You're nobody 'til somebody kills you

Fifty-three

I went back to the guesthouse after cleaning the kitchen floor in the main house. I didn’t want Marilyn finding blood all over the kitchen. That would really do a number on her.

I showered, changed and got Jerry’s gun from where I’d left it in a kitchen drawer. When the cops had been called, after I’d found Jerry, I’d removed his gun so they wouldn’t see it and keep it.

Cops, I thought. Stanze and Bailey had me confused. They had seemed genuinely concerned about Jerry at the hospital. Were they still running a game on us, or had they never been running a game at all? Dealing with that prick Hargrove in Las Vegas had given me a bad opinion of detectives.

I was about to leave for the hospital-Jerry’s gun uncomfortably in my belt-when I realized I hadn’t talked to Jack Entratter in a while. He was going to be pissed that I hadn’t called him.

I didn’t really want to deal with him at this point, but better to make contact and get it over with than to let any more time go by.

I dialed Jack’s number, got past his girl and listened for a few minutes while he chewed me out for not staying in touch.

“Okay,” he said, sounding spent, “now that I got that out of the way, what’s goin’ on?”

I gave him the whole story, tossing in Frank’s and Dean’s names liberally. As long as he thought I was working for or with his buddies, he wouldn’t bitch too much about my absence. When I got to the part about not having found Danny yet, and Jerry being in the hospital, he commiserated.

“I’m sorry about your friends, Eddie, but it doesn’t sound like you’ve gotten anywhere since you went to L.A.”

“No, but that may change.” I told him about the matchbook cover.

“I’m gonna check on the Lavender Club, see if we know who’s runnin’ it,” he said. I knew who he meant when he said “we.” I didn’t bother saying I thought Otash could handle that. Instead I just said thanks, and told him I’d stay in touch.

“Call me if you need anything,” he said, “like your ass bailed out.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

I hung up and went out to the Caddy. I opened the trunk, took the gun from my belt and stuck it in the wheel well, where Jerry had put it before. I was fine as long as the cops didn’t search my car.

I closed the trunk and drove to the hospital.

“He’s not awake yet,” the doctor said. He was the emergency room doctor who had worked on Jerry. I hadn’t noticed much about him earlier, but now saw that he was young, probably in his early thirties. He had an air of both confidence and competence about him.

“I warned you,” he went on, “so far we’re not looking at this as anything unusual.”

“I understand,” I said. “I was just hopin’. Where is he?”

“We’ve put him in a room.”

“A private room?”

“Yes,” he said, “apparently Mrs. Dean Martin insisted on that.”

“Good. Can I see him?”

“He won’t know you’re there.”

“I know, I just want to see him.”

“Sure.”

The doctor walked me to the room and left me there. I nodded to the cop guarding the door as I went in. Jerry was a big lump on the bed, his head swathed in bandages. He looked pale, but while most people looked frail in hospital beds, he still looked healthy and burly.

I walked up closer to the bed and looked down at him.

“Sorry, big guy,” I said. “You took the brunt of it, this time. I’m gonna find out who clobbered you and make ‘em pay. You can count on it.”

He didn’t blink.

I leaned closer and lowered my voice.

“Oh yeah, I’m gonna borrow your forty-five,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

I could almost hear him thinkin’, Hell no, Mr. G. Go ahead. Just don’t lose it.

“Yeah, I’m gonna make ‘em pay,” I said, “as long as I don’t shoot myself in the foot.”

When I came out into the waiting room Fred Otash was there, wearing jeans and a windbreaker.

“How’s he doing?”

“Not awake, no change,” I said. “They’re sayin’ it’s not unusual.”

“You ready to go look at some naked babes?”

“Sure.”

“You got that item we talked about?”

“In the trunk.”

“Well, let’s get it out of the trunk, and get going,” he suggested.