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Authors: Robert J. Randisi

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BOOK: Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

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W
E STAYED OFF THE STRIP and away from Fremont Street, went to a local bar we both knew we’d be left alone at. It was early, so the place wasn’t very full.

“I went to the Sands lookin’ for you,” he said, when we both had a beer in front of us. “Some big goon named Jerry gave me the third degree until I told him who I was and showed him my ID.”

I’d mentioned Danny to Jerry, figuring they were going to meet, eventually.

“Yeah, he was a gift from Frank, to watch my back.”

“I could watch your back.”

“I didn’t want to tell Frank no.”

“How’s the guy workin’ out?”

I told him about everything I’d gone through in just one day with Jerry.

“I guess he’s workin’ out, then,” Danny said, “just remember, he ain’t really workin’ for you.”

“I know.”

“He told me you went to the cops,” Danny said. “What’d you tell them?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I just wanted them to know I was around.
Seems that because Lou Terazzo is missin’, he’s the number one suspect.”

“What do you think is goin’ on?”

“I don’t know, Danny,” I said. “I still don’t think all the killings have anything to do with the threats against Dean Martin, but I guess I could be wrong.”

“Sounds to me like you just walked into the middle of somethin’.”

“So how do I get out of it?”

“Damned if I know. I was lookin’ for you all day yesterday to tell you I thought I’d located Buzz Ravisi. Guess you didn’t need me for that.”

“I appreciate the work, anyway,” I said. I told him how Jerry and I had come to follow Ravisi and Davis home with the girl, Iris.

“As long as the girl and the clerk stay quiet you shouldn’t have any trouble.”

“As long as they’re afraid of Jerry … .” I started, then stopped. I shook my head as the scene from last night replayed itself in my head.

“I saw men get shot in the war, Danny, but never anything that close up, you know?”

“I know,” Danny said. “I’ve seen it. Lead is unforgiving when it meets flesh and bone.”

“I didn’t pull the trigger,” I went on, “but it’s my fault those two are dead. If I hadn’t been lookin’ for them—”

“Hey,” Danny said, “they deserved it.” He looked around, made sure no one was sitting within earshot of our spot at the bar. “Believe me, those two have done worse than kick your ass.”

I held up two fingers to the bartender and he brought over two more drafts.

“Look,” Danny said, “my advice is to just forget about Lou Terazzo and those killings and concentrate on your main objective—finding out who’s threatening Dean Martin.”

“You’re right.”

He downed half his second beer and then set the bottle on the bar with a bang.

“That’s it for me. As it is I’ll have to explain to Penny why I smell like beer so early in the day. Where are you headed?”

“Back to the Sands.”

“To hook up with Jerry?”

“To start from scratch,” I said. “You go ahead. I’m gonna finish my beer.”

He stood up and slapped my shoulder.

“Don’t worry about anything,” Danny said. “So far you’re not implicated in or suspected of anything.”

“It’s the ‘so far’ that worries me,” I said.

After he left I finished my beer, then kept the bartender from removing the remainder of his and drank that, too.

When I got to the Sands it wasn’t hard to spot Jerry. I walked through the casino, waved absently at some players and co-workers, and then saw him sitting in the lounge, watching the floor. He spotted me as I approached, but remained where he was and let me come to him.

“Did your P.I. friend find you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Danny Bardini. A good friend of mine.”

“I know,” Jerry said. “I remember you tellin’ me. That’s why I tol’ him where you was.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Did he have somethin’ for ya?”

I told Jerry that Danny had located Ravisi, but we were already past that.

“How’d things go with the cops?”

“They’re looking for Lou Terazzo,” I said. “They like him for the murders.”

“The two girls?” he asked.

“They found Mike Borraco,” I said. “They’re thinkin’ maybe Carla was two-timin’ Lou with him, but I don’t buy that.”

“So you don’t like him for it?”

“Not for that reason,” I said.

“It’s a pretty good reason,” Jerry told me. “It’s usually true more times than it ain’t.”

“Nah,” I said, “not this time. Lou’s a ladies’ man, and Mike just isn’t.”

Jerry shrugged. None of it really mattered to him.

“So whattaya gonna do?”

“What I set out to do in the first place,” I said. “My only problem is knowing where to go from here.”

“I might be able to help you with that.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

“I talked to Frank today,” Jerry said. “He wants you to come to the set.”

“The set?” I asked. “Of
Ocean’s Eleven?”

“That’s what they’re shootin’, ain’t it?”

“Why would he want me to come to the set?”

“I didn’t ask him,” Jerry said. “I’m just passin’ on the message.”

I checked my watch. It was almost one.

“Will they still be shootin’ now?”

“They’re still there. I’m supposed to take you over.” He stood up from his barstool, towered above me. I had the distinct feeling I didn’t have a choice.

“Well, okay, then,” I said. “Let’s go watch ’em shoot
Ocean’s Eleven.”

Thirty-nine

I
WATCHED AS FRANK SINATRA, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr. and Peter Lawford shot a scene around a pool table. Off to one side sat Henry Silva on a sofa with an actor named Richard Benedict. Joey Bishop, Richard Conte, Buddy Lester and Norman Fell sat at a table, supposedly playing gin. I looked around in vain but did not see Angie Dickinson anywhere. Akim Tamiroff was standing off to one side, watching, waiting for his cue to stalk around the room, mug and grunt. They were pretty much dressed alike, jackets and shirts with ties.

The room was set up as an expensive rumpus room in a Beverly Hills home. Sinatra was playing “Danny Ocean,” who had gathered all eleven of the men who were in his unit in World War II, the 82nd Airborne, to Las Vegas to knock off five casinos. That was the basic premise of the film
Ocean’s
11.

At the moment the cameras were on Sinatra, Dino, Sammy Davis and Peter Lawford, who were having an inane conversation around the pool table about what they would each do with their take from the job. I noticed that all but Peter Lawford were holding a cigarette along with their pool cue.

Peter Lawford was talking about buying votes and making himself into a politician while the others made fun of him. Lawford was rich
boy “Jimmy Foster,” who was tired of asking his mother for money every time he needed it. Dino was Ocean’s closest friend, “Sam Harmon.” That part seemed true to life. All I heard them call Sammy in that scene was “Josh.”

Director Lewis Milestone called “Cut and print,” but he didn’t look happy. From what brief by play I had seen between him and Sinatra it was clear that Frank was calling the shots.

“Let’s set up for the next scene,” Milestone called out.

Frank walked over to Dean, said something and then the two crooners started over towards me. My heart thumped faster, and I started to sweat. I had nothing solid to report to them, and knew I was going to disappoint them. I was also upset that Sammy wasn’t coming with them. I wanted to meet him. I didn’t care to meet Lawford. He struck me as a hanger-on with not an ounce of the talent the other three had, but it was my understanding that he had brought the script to Sinatra. I also figured out, from the papers and scuttlebutt around the Sands, that he was Frank’s connection to John F. Kennedy and his whole family. Sinatra was a big Kennedy booster and was trying his best to help JFK get into the White House as the first Irish Catholic President of the United States.

But that was politics, and I hated politics.

“Eddie,” Sinatra said, as they reached me. He put a friendly hand on my shoulder.

“Hello, Eddie,” Dean Martin said, shaking my hand.

“Frank,” I said, “Dean.” I didn’t know what else to say. I was wondering why I had been brought there, to the
Ocean
’s
11
set?

“We only have a few minutes,” Frank said. “We have to shoot another scene around the pool table.”

“We heard you’ve had a rough couple of days,” Dean said.

“You heard?” I asked, before I realized they must have heard it from Jerry.

“What’s this other thing you’ve gotten involved in?’ Frank asked.”A couple of dead broads?“

“And a dead guy,” I said. “He worked at the Riviera … but I’m not involved.”

“You found one of the girls, didn’t you?” Frank asked.

“I did,” I said, “but I was lookin’ for a guy I know, who might have had some information about …” I lowered my voice and looked around. “ … you know, that thing we talked about.”

“So those broads are connected to our problem?” Frank asked. “Can we expect the police to visit us?”

“No,” I said. “I haven’t mentioned either of your names to the them.”

“Why not?” Dean asked. “Seems to me it might have made things easier for you.”

“That may be,” I said, “but I didn’t think you wanted me to, and I also don’t think the two things were related.”

“So you haven’t told the police anything about us?” Frank asked.

“No, Frank, I haven’t.”

Frank looked at Dean and said, “I told you he was a stand-up clyde.

“Did Jerry tell you, well, everything that happened?” I asked.

“Yeah, he did,” Frank said. “I guess you’re pretty happy with my gift, eh?”

“Well,” I said, “considering he probably saved my life, yeah.”

“Look, we have to shoot this scene,” Frank said. “Dean and I wanted you here so we could tell you we’ll understand if you want to pull out.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a pretty crazy time,” Dean said.

“I’ve had more excitement in the past two days than I’ve had in a lifetime.”

Frank looked amused.

“And that’s a good or a bad thing?”

“I’ll have to let you know, Frank,” I said. “Look, I appreciate the opportunity to pull out, but I think I’ll pass. I still want to help.”

“Keep Jerry with you, pally,” Dean said. “I don’t want anything to happen to you on my account.”

“Have you had anymore notes?” I asked him.

“No, nothing since we talked.”

“No calls?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t see any extra security around,” I said. There was a guard on the door when we arrived, but he had stepped aside and let us enter.

“We don’t want anybody askin’ questions about bodyguards,” Frank said. “We all made sure we were with Dean on the way here, and Nick and Henry and I will be takin’ him back to the Sands.”

“I’m not sure what—”

“There’s the director,” Frank said, cutting me off. “He’s already pissed off at me, so we better go and shoot this scene.”

Dean put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Take care.”

They turned and walked back to the pool table. I noticed that all the actors had stood and were approaching the table, including one guy I hadn’t noticed before, a blond man with large ears I later found out was named Clem Harvey.

I stayed and watched the scene, and at the end of it they all placed their hands in the center of the table, one on top of the other. When Sammy Davis placed his hand on the pile last Lewis Milestone once again yelled, “Cut and print!”

“We better go,” Jerry said, looming behind me and speaking in my ear.

I nodded and we headed for the door.

Forty

J
ERRY LIKED MY CADDY so much that I’d let him drive again. He’d gotten directions to the shoot, so I didn’t pay attention while he drove. Now that we were outside I suddenly realized where we were.

“Oh,” I said, “this is bad.”

“What?” he asked. “What’s bad?”

“That’s Industrial Road,” I said, pointing.

“So?”

“Get in the car. You drive.”

We got in and he started the engine.

“Drive around the building.”

He did as I asked, circling the building until I said stop.

“Look familiar?” I asked.

“No.”

“Look around.”

He did, craning his neck. I watched the expression on his face, which was usually pretty blank. In the short time since we’d met we’d spent a lot of time together. I was able to tell when he realized something was wrong.

“I get it.”

“That trash bin over there,” I said. “That’s where we found Mike Boracco.”

We could still see the flash of red from the piece of Boracco’s shirt that had gotten torn off.

“Okay,” I said, “get us out of here.”

“Where to?”

“Binion’s,” I said. “Let’s go to Binion’s. They’ve got a killer coffee shop and I have to think.”

I gave him directions.

When we got to the Horseshoe, Jerry remembered that was where he’d had the two dozen pancakes.

“They were good.”

“Have some more,” I suggested, even though we already had breakfast.

“I think I will.”

He ordered the pancakes and I ordered a turkey sandwich on toast with fries. We shared a booth—well, actually, we didn’t share it. He took up two thirds of it.

“So what’s it mean?” he asked.

“You’re not as dumb as you seem, remember?” I asked.

He smiled again, only the second time since I’d met him.

“Everything is connected.”

“I don’t know how it got that way,” I said, “but yeah, everything is connected. Look, sit tight. I’m gonna call Danny Bardini and have him join us. He can walk here from his office.”

“Fine with me,” he said. “I hate cops, but I got nothin’ against P.I.’s. They’re workin’ stiffs, just like the rest of us.”

I left him there with the waitress pouring us each coffee and went to the pay phone. The coffee shop was on the lower level, underneath the casino, so there was no noise in or around the booth. I got Penny, who put me through to Danny, who said he’d be right over as long as I was buying.

When I got back to the booth Jerry had already started on his pancakes, and my sandwich was waiting for me.

“Get ’im?” he asked around a mouthful.

“He’ll be here in a minute.”

“You go back a way with him?”

“His brother was my best friend in Brooklyn, when we were growing up.”

“That’s a long ways,” he said. “I got nobody from when I was a kid. Everybody’s gone.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Maybe.”

Jerry still had a dozen to go when Danny arrived. He used his detective skills and immediately deduced that he couldn’t fit into the booth, so he pulled a chair over and sat on the outside.

“You guys already met,” I said.

“Yeah,” Danny said. “This mornin’ at the Sands. How are ya?”

Jerry nodded.

The waitress came over and Danny ordered a burger platter. “What’s up?”

I told him about going to the
Ocean
’s
11
set and then finding out that it was inside the warehouse where we’d found Mike Borraco.

“So everything is connected,” he said.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Unless it’s just a coincidence.”

“Borraco just happens to ask me to meet him outside the building that houses
Ocean’s Eleven
? I don’t think so.”

“How much of the movie is being shot here?”

“They’re supposed to shoot for eleven days. This is day three, I think. Then they go back to Hollywood to finish.”

“So if Dean Martin makes it through the next eight days he should be okay. Or, at least, out of Las Vegas. Did he receive any threats before he arrived?”

“No,” I said, “only here.”

“So something’s gonna happen in the next eight days,” Danny said.

“Unless they’re just threats,” Jerry said.

“Well,” Danny replied, “the fact that two guys worked Eddie over would make it more than just threats, I think.”

Jerry eyed Danny carefully, I had not told him that I’d filled Danny in on the whole story, and that Danny knew he’d killed Buzz
Ravisi. But now Jerry knew how far back Danny and I went, he could probably guess. I wondered if I’d just put Danny in a bad spot. I trusted him, but why should Jerry?

“You got a point,” Jerry said, and went back to his last half-dozen pancakes.

The waitress brought Danny his burger platter. It would have made any Brooklyn diner proud. Burger, bun, lettuce, tomato, red onion and large pickle slices. And fries. Danny assembled it all and took a bite.

“I suppose you’re not goin’ to the cops with this information?”

“No,” I said, “no cops.”

“So it’s just the three of us who know, huh?”

“Unless the cops check out that warehouse and find out it’s being used to film a movie.”

“Danny shook his head.

“That wouldn’t get them to the Rat Pack,” he said. “Just to the producers.”

“So okay,” I said, “only the three of us know that all the killings are somehow related to the threats on Dean Martin’s life. And also, maybe, to the filming of
Ocean
’s
Eleven.”

“Now the question remains,” Danny said. “What do we do with this knowledge?”

“You guys are the pros,” I said. “Help me out here. Suggest something.”

Jerry looked at me, jerked his head towards Danny and said, “He’s the P.I. He’s a pro. Me, I’m just muscle sent by Frank to keep you safe.”

“And doin’ a helluva job, from what I hear,” Danny said.

Jerry did not look like he appreciated the compliment.

BOOK: Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

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