Hey There (You with the Gun in Your Hand)

Thirty-nine

The door to the interview room opened and Hargrove came walking in. I had been waiting almost two hours.

“Where’s Jerry?” I asked. “What the fuck did you do with him?”

“Don’t worry about your buddy,” Hargrove said. “He’s been through this plenty of times before.”

“Did you put him in a cell?” I asked. “That ain’t fair, ya know.”

“You ever notice how your Brooklyn accent comes out when you’re agitated?” he asked, seating himself across from me. “Or when you’ve spent a lot of time with that Jewish torpedo? Yeah, you’re starting to sound like him.”

“Actually, Detective, you have a way of bringin’ the Brooklyn out in me.”

“And you know what you bring out in me, Gianelli?” he asked. “The urge to put you away.”

“For what?”

He opened a brown eight-by-ten envelope, took out four photos, and placed them in front of me. All four were dead men. One was the man we’d found in the warehouse, the other three were the men who were killed in my house. I hoped my face was expressionless.

“You know any of these men?”

I leaned forward, as if to take a better look.

“No,” I answered, leaning back. “Should I?”

“You tell me.”

“I thought I just did.”

Hargrove reached across the table and reclaimed the photos, putting them back in the envelope.

“Your buddy Jerry’s singin’ like a songbird,” he said.

“Yeah, right.”

Hargrove had to smile.

“Yeah, even I didn’t believe that one.”

“What’s this all about, Hargrove?” I asked. “I’ve got a living to make, you know?”

“So do I, Eddie,” he said, “and I’m doin’ it right now.”

“When’s the last time we saw each other?” I asked.

“What? I don’t know, last year? In the summer.”

“Really?” I asked. “Geez, you got some gray in your hair since then, don’tcha?”

He touched his head of coal black hair and said, “What the-I’m younger than you are, Eddie. What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“Hey,” I replied, “I’m just sayin’ …”

“Never mind.” He dropped his hand from his hair.

“Besides, you’re not that much younger than me, maybe a year or two-”

“I said never mind.” The unmistakable scent of Sen-Sen breath mints came wafting across the table at me.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Don’t get sore. You wanna tell me what I’m doin’ here?”

“Four dead men, that’s what you’re doin’ here.”

“What about them?”

“We got a tip that you knew something about them.”

“A tip? From who?”

“Unknown source.”

“You puttin’ a lot of credence in unknown sources these days?”

“Not exactly,” he said, sitting back. “But when I heard your name, I thought I’d take an interest.”

“Well, were they gamblers?”

“Not that I know of,” he said. “Maybe.”

“Then why would I be involved with them? My business is gamblers.”

“Maybe they’re mobbed up,” Hargrove said.

“Why would that connect them to me?”

He lit a cigarette, then pointed at me. “Because you’re mobbed up.”

“I am not-”

“You work at the Sands,” he said, “the mob owns the Sands, therefore you’re mobbed up.”

I could have continued to argue the point with him, but decided against it. I needed to find out if they’d been in my house.

“How’d you find me at the Sands?”

“We went to your house, you weren’t there,” Hargrove said. “So we tried the Sands. They told us at the front desk what room you were in.”

“I hope you didn’t leave my house unlocked.”

“What do you take us for?” he asked. “We didn’t even go inside.”

“I just figured you must’ve kicked in the door.”

“Why would we do that?” he asked, annoyed. “I’m not the lawbreaker, Eddie. I leave that to you and your New York gunsel. What’s he doin’ in Vegas, anyway?”

“He comes to visit now and then.”

“Really? And every time he comes to town somebody dies, huh?”

“Detective, I’ll bet somebody dies every day.”

“Sometimes more than one.”

“Those four,” I said, indicating the envelope on the desk. “How did they die?”

“Well,” Hargrove said, “at first it looked like they shot each other, but the closer we looked the more we realized it was just set up to appear that way.” He leaned forward and stared me in the eye. “By somebody who knew what they were doing.”

“Well,” I said, “that leaves me out, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe,” he said, “maybe not, but it’s right up the gunsel’s alley, ain’t it?”

“Jerry’s stuck with me the whole time he’s been in Vegas,” I said. “He’s been my guest. He hasn’t killed anyone.”

On the face of it, that was very true. Jerry had not killed any of the four men.

Hargrove sat back in his chair, then stood up and said, “I’ll be back. Can I have somebody bring you some coffee?”

“Sure, why not?” I said. “Might as well get somethin’ for free while I’m here.”

He laughed and said, “I’ll send someone right in to take your order, Eddie.”

He left. Was he going back to Jerry? How long was he going to let me stew this time?

Did we have any chance of getting to Reno tomorrow?