Hey There (You with the Gun in Your Hand)

Eighteen

Everyone who took us to Tahoe was the same-the driver who picked us up at the house, the helicopter pilot, and then Henry, who drove us from the heliport to Harrah’s, rather than to the Cal Neva. I wasn’t figuring we’d stay overnight.

When we got to Harrah’s I considered making Jerry wait in the lobby, but if push came to shove Jerry’s neck would be on the line along with mine. He deserved better.

I knocked on Sammy’s door. When he opened it he looked as if he hadn’t slept. His eyes were red-rimmed and he had a cigarette in his mouth-one of many I was sure he’d gone through since we talked the night before. I wondered if the red eyes were only from lack of sleep, or if he’d been drinking, as well. I didn’t know Sammy’s habits, if he drank or did drugs, so I couldn’t really hazard a guess.

But he seemed steady as he said, “Come on in.”

We followed him in and Jerry closed the door behind us.

“This the cat you told me about?” Sammy asked when we reached the sofa. “The one you said you could trust?”

“Yes,” I said, “this is Jerry.”

“I know you, don’t I?” Sammy asked.

“Maybe,” Jerry said. “I was around a couple of times last year.”

“Sure, okay,” Sammy said. “You helped with Frank and Dean’s problems.”

“I helped Mr. G., yeah.”

Sammy leaned over, stubbed out the cigarette in a loaded ashtray, and immediately lit another one.

“You got it?” he asked, then. “You bring the gun?”

Jerry had offered to carry the gun and I’d let him. He was so big it made less of a bulge in his belt. He reached behind his back and took it out, wrapped in a cloth. Neither of us had touched it with our bare hands.

I put it down on the table and unwrapped it.

“Examine it without touching it,” I told Sammy.

“I don’t have to examine it,” he said. “It’s one of mine.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“A man knows his own guns,” he said.

“He’s right, Mr. G.,” Jerry offered.

“That’s just great,” I said. “I need a drink. Anybody else?”

“Sure,” Sammy said.

“I’ll get ’em,” Jerry said.

“Here.” Sammy picked up a glass from the table next to the sofa and handed it to Jerry. “Bourbon, rocks.”

“Me, too, Jerry.”

Jerry went to the bar and built three drinks while I stayed where I was and watched Sammy, who actually crouched down and stared at the gun.

“Do we know for sure the cat was killed with this gun?” he asked.

“No,” I said, “but it seems pretty obvious somebody wanted you to get the blame.”

He used one finger to move the gun, just touching the cloth. Jerry came over, handed me my drink and put Sammy’s down on the table.

“Is that gun registered to you?” I asked Sammy.

“No,” he said, “none of them are registered. They’re all supposed to be collector’s pieces.”

“Does that mean they’re not supposed to fire?”

“Right,” Sammy said. He grabbed his drink and stood up. “Most of them are plugged, like the two you saw yesterday.”

“But this one actually works?”

“Yes.”

“Who knew that?” I asked. “Who knows about your guns?”

“Just a few people,” Sammy said, “but I trust them. May, Silber, my dad …”

There was an overstuffed armchair behind me and I decided to sit down. Jerry sat in an identical chair a few feet away. Sammy remained standing, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, and it looked to me like he was swaying.

“Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you sit down?”

He stared at me for a moment, then seemed to process what I said and sat on the sofa.

“Somethin’s wrong here,” I said. “You’re not tellin’ me everything.”

He hesitated.

“Come on, Sam. One of your guns goes missin’ and you don’t know it? I don’t buy that.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry, man. Yeah, the gun was taken the same time the photos were.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m not sure I know the answer to that, Eddie,” he replied. “Maybe I didn’t think you’d help me if you knew about the gun.”

“You never reported it missing?”

“I told you, none of them are registered.”

I thought a minute, then said, “Okay. Forget it. It doesn’t change anything right now. We still have to deal with this.”

“You still haven’t called the police?” Sammy asked.

“No,” I said, “and as far as we know a body hasn’t been found. At least, it wasn’t on the news this morning.”

“But you’re gonna call ’em?”

I looked at Jerry, who looked away. I knew his thoughts on the subject.

“I feel like I have to.”

“Of course.”

“It’s gonna be found sooner or later,” I reasoned.

Sammy nodded, added another stubbed-out butt to the ashtray and lit up a fresh cigarette.

“What about this?” he asked. “What are we gonna do with this?”

We all stared at the gun.

“Well, it’s yours.” Jerry and I still hadn’t touched it.

“But it may have killed someone.”

“We don’t know that, but yeah, it may have.”

“Get rid of it,” Jerry said.

Sammy and I both looked at him.

“Throw it in the lake.”

Sammy looked at me.

“I do that, we’ll never know,” Sammy said.

“What’s the difference?” I asked. “The guy’s dead.”

“If we throw away the murder weapon, how will they ever find out who the killer was?” he asked.

“If you don’t get rid of it,” Jerry said, “they could use it to prove you did it.”

Sammy looked at me and I shrugged.

“Jerry knows more about this stuff than either one of us.” I looked over at the big guy. “Keep going, Jerry.”

“If the dead guy is one of the blackmailers,” Jerry said, “who cares who killed ’im? You didn’t, right?”

“Of course not,” Sammy said. “I was here-I was on stage last night.”

“We don’t need an alibi, Sam,” I said.

“It’s more likely the blackmailers got into it and one of them shot the other one.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” Sammy asked.

“Like I said, get rid of the gun,” Jerry answered. “Then sit and wait for somebody to get in touch with you.”

He sat back in his chair.

“He’s more than just muscle, huh?” Sammy asked.

“And he can cook,” I said.