You Make Me Feel So Dead (17 page)

Frank landed at LAX. He had already called Roselli to make an appointment, and the gangster had agreed to see him. They decided to meet at Musso's & Frank's Grill, on Hollywood Blvd.

Musso's was Old Hollywood. All of the greats had eaten there, not only Hollywood's elite actors like the Barrymores and Charlie Chaplin, but writers like Raymond Chandler, Jim Thompson and Budd Schulberg, who used to take breaks from writing his book
What Makes Sammy Run
to eat at Musso's.

And, of course, Frank, Sammy, Dino and Joey were seen there all the time. Johnny Roselli, who thought he was a Hollywood star, looked and dressed the part, and showed up in all the right places. He was already seated in a red leather booth when Frank arrived.

‘Hello, Johnny,' Frank said, shaking the gangster's hand.

‘Frank,' Roselli said. ‘How you doin'?'

‘Great,' Frank said, sitting across from Roselli in the U-shaped booth. ‘You're lookin' good.'

Roselli patted his stomach and said, ‘I like to stay fit.' His silver hair was slicked back and he had a deep tan which he thought made him look younger. He was impeccably turned out in a five-hundred-dollar suit.

‘I was sorry to hear about what happened to Frank Jr last year,' Roselli said. ‘I called, but I couldn't come around …'

‘I know,' Frank said, ‘the cops and FBI were all over me. I understand, Johnny, and I appreciate the thought.'

This was the Frank and Johnny dance that went on all the time. I truly believe they thought of each other as friends, showing the proper respect. But they really just had a use for each other. In fits of rage I'd heard Frank refer to Roselli as ‘that puffed up blowhard', and years later discovered that Roselli had often referred to Frank as ‘that fuckin' lounge singer.'

But on this day they were two friends meeting for lunch.

After Aurelio, the waiter, took their orders and brought Martinis, Johnny Roselli said, ‘What's this about, Frank? I mean, it's always nice to see you, but you said you had a problem.'

‘Actually,' Frank said, ‘a friend of mine in Vegas has the problem and, you know me, I'm always tryin' to help.'

‘That's true, Frank.' Roselli said. ‘I'm the same way.'

‘I know that, Johnny,' Frank said. ‘That's why I called you.'

They leaned back and allowed the waiter to set down their lunches. Frank had the fried calamari, Roselli a plate of mussels and clams.

‘So here's the problem,' Frank said.

‘Frank,' Roselli said, ‘can we put this off until we eat? I mean, come on, paisan, look at this food, eh? It deserves our full attention, no?'

‘You're right, Johnny,' Frank said. ‘When you're right, you're right.' Frank told me later that the best way to handle Roselli was to keep telling him he was right.

So they ate, and only exchanged small talk for the next twenty minutes.

Roselli sat back twenty-three minutes later and patted his stomach.

‘Thanks to you I'm gonna have to work this off, Frankie,' he said.

‘Worth it, though, huh, Johnny?' Frank asked.

‘Look at you, ya mook,' Roselli said. ‘You're like a rail no matter what you eat.
Fongool
!'

Frank had no answer for that.

‘Let's have some dessert. We can talk over that.'

They had coffee and pastries,
sfogliatelle
and
cannolis
.

‘OK,
paisan
,' Roselli said, ‘what's it about, this trouble a friend of yours has in Vegas?'

‘It has to do with a guy named William Reynolds,' Frank said. ‘You know him?'

‘Reynolds,' Roselli said, frowning. ‘That don't ring a bell, Frank.'

‘Supposedly he hung around with Joey Scaffazza.'

‘Scaffazza?' Roselli said. ‘That scumbag? That
pompinara.'
Frank knew Roselli had to dislike the guy to call him a cocksucker. Or wanted Frank to think he disliked him.

‘Then you know him.'

‘Yeah, he used to work for me,' Roselli said. ‘I fired his worthless ass when I found out he was in business for himself. If it was the old days I woulda … ah, never mind. If your friend was mixed up with Scaffazza there's no tellin' what they was into.'

‘Look, Johnny, I want to level with you,' Frank said. ‘Reynolds is dead. Somebody killed him in Vegas. Shot him.'

‘You think it was Scaffazza?'

‘Maybe, but a friend of mine is on the hook for it. I'd like to make sure he doesn't hang for it.'

‘Whataya want me to do, Frankie?'

‘I'd like to find Scaffazza,' Frank said.

‘Frank, no offense,' Roselli said, ‘Scaffazza's a hard guy. I wouldn't want you to get hurt. You got somebody can back you up?'

‘Not here, but I got somebody in Vegas. I could get him here …'

‘I tell you what,' Roselli said, ‘I'm gonna help you, because I don't like that scumbag. You go back to Vegas. I'm gonna have somebody bring him to you.'

‘Alive, Johnny?'

‘Of course alive.
Che cazzo
, what the fuck I look like to you, some mad dog killer?'

‘No, Johnny,' Frank said, hurriedly, ‘I didn't mean—'

‘Forget it,' Roselli said. ‘Consider this a gift, from me to you, Frank. I'll bring him to you. Where you gonna be?'

‘The Sands.'

‘I'll call you when I set it up.
Ve bene
?'

‘
Va bene
,' Frank agreed. ‘All right.'

‘Now, let's get the check—'

‘It's on me, Johnny,' Frank said. ‘I invited you.'

‘
Bene
,' Roselli said. ‘Thank you, Frank. I gotta go, but I'll call you, eh?'

‘Thanks, Johnny.'

The two men shook hands and Roselli left. When the waiter came with the check Frank asked, ‘Can you bring me a phone? Thanks.'

T
he conversation between Frank and Johnny Roselli took place while Elvis and I were in Laughlin.

Laughlin was a small town nobody knew about until a guy named Don Laughlin decided to build a casino and motel. The Riverside Resort and Casino had twelve slots, two tables, .98 cent chicken dinners, and eight rooms, of which four were available for rent. Laughlin and his family lived in the other four. Laughlin actually got to name the town himself when the US Postal Service asked him to do so.

The place was always busy. Laughlin saw a great potential for tourism in the town, but it hadn't happened yet. The place was located in the southernmost tip of Nevada, right on the Colorado River, where the state came together with Arizona, so maybe he was right and it would grow. Time would tell.

Danny had tracked down a guy named Ed Rosette who actually lived across the river in Bullhead City, Arizona. But he currently worked at the Riverside. What better way to hide the fact that he'd embezzled millions of dollars than to move somewhere and get a job?

If Rosette thought Danny might discover that he was really Albert Kroner, successfully framing him for murder would have been a great way to get rid of him. But Elvis came up with a good question as we drove into Bullhead City.

‘If this feller Rosette killed Reynolds to frame Danny,' he asked, ‘why not just kill Danny?'

Out of the mouths of babes, and kings of rock 'n roll.

Rosette had a house in Bullhead City. He wasn't there, but he also had a very helpful neighbor.

‘Lookin' for Ed?' he asked. He was putting out his garbage.

‘That's right.'

‘You'll find him at work right now,' the man said. He put his garbage can down, then placed his hands on his hips and regarded us. ‘The Riverside Casino. He'll be working til around midnight tonight.'

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘You're very helpful.'

‘We're neighbors,' the man said. ‘We try to look out for each other. When Ed's not around I keep an eye on his house. Same thing when I'm away.'

‘How long have you been neighbors?'

‘Oh, I guess Ed moved in a few months ago.'

That was within the time frame we were working with.

‘Well, thanks very much.' We started back to the car.

‘Want me to tell him you were here?' the man asked.

‘That's OK,' I called back. ‘We'll find him at the Riverside.'

We got in the car and headed for Laughlin.

We could see the Riverside from Bullhead City, but had to drive around the river to get there. We could have looked for a boat to cross over with, but I wanted to have the car available to us. Besides, if he was working til midnight we had time.

‘We ain't drivin' back to Vegas tonight, are we?' Elvis asked.

‘No,' I said. ‘Even if we find Rosette we've got to figure out how to approach him. We won't have time to drive back tonight.'

‘What if we can't find out if he's Albert Kroner? What do we do then?'

‘I don't know, Elvis,' I said. ‘I'm still thinking about that.'

We pulled into the parking lot in front of the Riverside.

‘What about stayin' here?' he asked as we got out of the car.

I explained about the four hotel rooms and said, ‘I'm sure they save them for their best customers.'

‘Yeah, but you're from Vegas,' Elvis said. ‘The Sands. What about professional courtesy?'

‘I guess that's a possibility,' I said. Laughlin used to have a casino in Vegas until he sold it some years back. But if I remembered correctly, Laughlin didn't get along real well with Jack Entratter. He'd kept the mob out of his place, which had been called the 101 Club.

‘Let's just see if we can locate Rosette and talk to him,' I said.

As we entered the casino Elvis said, ‘We don't know what he does here.'

‘Shouldn't be too hard to find out,' I said. ‘If he's dealing there's only two tables. If he works on the slots, there are only twelve of them.'

Of course, there was a lounge and bar, a restaurant, and the motel. It wasn't as easy as it sounded.

Unless we asked somebody.

W
hile Frank was in LA and we were in Laughlin, Dino got off the helicopter in Lake Tahoe, looking for a man named John Golffe. ‘I've gotta take that one,' said golf player Dino.

A limo met him at the airport and took him to Harrah's, where he had taken a room. Dino's job was harder than Frank's – who only had to call Johnny Roselli to get a meeting – and mine. Tahoe was a bigger town than Laughlin.

Dean got to his room and broke out a Lake Tahoe phone book. He was surprised to find a phone number and address for John Golffe. He couldn't believe his luck. After all, how many John Golffe's could there be?

He went out to the limo and gave the driver the address. When they arrived, Dean looked at the house and decided that John Golffe couldn't be Albert Kroner. Who would be stupid enough to embezzle millions, and then build a mansion like this, right on the lake?

Dino had decided to take the direct approach. Rather than wear a hat and sunglasses like Elvis to go unnoticed, he strode to the front door looking like a resplendent Dean Martin, and rang the bell.

The tall man in his forties who opened the door, stared when he saw who was standing there and stammered, ‘D-Dean M-Martin?'

‘Are you John Golffe?' Dean asked the man.

‘I-I am,' the man said. ‘Y-you know who I am?'

‘Mr Golffe,' Dean said, ‘if it's OK with you, I'd like to come in and talk to you.'

‘Well … well, sure, Mr Martin,' the man said. ‘C-come right in. C-can I get you a drink?'

Dean crossed the threshold and said, ‘Coffee would be great.'

At the same time Jerry was tailing a man named Howard Cantrell. He was in his forties, tall and heavier than Albert Kroner supposedly was, but it was an easy thing to gain weight to try to change your appearance.

Jerry had decided not to use the direct approach, because Jerry's idea of direct could get out of hand. He'd save that for later. Instead, he just tailed the man for a while.

This fella Cantrell wasn't down on his luck, but he was pretty close. He lived in a downtown flophouse and dressed like he shopped at the Salvation Army. It was the perfect disguise for an embezzler. Jerry didn't know exactly what Dean and I were finding our guys doing, but he was willing to put his money on Howard Cantrell.

Elvis and I had a drink in the lounge. The King of Rock 'n Roll was eyeing the ‘98 cent Chicken Dinner' sign when I asked the bartender for the manager.

‘We have a kitchen manager, a bar manager, motel manager, a—'

‘I want whoever manages the whole shebang,' I said. ‘Or Mr Laughlin, himself.'

‘The boss?' the bartender said. ‘Oh, he ain't here. But Mr Hassett runs the daily operations of the casino.'

‘Then let's start there,' I said. ‘I'd like to talk to Mr Hassett.'

‘And who can I say is askin' for him?' the bartender wanted to know.

‘My name is Eddie Gianelli,' I said. ‘I'm here from the Sands in Vegas.'

Elvis had convinced me to go ahead and say who I was and where I was from. ‘Might open some doors,' he offered.

‘You know,' I said to him, ‘I might start lettin' you call all the shots.'

Elvis was still studying the 98 cents sign.

‘The Sands?' the bartender said, bucking up. ‘The big time. Hey, you need a good bartender?'

‘I might,' I said. ‘If I get to talk to Mr Hassett.'

‘I can do more than just serve beers, you know,' the man said. ‘Look, my name's Connie Morton.'

‘Connie?' Elvis said.

‘Well,' Morton said, ‘actually it's Conrad, but …' He shrugged and Elvis went back to examining the sign. ‘Look, Mr Gianelli, lemme make you somethin'. I can whip up—'

‘You know what Frank Sinatra drinks?' I asked him.