Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

Twenty-six

It was the end of a long day that had resulted in the death of two women I didn’t know. Still, I was obviously a suspect in their deaths, otherwise I would not have received that late-evening visit at my home from Detectives Hargrove and Smith.

Since agreeing to try to help Dean Martin I had been beaten up in my home, found a dead woman, and become a suspect in two murders. I had every reason to pull out and tell both Dean and Frank thanks but no thanks, I didn’t think I could help them. But there was still my curiosity to be appeased, and the only way to do that was to find Unlucky Lou.

I was trying to decide between another beer and bed when the phone rang. I checked the clock. Two A.M.

“Mr. G, that you?” I recognized the voice right away. Mike Borraco. I had given him my home number as well as my number at the Sands.

“Mike?”

“Hey, it is you,” Mike said. “I hope I ain’t callin’ too late.”

“This is Vegas, Mike,” I said. “It’s never too late.” I didn’t want him to know I was on the verge of turning in for the night. “What can I do for you?”

“I think I might have a location on Unlucky Lou,” Mike said,“but I won’t know for sure until tomorrow. Will I be able to reach you?”

“You can call me at the Sands and leave a message,” I said. “I’ll probably be out and about.”

“Okay,” Mike said. “Hey, I heard about Carla and her roommate. Tough break. You think Lou had anything to do with that?”

“I don’t know, Mike.”

“Whatever you was lookin’ for him about musta been important, huh? Somebody’s out there killin’ people over it. I was thinkin’ ….”

“Thinking what, Mike?”

“Well … I was thinkin’ the info about Lou might be worth a little more money than what we discussed.”

“Mike,” I said, “I have no idea why those two women were killed. It’s got nothing to do with why I was lookin’ for Lou, believe me.”

“Just a coincidence, huh?”

“Exactly,” I said. “Just a coincidence.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I’ll call ya tomorrow, Mr. G.”

I didn’t know where the “Mr. G” stuff came from, but I said sure and hung up. I had the feeling Mike didn’t know anything yet, and was just trying to jack up the price.

I hung up and decided to go to bed. I was tired, and sore, but that wasn’t the reason. I just wanted the day to end. Maybe after a good night’s sleep I’d decide to hell with the whole thing and go back to my pit.

I woke up the next morning to a pounding on my front door. Thinking it was the police again I wasn’t in a hurry to answer it. Wearing only pajama bottoms I stumbled to the door and opened it. Standing there was Frank Sinatra. He was wearing a white tuxedo, no tie, his shirt collar open. At the curb was a black limousine with the motor running. The back window was rolled down about halfway and I thought I could see a woman’s head, blonde.

“Frank.”

“’Mornin’, pally,” he said. “Got any coffee?”

“I, uh, can put some on,” I replied. “What time is it?”

“I’m not sure. Eight? Nine?”

“Come on in.” I backed away from the doorway. “What about your … friends?”

I thought I heard giggling from the car and revised my estimate. He had at least two women in there.

“They’re fine,” he said, waving a hand negligently. “They’ve got champagne, and Henry’s with them.” I assumed he meant Henry Silva. “I need coffee.”

“Yeah, sure. I, uh, lemme get some pants on. Have a seat.”

I left Frank Sinatra in my living room. I pulled on a pair of slacks and a T-shirt, ran a comb through my hair and hurried back out. He wasn’t there, but I heard something clinking in the kitchen.

As I entered I found him with a can of coffee on the counter, using an opener on it.

“I can do that, Frank.”

“I got it, Eddie,” he said. “Have a seat. Want some toast? Got any bread?”

“Second drawer.” I was thinking, Frank Sinatra is making me breakfast! And then I tried to get past that.

He’d obviously been up all night, had probably gone out directly from the Rat Pack show in the Copa Room. But his eyes seemed bright and clear, his hair was perfectly combed. Even though his jacket was wrinkled and his tie was missing, he still looked like he was ready to go on, or to shoot a movie.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a set somewhere?” I asked. “Ocean’s Eleven?”

“They’ll wait.” The hand wave, again. He spooned out the coffee, put the lid on and set it on a burner. “They can’t do a thing without us and then we always get it in one take. Know what Smokey calls us? ‘One-Take Charlies.’ Stove works, I hope.”

“It works.” My kitchen was filthy. “Cleaning lady hasn’t been in.”

“Forget it,” he said, coming over to sit across from me. “You should see some of the dives I’ve had coffee in.”

“Frank … you weren’t just passin’ by.”

“You’re right,” he said, reaching across the table and tapping me on the arm. “I got your address from Jack before I left the Sands last night. I wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?” I asked. “I’ve only been on this thing for a day and-”

“Jack told me what’s been going on. A dead showgirl? What’s that all about?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “and it’s two dead showgirls.”

“Two?” Sinatra looked shocked. “What kinda nut kills two gorgeous babes?”

I shrugged helplessly.

“You know, Ed,” Sinatra said, “if you want to pull out you can.”

“Frank, I don’t think the two girls have anything to do with you or Dean. That’s just somethin’ I kinda walked into.”

“You did have two clydes work you over, though, right?” Frank asked. “Warn you away from Dean?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“They hurt you bad?”

“A bump on the head, a few sore ribs,” I said.

Frank smiled. “You and me, we got worse than that when we were kids, right?”

“Right, Frank,” I said, without much enthusiasm.

“Hoboken, Brooklyn, not much difference between the two.”

I didn’t agree with that. No Brooklyn boy would ever agree that any part of New Jersey was the same as Brooklyn, but I kept that opinion to myself.

The room began to fill with the smell of percolating coffee. Sinatra sat back in his chair and appeared to breath the aroma in deeply. I seemed to remember that he had recorded something called “The Coffee Song,” a few years back.

“So you’re still with us, then?” he asked.

“I’m with you, Frank.”

“Any word yet? Any … clues?”

“None. I talked to everyone at the hotel. Nobody remembers envelopes being delivered for Dean. Has he been at the set?”

“He was there yesterday, and he’ll be there today.” He shot his cuff and looked at his watch. “I’ve got just enough time for a cup.”

He stood up, found where I kept the cups and poured us each full. We both sipped and made the same face.

“I make a lousy cuppa joe,” he said, and pushed his away.

To me coffee’s coffee, so I continued to drink it.

“Walk me to the door.”

He stood up and I followed. We walked to the door shoulder to shoulder.

“I’ve got somethin’ for you.”

“What?”

“It’ll be here in a couple of hours. When do you go to work?”

“I’m off the clock.”

“Good,” he said, “then you’ll still be here when it arrives.”

He opened my front door and stepped outside. We stood in the doorway and shook hands. I heard the girls laughing in the car. They didn’t seem to be missing Frank at all.

“Can you give me a hint?” I asked.

“I don’t want to ruin the surprise.” He started down the walk toward the limo, then turned nimbly. “You need any money? For expenses or something?”

“No,” I said, “I’m good, Frank.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, Frank.”

He turned and looked at me expectantly. I looked around, saw no one, but stepped outside anyway, to get closer to him so I could lower my voice.

“Frank, do you think anyone …’well, connected, is after Dean?”

“Kid,” he said, though he wasn’t that much older than me, “if anyone ‘connected’ was after Dean, he’d be dead by now. Capice?”