Robert Randisi - It Was a Very Bad Year

‘Well,’ Danny said, ‘at least now I understand the family tension.’

‘I’ll talk to you soon,’ I said.

‘Yeah, sure,’ Danny said. ‘Thanks for breakfast.’

He went to his office, which was only a few doors away, and I joined Jerry and Billy in the Caddy.

We drove back to the Sands. Jerry dragged Billy up to their suite, and I went to Abby’s room. When she opened the door I held the envelope out to her.

‘Oh God!’ she said, grabbing it with one hand and my arm with the other. She pulled me inside.

‘Make sure they’re all there,’ I said, ‘but I think he was too scared to hold any back.’

‘Scared?’ she said,

‘You don’t want to know,’ I said. ‘Just check.’

She opened the envelope, slid the prints out and looked at them one by one. Then she looked further and found the negatives.

‘All there?’ I asked.

‘Looks like it.’ She slid them back in. ‘Did you, uh, look at them?’

‘Just took a peek to make sure it was you,’ I said, lying just a little.

She hugged the envelope to her chest. She was wearing a sleeveless dress, the length of which came to mid knee. There were suitcases by the door.

‘Catching a plane?’ I asked.

‘In two hours, I had hoped,’ she said, ‘so I guess so. I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘It was my pleasure, Abby.’

‘Joey says you don’t take money, but-’

I waved her off. Suddenly, she took a few steps and grabbed me in a tight hug. She smelled great and we stood that way for a few moments.

‘Well,’ she said, backing away, ‘I guess I should head for the airport.’

‘I’ll have a bellman come up for your bags,’ I said, ‘and take care of checking you out.’

‘Eddie, I see why Joey, Frank, and all the guys have such a high opinion of you.’

‘Thank you, Abby,’ I said. ‘That means a lot.’

She kissed me goodbye. Down in the lobby I told the desk she was leaving, and had them send a bellman up. That done, I went to let Jack Entratter know that my business with Abby Dalton was done, and I’d be going back to work.

His girl still wasn’t at her desk. I knocked on his open door, and he waved me in.

‘What’s up?’

‘I got the Abby Dalton thing done.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘What’s Jerry doin’ about his kid cousin?’

‘I’m not sure, but I’m guessing he’s gonna take him home and try to keep him out of trouble.’

‘And are we gonna get paid?’

‘Don’t worry, Jack,’ I said. ‘You’ll get paid.’

‘Cousin Jerry’s got that kind of cash?’

‘I don’t know what kind of cash Jerry’s got, but I know he’ll bend over backwards to make sure the Sands gets its dough.’

‘I hope you’re right, Eddie.’

‘When have I ever lied to you, Jack?’

‘I ain’t talkin’ about lyin’, kid,’ Entratter said. ‘I’m just talkin’ about bein’ wrong.’

‘Well, I’m not wrong about this.’

‘OK, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

I looked over at his TV, which was dark.

‘I’m tired of seein’ all the reports,’ he said. ‘Had to shut the damn thing off.’

‘Can’t blame you for that,’ I said. ‘I’m going to work, Jack. Gonna take an extra shift this afternoon, and then do my regular tonight.’

‘Go ahead, then,’ he said. ‘I’ve got work of my own to do.’

The country had withstood another shock when, two days after JFK was killed by Lee Harvey Oswald, Oswald was shot by a saloonkeeper named Jack Ruby. Ruby was somebody the people in my world — Entratter, Skinny D’Amato, Momo Giancana, even Frank — knew. Suddenly, speculation that the mob was behind the assassination sprang up. But so far it couldn’t be proven. It appeared Oswald acted alone, and then Ruby acted alone. Of course, none of us on the outside were privy to the inner workings of the case. And, as the years went by, conspiracy theories would multiply.

But when I woke that morning I had been back to work a week, Jerry had dragged Billy back to Brooklyn and put him to work paying his debt, Frank had gone back to work, JFK had been buried, the image of John John saluting his father’s motorcade was forever burned into the psyche of us all, and the country had gone back to whatever they had been doing before that day in Dallas.

And somebody was slamming their fist on my front door.

‘All right!’ I yelled, stumbling out of bed in my underwear. If they wanted me so bad they’d have to accept me as I was. I secretly hoped it would be some Jehovah’s Witnesses I could shock.

But when I opened the door I was the one who was shocked. Detective Hargrove of the Las Vegas PD was standing there with a couple of cops in uniform.

‘Get dressed,’ he said. ‘You’re comin’ with us.’

‘What the hell-’

‘Get dressed, Eddie.’

‘Hargrove, what’s this abou-’

‘These two men are ready, willing and able to dress you, if you force the issue.’

‘I’m not forcing anything,’ I said, ‘I’m just trying to find out-’

‘You’ll find out what’s goin’ on when we get downtown, Eddie,’ Hargrove said. ‘Now don’t make me tell you again. Get dressed!’

‘OK, OK,’ I said, ‘Jeez, relax.’

I started to close the door, but he blocked it with his hand.

‘We’ll come inside and wait for you, if you don’t mind.’

‘Like I have a choice?’

Before long I was in an interview room with a cardboard cup of coffee that actually tasted like cardboard.

They let me stew for forty minutes before Hargrove came in, carrying a folder. He sat across from me, opened the folder and pushed it across to me. I stared down at the picture of a dead guy.

‘You know him?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t even think about it.’

‘I don’t have to,’ I said. ‘I don’t know him.’

‘You don’t know him.’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever seen him?’

I hesitated, then looked again.

‘Maybe. He looks kinda familiar.’

‘From where?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe the casino?’

He took the folder back.

‘Who killed him?’ I asked.

‘What makes you think he’s been killed?’

‘Why else would you be involved?’ I asked. ‘Unless you’ve been moved from Homicide?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘And that’s what I’m tryin’ to find out, who killed him.’

‘What makes you think I’d know?’

‘We got a tip.’

‘Anonymous?’

‘What else?’

‘And the tipster said I killed him?’

‘Not exactly,’ Hargrove said. ‘They just said we should look into you.’

‘Look into me?’ I asked. ‘That’s it. And for that you woke me up and dragged me down here?’

‘I suppose I should’ve called you and made an appointment?’

‘You could’ve called me, yeah,’ I said. ‘I would’ve come down here if you asked me to.’

‘Because you’re such a good citizen.’

Because I worked at the Sands for Jack Entratter, and did favors for Frank Sinatra, Hargrove has always had it in his head that I was connected. And maybe I was, but not in the way he thought.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘get out of here.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

He looked miserable. Apparently, he had high hopes that I was involved. But even if I was, did he think I’d admit it?

I left the building, walked a few blocks, then caught a cab and had it take me back to my house. I went inside, took a shower and dressed in fresh, clean jeans and a T-shirt. Then I grabbed my windbreaker and keys and left again. I needed some breakfast, and some time to think.