Hey There (You with the Gun in Your Hand) (18 page)

“Right.”

I called down and asked them to put a rush on two burger platters with coffee.

“Mr. G.?” Jerry said, as I hung up.

“Yeah.”

“I got another piece.”

“Huh?”

“Another gun,” he said, “in case you want it.”

“Not … not Sammy’s gun—”

“No, no,” he said, “that’s still hid around your house in pieces.”

“If the cops show up with a search warrant are they gonna find it?” I asked.

“Naw,” he said, then added, “I don’t think.”

Did I want to carry a gun? No. I might end up shooting somebody. Wasn’t that why I had Jerry around? Well, no, not exactly, but still, if somebody had to be shot he was sure as hell gonna be better at it than I was.

“That’s okay, Jerry,” I said. “I don’t want to carry a gun.”

“Suit yerself.”

He finished cleaning his .45 by the time the food showed up. We had ten minutes to eat. For some reason, it was the best burger and fries I’d had in a long time.

When we finished eating we put on our jackets. Jerry hadn’t packed a heavy one, so I reminded him he was going to be out there for hours and it was going to get cold.

“You’re right,” he said. He put on a second shirt, then grabbed the pickle off my plate and the rest of my fries—just a few—wrapped them in a napkin and put them in his pocket.

“In case I get hungry.”

The last thing he did was slide his .45 back into his shoulder rig.

“Well,” I said, “now that you’re completely outfitted, we better get going.”

P
ETER LAWFORD HADN’T CALLED
, and Sammy hadn’t, either. That worried me, but I had to get Jerry out to that meeting place.

It was on the outskirts of town, not that long a drive at all, but once we got there it felt like we were in the middle of nowhere.

Jerry did a quick check of the two buildings—or the building-and-a-half—and pronounced us all alone.

“You sure about this, Jerry?”

“Dead sure, Mr. G. It’s the best way.”

“And if they find you out here?”

“They may not be pros, but it probably won’t surprise them that we’re bein’ careful.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be back about fifteen minutes before the meet.”

“Bring a flashlight, Mr. G.,” Jerry said.

“I’ll get one from my buddy, Jim.”

“Okay,” Jerry said. “Drive careful.”

“I’ll see you later, Jerry,” I said. “Watch your back.”

“That ain’t what I’m out here for, Mr. G.,” he said. “I’m out here to watch your back.”

“Yeah, well, do me a favor and watch ’em both, huh?”

“You got it.”

I started up the car, turned it around, and headed back down the dirt road.

I was walking through Harrah’s casino when I saw her. You couldn’t miss her. The blond hair, pale skin, red mouth, all those curves—and the crowd she was drawing. It was Marilyn Monroe, all right, wearing a long-sleeved checkered shirt tucked into tight jeans. She was alone, trying to clear a path for herself to walk as people crowded in around her, trying to talk to her or touch her. I thought the look in her eyes was confused, or … kind of vacant. She also looked scared. I remembered what Frank said about the movie company having trouble with her being on time for her scenes in
The Misfits
.

But right now she was just trying to walk, and having a tough time of it. I could see she was on the verge of panic, so I did the only thing I could think of.

“Okay, okay, clear the way,” I shouted, wading in with my arms waving like a windmill.

Everybody turned to look at me, wondering who the hell I was. They shrunk back from me, because I looked like a madman.

“Outta the way, outta the way!” I yelled.

Marilyn looked at me, too, as I reached her and put my arm around her. Good God, but she felt good, a beautiful, solid girl who really filled out her clothes.

“Wha—who are you?” she asked. I could feel her breath on my face.

“My name’s Eddie,” I said. “I’m a friend of Frank’s. Come on!”

I pulled her along, still waving my free arm. People pulled back from my perceived authority, and I knew I had to get her out of there before she realized I was nobody.

“Are you staying here?” I asked her.

“Yes, but … I couldn’t find the elevators.”

“Stay close,” I said, and felt one of her arms go around me.

I took her to the elevators as some of the crowd started to follow us.

“… the hell is he …”

“… he think he’s doin’?”

I heard the words behind us as I pressed the button for the elevator. Luckily, the car was already on the ground floor, so the doors opened.

“In you go,” I said, giving her a gentle push. “Got your room key?”

“Oh, yes, but …”

“What floor?”

“Four.”

I leaned in and pressed four, then started to step out. She reached for me as the doors closed. Her hand caught the front of my shirt and she kissed me quickly on the cheek. I admit it, my head swam.

“Eddie … thanks, honey.”

“Any time,” I said, and she was gone.

As the doors closed I looked around the casino to see if Clark Gable or Montgomery Clift were anywhere. I wondered if they were staying in the hotel, too.

Once Marilyn was gone, people started gambling again and I continued on to the hotel lobby. Things were back to normal for everyone but me. I had Marilyn’s kiss on my cheek, her scent in my nose and still had the feel of her weight against me.

Oh boy …

When I got to the room I called Sammy. While it rang I cleaned Marilyn’s lipstick off my face with my handkerchief, folded it carefully, and put it in my pocket.

“I called but you weren’t there,” Sammy said.

“You must’ve tried after we left.”

“Yeah, I was late,” he said. “I was on the phone with Rod Serling. We met a while back and got pretty friendly. You know Serling?”

“Just what I see on
The Twilight Zone
,” I said.

“I was all set to do an episode early last year,” he explained, “about a white bigot who wakes up in the morning a black man. The censors wouldn’t go for it and nixed the deal. I was feelin’ pretty low and that was when Frank came to me with
Ocean’s Eleven
.”

“Sammy,” I said, cutting him off before he could continue the story, “did you get to Peter?”

“Sorry, sorry, I did,” he said. “I got a number for you to call.”

I wrote it down.

“Can I call it right away?”

“Yeah, he’ll be there. He doesn’t want his wife or his in-laws to know he’s talkin’ to you, though.”

“I can understand that.”

“He’ll be there—” He stopped, probably looking at his watch, or a clock, “—for about another hour.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call him and then get back to you.”

“I’ll be here.”

I hung up and dialed the number. After two rings a man answered and said cautiously, “Hello?”

“Peter? This is Eddie Gianelli, from Vegas—”

“Yes, Mr. Gianelli, I know who you are,” he said. “I recall our meeting once or twice last year.”

“Right.”

“Look, I am only talking to you because Sammy asked me to.”

“I understand that.”

“However, I advise you to choose your questions wisely.”

“Wisely,” I repeated. “Okay, how’s this? Who’s sending men out to Nevada to kill some people who have a photo to sell, JFK or Bobby?”

“Jesus, Eddie, what are you talking about?”

“I want to know if the Kennedy family has been approached to buy some potentially damaging photos? And, if instead of buying them, they decided to kill the fuckers. Who would okay something like that, Peter? Would it be Joe, the old man? Or Bobby, the attorney general? Or maybe it’s just the President himself?”

There was nothing from the other end, and then Peter’s British accent asked in a hushed whisper, “Eddie, how the fuck did you know about the photos?”

“I didn’t really,” I said. “I was guessing. You just told me, Peter.”

“Yes, I did,” he said, “and I could get in a lot of fucking trouble for telling you.”

“Well, we’ll just keep it between us, then. How’s that? Us and Sammy, that is.”

“And Frank.”

“What about Frank?”

“Would you, uh, tell Frank I helped you?”

I’d been hearing some things about Frank and Peter falling out, remembered what Frank had said the night we all went to Dino’s show, how we didn’t need Peter.

“Is that what you want, Peter?” I asked. “You want me to put a good word in with Frank for you?”

“Ah … I would appreciate it, Eddie.”

“Well then, let’s see if you actually do tell me something helpful.”

He hesitated, then asked, “What do you want to know?”

A
CCORDING TO PETER
the entire Kennedy clan was in an uproar over the threat of some photos being leaked to the press.

“What photos?” I asked.

“I haven’t seen them, Eddie,” Peter said. “They don’t confide in me like that.”

“Well, has anybody seen the photos?”

“I—I think Bobby has,” he said, “and Joseph.”

“And you have no idea what the picture shows?”

“No.”

“Is it a picture of Jack?”

“Well … it would have to be, for them to be as upset as they are.”

“Okay, here’s the big question,” I said. “Does Jack know what’s going on? That his father and brother are killin’ people for that photo?”

“Eddie, Bobby’s only trying to do—”

“Does Jack know?”

“I doubt it,” Peter said. “They try to shield him from things like that.”

“Unpleasant things, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“That figures.”

“Eddie, what’s going on with Sammy?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“No—well, yes. He said something about a photo, but …”

“Somebody’s tryin’ to sell him a photo for fifty grand.”

“Fifty thousand dollars? But—but that’s nothing compared to …”

“Compared to what?” I asked. “To what the Kennedys are being asked to pay?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Peter said. “Why would anyone also try to sell to Sammy for fifty?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’ve got some ideas. Peter, I don’t suppose if I gave you names you’d recognize them as Secret Service agents?”

“I wouldn’t know them from Adam, Eddie.”

I was thinking I’d gotten all the help I could out of Peter Lawford.

“Okay, Peter, thanks for talking to me.”

“Oh, uh, Eddie?” He sounded like he was desperate to catch me before I hung up.

“Yeah, Peter?”

“You, uh, will mention to Frank that I was of assistance to you?”

“Sure thing, Peter,” I said. “I’ll mention it to him, as soon as I see him.”

“Ah, thank you,” he said, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Oh, Eddie!”

“Yes?”

“A word of advice?”

“Sure.”

“Watch your step,” he said. “If Bobby, or the old man, have sent men out there you’d do well to stay out of their way.”

“I kinda figured that out for myself, Peter,” I said, “but thanks.”

After the call with Peter I officially wanted out. Whether there were Secret Service people out there killing people, or they were just some sort of government assassins, I didn’t want to have anything to do
with them. But with Jerry sitting out in the desert in that burnt-out half-a-house, I was stuck.

Unless I could get out there and get us both away from there before the meet time.

I
GOT TO THE LOCATION
half an hour before the meet. It was dark already, so I left the headlights on.

“Jerry?” I called, getting out of the car.

No answer.

“Don’t fuck around, Jerry,” I called. “I’m here, I’m alone, and we have to get out of here!”

If Jerry wasn’t there I didn’t know what I’d do. If somebody had been good enough to sneak up on him and grab him, what chance did I—

“What’s up, Mr. G.?” Jerry asked, coming out of the remnants of the house. “I thought—”

“I changed my mind, Jerry,” I said. “I’m not as interested in helping Sammy as I was before.”

“Why not? What’s changed?”

“I’ll tell you in the car,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

He started toward the car, then said, “I think it’s too late.” He pointed.

I turned and saw headlights in the distance.

“Damn it!”

I ran to the rental car and doused the lights. Jerry was still staring at the road.

“More than one car,” he said.

“I think those cars are filled with men with murder in mind, Jerry. We’ve got to get going.”

“Where?”

“This road keeps going,” I said, although it was barely a dirt road. “I don’t know where to, but it’s better than going back.”

“Maybe not,” Jerry said, with a smile, “if you let me drive.”

I tossed him the keys. It was a better alternative than driving out into the middle of the Nevada desert at night.

We got in the car and Jerry started driving, his foot pressed to the floor. The car began gathering speed, and the headlights of the other cars were getting closer.

“We playin’ chicken?” I asked.

“That’s what we’re doin’.”

The road was narrow, only room for one car at a time. We needed the drivers of both cars to play chicken with us … and lose. If even one of them had the guts for it we’d end up in a head-on collision, because I knew Jerry wouldn’t give in.

We were leaving a thick cloud of dust behind us, which didn’t matter. It couldn’t be seen in the dark. Besides, it was all about headlights, now. We could see theirs, and they could see ours.

Jerry and I didn’t talk. He gripped the wheel fiercely and I held on for dear life. He was right to drive. With me behind the wheel we eventually would have ended up in a ditch somewhere.

“Hang on,” he finally said, as the approaching headlights loomed.

Somehow, he managed to get more speed out of our car, and suddenly the headlights ahead of us veered off, one pair to the left, the other to the right. One of them simply kept going out into the dark of the desert, but the other one hit something and flipped over. It tumbled end over end, but we didn’t stay to see where it came to rest.

I did turn to look behind us as we sped away. The car that was upright sat still, headlights on, but I could hear a wheel spinning. They were stuck.