Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

Fifteen

Before leaving Danny’s office I verified for him that yes, Dori was the one with the big boobs from the Sahara, and he told me not to worry about Lenny and Buzz, that he’d check them out for me.

“I’m sure they did what they did just for the money,” he said, “and nothing personal. If I pay them enough they might roll over on whoever they’re working for.”

“How much is enough?”

“I don’t know,” Danny said. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it and let you know.”

He hadn’t picked up any word on the street about who might want to threaten Dean Martin, but he’d only been working on it since yesterday. I knew he had the word out, so I wasn’t worried about that.

“You want to see a doctor?” he asked, before I left.

“I’m trying to be discreet, Danny.”

“I got a guy who won’t ask any questions,” he said. He opened his drawer and gave me a card. “I’ll call ahead and tell him you’re comin’.”

It wasn’t a bad idea, so I said okay.

“I don’t see any cracked ribs on the X-ray,” Doctor Gregory Edstrom said. He was holding my X-ray up to the light to show me. I didn’t know what I was looking at, but I nodded.

“That’s good.”

“You’ve got a deep-tissue bruise on your back,” he said, putting the X-ray down. “Take a few hot baths over the next few days, let the heat soak in. You got a heating pad?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Get one, use it, too.”

“What about my knee?”

“No permanent damage there, but it’s gonna hurt like a motherfucker for a while. Can you stay off of it?”

“Not likely.”

His language belied his appearance, which was remarkably clean-cut and youthful, even though he had to be in his late forties.

“Here.” He handed me a container of capsules. “Take these if the pain gets bad.”

“What are they?”

“Demerol,” he said. “They’re strong, so don’t take them unless you have to, and if you do, stay inside and don’t drive.” He tapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t fuck up.”

“Okay.” I put them in my pocket with no intention of ever taking them out.

“Your scalp wound took only three stitches,” he said. “I could put a bandage on, but if I don’t your hairline will hide them and no one will notice.”

“I don’t need a bandage.”

“Don’t get it wet.”

“Right.”

“Your eyes are responsive, so you don’t have a concussion. Far as I can tell you got away pretty cheaply from whatever you were doing.”

“I was just-”

He held up his hand.

“I don’t ask any questions, and I’d appreciate the same courtesy.”

“Okay, fine. Are we done?”

“You’re done,” he said. “No running or jumping for a while. Keep your life down to a low roar.”

“What do I owe you?”

“Fifty bucks.”

I gave him cash.

I came away from Danny’s doctor knowing pretty much what I’d known before, but fifty bucks poorer. Well, at least I had three stitches and some Demerol to show for it.

I was driving a ’52 Caddy then, the car I’d bought to celebrate getting the job at the Sands. I loved that car, kept it in good shape, and was going to drive it as long as I could.

I got behind the wheel and rubbed my face with both hands. Did I have the balls to go to Jack Entratter, Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin and pull out of this thing? I’d only been at it a day and already I had a sore back, bruised ribs, swollen knee and stitches in my head-and it could’ve been a lot worse.

However, the longer I sat there fingering the bottle of painkillers in my pocket the angrier I got. Some sonofabitch had sent two leg-breakers to my house and then had the balls to call me the next day and play gangster games with me, thinking he could scare me off.

I was scared, all right, but just too mad to walk away.