It Was a Very Bad Year (11 page)

‘So what?'

‘We get to see what's in the envelope?'

‘Nope,' I said.

‘What's in the envelope?'

‘That wouldn't be right,' Jerry said.

‘Just a peek,' Danny said.

‘What's in the envelope?' Billy asked, again, pouring syrup on to his second stack.

‘Never mind,' Jerry said. ‘It just wouldn't be right.'

‘You haven't seen them?' Danny asked Jerry.

‘No.'

Danny looked at me.

‘He wouldn't look if I gave them to him.'

‘What a gentleman,' Danny said.

‘What's in the damn envelope?' Billy asked.

‘None of your business!' Jerry snapped.

‘Jeez,' Billy said.

‘What's with the cousins?' Danny asked.

‘Family tensions.'

‘I'd hate to be at the reunions,' Danny said.

‘There,' Jerry said, ‘you'd be the runt of the litter.'

The waitress came to clear the wreckage when we were done, and we all got seconds and thirds on the coffee.

‘So, what's the next step?' Danny asked.

‘Just get these to Abby,' I said. ‘Then she's on her way back to Hollywood, and we have our lives back.'

‘I guess we should all get back to our lives,' Danny said. ‘I mean, after what happened yesterday.'

‘Why not?' I asked. ‘We get a new president an hour later. The government goes on, so should we.'

‘Anybody talk to Sinatra?' Danny asked. ‘See how he's handling this?'

‘Entratter found out where he was when he heard,' I said. ‘On the set.'

‘And now?'

‘I guess they closed it down, for the day at least. I don't know where he is now.'

‘Mr S. is a pro,' Jerry said. ‘He'll be back on the set today or tomorrow.'

‘Probably,' I said.

Billy looked over at the envelope beneath my elbow and asked, ‘Come on, what's in the envelope?'

Outside the Horseshoe, Danny asked, ‘You guys gonna do some gambling down here?' He was looking at the cousins.

‘Yes!' Billy said.

‘No!' Jerry said. He grabbed his cousin by the scruff of the neck and walked him away.

‘What's that about?'

‘The kid got himself in the hole seventy grand.'

‘Yikes. Who gave him that much credit?'

‘It was a mistake,' I said.

‘You?'

‘No, not me. A lunkhead Entratter promoted to pit boss.'

‘Has he met Jerry?'

‘Yes,' I said, ‘he's not gonna make that mistake again.'

‘Well,' Danny said, ‘at least now I understand the family tension.'

‘I'll talk to you soon,' I said.

‘Yeah, sure,' Danny said. ‘Thanks for breakfast.'

He went to his office, which was only a few doors away, and I joined Jerry and Billy in the Caddy.

W
e drove back to the Sands. Jerry dragged Billy up to their suite, and I went to Abby's room. When she opened the door I held the envelope out to her.

‘Oh God!' she said, grabbing it with one hand and my arm with the other. She pulled me inside.

‘Make sure they're all there,' I said, ‘but I think he was too scared to hold any back.'

‘Scared?' she said,

‘You don't want to know,' I said. ‘Just check.'

She opened the envelope, slid the prints out and looked at them one by one. Then she looked further and found the negatives.

‘All there?' I asked.

‘Looks like it.' She slid them back in. ‘Did you, uh, look at them?'

‘Just took a peek to make sure it was you,' I said, lying just a little.

She hugged the envelope to her chest. She was wearing a sleeveless dress, the length of which came to mid knee. There were suitcases by the door.

‘Catching a plane?' I asked.

‘In two hours, I had hoped,' she said, ‘so I guess so. I don't know how to thank you.'

‘It was my pleasure, Abby.'

‘Joey says you don't take money, but—'

I waved her off. Suddenly, she took a few steps and grabbed me in a tight hug. She smelled great and we stood that way for a few moments.

‘Well,' she said, backing away, ‘I guess I should head for the airport.'

‘I'll have a bellman come up for your bags,' I said, ‘and take care of checking you out.'

‘Eddie, I see why Joey, Frank, and all the guys have such a high opinion of you.'

‘Thank you, Abby,' I said. ‘That means a lot.'

She kissed me goodbye. Down in the lobby I told the desk she was leaving, and had them send a bellman up. That done, I went to let Jack Entratter know that my business with Abby Dalton was done, and I'd be going back to work.

His girl still wasn't at her desk. I knocked on his open door, and he waved me in.

‘What's up?'

‘I got the Abby Dalton thing done.'

‘Good,' he said. ‘What's Jerry doin' about his kid cousin?'

‘I'm not sure, but I'm guessing he's gonna take him home and try to keep him out of trouble.'

‘And are we gonna get paid?'

‘Don't worry, Jack,' I said. ‘You'll get paid.'

‘Cousin Jerry's got that kind of cash?'

‘I don't know what kind of cash Jerry's got, but I know he'll bend over backwards to make sure the Sands gets its dough.'

‘I hope you're right, Eddie.'

‘When have I ever lied to you, Jack?'

‘I ain't talkin' about lyin', kid,' Entratter said. ‘I'm just talkin' about bein' wrong.'

‘Well, I'm not wrong about this.'

‘OK, then,' he said. ‘I'll take your word for it.'

I looked over at his TV, which was dark.

‘I'm tired of seein' all the reports,' he said. ‘Had to shut the damn thing off.'

‘Can't blame you for that,' I said. ‘I'm going to work, Jack. Gonna take an extra shift this afternoon, and then do my regular tonight.'

‘Go ahead, then,' he said. ‘I've got work of my own to do.'

T
he country had withstood another shock when, two days after JFK was killed by Lee Harvey Oswald, Oswald was shot by a saloonkeeper named Jack Ruby. Ruby was somebody the people in my world – Entratter, Skinny D'Amato, Momo Giancana, even Frank – knew. Suddenly, speculation that the mob was behind the assassination sprang up. But so far it couldn't be proven. It appeared Oswald acted alone, and then Ruby acted alone. Of course, none of us on the outside were privy to the inner workings of the case. And, as the years went by, conspiracy theories would multiply.

But when I woke that morning I had been back to work a week, Jerry had dragged Billy back to Brooklyn and put him to work paying his debt, Frank had gone back to work, JFK had been buried, the image of John John saluting his father's motorcade was forever burned into the psyche of us all, and the country had gone back to whatever they had been doing before that day in Dallas.

And somebody was slamming their fist on my front door.

‘All right!' I yelled, stumbling out of bed in my underwear. If they wanted me so bad they'd have to accept me as I was. I secretly hoped it would be some Jehovah's Witnesses I could shock.

But when I opened the door I was the one who was shocked. Detective Hargrove of the Las Vegas PD was standing there with a couple of cops in uniform.

‘Get dressed,' he said. ‘You're comin' with us.'

‘What the hell—'

‘Get dressed, Eddie.'

‘Hargrove, what's this abou—'

‘These two men are ready, willing and able to dress you, if you force the issue.'

‘I'm not forcing anything,' I said, ‘I'm just trying to find out—'

‘You'll find out what's goin' on when we get downtown, Eddie,' Hargrove said. ‘Now don't make me tell you again. Get dressed!'

‘OK, OK,' I said, ‘Jeez, relax.'

I started to close the door, but he blocked it with his hand.

‘We'll come inside and wait for you, if you don't mind.'

‘Like I have a choice?'

Before long I was in an interview room with a cardboard cup of coffee that actually tasted like cardboard.

They let me stew for forty minutes before Hargrove came in, carrying a folder. He sat across from me, opened the folder and pushed it across to me. I stared down at the picture of a dead guy.

‘You know him?'

‘No.'

‘You didn't even think about it.'

‘I don't have to,' I said. ‘I don't know him.'

‘You don't know him.'

‘No.'

‘Have you ever seen him?'

I hesitated, then looked again.

‘Maybe. He looks kinda familiar.'

‘From where?'

‘I don't know. Maybe the casino?'

He took the folder back.

‘Who killed him?' I asked.

‘What makes you think he's been killed?'

‘Why else would you be involved?' I asked. ‘Unless you've been moved from Homicide?'

‘No,' he said. ‘And that's what I'm tryin' to find out, who killed him.'

‘What makes you think I'd know?'

‘We got a tip.'

‘Anonymous?'

‘What else?'

‘And the tipster said I killed him?'

‘Not exactly,' Hargrove said. ‘They just said we should look into you.'

‘Look into me?' I asked. ‘That's it. And for that you woke me up and dragged me down here?'

‘I suppose I should've called you and made an appointment?'

‘You could've called me, yeah,' I said. ‘I would've come down here if you asked me to.'

‘Because you're such a good citizen.'

Because I worked at the Sands for Jack Entratter, and did favors for Frank Sinatra, Hargrove has always had it in his head that I was connected. And maybe I was, but not in the way he thought.

‘OK,' he said, ‘get out of here.'

‘That's it?'

‘That's it.'

He looked miserable. Apparently, he had high hopes that I was involved. But even if I was, did he think I'd admit it?

I left the building, walked a few blocks, then caught a cab and had it take me back to my house. I went inside, took a shower and dressed in fresh, clean jeans and a T-shirt. Then I grabbed my windbreaker and keys and left again. I needed some breakfast, and some time to think.

I drove to a nearby diner, ordered bacon and eggs and settled in with a cup of coffee to figure out what the hell was going on.

I had thought the business with Barney Irwin was over and done when we got Abby's photos back from him. But now, apparently, it had come back, and since Abby and Jerry had gone back home, I was the only one left to deal with it.

When Hargrove pushed that photo across the table at me, my first instinct was to lie and say I'd never seen the man before. But the fact was, I did know him. It had been a photo of Wayne, the man who had been in the studio with Barney Irwin that day when Jerry and I grabbed him and took him to that warehouse.

Jerry had choked Wayne out that day, but since then somebody had killed him – and somebody had tried to put the blame on me.

A
fter breakfast I drove to Barney Irwin's studio and found it closed up. I put my nose against the window, trying to see inside. It looked as I remembered it, dusty and worn out. The windows were thick with grime. It had only been a week, but the place seemed as if it had been deserted for years.

I tried the door, found it locked tight. I went around the back, found that door locked, too. I didn't have Jerry's ability to pick a lock, but I knew somebody who did.

I found a pay phone on the street and called Danny Bardini's office.

I was sitting in my Caddy in front of Irwin Studios when Danny arrived. He stopped his heap behind me and got out.

‘What's up?' he asked.

‘I need to get inside.'

‘Why?'

I explained about Irwin's friend, Wayne, who I had only met once.

‘So you think Irwin killed him and is tryin' to sic the cops on you?'

‘I don't know if he killed Wayne,' I said. ‘I'm not sure he has the balls for that. But he has the balls to call the cops and send 'em looking for me.'

‘So now you're lookin' for him.'

‘I just want to ask him.'

‘I thought Jerry said the guy wouldn't be back.'

‘Irwin's afraid of Jerry,' I said. ‘He's not afraid of me.'

‘OK,' Danny said, ‘so you want me to pick a lock? In broad daylight?'

‘There's a back door,' I said. ‘Come on.'

Danny picked the back door lock – a lot quicker than Jerry had – and we entered.

‘Let's split up,' I said. ‘I want to find anything that might tell us where he is.'

‘Right.'

We went through the place, every drawer and closet and corner, and didn't find a thing. Danny finally joined me back in Irwin's office. I was standing behind the desk, going through his phone book.

‘What'd you find?' I asked.

‘Nothin' but a lot of dirt,' Danny said. ‘I need a shower after this. What about you?'

‘No, nothing,' I said. ‘I'll take this phone book with me. Maybe somebody in here knows where he is.'

‘Nothin' in the drawers?'

‘No, noth . . . Wait a minute.' I started going through the pockets of my windbreaker.

‘What is it?'

‘Last time I was here, with Jerry,' I said, ‘I found something – here it is.'

I took the slip of paper I had found, with some names on it, out of my pocket.

‘What's that?'

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘Here.'

I handed it to Danny to read.

Nov. 22.

Sinatra.