Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

Twenty-nine

After breakfast I found out that Jerry had washed down his pancakes with two pots of coffee and a quart of orange juice. He’d also had a half a dozen pieces of toast.

“I’ve never seen a breakfast check come to that much,” Danny said, when the waitress brought the check over. “That looks more like dinner at the Ambassador Room.”

“Luckily, I’ve got a tab here,” I said, signing my name on the check.

“Entratter got you a tab here?”

“And other places,” I said. “I can pretty much eat at most of the places in town.”

“And you eat in coffee shops?”

“Most of the time.”

“Damn,” Danny said, “I’ve got to get you to take me someplace more expensive.”

“You find those two guys for me and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

“You’re on.”

Walking out onto Fremont Street I asked Jerry, “You get enough to eat?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m full. The pancakes is very good there.”

“Yeah,” I said, “it’s one of the best coffee shops in town.”

“The best coffee shops in the world are in New York,” he said.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“You get pancakes this good in New York?” I asked.

“On every corner.”

“Yeah,” I said, “that’s pretty much the way I remember it.”

“You from New York?”

“Brooklyn,” I said. “I grew up in Red Hook.”

“The Hook was tough,” he said, “but I grew up in Bed-Stuy.”

Bedford-Stuyvesant was one of the toughest neighborhoods in Brooklyn, but I would put my childhood in Red Hook up against his any day.

“You ain’t got no accent,” he insisted.

“I’ve been away from there a long time.”

“I hate leavin’ New York,” Jerry said. “And I hate this town.”

“What’ve you got against Vegas?”

“It ain’t got no heart.”

“It’s got a pulse,” I said.

“It’s all lights and cheap gamblers,” he said. “And the broads is phony. I can’t wait to go back home.”

“I’m sorry to keep you here,” I said. “You can leave any time you want, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I can’t go back until Frank says so,” he said. “I got a job ta do.”

“Okay, then,” I said, unlocking my car, “maybe we’ll go see Frank and get him to send you home.”

He shrugged and got in on the passenger side.

“I meant to tell ya before,” he said, “this is a nice car.”

“Thanks.”

“I like Caddies. Had one of my own at home.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked. “What kind?”

We talked cars almost all the way to the Sands and as I pulled inbehind the building I was thinking Jerry wasn’t such a bad guy. At least he had good taste in cars.

I was going to go looking for Frank when we got inside but instead I said to Jerry, “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink-that is, unless it’s too early for you.”

“Ain’t never too late for breakfast or too early for a drink,” he said. “Not when you grew up in New York where you can get anything any time.”

He was proud as hell to be a product of New York. I considered that I’d had a decent upbringing in Brooklyn, but what I remembered most about living there was my job as an accountant, a job I hated.

On the way to the bar we passed a technician working on a slot machine, a porter cleaning out a standing ashtray, a security guard and a handsome man in a tuxedo, all of who greeted me by name.

“Lots of people sure know who you are,” Jerry said.

“It’s my casino, Jerry,” I said. I didn’t bother telling him that people in other casinos greeted me, as well. If he stuck with me the way he said he was going to, he’d find that out for himself.

“That fella in the tuxedo …” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Was that Vic Damone?”

“It was,” I said. “Vic’s gonna play the lounge in a couple of days, but he likes to come in early.”

Jerry tried not to look impressed.

When we got to the bar I noticed that Beverly wasn’t on duty yet. That was good. I didn’t want Jerry to scare her.

“What can I get you?” I asked Jerry as we sat at the bar.

“Piels, if ya got it,” he said. “Ballantine, if ya ain’t.”

I told the bartender to bring two Piels.

“So, aren’t you curious about what’s goin’ on, Jerry?” I asked. “I mean, beyond what Frank has told you?”

“No,” Jerry said. “If Frank wanted me ta know more he woulda told me.”

“And Mr. Giancana? What does he know?”

“Just what Frank told ’im, that he needed somebody here ta help out.”

“And that’s your job? Helpin’ out?”

“It’s my job this week, today,” Jerry said. “Until it ain’t, no more.”

“Got a wife waitin’ for you at home?”

“Nope.”

“A girl?”

“Dames,” Jerry said, “but no girl.”

“Eddie,” the bartender said.

“Yeah?”

“Somebody’s been tryin’ to get you on the phone. You want me to have it transferred here?”

“Yeah, Harry. Thanks.”

A few minutes later Harry brought a phone over and handed the receiver to me.

“This is Eddie.”

“Mr. G, it’s Mike,” Borraco said. “I got somethin’ for ya.”

“What is it, Mike?”

“I can’t tell ya on the phone.” He was talking real quick, like he was in a hurry. “Ya gotta meet me.”

“Where?”

“Industrial Road.” He gave me an address.

“Now, Mike?”

“No, no,” Mike said, “tonight, after dark. Like ten P.M.”

“Can’t we do this sooner-”

“It’ll be worth it ta ya, Mr. G,” Mike said. “I promise.”

“Mike, wait-” I said, but he hung up. I handed the phone back to Harry.

“What was that about?”

“Somebody says he has information for me.”

“This somebody. Can you trust ’im?”

“No,” I said, “probably not.”

“Then I guess I better come with ya.”

“You know what, Jerry?” I said. “I think I’d really like that. You want to do any gambling? I can get you a line of credit.”

“Naw,” Jerry said, “that’s okay. I don’t gamble, except the ponies.”

“You like the horses?” I asked. “We’ve got time to kill. You any good?”

“I do all right but ya ain’t got a track here,” Jerry said.

“Jerry,” I said, “we got all the tracks here. Come on, my friend.”