It Was a Very Bad Year

THIRTY-FOUR

Barney Irwin disappeared.

Into the first week of December the photographer still had not reappeared. With all the contacts we had — mine, Danny’s and Jack Entratter’s — we still received no word of him being spotted anywhere in Vegas.

But, on the bright side, nobody had tried to frame me for murder again. Hargrove had come around one more time, but he’d done so a little more politely, possibly because Jack Entratter had sent him word not to harass me. He’d simply asked a few questions about Wayne and Barney Irwin, and then I didn’t see him again.

I had one conversation with Frank during that time, and he told me he was doing fine. Then I talked with Dino, who said that Frank was still depressed over JFK, but that it wasn’t showing in his work. But Frank was a pro. He’d never let his private life interfere with his professional one.

The morning of December 9th I was home in bed when the phone rang. At least it wasn’t someone banging on my door. I rolled over and grabbed the handset on the fifth ring.

‘Yeah, what?’

‘Eddie? You awake?’

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Whozit?’

‘Eddie, goddamnit, wake up! It’s Frank.’

‘Frank?’ I sat up in bed. ‘What’s going on, Frank? You in town?’

‘No, I’m in Reno,’ he said. ‘I need you to come here.’

‘Why? What’s going on?’

‘I’ll tell you when you get here,’ Frank said. ‘Don’t tell anybody you’re coming.’

‘Frank-’

‘Goddamnit, Eddie!’ he said, cutting me off. ‘No more questions! I need you here now! Yes or no?’

‘Sure, Frank,’ I said. ‘Where are you? Cal-Neva?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m at the Mapes Hotel. Just ask for me at the desk. Pack a bag.’

‘The Mapes-’ I caught myself before I asked another question. ‘OK, Frank. I’ll be there as soon as I can get a flight.’

‘Take a ’copter,’ Frank said. ‘It’s waiting for you at McCarron.’

‘You cleared this with Jack, Fra-?’ I started to ask, but he hung up.

I hung up, wondering if I should call Jack Entratter and check. I decided that if the helicopter was waiting for me when I got there, it meant Entratter had okayed it.

I got dressed and drove to the airport.

There was a car waiting for me when we landed in Reno. All the driver said was that his name was Walter. He took my bag and tossed it in the trunk, then drove me right to the Mapes.

The Mapes Casino and Hotel was located on Virginia and E. To get there from the airport we drove past the Flamingo, The Sahara, and the five showgirls standing on the marquee over the doors to the Primadonna casino. At night all five ladies lit up. Just south of the Primadonna was the Horseshoe, across the street from Harrah’s.

The Mapes had a twelve-story hotel and, according to their marquee, Milton Berle was playing.

I asked for Frank at the desk. They told me he was on the eleventh floor. When I asked what room, they just said to go up to the eleventh floor. On the twelfth floor was their restaurant, The Sky Room.

Still wondering what the fuck was going on, still shaking off the cobwebs, I took the elevator up. When the doors opened I stepped out, and immediately got grabbed on both sides.

‘Hey!’

‘We just have to frisk you, Mr Gianelli,’ one man said.

‘Frisk me for what?’

‘Just a precaution.’

They put me against the wall, face first, started patting me down. One lifted my wallet, took a look at my license, and put it back.

‘While you’re at it you want to show me some ID?’ I asked. In my mind it was a toss-up — cops, or hoods.

They finished patting me down, turned me around and put their IDs in my face. FBI.

‘What the hell-’ I said.

‘This way.’

They walked ahead of me, which was encouraging. That meant I was following them of my own free will, not being ‘taken’ by force.

They stopped at a door with no number on it, knocked and opened it.

‘He’s here,’ one said.

‘Go on in,’ the other one said.

I entered the room, the two FBI agents closed it from the outside.

The room was full of men. When I entered they spread out a bit, revealing Frank in their midst. He was sitting by the window, next to a table with a phone on it. He was holding something in his hands, clenching and unclenching. I realized it was a roll of dimes.

There were five other men in the room with us. One of them stepped forward and put out his hand.

‘I’m Jim Mahoney, Eddie, Frank’s publicist.’

In fact, he was Frank’s new publicist, replacing Chuck Moses, who I knew.

‘This man is Bill Raggio, District Attorney of Washoe County, Nevada; that’s Frank’s lawyer, Mickey Rudin. These two gents, and the two outside, are FBI agents.’

‘Hello, Frank,’ I said.

‘Hey, Eddie,’ Frank said, without taking his eyes off the phone. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘You wanna tell me what this is about?’

Frank tore his eyes away from the phone to look at me.

‘You guys wanna step outside, let me talk to Eddie?’ he asked.

‘Mr Sinatra-’ Raggio started.

‘Frank, listen-’ Rudin said.

‘I just need a few minutes to talk to my friend!’ Frank shouted. ‘Get the fuck out!’

One by one the men filed out. Rudin went last, pulling the door closed.

Frank turned to me, a haunted look in his eyes. I’d never seen him so distraught.

‘They took my boy, Eddie,’ he said. ‘They took Frankie.’