Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

Two

I was only back at my pit half an hour when one of the other pit bosses, Richie Castellani, came over and whispered in my ear, “Boss wants you, G. Now.”

The boss was Jack Entratter, who had left his job as assistant manager and bouncer at the Copacabana in New York to come to Vegas to run the Sands Hotel and Casino for Frank Costeilo-or so the story goes. All of the entertainers who went through the Copa while Jack was there had come to love him, so not only had Frank, Dean, Sammy and the others made the Sands their place in Las Vegas but others, too, like Lena Horne, Nat King Cole, Milton Berle, Danny Thomas, Tony Bennett and Dean’s old partner, Jerry Lewis.

Richie stepped into the pit and I left and headed for Jack’s office. I knew what this was about. Entratter and Sinatra were friends, and Frank was a two-percent owner in the casino; I had the feeling Joey Bishop had gone over my head.

I knocked on Entratter’s door and he shouted, “Come in!”

If Entratter was really running the Sands for Costello, he was the perfect choice. He wasn’t Italian, and nobody would ever take him for one. Jack was six three or four, a hulking brute of a man who had been left bandy-legged by the childhood disease osteomyelitis. As a twenty-six year old in 1940 he had signed on as bouncer at the Copaand over the next twelve years had moved up to assistant manager without giving up his bouncer job. At thirty-eight he had left the Copa to take over the newest casino in Vegas, the Sands. Now Jack was forty-six and ruled the Sands with an iron hand, but he was even better known as a showman. There were times he even got up on stage with the Pack. I envied him that. I was a shower singer who dreamed about being on stage.

He was sitting behind his desk, alone in the office, when I entered. His suit was sharp, but it lost some of its edges because it was on Entratter’s body. His tie was askew and his shoulders were threatening his seams.

“What the hell are you tryin’ to do to me?” he demanded.

“Boss?”

“Who’s my best friend in the world?”

Well, the answer to that varied from week to week, but I knew what he wanted to hear.

“Frank Sinatra.”

“You bet your ass, Frank Sinatra,” he growled. “So when my best friend in the world asks you for help, what do you tell him? You tell him no.”

“Well, uh, I told Joey I’d like to take a pass,” I tried to explain. “I never did talk to Mr. Sinatra-”

“Don’t you think you should?” Entratter asked. “I mean, before you take a pass shouldn’t you find out what you’re takin’ a pass from?” He made it sound like the most reasonable request in the world.

“Jack, I-”

“You work for me, don’t ya, Eddie?”

“Well, yeah, Jack, I do, but-”

“So if I ordered you to talk to Frank you would, right?”

“I, uh, well, sure-”

“But I ain’t gonna do that.”

“You’re not?”

“Siddown, Eddie.”

I sat across from him.

“You’re from New York, right?” He knew that, but I answered the question, anyway.

“That’s right. Brooklyn.”

“I never saw you at the Copa.”

“I never went,” I said. “It was more than I could afford back then.”

“Yeah, it was kinda expensive.”

For a moment Entratter retreated a dozen or so years inside his head, then shook off the reverie and looked at me again. “I ain’t gonna order you to talk to Frank, kid.” He called me “kid” a lot, even though he was only about six years older than I was.

“I appreciate that, Jack-”

“I’m gonna ask ya to do it as a favor to me, Eddie,” he went on, cutting me off. “Go and talk to him, see what he wants. If you can help him, help him. If not …” he shrugged.

I owed Entratter a lot and he knew it. That’s why he was asking me instead of telling me.

“You’re the man here in Vegas,” Jack said, then. “You know everybody there is to know in this town. You got it wired. Hookers, pimps, valets, doormen, high rollers and bums, you know ’em all. If anybody can help Frank it’s Eddie G-”

“Okay, Jack, okay,” I said. “Geez, enough. A guy can only take so much stroking. I get the picture. I’m your man.”

“Great!’ Jack said, clapping his big hands together.”Joey’s down in the casino waitin’ for you.”

“You knew I’d say yes?”

“If ya hadn’t,” Jack said, “I woulda ordered ya to. But I knew I could count on you, kid. Now get out. I got work to do.”

I headed for the door, but never made it.

“Eddie.”

“Yeah, Boss.” I turned to face him with my back to the door.

“I’m curious,” he said. “Why’d you refuse in the first place?”

“Like I said,” I replied, “I’m from Brooklyn.”

“So?”

“Frank’s from Jersey.” I made a face.

“Get out!”

I left Jack’s office and made my way back to the casino floor. Joey was seated at an empty blackjack table, waiting for me. As I approached him he stood up, his face expressionless.

“Steam room?” I asked.

“Steam room,” he said.