Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

Twenty-two

I watched from the balcony outside her room as two sheriff’s deputies brought Carla DeLucca up from the bottom of the pool.

“Those guys are gonna have to be decontaminated,” someone next to me said.

I turned my head and found myself looking at a tall, slender man in a lightweight gray sports jacket, gray slacks and a felt fedora.

“My name’s Detective Hargrove,” he said. “I’m with the Las Vegas P.D. And you are?”

“Gianelli,” I said, “Ed Gianelli.”

“And you’re the one who called this in, Mr. Gianelli?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

I caught something on his breath, the unmistakable smell of Sen-Sen. He either thought he was going to meet some showgirls here, or like most cops he drank and was trying to cover the smell of booze. Since he was in his forties, with a busted blood vessel or two around his nose, I opted for the second.

He leaned his elbows on the railing right next to me and stared down at the pool.

“There’s a job I wouldn’t want to have.”

“Shouldn’t you be down there?”

“Naw,” he said. “I’m pretty sure she’s dead.”

“Maybe,” I said, “she fell.”

“Nope,” he said. “If she’d just fallen over the edge she would have hit the tiles. No, somebody picked her up and pitched her off. That’s how she hit the pool.”

“Wouldn’t she have made a big splash?”

“Probably,” he said.

“Somebody would have heard it, wouldn’t they?”

“That’s what we’re gonna find out,” Hargrove said. “We’ll go around door to door, asking people what they heard. And do you know what they’ll say?”

“What?”

“They didn’t hear a thing, didn’t see a thing.”

Unfortunately I knew just what he was talking about. After all, I was from New York.

“So,” he said, then, “tell me what you saw?”

Briefly, I told him about finding the door open and what I’d found inside.

“You didn’t see her in the pool and then go inside?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I said. “I didn’t look into the pool until after I saw the inside of the apartment.”

“And what made you look into the pool then, Mr. Gianelli?”

“I–I’m not sure,” I said, truthfully. “To me the place looked like there’d been a fight. I came outside, leaned on the railing. I guess I was wondering what to do next when I looked down.”

“Back up a moment, Mr. Gianelli,” he said. “What do you mean, you ‘were wondering what to do next?’ Why wouldn’t you just call the police?”

“I–I was trying to decide whether to go back inside and use the phone, or go to the office.”

“And what did you decide, sir?”

“I went to the office,” I said. “I told the desk clerk what happened and asked if I could use his phone.”

“Did you know the deceased?” Hargrove asked.

“Never met her.”

“Who lives here, Mr. Gianelli?” he asked.

“A girl named Carla DeLucca lives here with her roommate.”

“And what’s the roommate’s name?”

“That I don’t know.”

He returned to face me, still leaning on the railing. Below me they were laying the body out on the tiles next to the pool.

“Why were you lookin’ for her?”

I decided to tell the truth. There was no harm in it that I could see. The only thing I knew I wasn’t going to mention to the police were the names Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin.

I explained how I’d gone to the Riviera looking for Lou Terazzo, and had been told by someone that Carla might know where he was.

“The Riviera,” Hargrove said. “Buddy Hackett’s playin’ there, ain’t he?”

I was about to say I didn’t know when I realized he was right. I guess I had glanced at the marquee on my way into the Riv and now it sprang into my head with Buddy Hackett’s name on it.

“Yes, I think he is.”

“I love that guy,” he said, “but you know who I really think is funny?”

I was afraid he was going to say me. Was he not believing what I was telling him. It was true, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to haul me in.

“Who?” I asked.

“Redd Foxx,” he said. “That guy cracks me up. Is he in town, anywhere?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you work for a casino, Mr. Gianelli?”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m a pit boss at the Sands.”

“The Sands,” he said. “Frank Costello’s got a piece of that place, hasn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just a pit boss there.”

“But you know Jack Entratter, right?”

“Of course,” I said, “he’s my boss.”

“Yeah.”

Maybe he’d wanted to see if I’d lie about knowing Jack.

“Lou Terazzo works for Eddie Torres,” Hargrove said.

“You know Lou?”

“I know all the mob guys in Vegas, Mr. Gianelli,” he said. “That surprise you, to hear that Lou’s mobbed up?”

“Lieutenant-” I said.

“Detective,” he said, “just detective.”

“Detective Hargrove,” I said, “I’m not naive. I know the mob is in Vegas.”

“That’s an understatement, Mr. Gianelli,” he said, cutting me off. “The mob is Vegas. You work in a casino, you work for the mob. That’s just how it is.”

Yeah, I wanted to say, and all the cops in Vegas are on the take. Hargrove looked down towards the pool, nodded and waved to somebody.

“My partner is downstairs, Mr. Gianelli,” he said. “He wants you to take a look at the body. Maybe you can identify it.”

“I probably can’t,” I argued. “I never saw Carla DeLucca, I just heard about her.”

“Well, maybe you’d be kind enough to take a look, anyway.”

I was going to argue and ask why they didn’t get the desk clerk to do it when I looked down. The girl was lying on her back, her showgirl’s body looking curiously sunken. Her wet hair was plastered to her head, but even though it was wet I could see one thing clearly.

“That’s not Carla DeLucca,” I said. “I don’t know who it is, but it’s not her.”

“You’ve gone from not knowing her to bein’ able to I.D. her from up here?”

“I don’t know her,” I said, “but I know that she’s a brunette, and that girl-” I pointed down, “-is definitely a blonde.”