It Was a Very Bad Year

FOUR

I made notes, specifically concerning the photographer’s name and address, and then some dates Abby gave me. After that I paid the bill and we walked out to my car. I opened the passenger-side door for her, watched as she got in with a flash of nylon-covered legs, then got behind the wheel and headed for the Sands.

‘How well do you know Joey?’ she asked.

‘I meet a lot of the celebrities who come to the Sands,’ I said. ‘Mostly I know them to say hello to, but Joey and I got along from the beginning. Then, a few years ago, he introduced me to Frank and Dean and the others. We became friends.’

‘Sounds to me like more than friends, from what Joey says.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘he likes you a lot, says you’re a good friend and the guy to see in Vegas.’

‘Well, I do what I can to help.’

‘When I told him my problem,’ she said, ‘he told me not to worry, that you could fix it.’

I looked at her for a moment, then back to the road. She was staring straight ahead, and it wasn’t easy to pull my gaze away from her lovely profile.

‘Abby, I’m going to do my best to help you,’ I said, ‘but there are no guarantees.’

‘I know that, Eddie.’

‘You might want to go to the police.’

‘No!’ I could feel her looking at me. ‘No police. I’ll. . I’ll just wait and see what you can do.’

‘All right,’ I said.

‘Please, Eddie.’ She put her hand on my arm. ‘Don’t go to the police.’

‘Hey,’ I said, ‘I have no love for the cops, believe me. Besides, that would never be my place. If the police are going to be brought in, it’ll be by you. OK?’

‘OK.’ She dropped her hand. We pretty much rode the rest of the way in silence.

I escorted her into the lobby and watched as she walked to the elevators. Once she got on and the doors closed I went to an elevator myself.

It was well after hours; the Sands’ office staff had gone home. The offices were locked, so when I got off on that floor I had my pick of any desk in the reception area. I commandeered one and took out my notebook.

The photographer who shot the photos of Abby was Barney Irwin. Twelve years ago he had an office on South Decatur, near Flamingo Road. I grabbed a nearby phone book. He was still there. Irwin Studios, the 3000 block of South Decatur. It was too late to call, too late to visit. I could drive by in the morning, but I had a shift starting very soon, so I had to trade in my detective hat and put on my pit boss hat.

The Sands casino floor was jumping at midnight, even though Tony Bennett was doing a midnight show in the Copa Room. When the show was over, the floor became even livelier.

The blackjack tables were teeming with regulars, tourists and celebrities. I saw Vic Damone, Jack Jones, Red Skelton, who were all playing other casinos, but gambling at the Sands.

And then I saw him, tall as a telephone pole, and wide as a freeway, coming my way.

‘What the hell-’ I said.

‘Hey, Mr G.,’ Jerry Epstein said.

He mauled my hand with his huge paw but gave it back to me not much the worse for wear. The last time I had seen my Brooklyn buddy Jerry was the year before, when we helped Bing Crosby out of a jam that involved horse racing. I didn’t usually see Jerry unless there was trouble — and it was usually me in the hot water. I wondered if the tables had turned?

‘What are you doin’ here?’ I asked.

‘I’m here with my cousin.’

‘Your cousin?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘my cousin’s kid, so I guess that makes him my second cousin. He just turned twenty-one and I told him when he did I’d take him to Vegas. So here we are!’

‘Where is he?’

‘Playin’ craps,’ Jerry said. ‘He learned all he could about it, developed a system, and now he says he’s gonna put it to — what was it? — oh yeah, practical use.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Vegas loves system players.’

‘I thought maybe you could get away for a drink.’

‘Sure thing.’ I looked around, waved over a guy named Darrel to stand in for me. ‘I’ll be in the lounge if something comes up.’

‘No problem, boss.’

We got a table in the lounge and ordered two beers. A few losers were sitting at the bar, drowning their sorrows, and a few winners were buying drinks at another table.

‘Where are you staying?’ I asked.

‘Here,’ Jerry said. ‘Billy and me are sharin’ a room.’

‘Why didn’t you call me?’ I asked. ‘I would have got you a suite.’

‘I ain’t lookin for a handout, Mr G.,’ Jerry said. ‘I told the kid I’d take him to Vegas for his twenty-first birthday. I’m footin’ the bill — my present.’

I had to admire him for that. He knew he could get freebies from me whenever he wanted — and he had never asked.

‘What’re you doin’, these days?’ he asked me.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I was minding my own business, until today. .’

I told him about Joey and Abby Dalton, and the photographer.

‘I seen her on Hennessy,’ he said. ‘She’s some dish.’

‘Yeah, she is.’

‘You gettin’ some of that, Mr G.?’

‘No, Jerry, I’m not,’ I said. ‘I’m just trying to help the lady out.’

‘How you gonna do that, exactly?’

‘Well, first I’m going to go and see the photographer,’ I said. ‘He still has a studio in town.’

‘That so? When you goin’?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘You want some company?’

‘What about your cousin?’

‘I’ll leave him at the craps table,’ he said. ‘Come on, Mr G. You know you’ll get into trouble without me.’

I didn’t think that was true, but on the other hand he was already in town, and he had offered. So where was the harm in letting him ride shotgun?

‘OK, you’re on.’

‘First you gotta buy me some pancakes in the mornin’,’ Jerry said.

‘I knew this was gonna cost me,’ I said.

‘Not so much,’ he promised. ‘Just a coupla stacks.’