It Was a Very Bad Year

TWENTY-NINE

The country had withstood another shock when, two days after JFK was killed by Lee Harvey Oswald, Oswald was shot by a saloonkeeper named Jack Ruby. Ruby was somebody the people in my world — Entratter, Skinny D’Amato, Momo Giancana, even Frank — knew. Suddenly, speculation that the mob was behind the assassination sprang up. But so far it couldn’t be proven. It appeared Oswald acted alone, and then Ruby acted alone. Of course, none of us on the outside were privy to the inner workings of the case. And, as the years went by, conspiracy theories would multiply.

But when I woke that morning I had been back to work a week, Jerry had dragged Billy back to Brooklyn and put him to work paying his debt, Frank had gone back to work, JFK had been buried, the image of John John saluting his father’s motorcade was forever burned into the psyche of us all, and the country had gone back to whatever they had been doing before that day in Dallas.

And somebody was slamming their fist on my front door.

‘All right!’ I yelled, stumbling out of bed in my underwear. If they wanted me so bad they’d have to accept me as I was. I secretly hoped it would be some Jehovah’s Witnesses I could shock.

But when I opened the door I was the one who was shocked. Detective Hargrove of the Las Vegas PD was standing there with a couple of cops in uniform.

‘Get dressed,’ he said. ‘You’re comin’ with us.’

‘What the hell-’

‘Get dressed, Eddie.’

‘Hargrove, what’s this abou-’

‘These two men are ready, willing and able to dress you, if you force the issue.’

‘I’m not forcing anything,’ I said, ‘I’m just trying to find out-’

‘You’ll find out what’s goin’ on when we get downtown, Eddie,’ Hargrove said. ‘Now don’t make me tell you again. Get dressed!’

‘OK, OK,’ I said, ‘Jeez, relax.’

I started to close the door, but he blocked it with his hand.

‘We’ll come inside and wait for you, if you don’t mind.’

‘Like I have a choice?’

Before long I was in an interview room with a cardboard cup of coffee that actually tasted like cardboard.

They let me stew for forty minutes before Hargrove came in, carrying a folder. He sat across from me, opened the folder and pushed it across to me. I stared down at the picture of a dead guy.

‘You know him?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t even think about it.’

‘I don’t have to,’ I said. ‘I don’t know him.’

‘You don’t know him.’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever seen him?’

I hesitated, then looked again.

‘Maybe. He looks kinda familiar.’

‘From where?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe the casino?’

He took the folder back.

‘Who killed him?’ I asked.

‘What makes you think he’s been killed?’

‘Why else would you be involved?’ I asked. ‘Unless you’ve been moved from Homicide?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘And that’s what I’m tryin’ to find out, who killed him.’

‘What makes you think I’d know?’

‘We got a tip.’

‘Anonymous?’

‘What else?’

‘And the tipster said I killed him?’

‘Not exactly,’ Hargrove said. ‘They just said we should look into you.’

‘Look into me?’ I asked. ‘That’s it. And for that you woke me up and dragged me down here?’

‘I suppose I should’ve called you and made an appointment?’

‘You could’ve called me, yeah,’ I said. ‘I would’ve come down here if you asked me to.’

‘Because you’re such a good citizen.’

Because I worked at the Sands for Jack Entratter, and did favors for Frank Sinatra, Hargrove has always had it in his head that I was connected. And maybe I was, but not in the way he thought.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘get out of here.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

He looked miserable. Apparently, he had high hopes that I was involved. But even if I was, did he think I’d admit it?

I left the building, walked a few blocks, then caught a cab and had it take me back to my house. I went inside, took a shower and dressed in fresh, clean jeans and a T-shirt. Then I grabbed my windbreaker and keys and left again. I needed some breakfast, and some time to think.

I drove to a nearby diner, ordered bacon and eggs and settled in with a cup of coffee to figure out what the hell was going on.

I had thought the business with Barney Irwin was over and done when we got Abby’s photos back from him. But now, apparently, it had come back, and since Abby and Jerry had gone back home, I was the only one left to deal with it.

When Hargrove pushed that photo across the table at me, my first instinct was to lie and say I’d never seen the man before. But the fact was, I did know him. It had been a photo of Wayne, the man who had been in the studio with Barney Irwin that day when Jerry and I grabbed him and took him to that warehouse.

Jerry had choked Wayne out that day, but since then somebody had killed him — and somebody had tried to put the blame on me.