I'm a fool to kill you

TWENTY-SEVEN

Just like in the movies I had to drive through a big front gate with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer above it, which meant I had to talk to a portly uniformed guard. Before going there, though, I had found an out of the way garbage dumpster to stash the towel and clothes. There was no reason anyone would look for it there, and if anyone found it they couldn’t connect it to Ava.

‘Who you here to see?’ the guard asked.

‘Louis B. Mayer,’ I said, even though I knew he had died in 1957.

‘Sorry, you’re out of luck,’ the man said. ‘He’s dead.’

‘So who’s in charge?’

The guard must have been having a bad day — or week, or life — because he was ready to bitch to anyone who’d listen.

‘You know, that’s a good question,’ he said. ‘Right now this place has got a lot of Indians and no Chief, if you know what I mean.’

‘Hard times?’ I asked.

‘Hard? There are more cartoons and TV shows comin’ out of here than movies,’ the guard said. ‘MGM ain’t what it used to be, pal.’

‘Well, I need to talk to somebody about Ava Gardner.’

‘What about Miss Gardner?’

‘Frank Sinatra sent me to talk to somebody about Ava Gardner.’

The man stared at me for a minute, then asked, ‘You serious?’

‘I am.’

He stared some more. ‘Wait here.’

‘Sure.’

He stepped into his booth and made a phone call. Then leaned out the booth.

‘Hey, what’s your name?’

‘Eddie Gianelli, from Las Vegas.’

‘Where in Vegas?’

‘The Sands.’

He went back inside, spoke into the phone some more, listened, then hung up and came back out.

‘Pull inside and park there,’ he said, pointing to some parking spots.

‘OK.’

‘Somebody’ll be along to take you inside.’

‘Thanks.’

He gave me a short salute, prepared to turn his attention to the next car.

I pulled into one of the parking spots he’d pointed to and waited. Lots of MGM’s talent spent time in Las Vegas. I wondered if I’d see anybody I knew?

I had my head back and my eyes closed when somebody knocked on the window. I looked up at a grim, striking face dominated by nose and chin. I opened the door and stepped out.

‘What the hell,’ George C. Scott said, ‘I thought that was you, Eddie.’

‘George,’ I said, grabbing his hand. Scott had been to the Sands more than once, and we usually took good care of him. ‘How are ya?’

‘Not bad. What are you doin’ here?’

I shrugged.

‘Gotta see a man about a debt.’ It was a good enough story. ‘How about you. New movie?’

‘TV,’ he said, a little sheepishly.

‘You’re kiddin’.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘A show called East Side, West Side. What are you gonna do? Everybody needs work, right? At least I get to work with a babe. She’s a tall drink of water named Barbara Feldon.’

‘The one that does the commercial in the tiger suit?’

‘The same.’

‘Yeah, not a bad gig, I guess.’

‘Ah,’ Scott said, ‘it won’t last, but it’ll keep me busy for a year or so. MGM ain’t what it used to be.’

‘So I heard.’

‘Are you Mr Gianelli?’ a voice asked.

I looked at a man with a pencil thin mustache, black hair that came to a widow’s peak, and piercing blue eyes. His mouth was a thin, straight line. I rolled the window down.

‘That’s right.’

‘What are you doing driving a cab?’

‘Tryin’ to make some extra money?’ I asked. He didn’t enjoy the joke. ‘I borrowed it. I needed a set of wheels.’

‘I gotta go, Eddie,’ Scott said. ‘Nice seein’ you.’

We shook hands and he moved off. The other man didn’t seem impressed. Then again, he worked there.

‘You got some I.D.?’

I gave him my driver’s license. He looked at it then gave it back.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘come with me.’

I rolled the window back up, got out and closed the door behind me.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Vargas,’ he said.

‘What do you do, Mr Vargas?’

‘I talk to strangers who want to talk to the man in charge,’ he said. ‘Once you talk to me, I’ll decide if you get to talk to him.’

I thought that over and then said, ‘That sounds fair.’

‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’