Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

Fourteen

The offices of Bardini Investigations were at 150 Fremont Street, between the Fremont Street Casino and Binion’s Horseshoe Club, above a gift shop. When I opened the door Penny O’Grady looked up at me from her desk. I walked over and put a container down in front of her. She switched off her portable radio, cutting off the howling of what sounded like Buddy Holly. Dean Martin he ain’t.

“Coffee or tea?” she asked.

“Tea,” I said. “It doesn’t take me long to learn.”

“I’ve only been working for Danny for five years,” she said. “It’s taken me that long to get his files in shape, and for you to learn I drink tea.”

Penny had come to Danny right out of college and convinced him to hire her. At the time he’d been running his office alone. Now she was twenty-seven and pushing him to make her a partner. She had freckles, long legs and red hair and the only thing that kept her from being a knockout was a snub nose she was saving to have fixed. In my opinion she was smart enough to be a partner, but Danny liked the idea of a one-man shop-with secretary. Neither of them had ever bothered to satisfy my curiosity about whether or not they were sleeping or had ever slept together.

“Go on in,” she said. “He’s not doing anything important.”

“Thanks.”

I went past her and through the door to Danny’s office without knocking.

“What happened to you?” he asked, immediately.

“Does it show?”

“You’re limping,” he said, “and walking hunched over. And what happened to your head?”

I put my hand up to my scalp. I’d gotten past Penny, but not old eagle-eye Danny.

“I didn’t think it showed.”

“I’m a detective, remember?” he asked. “Speaking of which, I deduce that’s coffee in your hand. Fork it over here.”

I limped to his desk, sat across from him and handed him his coffee. He opened it, inhaled it, tasted it and then sat back and closed his eyes with a sigh. He liked it with four sugars, so I was always surprised his teeth didn’t just drop out of his mouth.

“I swear I’m gonna fire that girl if she doesn’t start makin’ coffee.” He opened his eyes and looked at me. “Okay, now give.”

I told him the story, starting from when I entered my house without using the key and ending with Dori leaving the next morning.

“Not having to use your key to get in should have been your first clue,” he commented when I was done.

“I came here so you could tell me something I don’t know, Danny.” My tone was a bit testy.

“Okay, okay,” Danny said, “calm down. No damage to doors or windows, you said?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you were dealin’ with pros,” he said. “If you can describe them I can identify them for you.”

“I got hit as soon as I walked in,” I said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t focus.”

“Well,” Danny said, “toss in the phone call you got this morning and it’s obvious this is all because of this … Rat Pack thing you’re involved in.”

“Why didn’t he just say so on the phone?”

“Maybe he thought your phone would be tapped.”

“Why would someone tap my phone?”

“Maybe,” Danny said, “he knows his own phone is tapped.”

“You’re saying he was with the mob?” I asked.

“Who else would have their phones tapped?”

“So that’s why he didn’t want to say Frank or Dean’s name.”

“Especially Sinatra’s,” Danny said. “And the guys they sent were real pro leg-breakers, not hit men, or you’d be dead.”

“One of them told the other one to hold me so he could hurt me.”

“Figures.” Danny took time to sip his coffee and eye me over the rim. “There’s nothing else you can tell me about them?”

“Well,” I said, “they bitched at each other like an old married couple.”

He laughed. “Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

“Why?”

“Because now I know who they are.”

“Who?”

“Lenny Davis and Buzz Ravisi.”

“Are they workin’ for the mob?”

“They’re pros,” he said, “but not top of the line. They freelance as leg-breakers for the books, so I’m sure they’ve done some work for the mob at one time or another, but not for the big boys.”

“So what’s this mean for me?”

“It means that whoever’s skin you’ve gotten under, he’s not connected high up.”

I thought about that for a moment.

“Or he doesn’t want you to think he is.”

“That’s a big help.”

“You want a gun?” he asked. “I can give you one, or get you one.”

“What would I do with a gun?” I asked. “No, no gun.” Not yet, anyway. Besides, I hadn’t handled one since Korea. I’d shoot myself in the foot.

“This Dori,” he said, then, “she the one with the big knockers from the Sahara?”