Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime (5 page)

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Authors: Robert J. Randisi

BOOK: Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime
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I
WAS STILL SITTING on the stool, nursing the same drink, when Joey Bishop entered the bar. He spotted me and came walking over with a spring in his step.
“You look happy,” I said.
“I’m always happy after a good show,” he said. “Last night was a good show.”
“What happened to you after?” I asked. “Did you go out with the rest of ’em?”
“I turned in,” Joey said. “I can’t handle the nightlife like Frank and Peter and Sammy can. How about you? How did your meeting with Dean go?’
“Fine, I guess.”
“Are you, uh, helping him out?”
“I am,” I said. “You got any idea what it’s about, Joey?”
“No,” he said, “but if Frank or Dean want me to know, they’ll tell me.”
“Fair enough,” I said, “but tell me more about Mack Gray?”
“Mack? What about him?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“He’s a loyal guy,” Joey said. “He was loyal to George Raft for years, and now he’s loyal to Dean.”
“Why would Dean keep anything from him, then?”
“I don’t know, Eddie,” Joey said. “You’d have to ask Dean. Why? Did Mack say anything to you?”
“Mack is mad,” I said, “I’m just not sure if he’s mad at me or at Dean.”
“Mack doesn’t get mad at Dean, ever,” Joey said.
“Great, then he’s mad at me. I don’t need that.”
“If you want Mack off your back go to Dean,” Joey said. “He’ll take care of it.”
“No, I’ll wait a while,” I said. “I don’t wanna bother Dean until I have something positive to tell him.”
“Well,” Joey said, slapping me on the back, “I saw you from across the floor and thought I’d ask you how things went.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
He shook his head. “I don’t drink. One of these days we’ll have coffee, or tea. I’ll see ya.”
I watched Joey go, wondering how he could hang out with those guys and remain a teetotaler?
Harry waved my money away for the drink, so I dropped a generous tip on the bar and left.
 
 
I spent time talking to some of the Sands employees who might have known or seen something. I also spoke with the front desk and security staff about mail practices in the hotel. Who got it, who delivered it, that sort of thing. After that I talked with the people who really run Vegas—the bellmen and the valets. I asked whatever questions came to mind, collected information and stored it away in my head. Once I was finished talking with staff at the Sands, I knew I was going to have to spend some time outside the casino. I had contacts in all the other casinos, but I couldn’t just put out word that I was looking for someone who had been heard threatening Dean Martin. That would have been something less than discreet. So instead of simply “putting the word out,” I was going to have to do some pavement-pounding and talk to my contacts individually. Some were merely
contacts but others were also friends, so I would have to deal with each of them on a very individual basis.
It was going to take quite a bit of time.
 
 
By the time I got home that night my feet hurt from the walking and I had a buzz on because a lot of the conversations had taken place over drinks. If I hadn’t been just a little bit looped I might have noticed that I had entered my own home without using the key. That might have alerted me that the scene was wrong, and helped me avoid a lot of pain.
As it was something hit me in the middle of the back just as I entered. The force of the blow propelled me forward awkwardly until I lost my balance and tumbled to the floor. I tried to catch my breath as the door slammed, and then the lamp clicked on.
In the dim light by the sofa I saw two men staring down at me. The blow had come not from a fist but from a blackjack one of them was holding. I had the feeling that he had not missed one of my kidneys by accident.
“Get his wallet,” one of them said, as I still struggled to catch my breath. A shot to the middle of the back takes all the air out of your lungs and mine were screaming for a refill.
“What for?”
“I wanna see if he’s the guy.”
“He come walkin’ in, didn’t he?”
“The door wasn’t locked.”
“But he had a key in his hand,” one of them said. “I heard it jingle.”
“Get his fuckin’ wallet, will ya?”
The guy without the blackjack reached down and lifted my wallet from my jacket. I couldn’t have stopped him if I wanted to, but at least my breath was starting to come back. My eyes were tearing, though, so I couldn’t see their faces clearly. The shadows thrown by the lamp didn’t help matters any. Their faces were shrouded in it rather than illuminated.
“What’s his name?” Blackjack asked.
“I’m lookin’,” Wallet said. “Says on his driver’s license ’Eddie Gianelli’?” He looked at his partner. “That the guy?”
“That’s the guy.”
My wallet came flying at me and landed on my chest.
“Whataya wanna do now?” the second man asked.
“Hold ’im down,” Blackjack said. “I’m gonna hurt ’im.”
“Hey,” I finally managed to say, “what the hell—”
“Shut up,” the second man said, and emphasized that this was an order and not a request with a kick to my ribs.
“We’re only supposed to scare ’im, you know,” he said to his partner.
“Yeah, well,” Blackjack said, “hurtin’ him will scare ’im, I guarantee ya. Just hold ’im.”
The second guy got down behind me, then slid his arms inside my elbows and pulled my arms back, pinning them there with the aid of his knee, which he planted in my back right where the blackjack had hit me. It hurt so much I began to flail around, kicking my legs, until the man with the blackjack leaned down and rapped me on one knee with it. That made me forget the pain in my back as I howled.
“Hello?”
It was a woman’s voice calling from the front door, which none of the three of us had heard open.
“We gotta go!” Blackjack hissed.
“Why?” the other man asked, almost in my ear. “It’s just a broad.”
“We got orders about him,” the first man said, “not some broad. Let ’im go.”
I felt my arms being released and I tried to shout a warning to whoever was at the door, but suddenly something hit me on the head and me and my tortured lungs went down a black hole …
H
ANDS WERE ON ME, shaking me.
“Eddie?”
The voice became insistent. It must not have been the first time she called my name.
“Come on, Eddie! Are you all right?”
The voice and the hands became more insistent.
“No,” I said.
“Thank God.”
I opened my eyes and looked up into the worried face of Dori Ellis, a showgirl who worked at the Sahara and, for the past few months, had been occasionally joining me in my bed.
“What happened?” she demanded. “Who were those guys?”
I peered up at her and realized I was seeing her with only one eye. There was something wet and sticky in my left one. I wiped at it with my hand, but that only made it worse.
“Oh, Jesus, you’re bleeding,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“Did they—did they hurt you?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “they just pushed me aside and ran out of here. I guess I scared ’em.”
“Help me up, Dori.”
She got her arm under my shoulder and helped me to my feet. My
knee screamed at me, my ribs ached, so did my back, and the wet, sticky stuff—my blood, I assumed—kept running down my face.
“Where to?” she asked.
“The sofa.”
“You might bleed on it.”
Just like a woman to worry about the furniture.
“I’ll risk it.”
With her help I limped to the sofa and dropped down onto it.
“Let me get something for your head,” she said.
While she was gone I took inventory. Everything seemed to hurt, but nothing was broken. I swiped at the blood in my eye, smearing it all over my hand and face without clearing my vision. Dori returned with a wet washcloth and a couple of towels.
“Since you weren’t worried about the sofa, I figured the same went for your towels,” she said.
Gently she began washing blood from my face. At one point I took over so she wouldn’t poke out my eyes trying to clean it. Once I could see I set the cloth aside and used a towel to wipe up the rest of the blood.
“Can you tell me what happened, now?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what happened,” I said. “I walked in, I got hit, two guys started working me over and then you showed up. End of fuckin’ story.”
“Did they rob you. Did they get your wallet?”
“It should be on the floor over there somewhere.”
She looked around, retrieved it for me and brought it over.
“Everything there?” she asked.
“Looks like it.” I set the wallet aside.
“Did they say anything?”
“They argued a bit.”
“Did they say anything to you?”
I thought a moment, then said, “Just shut up.”
“That’s odd,” she said.
“Yeah, it is odd. Did they speak to you?”
“Well, yes,” she said, “as they pushed me aside one of them said ‘Tell your boyfriend to mind his own business.’ What did he mean by that? Whose business have you been minding?”
“My own,” I said, “and I don’t usually have to be told to do it.” I touched my knee and found it swollen, stretched it out to try and ease the pain. There didn’t seem to be anything I could do for my back or my ribs.
“Your forehead is still bleeding,” she said, pressing the second towel to it.
I reached up and put my hand on it so she could let go.
“I better call the police,” she said.
“No—wait!”
She turned away from the phone and frowned at me. Dori was tall and statuesque, the way the casinos preferred their showgirls to be, and when she was all made up to go on stage she became beautiful. Freshly scrubbed the way she was now, though, she was simply achingly pretty.
“Why?”
“I need a minute to think.”
I was still feeling disoriented from being attacked. Did I want the police called in? What could I tell them? I couldn’t even describe the men.
“Would you be able to identify those two if you saw them again?” I asked.
“What? No, I don’t think so. They went by me so fast, and shoved me out of the way …”
“Then I don’t think it would do any good to call the police,” I said. I was starting to think more clearly. What of this was connected to the threats on Dean Martin? After all, that was the only thing happening in my life that was out of the ordinary.
“Are you sleeping with somebody’s wife, Eddie? Is that what this is about?”
Lately, we’d been having some problems and I’d started to think about ending our little arrangement—or what she had begun calling our “relationship.”
“No, I haven’t slept with anyone’s wife, lately.” Danny had asked
me the same thing. When did I get that fuckin’ reputation? “To tell you the truth, I don’t know what this was all about, but they really seemed intent on hurting me.”
“Maybe I should take you to the hospital?”
I leaned forward and reached behind me to rub my back. The blow had not landed on either of my kidneys, so I doubted I’d be pissing blood like a fighter after a bout. I probed my ribs, which didn’t seem to be cracked. I’d had cracked ribs once before, so I knew from experience that it hurt like a bitch just to breathe. The worst problem seemed to be my knee, which had swelled up to about twice its size.
“I think some ice on my knee would be the best thing,” I said. “How does my head look?”
I removed the towel so she could take a look. She took hold of my face and leaned me toward the light.
“One of the girls fell one night and hit her head. The doctor said scalp wounds bleed a lot, but aren’t that serious. It doesn’t look like you’re going to need stitches.”
“Okay, then,” I said, “no cops and no doctors.”
“But Eddie—”
She was wearing jeans and a man’s shirt knotted below her large breasts. There was a considerable expanse of tummy showing, and I put my hand on her warm skin.
“I just think I need some tender loving care,” I said.
“From me?” she asked, with a smile.
“You’re the one who’s here,” I said, and then realized that may have been the wrong way to put it. “After all, you probably saved my life tonight. In some countries that makes you responsible for me.”
“Eddie,” she said, leaning forward so that her head came in contact with mine.
“Ow!” I said, and started bleeding again.

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