You're nobody 'til somebody kills you

Thirty-seven

Fred Otash’s office was in Hollywood, on North Laurel Avenue. We took the elevator up and presented ourselves to a woman who looked as if she was dressed for an audition rather than a day at work. Her nails and lips were bloodred, her hair Jayne Mansfield blond, her dress a size too small and protesting.

“Yes?”

“We’d like to see Mr. Otash.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes.”

“Your name?”

“Gianelli, Eddie Gianelli?”

She opened her appointment book, looked at it and shook her head. “I don’t have you in my book, sir.”

“Why don’t you call Fred and ask him?” I suggested. “He got a call this morning from Dean Martin to set this up.”

She let loose with a heavy sigh that tested the resolve of her dress, got a put-upon look on her face and pressed the intercom button.

“Mr. Otash, there’s a Mr. Gianelli here who says Dean Martin called-”

“Send him in, Leona,” a voice said, “and his friend, too.”

She hung up and tapped her appointment book with her red nails. Clearly, this was not acceptable behavior to her. “You can go in.”

“Thank you.”

There was only one other door so we opened it and stepped through. Fred Otash stood up, remained behind his desk, and extended his hand. He wasn’t short, had wavy dark hair and a full face. He looked more like an agent than a private eye.

“Mr. Gianelli?”

“That’s right.” I shook his hand.

“And Mr. Epstein?”

“Hiya,” Jerry said, shaking his hand.

“Wow, you’re a big one,” Otash said. “Have a seat.”

We both sat. The chairs were cushioned and comfortable. The office was expensively furnished in dark wood that gleamed. I wondered if the red-nailed secretary also did the dusting.

“Well, okay,” he said, “Dean tells me you’re friends of his who need help. He also told me you’re in trouble because you were helping him. It all sounds real involved, so whenever you’re ready … go!”

I started with Dean asking me to help Marilyn and worked my way through everything. The only thing I left out was why I went to New York.

When I was done he asked, “Why did you go to New York?”

“Is that relevant?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “and I won’t know until you tell me.”

“A funeral,” I said. “Family.”

“Whose?”

I looked at him.

“Okay, never mind that part,” he said, waving a hand. “You say Danny Bardini is in my business?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know him,” he said with a frown. This seemed to bother him. “Okay, never mind. What we have to do here is move on.”

“You’ll take the case?” Jerry asked.

Otash nodded. “As long as there’s no major open police case that I’d be interfering in.”

“Not that I know of.”

“I’ll have my girl type up a standard contract for you. After we take care of the business aspect of this, I’m all yours.”