Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

I noticed something else. The man sitting across from Sinatra was staring at me.

Only it wasn’t a movie star with those cold eyes, it was Raymond Haskell.

I had read that Sinatrahad a temper, could be rude, even downright abusive. But not that night. He was gracious, polite, and had a sense of humor reminiscent of his headline Vegas act with the Rat Pack.

Rita had immediately captured Sinatra’s interest and she responded, laughing and flirting without being the least bit self-conscious or shy. Before the food arrived, he took her by the hand and worked the room, introducing Rita to a host of celebrities. And at times throughout the meal he leaned in close and whispered something to her. The wives of the other two men-Haskell and Mickey Rudin-seemed miffed at the admiration she received from the Chairman of the Board, as Sinatra was known. But I don’t think he gave a damn.

With Rita fetching all of Sinatra’s attention, there was scant small talk going on among the rest of us. Mary Carol, Rudin’s wife, tried to be polite and asked me what I thought about Reagan’s chance of winning the upcoming election.

I murmured something impartial. But Sol jumped in. “He hasn’t got a Chinaman’s chance in the primary,” he said. “Ford is the incumbent and Republicans will back the president.”

Adele Haskell, Raymond’s wife, seemed shocked at Sol’s outburst. “President Ford can’t possibly win,” she said. “Not after pardoning Nixon. No, Sol, take it from me, Ronnie will be our candidate.”

Sol pulled a wad of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and slammed the bankroll on the table. “I’ll tell you something else; the Republicans haven’t got a shot in ’76. And I’m willing to back up what I’m saying with cold cash. Teddy Kennedy will be our next president.” He looked at the people sitting there gawking at him with their mouths agape. “Any takers?”

No one accepted, especially after Mickey Rudin said in a commanding voice, “Goddamn it, Sol may have something there. He’s the smartest son-of-a-bitch I know. I wouldn’t touch his bet with somebody else’s dick.” Then he chortled as Mary Carol cringed.

Raymond Haskell didn’t say much and pretended not to notice me. Finally he glanced my way, looking at me as if I were something stuck to the edge of his shoe. I could tell he wasn’t happy with the deal forced on him by Rudin. And it seemed he couldn’t wait to get the meeting with Sol and me out of the way as fast as possible. Especially after Sol alienated almost everyone with his off-the-wall political rhetoric. But hey, that was Sol.

The orchestra played subdued jazz standards, accompanied by Count Basie, during the meal. The men in their tuxes and the women rife with jewels seemed amused.

Although I’ve never been much on politics, I’d been to a couple of Democrat shindigs in the past. But those affairs were nothing like this. Lots of booze, a little grass, and hot dogs grilled on a backyard barbecue with Rock 'n Roll blasting away. The hoi polloi, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, danced the Twist, shaking their booty with reckless abandon. And five bucks, all you can eat. I’d have to say if they took a poll, I’d lean toward the Dems.

Finally Rudin excused himself, hopped up on the stage, and welcomed the man of the hour, Ronald Reagan. He introduced him as a great leader, a humanitarian, and as “The next president of the United States.” Shouts of “Hear hear,” “Bravo,” and applause accompanied the proclamation. Later, Nancy and Ronnie got up and danced, and the throng cheered the Reagans’ quick-step gaiety. I took a quick glance at Adele Haskell as she gazed at the handsome couple moving gracefully about the dance floor. Tears appeared at the corners of her eyes.

At first only a few couples timidly ventured out of their chairs to dance, but when the orchestra struck up a lively waltz by Jerome Kern, the floodgates opened and couples streamed onto the floor, including Rita and Sinatra. I didn’t know she could move the way she did. I had never seen her happier.

Haskell motioned to Sol. He flicked his head toward the back of the room and mouthed, “Follow me.” He climbed out of his chair, tossed his napkin on the table, and started to walk away. Sol and I followed in his wake. With the music and laughter fading, we marched through the doors at the back of the room, and when we did, two bruisers stepped up beside Haskell.

Sol whispered to me, “Bodyguards. He gets them from Pinkerton.”

We continued to follow the three men down the hallway.

When we came to a men’s restroom, Haskell turned to his bodyguards. “Stay outside and block the entrance. I don’t want anyone interrupting us.”

The heavyweights folded their arms across their chests and took a position on each side of the door.

We entered the restroom.

An attendant waited with a towel folded over his arm and a whiskbroom in his back pocket. Haskell slipped the guy a twenty and told him to go buy himself a cup of coffee. “And stay away for ten minutes,” he added.

When the attendant left, Haskell dusted an insignificant piece of lint off the satin lapel of tux, saying, “Mr. O’Brien, do you like sticking your nose in other people’s affairs?”

“Not as a rule.”

Sol jumped in. “Don’t get smart, Haskell. He’s just doing his job. We’d like to have a friendly chat, that’s all. And ten minutes will be more than enough time.”

“Rudin pressured me to meet with you gentlemen. I agreed, so let’s get this over with.”

As far as I was concerned, Roberts was going to be set free, so there wouldn’t be any need to get heavy with Haskell. I figured we’d just ask him a few general questions about the case and that would be that.

I decided to take the opportunity to set the record straight regarding his brother, Charles. “Mr. Haskell, do you realize your brother died of natural cases? Roberts had nothing to do with his death.”

“Yes, it seems I heard about that. However, I don’t understand what my brother’s heart attack has to do with anything.”

What did he mean, he doesn’t understand? I started to get hot. But I tried to stay calm. “The man is rotting in jail because he figured he’d be blamed for his death. And you knew all along that he had nothing to do with it?”

“It’s my impression that he confessed to the murder of a prostitute,” Haskell said, then added in a low voice, almost to himself, “But she was going to die anyway. She was a druggie, and had TB-final stages. She didn’t have long.”

Sol asked, “How do you know she was a whore?”

He turned to Sol. It seemed he sniffed the air before he spoke. “Mr. Silverman, the woman was no good. From what I was told, she tried to run a confidence game on my father. Her death was meaningless.” He brushed his lapel again.

I hadn’t heard about any scam. What was Haskell talking about? Roberts couldn’t have known about Vera running a con on Haskell’s father, or he would have told me about it.

“What kind of scam did she try to pull?” I asked.

“Ancient history. Forget about it.”

“What was your father’s phone number back in ’45?” Sol asked.

“How could I possibly know that after all these years?”

Sol tossed out a bunch of old phone numbers with the old exchanges Madison, Vermont, and Popular. Haskell just shook his head and kept saying no, no, no.

I knew what he was referring to: the list of phone numbers, the calls Vera had made from the motel room.

Then Sol asked him, “How about: Crestview 6-5723?”

Haskell paused for a moment this time before saying no. The pause gave him away. He recognized the number.

Without seeming to discern Haskell’s hesitation regarding the last number, Sol came right back with, “Does this number ring any bells: 555-1212?”