Hey There (You with the Gun in Your Hand)

Sixty-seven

We stepped inside and switched on our flashlights. It was quiet but then, in quick succession, other flashlights were turned on.

One … two … three …

… four and five.

“This ain’t good,” Jerry said in my ear. “There was only supposed to be three.”

I nodded, then said, “Yes,” because he probably couldn’t see me nod.

“Walter?” I shouted.

The five points of light came closer to us, but stayed spread out. Jerry and I played our lights across them, saw five guys in their thirties who, like us, were holding lights and guns.

“You’re outgunned,” someone said. “Put ’em down.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“We can put you down and take the money.”

“If we have the money on us,” I countered.

“You better have it on you.”

“Look, if you start shootin’ we’ll start shootin’. You might kill us, but some of you won’t leave this place alive. So why don’t we just do business?”

That was met with silence.

“Walter? Is that you doin’ the talkin’?”

More silence, then, “No, it’s me.” Then: “Jerry, is that you?”

The speaker shone his light on Jerry, who returned the favor. Jerry’s light showed a black-haired guy in his thirties.

“Hey, Angelo,” Jerry said. “What’re you doin’ with these amateurs?”

“Somebody killed the pros I was usin’,” he pointed at me, “left them all in here. I didn’t have any idea who killed them … up ta now …”

“That’s too bad,” Jerry said.

“What’re you doin’ with him?”

“Mr. G., this here’s Angelo DeLucca,” Jerry said. “Angelo, meet Eddie Gianelli. He’s a good friend of Mr. Sinatra’s.”

“So what?” Angelo said, looking unimpressed.

“Does Handsome Johnny know what you’re up to, Angelo?” Jerry asked.

I knew “Handsome Johnny” was Johnny Roselli, who represented Sam Giancana in Vegas, as well as Hollywood. In fact, some folks said Roselli was employed by Monogram Studios as a producer.

I did the math in my head: DeLucca/Roselli, Roselli/Giancana, Giancana/Sinatra, Sinatra/Sammy Davis, not to mention Sinatra/JFK and it wasn’t hard to figure out how this Angelo might know about Sammy’s photos. It wouldn’t take much for DeLucca to have someone creep into Sammy’s house for the film.

“Just tryin’ to do some business on the side, Jerry,” Angelo said. “You know how that is.”

“I do know, Angelo,” Jerry said, “but I’d never cross Mr. Giancana this way.”

“I ain’t crossin’ MoMo,” Angelo said. “This dough ain’t comin’ outta his pocket.”

“Yeah, you tell him that,” Jerry said. “You tell him how you used his connection to Mr. Sinatra to not only hold up Sammy Davis Jr., but President Kennedy.”

“Hey, that wasn’t me tryin’ ta squeeze the nigger,” Angelo said. “That was Ernie and his girl, and Walter’s idiot brother.”

“Where’s Tony?” a voice asked. I assumed it was Walter.

“I’m not sure, Walter,” I said. “Up to half an hour ago the cops had him.”

“The cops?”

“I told you,” DeLucca said, wearily, “I told you to keep that idiot away from us.”

“I didn’t-”

DeLucca turned and fired one shot. One of the flashlights fell to the floor. That was the end of Walter.

“Easy,” DeLucca said, as we all jumped at the sound of his shot. “Just doin’ some housecleanin’.”

And cutting the odds for us, I thought. Two to one, now.

“Too bad,” DeLucca said, looking back at Jerry and me. “He was a waiter at the Sands last year when JFK came to see the Rat Pack.”

“Ah,” I said, “so he spotted Sammy takin’ a picture, saw somethin’ in the background that would be worth money, if it was played right.”

“He was always hangin’ around me,” DeLucca said, “wantin’ a job. When he came to me with this I knew how to play it.”

“Right,” I said, “sit on it until JFK got comfortable in the Presidency.”

“Right,” DeLucca said, “but he was actually as big an idiot as his brother. He kept that six-gun he took when he creeped the nigger Jew’s house.”

“He did the house?” Jerry asked.

“He went with one of my men,” Angelo said. “Spotted the guns, decided to take one.”

“So why did you leave it on the body?” I asked.

“Why not? I knew Walter had it on him, so after I killed Ernie I took it from him and left it there. Give the cops somethin’ ta think about.”

“But why frame-”

“Where’s the fuckin’ money?” DeLucca demanded, cutting me off.

I wondered if we could cut the odds down a little more.

“You guys see that?” I asked. “That’s what he’s got in mind for all of you.”

“Shut up,” Angelo DeLucca said. “Shut yer friend up, Jerry.”

“Why, Angelo?” Jerry asked. “He’s right, ain’t he? You ain’t gonna share any of the money with these bozos. I’ll bet they was all brought into the game by Walter, right? And now you shot their friend down right in front of them.”

“A four-way split is better than five,” DeLucca announced to his cohorts.

“And a one way split is the best of all,” I said. “Come on, guys, Angelo here is a pro. He knows how to tie up loose ends, and you guys are all loose ends.”

“You’re the biggest loose end,” Angelo said to me. “I should take care of you right now.”

He extended his gun toward me.

“Don’t Ang-” Jerry said, but he had no time to finish. He had no choice but to fire. The shot lit up the room. The bullet hit Angelo dead center. He spasmed, pulled the trigger of his own gun, firing a round wild and lighting the darkness again.

That left three of them and two of us.

“Drop ’em, boys,” Jerry said. “It’s all over.”

We played our lights over them. They were all nervous, jittery, sweating and biting their lips, wondering what to do because the two men who were their leaders were gone. If they panicked and started shooting it wasn’t going to go well.

Suddenly, we heard what sounded like a bolt being thrown and the sliding metal door to the bay slid up. The glare of several sets of headlights lit the interior of the warehouse and nearly a dozen men came charging in with guns.

“Drop ’em, everybody!” somebody yelled. “Federal agents.”

One guy got antsy and turned his gun toward them. He caught three slugs and went down. In quick succession his buddies met the same fate, and then it was just me and Jerry standing.

“Take it easy!” I yelled, and we put our hands in the air.

I had no doubt these were Joe Kennedy’s men. He’d sprung us after my phone call, and then obviously had us followed. Now the question was, what were their orders where we were concerned?

“You Eddie Gianelli?” one of the agents asked.

If I said yes would they gun us down? Tie up the last of the loose ends?

I had to play the hand that had been dealt to me.

“I’m Gianelli.”

The dead men were being searched by other agents, and one of them came up with a brown manila envelope. He brought it over to the man who’d questioned me, obviously the agent in charge. The envelope had blood on it, but that didn’t seem to bother him. He had a flashlight of his own. He opened the envelope, shined the light in, and then closed it. All he’d been able to see was that there were photos and negatives inside, but I didn’t think he’d been able to see what they were photos of.

He folded the envelope lengthwise, stuck it in his inside jacket pocket, then turned his attention back to his men.

“Pack it in!” he yelled.

The agents brought in plastic bags, which they used to remove the bodies. I still wasn’t sure what they were going to do with us.

The agent-in-charge looked at us as his men cleaned up the scene and said, “Mr. Kennedy’s compliments. You and your buddy better get out of here.”

Jerry and I looked at each other. If they hadn’t shot us by now they weren’t going to shoot us as we left.

“You don’t have to tell us twice,” I said, and we got the hell out of there.