t that many babes back there. Oh, Dean brought the women in, all right, but add Frank to that—and maybe even Peter—and the broads would have been beating down the doors. Even though, at that moment, Frank was the only Rat Pack member who was not married.

  There were bodyguards in the back as well, manning the doors, but I knew one of them and he let me pass. I found myself in Sammy’s dressing room, not Frank’s.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, “I was looking for Frank.”

  “Next door,” Sammy said, then frowned. “Hey, I know you, don’t I?”

  “Eddie Gianelli,” I said. “I’m a pit boss here at the Sands.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  “You’re the cat who was askin’ all the questions last time, right?”

  “That was me.”

  “You know,” he said, standing up from his makeup table. If anything he seemed smaller than I remembered, but Sammy Davis commanded respect, even with his tux half on and half off. The force of his personality filled the room. “I found out what that was all about later. You coulda told me, man.”

  “It wasn’t my place, Mr. Davis—”

  “Sam,” he said, “just call me Sam.”

  “Sam, it wasn’t my place to tell you anything. That was up to Frank and Dean.”

  “I dig where you’re comin’ from,” Sammy said. “You really helped Dean out. You’re a cool cat. I remember.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Frank’s in the room next door,” he said, “on the right. You comin’ out with us tonight? We’re gonna blow off some steam.”

  “I, uh—”

  “In case you didn’t recognize it, man,” Sammy said, “that was an invitation.”

  “Thanks, Sam,” I said. “I’ll, uh, think about it.”

  “Do that, man. Let Frank know.” He sat back down in his chair, continued removing his makeup.

  I left his dressing room, moved one down and got the okay to enter. I knocked this time, anyway.

  “Who is it?”

  “Frank it’s Eddie,” I said, wondering if he’d remember, “you know? Eddie Gian—”

  “Eddie G!” he shouted. “Get your ass in here, son!”

  I felt foolishly pleased.

  He met me at the door and was pumping my hand even before I had closed it behind me.

  “What the hell, pally,” he said. “You don’t call, you don’t write . . . not been a postcard. I thought we were friends.”

  I was stunned. Could it really be that he had expected me to call him? Keep in touch?

  “Gee, Frank, Em sorry—”

  “Hey,” he said, “we’re all busy, right? We got lives?” He slapped me on the back, then turned and walked back to his makeup table. He was still wearing his shirt, but open to expose his bony chest, and his tuxedo pants. The suspenders were hanging down loose. He was wearing a pair of soft slippers.

  “You saw the show?”

  “I saw it.”

  “You got tipped, right? That we’d all be here?”

  “Dean told me,” I said. “He gave me a ticket.”

  Frank paused, turned in his chair and stared at me.

  “Dean told you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “Not much,” I replied. “Only that you might have a problem you needed help with.”

  We looked at each other for a few moments and I couldn’t gauge his reaction. Was he going to be pissed at Dean?

  Then he said, “That Dean,” and a look of affection came over him. “Whatta guy, huh? He knows somethin’s wrong but he don’t know what, yet he still sends you in. Eddie G. The first team. Whatta pal.”

  “Hey,” I said, “you did it for him last time, right?”

  “That I did, buddy boy, that I did,” Frank said. “Only this time, I don’t know if you can help me, Eddie.” He turned and looked into his mirror. “Or more to the point, I don’t know if you’ll want to once you find out who and what’s involved.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that but I said, “I guess I’ll have to be the judge of that. Right, Frank?”

  Four

  FRANK WANTED TO TALK, but he wanted to do it where we wouldn’t be interrupted.

  “Your place,” he said. “If I remember right you make a good pot of coffee.”

  “If I remember right,” I said, “you made the coffee.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” he said. “Well, do you have the same brand?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good,” he said, as if that settled it. “Your place.”

  So we went out the back where he had a limo. He gave the driver my address—I was surprised he remembered—and told him to take us to my house.

  “What about the others?” I asked when we were under way. “Won’t they wonder where you are?”

  “I’ll join them later,” he said. “Hey, we got booze in here. You want some?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He had a decanter of something in his hand, but put it down. “Nah, me neither,” he said. “I’ll wait for the coffee. Or maybe there’s some beer in this little refrigerator.”

  “I have a better idea. There’s an all night Chock full o’Nuts just a block further up, on the right.”

  “You don’t have Nedicks here, do you?” Frank asked. “I love Nedicks in New York. Hot dogs and orangeade really go down easy after a show at Radio City.”

  I couldn’t believe one of the biggest swingers of the century was telling me how much he liked hot dogs and orangeade. Nedicks was actually one of the places I missed in New York. That and Nathan’s.

  “No Nedicks,” I said, apologetically.

  “Ah, Chock full o’Nuts sounds good. Henry!” he shouted. “About a half a block there’s one. Stop there.”

  “Yes, Mr. Sinatra.”

  After the limo pulled up in front, Frank looked at me.

  “Black, no sugar,” I said.

  He told Henry how we wanted our coffee. “Sure thing, Mr. Sinatra.”

  Six months ago Frank had appeared at my house late one night still in his tux, like now, with the tie loose. He looked totally relaxed.

  “Maybe I should just go ahead and fill you in, huh?” he asked. “This is as good a place as any, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “This probably starts the way a lot of stories start,” he said, “but there’s this girl...”

  “Juliet Prowse?”

  “No,” Frank said, “another girl.”

  “Judith—”

  “Do you want me to tell it?” he asked.

  “Okay, oka
y,” I said, “sorry.”

  “I’ve been seeing her—you know—on the sly? We didn’t want to show up in Hedda or Louella’s column, you know?”

  “Sure.”

  Henry returned and knocked on the window. Frank lowered it, accepted the coffees, and then told Henry to just drive around.

  “No point going to your place for coffee now, right?” he asked, handing me a container.

  “Right.”

  “You know,” he said, as the car started forward, “I just read this piece in Hedda’s column where she quotes Ava as saying what a sweet guy I was when I was down. You know, before From Here To Eternity? But that after I got back up on top I turned into an arrogant shit.”

  “I, uh, didn’t read that. Did Ava really say that?”

  “That’s what Hedda claims,” he replied, “but whether she said it or not, Jesus ... of course I was sweet when I was down. Nobody would give me the time of day. What was I supposed to do, shoot myself?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You’re damn right,” he said, growing more agitated. I knew Frank carried a gun, had a permit for it. I wondered if he had it on him. “And now they see me as arrogant because I’m on top? Well, lemme tell you Eddie, you don’t stay on top by being Mr. Nice Guy. You gotta be a prick to stay there, and believe me, I been down and I never want to go back there.”

  I didn’t say what I was thinking, that there were plenty of people on top who weren’t pricks, but I kept my mouth shut for two reasons. One, I didn’t see those people in their everyday lives. How was I to know if they were pricks or not?

  The second reason was I still didn’t know if Frank was carrying his gun.

  Frank sipped his coffee, took a deep breath and said, “Okay, so there’s this girl...”

  Five

  “HER NAME IS MARY CLARKE,” Frank said. “Very simple and unassuming, just like her. You don’t need to know the whole story to help me. All you need to know is that she was going to meet me here.”

  “Here? In Las Vegas?”

  “That’s right.”

  “For the premiere?”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “She came because this is where I was, and we were going to meet. .. discreetly.”