Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

Twenty-seven

I didn’t mean to wait for Frank Sinatra’s gift to arrive, but as it turned out it took me that long to get myself around. When the knock came at the door I decided that entirely too many people knew where I lived.

When I opened the door a big guy was standing there blocking out the sun. He was even bigger than Mack Gray.

“Oh, no, not again.” I figured I was in for another beating.

“Huh?” he said.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“You Gianelli?”

“That’s right.”

“Eddie Gianelli, right? Eddie G?”

“That’s me.”

“Then I got the right place.”

“The right place for what?”

“Frank sent me.”

“Frank … Sinatra?”

“That’s right,” the man said. “He told me to tell you I was your gift? You know what that means?”

“Yeah,” I said, “yeah, I’m afraid I do.”

His name was Gerald Epstein but he told me I could call him Jerry. I didn’t want to call him anything, because I didn’t want him around.

He was sitting at my kitchen table, drinking coffee Frank Sinatra had made, while I tried to convince him he didn’t have to stay.

“I don’t leave until you do.”

“You mean … you’re goin’ with me everywhere I go?”

He nodded.

“Until Frank tells me not to.”

“Jerry … are you carryin’ a gun?”

“Of course,” he said, looking at me as if I was nuts. “What kinda bodyguard would I be if I didn’t have a gun?” He pulled aside his jacket to show me the piece in his shoulder holster. I recognized it as a.45, same thing I carried in the army.

“Jerry, if you get caught with that-”

“I got a permit.”

That figured.

“Did Frank tell you what’s goin’ on?” I asked.

“He said a coupla guys worked you over. He said I should make sure that does not happen again.”

“Did he tell you who worked me over? Or why?”

“No,” he said, “but I don’t have to know that to do my job.”

“Well, let me ask you,” I said, “do you know two guys named Lenny Davis and Buzz Ravisi?”

“No. Are they local?”

“I think so.”

“I ain’t local,” he said. “I’m in from New York.”

“When did you get here?”

“Last night.”

I hesitated to ask the next question. Partly because I didn’t want to know the answer, partly because I thought I already knew.

“Who do you work for in New York, Jerry?”

“I work for Mr. Giancana. And while I’m in Vegas, I work for Frank.”

That’s what I was afraid he was going to say. I’d spent my life tryingto stay out of street gangs when I was growing up, and away from the mob as an adult. I’d thought I could work in the casinos in Vegas and stay away from them, and I thought I had done pretty well for twelve years-except maybe for Jack Entratter-but now …

… Frank Sinatra …

… Sam Giancana …

… I guess the connection was unavoidable.