You're nobody 'til somebody kills you

Prologue

Las Vegas, Nevada

Spring 2003

I like the Flamingo, and the Riv. Along with the Golden Nugget, Binions and a few other places, they’re the last vestiges of my Las Vegas-the Las Vegas of Frank and Dean and Sammy. Now it’s the Vegas of Howie Mandel, Siegfried and Roy and Danny Gans-talented, yes. The Rat Pack? Hardly.

I had a meeting at the Riviera that day. Some kid journalist wanted an interview about the old days, and when anybody wanted to talk about the old days they came to Eddie G.

“Hey, Eddie,” a blackjack dealer shouted as I walked by, “how the hell are ya, man?”

“Good, good.” I didn’t know his name, but I knew the face. It made an old man feel good when the youngsters working Vegas recognized me.

I went past the bar, and it’s, “Hey, Eddie, have a drink, man.” Past the pit and they said, “Mr. Gianelli,” respectfully, because I made the pit what it is today. And when a waitress stopped to kiss my cheek, let me smell her perfume and breathed, “Hey, Eddie,” into my ear-well, I ain’t dead, ya know. I popped wood-or what passes for wood when you’re eighty-two.

Just like me the hip life has passed the Riviera by, but I still liked it. I told the journalist to meet me in Kady’s coffee shop at 8:00 A.M. Me, I don’t sleep so much, anymore. I’m usually up around five or six, and Kady’s is a twenty-four-hour joint.

I stopped in the doorway, looked around. There were a few customers. Some had just gotten up, others hadn’t been to bed yet. But they all had the same look in their eyes. Tired.

Except for one. A young girl who seemed wide-awake and eager. I was looking for a writer named J.T. Kerouac. A friend of mine had set it up, but if the writer was a girl he would’ve mentioned it. Unless he figured it would be funny.

The girl jumped up out of her booth when she saw me and hurried over.

“Mr. Gianelli?” she asked, all excited.

“Eddie G,” I said. “Everybody calls me Eddie G.”

“Eddie, I’m so happy to meet you,” she said. “I’m J.T. Kerouac. No relation.”

“I knew Jack,” I said. “Well, I met him. I wouldn’t say I knew him.”

“Wow,” she gushed. “See, that’s why I wanted to interview you. You’re a legend in Vegas. They say that Eddie G knew everybody.”

“How old are you, Kerouac?”

“Twenty-four,” she said, with a grin. “I know, I look younger. It’s the freckles-but they go with my red hair. Nothing I can do about it. I really am a writer, though. Want to see my ID?”

I hesitated, then said, “Okay, Kerouac. Let’s have some coffee.”

We walked to her booth. The table was covered with papers and a lined pad. There was also a laptop computer, and books-about half a dozen, some hardback, some paper-all having to do with the Rat Pack, with Frank and Dean, and one on Marilyn Monroe.

She sat down and I slid across from her.

The waitress came over and said, “Hi, Eddie. It’s good ta see you. How ya doin’?”

“Good, Melina, real good.”

“This gonna be separate checks?”

“No,” I said, “I’ll take care of it-”

“No, no, I invited you,” J.T. said. “It’s on me.”

“I’ll start with coffee, Melina.”

“Sure thing, Eddie.

“I’m sensing a theme,” I said, gesturing toward the books.

“Oh, these? I’m working on a documentary. I’m a writer, and a filmmaker. When I’m making a film I’m also the director and the producer.”

“Not the camera … woman?”

“I have a cameraman, actually,” she said, “and a soundman.”

“And what’s the documentary about?”

“The Rat Pack, and their women. And I don’t only mean their girlfriends and wives. I mean women who were fringe Rat Packers … sort of …”

“And what am I here to be interviewed about?”

“Old Las Vegas,” she said. “Vegas has been turned into a huge theme park.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’m going to write about the way it used to be, and nobody knows more about that than you.”

“And that’s what you need me for today?”

“No, today I’m working on a piece for Las Vegas Magazine.”

“And who are you making the documentary for?”

“Well … for me. I’m hoping to place it with one of the cable stations-HBO, maybe A amp;E, or even Bravo.”

“How’s it going?”

She had been typing on the laptop while talking. Now she stopped, sat back and looked at me.

“Actually, it’s not going very well.”

“Why not?”

She touched the book on Marilyn. I saw the name Spoto on the spine.

“Everything I’ve found on Marilyn seems to be old news,” she said. “I have some stuff on Angie Dickinson, and Shirley MacLaine, even Ruta Lee.”

“There should be more on Marilyn Monroe than on those women combined,” I said.

“Oh, there is,” she said, “but it’s all been done before. Over and over. I need something new, and I just can’t find it.”

I drummed my fingers on the table. Even Eddie G wants to impress a pretty young girl. It had been awhile since somebody like J.T. had looked at me with such admiration.

“What?” she asked. “What’s going on, Mr. Gianelli?”

“Eddie,” I said, “call me Eddie.”

“What’s on your mind, Eddie?”

“Old Vegas,” I said, “and Marilyn.”

“Did you know Marilyn, Eddie?” she asked, leaning forward.

“Yep.”

“Well?”

“Well enough.”

“Don’t play games, Eddie,” she said. “This documentary is important to me. If you can help me-”

“Breakfast,” I said.

“What?”

“I need some more coffee, and some breakfast,” I told her.

She worried her pretty lower lip, then said, “And then what?”

“And then I have a story to tell,” I said, “about old Las Vegas, and Marilyn …”