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Authors: Robert J. Randisi

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Sixteen

I
DROVE BACK to the Sands and turned my Caddy over to a valet named Tim Daly.

“You ready to sell this car yet, Eddie?” Tim asked. “I’ll make you a good price.”

“No, not yet,” I said. “Probably not ever.”

“You always say that,” Tim said, getting behind the wheel, “but everybody’s got their price. Hell, this is Vegas, after all.”

Well, he was right about that, anyway. It was Vegas: it was a place where too many people found their price.

I went inside, not sure what my next move was going to be—or what it should be. Tell Entratter what happened to me? Or Sinatra? Or Dean Martin? Or maybe just the little Ringmaster, Joey Bishop.

It turned out I didn’t get to make the choice. As I entered the casino a large hand fell on my shoulder. I reacted violently, pulling away from it—or trying to—but it clamped down hard. I turned to throw a punch but he easily caught my fist with his other hand. All I got for my efforts was a twinge from my back and knee.

“Mack!” I said, recognizing him.

He released me and stepped back, eyeing me curiously.

“Damn it, what the hell—”

“I wasn’t tryin’ to hurt you.”

“It’s not you,” I said, getting myself under control, “it’s just—never mind. What do you want?”

“Somebody wants to talk to you.”

“Who?”

“Come with me.”

“Where?”

“The Flamingo.”

The Flamingo. Bugsy’s place—before Ben Siegel was shot in 1947. It was suspected that Bugsy’s own people gunned him down because he had stopped being a team player and because expenses had skyrocketed. Bugsy had already cost them too much money. His place, however, remained in their hands, as did so many of the casinos on the strip.

“What’s at the Flamingo, Mack?” I asked. “Or should I ask, who?”

“Come with me and find out.”

I studied Mack Gray for a few moments while people walked around us. We were partly blocking the entrance while I made up my mind whether to go with him or not. In the end I figured, Why not? It kept me from having to decide my next move.

“All right,” I said. “Lead the way.”

“The way” led to a penthouse apartment at the top of the Flamingo. Not the best room the hotel had to offer, but pretty damn close.

Mack stopped in front of the door and knocked, then used a key to open it. I followed him in and looked around. It was about the size of Dean Martin’s room at the Sands, but the furnishings were plush, all purples and red. It looked like the inside of a bordello. I had no doubt that Bugsy Siegel had approved the decor, and the rooms had been left the way he’d “designed” them even after his death.

“Who’s room is this, Mack?” I asked.

“It’s mine,” a man’s voice said.

I hadn’t seen him when I walked in. He was standing at the window, which was a few steps up from the rest of the floor. His back
was to me, his hands clasped behind him. He was a man of medium height and, from behind, all I could tell was that he was not young. He didn’t have the bearing of a young man. I couldn’t see the color of his hair, not with the light from the window distorting my view, but the one striking thing about him that stood out was his voice. It was a famous voice, and even with only a few words spoken I could tell before he turned around that I was in the room with George Raft.

Raft turned to looked at me, keeping his hands where they were. He was silver haired, in his sixties and had grown portly with the years, but he was still a dashing figure. To me he was still Gino Rinaldi from
Scarface
.

“Mr. Raft.”

“Hello, Eddie.” He took his hands from behind his back and slid them into his jacket pockets. “You mind if I call you Eddie?”

“Not at all.”

“Mack,” he said, “get Eddie a drink.”

“Bourbon,” I said, “rocks.”

“I’ll have one with my guest, Mack,” Raft said.

“Yes, sir.”

Mack moved to the bar at the far end of the room, as well-stocked as the one Dean had at the Sands.

Raft stepped down from where he stood and came across the room to me. I was surprised when he took one hand out of his pocket and extended it.

“Thanks for comin’.”

I shook hands with him, and his grip was powerful. He was shorter than I was. In fact, I was surprised at how short he was, but then I was used to seeing him on the big screen.

Mack came over and handed each of us a drink, then stepped back, folding his arms across his chest.

“Sit down, Eddie,” Raft said. “I wanna talk to you.”

I sat on the plush sofa with my drink while he chose one of the armchairs across from me. He lit a cigarette with an expensive lighter after I turned down the offer of one.

“Where are you from, Eddie?”

“Brooklyn, New York.”

“What part?”

“Red Hook.”

“Tough boys from Red Hook.”

“Some.”

“I grew up in Hell’s Kitchen, myself,” he said. “Left there when I was thirteen. I fought and clawed my way to Hollywood—literally. I was a prizefighter for a while, you know.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I’m a big fan,” I said. “You were a fighter and a dancer. When you got to Hollywood they wanted you to be a romantic lead, like Valentino.”

He laughed, but I wasn’t sure if it was because Hollywood had wanted him to be another Valentino, or because I knew that.

“Valentino,” Raft said, shaking his head, “Me. That’s rich.”

“Pretty soon everybody realized you should be playing gangsters, especially after
Scarface.”

“Scarface,”
he said, and seemed to drift off into some kind of trance—maybe remembering when he was a huge star. He pretty much invented the whole gangster picture thing. “That was Muni’s film. I prefer
They Drive by Night
or
Johnny Angel,
myself.”

I looked at Mack, who was frowning at Raft. Apparently, this conversation was not going the way he had expected it to. I decided to say what I was thinking.

“Bogie, Cagney, Edward G, they wouldn’t even have careers if it wasn’t for you, Mr. Raft.”

He focused on me, then.

“Naw,” he said, waving my comment off with his hand, “those guys, they were great. They’ll always be great. They’re makin’ a movie about me, did you know that?”

“I didn’t know.”

“Got some handsome young actor to play me. What’s his name, Mack?”

“Ray Danton, Boss.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Raft said, “Ray Danton. You know who he is?”

“I’ve seen him in some things,” I said. TV mostly. All the private-eye shows like
’77 Sunset Strip, Hawaiian Eye, The Untouchables, Bourbon Street Beat.
Okay, I’m a TV crime-show junkie when I’m home to watch it.

“How do you think he’ll do?”

“Not bad,” I said, “he won’t do a bad job, but he’s no George Raft.”

Raft stood up, then, started pacing.

“I owned a piece of this place, you know,” he said, “kicked in some bucks back when Benny needed it to open. Poor Benny …”

“Boss?” Mack said.

Raft turned, looked at Mack, then nodded and went back to his chair.

“Mack tells me Dean’s got a problem that you’re helpin’ him with.”

“You’d have to ask Dean about that, Mr. Raft,” I said. “That’s what I told Mack.”

“I know, and Mack feels kind of hurt about bein’ left out,” Raft said. “Not that I blame him.”

“No, sir.”

“If you were to tell me what Dean’s problem was,” Raft offered, “maybe I could help.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Raft—”

“Just call me George, Eddie.”

“Uh, George,” I said, not at all comfortable with that, “I sort of promised Frank and Dean I’d keep my mouth shut. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

“No,” Raft said, thoughtfully, “wouldn’t want to disappoint Frank. He gave me a part in
Ocean’s Eleven,
you know. Small part. I play casino owner. Lots of fun, this movie. Gonna be a hit.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“Well,” Raft said, “Mack will take you back down.”

“I think Eddie can find his own way, Boss.”

“Sure,” I said, putting my glass down and standing up, “sure, I can find my way.”

“I’m not gonna stand, if you don’t mind,” Raft said. “I’m … kinda tired.”

“No, I don’t mind at all, Mr. Raft.”

“George,” he said, “I told you, call me George. Us New York boys, we gotta stick together.”

“Yes, we do.”

I waited to see if he wanted to shake hands, and when he didn’t make a move I walked to the door. When I turned around I saw Mack helping Raft up and walking him out of the room, probably to a bedroom to lie down.

I let myself out.

Seventeen

I
LEFT THE FLAMINGO and walked back toward the Sands. The marquee proclaimed it “A PLACE IN THE SUN.” Underneath that it had the names of the Rat Pack members in descending order: Frank, Dean, Sammy, Peter Lawford and Joey Bishop. The day was living up to that name, the sun already baking the pavement beneath my feet.

When I got to the front doors of the Sands I stopped. I felt confused, didn’t know what to do next. Finally, somebody from inside opened one of the doors, stepped out and held the door for me. That seemed to break the spell. I thanked him and walked in.

I looked around for Mack, not wanting to be surprised again, but I had left him at the Flamingo with Raft. My first instinct was to go for a drink, but my ribs were hurting and I had a pounding headache. I didn’t want to take the powerful painkillers the doctor had given me, so I went in search of some aspirin. My feet, as if they had a mind of their own, took me to Jack Entratter’s office. I figured since I was there looking for aspirin I might as well talk to him, fill him in, and maybe get some answers. Or maybe it was the other way around.

Jack’s girl told him I was there and she buzzed me into his office.

“Could you get me some aspirin?” I asked, before going on.

“Of course, Mr. Gianelli,” she said. “How many?”

“Uh, three should do it.”

“And to take them with?”

“What?”

She smiled, blinked and said, “What would you like to drink, to take them with?”

“Just water.”

“I’ll bring them right in.”

I thanked her and entered Jack’s office.

“I know I told you to check in with me, kid,” Jack said around his huge cigar, “but it ain’t the end of the day, yet.”

“I need to tell you some things,” I said, “and ask you some things.”

“Okay, siddown,” Entratter said. “What’s on your mind, Eddie?”

At that moment the girl opened the door and stepped in.

“What?” Jack barked.

“Mr. Gianelli’s aspirin.”

“Whataya need aspirin for?” he asked me.

“Pain.”

“Okay, give it to ’im.”

“Yes sir.”

She handed me the pills and a glass of water, smiled and backed out.

“What’s goin’ on?” Entratter asked me. “Yer movin’ funny.”

I held up one finger, took the aspirin, washed them down and placed the glass on his desk. I then proceeded to tell him what had been waiting for me when I got home last night, and the call I got in the morning.

“Then,” I finished, “when I got here Mack Gray grabs me and drags me over to the Flamingo to see George Raft.”

Entratter frowned.

“I don’t like the sound of this,” he said. “What’d Mr. Raft want?”

“I’m not really sure,” I said. “He wanted to know what I was doing for Frank and Dean.”

“Did you tell ’im?”

“No.”

“So what about the guys who kicked your ribs in?” he asked. “What’d you tell them? What’d they want?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “We never got around to exchanging words. They left me a message, though.”

“What was it?”

“To mind my business.”

He took the cigar out of his mouth and leaned forward.

“Who’s business you been mindin’, Eddie?”

“Frank Sinatra’s,” I said, “and Dean Martin’s.”

“Nobody else’s?”

“No.”

He replaced the cigar and sat back, thought for a moment before speaking again. He punctuated his words by pointing the cigar at me. I was glad it was the lit end and not the wet end. I was nauseated enough.

“You think the beating—”

“—and the call this morning.”

“—were about what Frank asked you to do for Dino?”

“It can’t be anything else, Jack.”

He narrowed his eyes at me.

“You been
shtupping
anybody’s wife, Eddie?”

“Why does everybody keep asking me that?” I demanded. “I don’t make a habit of—no, no wives, Jack.”

“Whataya want me to do, Eddie?” he asked. “Get ya out of this? Talk to Frank?”

“No,” I said, “I don’t want out, Jack. Not yet.”

“Good boy.”

“You ever heard of two lowlifes named Lenny Davis and Buzz Ravisi?”

I watched his face for his reaction and when he said, “Never heard of them.” I believed him.

“They the guys you danced with?”

“Possibly,” I said.

“You got their names pretty quick.”

“That’s why I got this job, ain’t it, Jack?” I asked. “’Cause I got the town wired?”

“What job?” he asked. “I thought this was a favor.”

“Whatever it is,” I said, “I’m still doing it.”

“Good for you.”

I took a moment to finish the water in the glass and set it back down.

“I’ll be going, Jack,” I said, “but there’s one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Have you heard anything about Dean getting’ somebody mad at him?” I asked. “Mr. Costello, Mr. Giancana, anybody like that?”

Entratter hesitated a long moment, then took the cigar out of his mouth. This time when he pointed it was the wet end.

“How would I know that, Eddie?” he asked, slowly.

“Well,” I said, carefully, “Jack, I’d be a fool to think I was the only one who had the town wired. And not just this town. You worked in New York and Jersey. I just thought maybe you … heard something.”

He took a moment to pluck some tobacco from his mouth with the thumb and index finger of his left hand while he maintained his hold on the wet thing with his right. It wasn’t common knowledge that Jack Entratter represented the interests of Frank Costello in the Sands, but it was something Sands employees had all heard. In point of fact there were men with interests in the Sands living in New York, New Jersey, Miami, Boston, Chicago, New Orleans, St. Louis, L.A. and other places, and not all of them had Mafia ties. Some were just plain businessmen. Frank Costello, though, was a well-known Mafia figure in New York. To be blunt, he was the boss of the New York mob, and Jack was his man in Vegas.

“You sure these are the kind of questions you wanna be askin’, Eddie?”

“If I’m going to do this favor right for Frank and Dino,” I said, “yes, Jack.”

“Well … I ain’t heard anything like that, but if I do, I’ll let ya know.”

I smiled and said, “Frank and Dino and I would appreciate it, Jack.”

“Yeah,” Entratter said, “I know they will. Say, kid, you wanna gun?”

“What?”

“In case those two guys come back for ya,” he said, opening a drawer in his desk. “I can give ya one now, or get ya somethin’—”

“Thanks, Jack,” I said, “no gun. I’ll be fine.”

“Suit yerself,” he said, closing the drawer. “I’ll see ya later.”

“See you, Jack.”

Everybody was trying to give me a damn gun.

BOOK: Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime