You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Kills You (12 page)

I closed the newspaper and tossed it back onto the rear seat.

“We don’t know who we’re dealin’ with, Jerry. Secret Service, FBI, Mafia—”

“You think Mr. Giancana is buggin’ Miss M.? Why?” he asked, quick to defend.

“My point is we don’t know, Jerry,” I said. “What we need is somebody who can find out, somebody connected, and if he happens to be famous I guess we’ll have to live with that.”

Jerry shrugged. “It’s up to you, Mr. G.,” he said. “I’m just here to back you up.”

“You do more than that, Jerry, believe me.”

He took a quick look away from the traffic and at me.

“Thanks, Mr. G.”

“Sure.”

We drove for a while, then stopped for gas again near West Covina because Jerry didn’t like to let the needle go below the halfway point. He said that was the way dirt got into the lines.

While we stood there waiting for the attendant to fill the tank I said, “Let’s go back to that motel first. Maybe we’ll find that clerk, or the maid, and learn something from them.”

“Fine with me,” Jerry said. “You find me that clerk and I’ll make him talk.”

“That I’d like to see, Jerry,” I said, “especially after that man looked right through me and lied about ever meeting me.”

“We’ll get the truth out of him, Mr. G.,” Jerry said. “I guarantee it.”

I paid for the gas while Jerry got back in the car. When I turned to get in I saw something familiar. After I’d slammed the door Jerry said, “I saw it, too.”

“Blue Chrysler?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Looks like two men in the front seat. It’s been behind us since we got on this highway—what is it, 10?”

“They didn’t follow us from L.A.?”

“No.”

“Then how the hell did they get onto us comin’ back?”

“I don’t know,” Jerry said. “Maybe at Mr. S.’s?”

“Shit, I hope not,” I said. “That means we’ll have to go back and get Marilyn.”

“Mr. S. has construction guys, bodyguards, and George there all the time,” Jerry pointed out. “She’ll be safe.”

“Yeah, and so far all they’ve been doin’ is watchin’ her—whoever
they
are.”

“So what do we do?”

I looked at him and said, “Let’s find out who these bastards are.”

J
ERRY MADE SURE THE BLUE CHRYLSER
didn’t lose us on 10. When we got on to 405 to go to Brentwood I started wondering where we could take those guys.

On San Vicente I told Jerry, “Bypass Marilyn’s.”

“Where we goin’?”

“To the country club.”

“Oh, goody.”

The Brentwood Country Club was always busy. The beautiful people needed their recreation. But you couldn’t just drive in, you had to stop at the guard’s gate and identify yourself. When we pulled in, there were two cars ahead of us. Our tail didn’t know where we were going so they turned in to follow. Before they knew it they were in line, a car in front and a car behind.

“Come on,” Jerry said.

He was out of the car with his .45 in his fist before I could stop him. I ran after him, hoping that the two guys in the car weren’t cops.

Jerry got to the car before they could react. He opened the
driver’s side and yanked the guy out, showed the passenger his gun.

“Don’t!” he said, in case the second guy was planning to pull a gun.

I got to the passenger side just as the guy put his hands up. I did a quick frisk—as I had seen done plenty of times in the movies—and came up with a gun.

“One here, too,” Jerry said, releasing the driver so abruptly he staggered. He tossed the guy’s gun into the backseat, so I did the same.

“What the hell is wrong with you guys?” the driver demanded.

The driver behind them leaned on his horn, but when Jerry gave him a look he released it.

“What do you guys want?” I asked. “You been following us at least since Palm Springs, maybe before.”

“We don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” the guy in the passenger seat said.

“You got a permit for that rod, bub?” the driver asked Jerry.

“This one sounds like a cop, Mr. G.”

“I suggest we get our cars out of the way and have a talk,” I said.

“Tell your friend to put the gun away,” the driver said. “The security guy’s comin’ over to see what’s goin’ on.”

“He’ll put it away,” I said, “but it comes out again if you try to take off.”

“Understood. We’ll move the car,” the driver said, getting back in.

“I’ll move the Caddy, Mr. G.”

At the same time, the passenger got out. “I’ll handle the security guy.”

“Right behind you,” I said.

As Jerry and the other driver moved our cars out of the way
the passenger showed the security guy ID that I didn’t get a look at. It must have been good because the guard backed right off.

We walked over to where Jerry and the other driver were waiting.

Both the strangers were in their thirties, wearing off-the-rack suits and skinny ties. They didn’t look like Secret Service to me, or FBI.

“Mind if we see those IDs?” I asked.

The men exchanged a glance, then took out their folders, flashed us Palm Springs police department buzzers. The passenger was Dugan, and the driver was Atkins.

“What the hell—” I said.

“Detective Stanze would like to see you fellas now that you’re back in town,” Dugan said.

Atkins looked at Jerry. “Bet you’re gonna have to explain about that gun.”

“Bet you’re gonna have ta explain about your black eye,” Jerry said.

“I don’t have a—” Atkins said, then suddenly backed away from Jerry warily. “I could take you in for manhandling me.”

“You’re right,” I said, “he jerked you out of the car pretty easily. Want to explain that? That’d leave a bruised ego.”

“Look,” Dugan said, “we were just sort of escortin’ you back. You know, keepin’ an eye on you like Stanze asked.”

“So you didn’t follow us from L.A.?” I asked, just to confirm.

“No, we picked you up when you got to Palm Springs,” Dugan said.

“You friends with Frank Sinatra?” Atkins asked.

“Yeah, we are.”

“Umm,” Dugan said, “that blonde in your car, was that … Marilyn Monroe?”

“No,” I said, “it was Mamie Van Doren. Why don’t you call Stanze and tell him we’ll be in a little later. We’re gonna freshen up first.”

“Yeah, you guys can go back home to paradise,” Jerry said.

“It is paradise,” Atkins said. “Where are you from, bub?”

“New York, pal,” Jerry said, “and you can keep yer sand and sun. I’ll take the Great White Way, thanks.”

Atkins made a move as if he was going to poke Jerry in the chest with his finger, but he drew it back at the last minute. Wise decision. Jerry probably would have pulled it off and shoved it up the guy’s ass.

“Let’s go,” Dugan said to his partner. “We’re done here. We were doin’ a favor for your guy, Stanze.”

“He’s not my guy.”

“Well, whatever he is, tell him not to call us again. We’re done cooperatin’.” He turned to Jerry. “You ever point a gun at me again—”

Jerry stopped him by drawing the gun and pointing it at him.

Atkins looked at Dugan, then they both chuckled, shook their heads and walked away.

W
HEN WE GOT BACK
to Marilyn’s house I used the key she gave us to get into the guesthouse. We walked through and out the back door to a small patio.

“Jerry, you’re gonna have to cool it with the gun unless we really need it.”

“I didn’t know they was cops, Mr. G.”

“I know, but how about the second time?”

“The guy just pissed me off.”

“Okay, well, I’ve got to go and see Detective Stanze and try to explain all this. Meanwhile, I’ll have him explain why he’s havin’ me followed.”

“I better come with ya, Mr. G.,” Jerry said. “You’re gonna hafta explain me, too.”

“Let me see if I can deal with it,” I suggested. “I know how allergic to cops you are. If I can’t, then you’ll have to go in and talk to him. I’ll try to keep you out of it, but …”

“I get it. Thanks, Mr. G.”

“Sure. Just stay here, have somethin’ to eat, watch TV. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“You got it, Mr. G.”

A uniformed cop walked me to Stanze’s desk.

“Mr. Gianelli,” he said. “Nice of you to drop by.”

“I assume you heard from your Palm Springs buddies?” I asked. “Dugan and … what was it, Atkins?”

Another cop came walking over, plainclothes, white hair, deep tan.

“Say hello to my partner, Detective Bailey.”

“Dave Bailey,” the man said. “Hey.”

“Let’s go someplace and talk,” Stanze suggested.

“Need me?” Bailey asked.

“Nah, I got it,” Stanze said. “The lieutenant in?”

“No.”

“I’m gonna use his office.”

“He’s gonna catch you one of these days,” Bailey said.

“I’m just tryin’ his chair on for size,” Stanze said. To me, “Come on.”

When we got into the office, he closed the door, walked around and sat in his boss’s chair again. I sat across from him.

“You got ambitions,” I said.

“Who doesn’t?”

“Would you like to tell me why you were havin’ me followed?”

“Followed?” Stanze asked. “Those officers were there for your protection.”

“Protection from what?”

“Or who?” he asked. “How about whoever made your friend go missing?”

“I didn’t ask for protection.”

“No, that’s right, you have your own. Who’s the guy with the gun, Gianelli?”

“What happened to the ‘mister’?” I asked.

“Maybe you can earn it back,
comprende?”
the detective
said. I was willing to bet that was the only Spanish he knew. “Who’s your friend?”

“He came to watch my back.”

“He got a permit for that gun?”

“I’m sure he does.”

“Where’s he from?”

“New York.”

“How’d he get a gun here from New York?”

“In his luggage, I assume.”

“Why didn’t you bring him in with you?”

“Did you want to see him?” I asked. “I thought this was between you and me.”

“What did the Palm Springs detectives tell you?”

“Oh, yeah, they gave me a message for you,” I said. “They said don’t call them again. So tell me, how did they know we were in Palm Springs? Were you havin’ me followed here and your guys lost me?”

“Come on,” he said, standing up.

“Where?”

“Downstairs to see your friend.”

“My friend?”

“Yeah,” Stanze said. “He was picked up ten minutes after you left him at Marilyn Monroe’s house.”

I got to my feet fast. “What the hell for?”

“He pointed a gun at a cop,” Stanze said. “Two cops, as a matter of fact.”

“We didn’t know they were cops,” I said. “They could’ve been the guys who made my friend disappear. Isn’t that what you said? Somebody made him disappear?”

“I’m looking into it,” Stanze said. “What were you doing in Palm Springs?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you took Marilyn Monroe somewhere. Why?”

“She’s a friend of mine,” I said. “I didn’t want any of this spilling over on to her.”

“Look, I assume you were candid with me in our first meeting,” Stanze said. “So you took Miss Monroe someplace safe? What did you do? Put her in a motel?”

“Marilyn Monroe in a motel?” I asked.

“Okay, come on,” Stanze said. “Let’s go downstairs and see your guy.”

“You’re not gonna arrest him, are you?”

“Let’s see if he’s got that permit.”

W
E WENT DOWN TO
a holding cell where they had Jerry, who was sitting on a bunk, looking very calm. Outside the cell was the uniformed turnkey and another uniformed cop.

“Open it,” Stanze told the turnkey.

“Yes, sir.”

He opened the cell door, then backed away. Stanze entered and I followed.

“Mr. Epstein,” Stanze said, “my name is Detective Stanze.”

Jerry looked up at him.

“Mr. Gianelli has explained to me that you didn’t know the two men were cops when you pointed your gun at them. Is that correct?”

I had no idea what I’d done but apparently I’d earned back my “mister.”

“He’s right.”

“I need to see your pistol permit.”

“It’s with my stuff,” Jerry said, “which they took away from me.”

Detective Stanze turned to the cop standing outside the cell.

“Get me his things.”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked at Jerry. “Is there any point in me asking you the same questions I asked Mr. Gianelli?”

“Whatever Mr. G. said, I agree with.”

“That’s what I thought. What do you do in Brooklyn, Mr. Epstein?”

“This and that.”

Stanze looked at me. “Why is it every time I ask one of these guys what they do they say ‘this and that,’” he asked me.

“What guys are those?”

“One of these torpedoes,” Stanze said, “or hard guys, or whatever they call themselves these days. Gunsel. Wiseguys. Isn’t that what they call them back east?”

“I ain’t a wiseguy,” Jerry said, “and I’m nobody’s torpedo.”

“Oh, sensitive, huh?”

The cops returned with an envelope holding Jerry’s things. There was a table in the cell, so Stanze emptied the envelope onto it. Wallet, some change, a key ring with three keys. No gun. Jerry had not been dumb enough to carry it into the police station.