Hey There (You with the Gun in Your Hand)

Twenty-two

While I was out boozing and carousing with the boys, Jerry drove my Caddy back to my house. He said when he pulled into the driveway and cut the engine he could feel something was wrong. He didn’t know how to explain it. It was some kind of extra sense-Jerry knew nothing about a “sixth sense” at that time-that had served him well over the years and kept him alive.

It was dark. He had pulled into the driveway with the lights on, and then cut them.

I didn’t have a garage. At the time I bought the house I had managed to wrangle the price down because of that.

Jerry got out of the car, closed the door behind him, and stared at the house. The blinds on the front bay window were open, the way we had left them. He stared at the window, and then saw it. He must have spotted it out of the corner of his eye when he pulled in. A small pinpoint of light, like the glowing end of a cigarette when somebody draws on it.

Jerry had three choices: front door, back door, or get back in the car and leave. He had to decide fast, before whoever was inside decided to come out after him.

He moved around the car lazily, in no hurry, and when he was out of sight of the window he drew his gun and hurried around to the back. He didn’t know what they’d do inside when he was out of sight. Maybe they’d come out to have a look. Or maybe they’d expect him to try the back.

He stopped at a side window, which he knew led to my bedroom. Jerry knew everything there was to know about my house. He made sure of that each of the other times he was there.

He hoped whoever was inside was watching the front and back doors, because he was going in through the bedroom. The locks on my window were for shit, which Jerry knew.

He jimmied the window open as quickly and quietly as he could, then climbed inside as silently as his bulk would allow him. At one point he feared his rear end had gotten wedged in the window, but then he slid through and was in the house.

Forty-five in hand he moved to the bedroom door. As he got closer to it and reached to pull it open, it suddenly slammed into him. He staggered back, kept hold of his gun, but there was a bright light in his face, blinding him.

“We’re not that stupid, friend,” a voice said. “Just drop the gun and let’s talk.”

We hit a few clubs, had some drinks and laughs, turned away many pretty ladies because it was “guy’s night out.” Eventually, we ended up at Frank’s booth in the Congo Room at the Sahara. It was late, but they put out a spread for Frank and his guests. I was sorry I had sent Jerry home. He would have loved it.

“Time for me to call it a night,” Dean announced.

“It’s still early,” Frank argued.

“I have to be on stage tomorrow night and do it all over again,” Dean said, “and this time without you bums. I need my rest.”

“Me, too, Frank,” Sammy said. “I need to get back to Tahoe early tomorrow to get ready for tomorrow night’s show.”

“You guys are workaholics,” Frank complained.

“Look at the pot callin’ the kettle black,” Dean said.

“What’d you say about black?” Sammy demanded.

“Oh no,” Dean said, “I’m not starting a routine with you.”

He stood up and put his hands on Frank’s shoulders from behind.

“Thanks for coming to the show, Frank.”

“You were great, Dino, as usual.”

“Anybody want to share a limo?” he asked.

“Yeah, me,” I said.

“Eddie!” Frank said, as if insulted.

“Sorry, Frank,” I said, “but I’ve got things to do in the morning.”

“I’ll come along,” Sammy said. He looked at Joey and Buddy. “I’ll see you cats. If you get a chance come to Harrah’s and catch my show.”

“A capital idea, Sam,” Buddy Hackett said.

“Capital,” Joey agreed, and the two nodded at each other.

“Let’s get another round of drinks, Frank,” Buddy said.

“See?” Frank said to those of us who were leaving. “These are my real friends!”

Dean laughed, because he knew who Frank considered his real friends, and Sammy and I followed him outside.

“Goin’ back to the Sands, Sammy?” Dean asked.

“I think I want to get some air,” Sammy said. “Eddie, what are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna get a ride to my house.”

“I’ve never seen your pad,” he said. “Mind if I tag along?”

“Sure, why not?”

We had been using two limos all night, so we all piled in one and left the other for Frank, Joey and Buddy. We dropped Dean off at the Sands first, and then had the driver take us to my house.

“Nice little neighborhood,” Sammy said as we drove down my block.

“Right here,” I said to the driver, and then suddenly I said, “no, keep goin’.”

“What’s the matter?” Sammy asked.

“Go to the corner,” I said to the driver. To Sammy I said, “I’m not sure. Jerry’s supposed to be there. My car’s in the driveway, but there’s no light in the house.”

“Maybe he’s asleep,” Sammy said. “It’s late.”

It was 2 A.M.

“This is Vegas, Sammy,” I said, “it’s not that late.”

“Okay, so what do you wanna do?” Sammy asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Call the police?”

“No,” I said, “no cops.”

“What’s your name, driver?” Sammy asked.

“Thomas, Mr. Davis.”

“Thomas, you got anything in the car we could use as a weapon?” Thomas leaned forward, opened the glove compartment, and took out a wicked-looking automatic.

“Will this do?”

“Whoa,” Sammy said, reaching for the gun. “A German Luger? This is groovy.”

“I brought it back with me from Germany,” Thomas said. I hadn’t realized earlier that he was in his sixties.

“Do you have a permit for that?” I asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Can I borrow it?” Sammy asked.

“Sam,” I said, “if you shoot somebody with that, not only are you gonna be in trouble, but so will Thomas.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sammy said, handing the gun back to the driver.

“You got a tire iron, or something?” I asked.

“If you gents are having a problem,” Thomas said, “maybe me and my Luger can help?”