Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

Eleven

I was still sitting on the stool, nursing the same drink, when Joey Bishop entered the bar. He spotted me and came walking over with a spring in his step.

“You look happy,” I said.

“I’m always happy after a good show,” he said. “Last night was a good show.”

“What happened to you after?” I asked. “Did you go out with the rest of ’em?”

“I turned in,” Joey said. “I can’t handle the nightlife like Frank and Peter and Sammy can. How about you? How did your meeting with Dean go?’

“Fine, I guess.”

“Are you, uh, helping him out?”

“I am,” I said. “You got any idea what it’s about, Joey?”

“No,” he said, “but if Frank or Dean want me to know, they’ll tell me.”

“Fair enough,” I said, “but tell me more about Mack Gray?”

“Mack? What about him?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“He’s a loyal guy,” Joey said. “He was loyal to George Raft for years, and now he’s loyal to Dean.”

“Why would Dean keep anything from him, then?”

“I don’t know, Eddie,” Joey said. “You’d have to ask Dean. Why? Did Mack say anything to you?”

“Mack is mad,” I said, “I’m just not sure if he’s mad at me or at Dean.”

“Mack doesn’t get mad at Dean, ever,” Joey said.

“Great, then he’s mad at me. I don’t need that.”

“If you want Mack off your back go to Dean,” Joey said. “He’ll take care of it.”

“No, I’ll wait a while,” I said. “I don’t wanna bother Dean until I have something positive to tell him.”

“Well,” Joey said, slapping me on the back, “I saw you from across the floor and thought I’d ask you how things went.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

He shook his head. “I don’t drink. One of these days we’ll have coffee, or tea. I’ll see ya.”

I watched Joey go, wondering how he could hang out with those guys and remain a teetotaler?

Harry waved my money away for the drink, so I dropped a generous tip on the bar and left.

I spent time talking to some of the Sands employees who might have known or seen something. I also spoke with the front desk and security staff about mail practices in the hotel. Who got it, who delivered it, that sort of thing. After that I talked with the people who really run Vegas-the bellmen and the valets. I asked whatever questions came to mind, collected information and stored it away in my head. Once I was finished talking with staff at the Sands, I knew I was going to have to spend some time outside the casino. I had contacts in all the other casinos, but I couldn’t just put out word that I was looking for someone who had been heard threatening Dean Martin. That would have been something less than discreet. So instead of simply “putting the word out,” I was going to have to do some pavement-pounding and talk to my contacts individually. Some were merelycontacts but others were also friends, so I would have to deal with each of them on a very individual basis.

It was going to take quite a bit of time.

By the time I got home that night my feet hurt from the walking and I had a buzz on because a lot of the conversations had taken place over drinks. If I hadn’t been just a little bit looped I might have noticed that I had entered my own home without using the key. That might have alerted me that the scene was wrong, and helped me avoid a lot of pain.

As it was something hit me in the middle of the back just as I entered. The force of the blow propelled me forward awkwardly until I lost my balance and tumbled to the floor. I tried to catch my breath as the door slammed, and then the lamp clicked on.

In the dim light by the sofa I saw two men staring down at me. The blow had come not from a fist but from a blackjack one of them was holding. I had the feeling that he had not missed one of my kidneys by accident.

“Get his wallet,” one of them said, as I still struggled to catch my breath. A shot to the middle of the back takes all the air out of your lungs and mine were screaming for a refill.

“What for?”

“I wanna see if he’s the guy.”

“He come walkin’ in, didn’t he?”

“The door wasn’t locked.”

“But he had a key in his hand,” one of them said. “I heard it jingle.”

“Get his fuckin’ wallet, will ya?”

The guy without the blackjack reached down and lifted my wallet from my jacket. I couldn’t have stopped him if I wanted to, but at least my breath was starting to come back. My eyes were tearing, though, so I couldn’t see their faces clearly. The shadows thrown by the lamp didn’t help matters any. Their faces were shrouded in it rather than illuminated.

“What’s his name?” Blackjack asked.

“I’m lookin’,” Wallet said. “Says on his driver’s license ’Eddie Gianelli’?” He looked at his partner. “That the guy?”

“That’s the guy.”

My wallet came flying at me and landed on my chest.

“Whataya wanna do now?” the second man asked.

“Hold ’im down,” Blackjack said. “I’m gonna hurt ’im.”

“Hey,” I finally managed to say, “what the hell-”

“Shut up,” the second man said, and emphasized that this was an order and not a request with a kick to my ribs.

“We’re only supposed to scare ’im, you know,” he said to his partner.

“Yeah, well,” Blackjack said, “hurtin’ him will scare ’im, I guarantee ya. Just hold ’im.”

The second guy got down behind me, then slid his arms inside my elbows and pulled my arms back, pinning them there with the aid of his knee, which he planted in my back right where the blackjack had hit me. It hurt so much I began to flail around, kicking my legs, until the man with the blackjack leaned down and rapped me on one knee with it. That made me forget the pain in my back as I howled.

“Hello?”

It was a woman’s voice calling from the front door, which none of the three of us had heard open.

“We gotta go!” Blackjack hissed.

“Why?” the other man asked, almost in my ear. “It’s just a broad.”

“We got orders about him,” the first man said, “not some broad. Let ’im go.”

I felt my arms being released and I tried to shout a warning to whoever was at the door, but suddenly something hit me on the head and me and my tortured lungs went down a black hole …