You're nobody 'til somebody kills you

Three

Dean had made the arrangements for a car to pick us up early the next morning and take us to the airfield. The chopper pilot was the same one who had flown me to Reno and Tahoe several times the previous year when I was trying, at Frank’s request, to help Sammy out of a jam. I had been successful, and had not seen the pilot since then.

He greeted us in a friendly manner, as if he had known us both a long time, calling us “gents,” and showing no surprise or awe that one of his passengers was Dean Martin.

In the chopper Dean told me that Frank had almost finished his refurbishment of the Cal Neva, but would not be there when we arrived.

“He’s flying into Vegas later today from Palm Springs. He’s still getting the guesthouse ready for JFK to stay there in March.”

“Is that gonna happen?” I asked Dean.

“Between you and me,” Dean said, “I wouldn’t hold my breath. JFK’s people are not gonna stand for it. Frank’s in for a big surprise.”

“Have you tried to tell him?”

“Once,” Dean said. “He insists that he and Jack are friends. He’s gonna have to find out for himself-and I hope I’m not around when he does. He’s even putting in a helipad.”

“Man, that’s gotta be expensive.”

“The whole project is costing Frank a fortune.”

At that point we were both tired of shouting over the noise of the rotating blades so we put our conversation on hold until we were on the ground.

There was a car waiting to take us to the Cal Neva. It sure didn’t look to me like the work was almost done, but then what did I know about construction? The cabins in the back were still there. One was Frank’s, one was for his buddies when they came to town-that was the one I’d stayed in last year-and the other was for Frank’s, uh, lady friends. Years later the press would label Shirley MacLaine, Angie Dickinson and Ruta Lee Lady Rat Packers. I was always careful not to say Rat Pack around Frank. He didn’t like the name. He always referred to him and his buddies as “the Clan,” and their shows at the Sands as “the Summit.” It was the newspapers that dubbed them the “Rat Pack.”

Anyway, I assumed-when the car pulled to a stop in front of cabin number three-that one of Frank and Dino’s lady pals needed help. I was kind of hoping it would be Angie Dickinson, but for selfish reasons. I had always had a thing for her, and meeting her had only strengthened the feeling.

“Here we are,” Dean said.

I looked at him.

“You comin’?”

“No,” Dean said. “I told her you were gonna talk to her.”

“Alone?”

“Yep.”

I looked up at the front of the cabin. When I walked through that door I’d be alone with whoever was inside. Suddenly, I was as nervous as a schoolboy that it might be Angie.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s not Angie, is it?”

“Angie Dickinson? Hell, no. Why would you think that? There ain’t nothin’ fragile about Angie. That broad is a rock.”

“And this one’s not, huh?”

“No, Eddie,” Dean said, “this one’s not. You’ll have to take it easy with her. Listen to her, talk to her, but tread lightly, my friend.”

“What makes you think she’ll trust me?”

“The two of you have met,” Dean said.

“When?”

“She was very impressed.”

“Come on, Dean,” I said, “who’s in there?”

“You’ll see.”

“What makes her so fragile?”

“You’ll find out for yourself,” he said.

“Why so secretive?”

“Well,” Dean said with a bemused expression, “if I told you who was inside, maybe you wouldn’t get out of the car.”

“Now I’m really curious.”

He smiled and said, “I’ll wait here.”

I got out of the car, went up the steps to the door and stopped. I looked down at the car, but couldn’t see if Dean was laughing at me or not. I knocked. When the door opened I caught my breath.