Robert Randisi - Hey There (You with the Gun in Your Hand)

“Aw, I don’t want to do that, man,” he said. “That’ll just worry her.”

“It would help us to know if this was one of your guns, Sammy,” I said. “If it is then somebody tried to frame you for murder.”

“Man,” he said, “I was just tryin’ to buy back a photo. Why would someone want to frame me?”

“I was gonna ask you that,” I replied. “Look, I’ll fly up there tomorrow and bring the gun.”

“You took it?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I couldn’t leave it there.”

“Eddie, man … you broke the law.”

“I know, Sammy, I know, but if it was yours …”

“I don’t know what to say, man,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” I said. “I’ll be there early tomorrow, or as soon as I can get ahold of Frank’s pilot.”

“I’ll call Frank first thing,” he said. “I’ll arrange it. A car will pick you up in the morning.”

“Good, Sammy, good.”

“Eddie … did you call the cops about the body?”

“No, Sam,” I said, “not yet. I was going to but … let’s wait until you look at the gun. If it’s not yours, I can call the cops and report the body.”

“And if it is mine?”

“I guess we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As I hung up, Jerry yelled from the kitchen, “You got some baloney. You want a sandwich?”

“No thanks.”

“I’m makin’ coffee,” he said.

“Good. I’ll have some of that.”

I left the phone and walked into the kitchen. Jerry had taken off his jacket, hung it over the back of a chair, and rolled up his sleeves. He was wearing his shoulder harness with his.45 under his left arm.

“You gotta stock your ice box with more stuff, Mr. G.,” he said.

“Yeah, now that you’re here, I’ll have to.”

“Geez, don’t you eat?”

“I eat out, Jerry … a lot.”

“Yeah, I know, but ya gotta have some food in the house, just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

“Ya get hungry!”

“That’s not a ‘just in case’ with you, Jerry,” I said, “that’s an ‘all the time.’ ”

“Hey, I’m a big guy. I gotta eat.” He bit into his baloney sandwich and licked a glob of mustard from the corner of his mouth. I didn’t even know I had mustard. I never use it.

“So did you talk to Mr. Davis?”

“I did.”

“What are we doin’ tomorrow?”

“We’re flyin’ to Lake Tahoe in Frank’s helicopter.”

“Early, I bet.”

“A car will pick us up and take us to the airport,” I said.

“I’ll get up and make some eggs,” Jerry said. “I noticed you have eggs.”

I didn’t bother to tell him not to make breakfast. I knew it would be no use. Hell, if he had to eat I figured I might as well, too.

“I’ll get you a pillow and some sheets for the sofa.”

“Just a pillow’s good, Mr. G.” He patted the.45. “I got my baby to keep me warm.”

I liked the idea of having Jerry on my sofa with his.45. Once last year a couple of goons had broken into my house and worked me over. Another time, two gunnies kicked in the door only to find Jerry there. And still another time somebody had blown up my Caddy, hoping to find me in it. After finding that body in the warehouse I probably wouldn’t have slept in the house alone with no gun.

“I’m gonna turn in,” I said. “I’ll get up at the first smell of coffee.”

“I’ll get it goin’ good an’ early, Mr. G.,” Jerry promised.

Everyone who took us to Tahoe was the same-the driver who picked us up at the house, the helicopter pilot, and then Henry, who drove us from the heliport to Harrah’s, rather than to the Cal Neva. I wasn’t figuring we’d stay overnight.

When we got to Harrah’s I considered making Jerry wait in the lobby, but if push came to shove Jerry’s neck would be on the line along with mine. He deserved better.

I knocked on Sammy’s door. When he opened it he looked as if he hadn’t slept. His eyes were red-rimmed and he had a cigarette in his mouth-one of many I was sure he’d gone through since we talked the night before. I wondered if the red eyes were only from lack of sleep, or if he’d been drinking, as well. I didn’t know Sammy’s habits, if he drank or did drugs, so I couldn’t really hazard a guess.

But he seemed steady as he said, “Come on in.”

We followed him in and Jerry closed the door behind us.

“This the cat you told me about?” Sammy asked when we reached the sofa. “The one you said you could trust?”

“Yes,” I said, “this is Jerry.”

“I know you, don’t I?” Sammy asked.

“Maybe,” Jerry said. “I was around a couple of times last year.”

“Sure, okay,” Sammy said. “You helped with Frank and Dean’s problems.”

“I helped Mr. G., yeah.”

Sammy leaned over, stubbed out the cigarette in a loaded ashtray, and immediately lit another one.

“You got it?” he asked, then. “You bring the gun?”

Jerry had offered to carry the gun and I’d let him. He was so big it made less of a bulge in his belt. He reached behind his back and took it out, wrapped in a cloth. Neither of us had touched it with our bare hands.

I put it down on the table and unwrapped it.

“Examine it without touching it,” I told Sammy.

“I don’t have to examine it,” he said. “It’s one of mine.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“A man knows his own guns,” he said.

“He’s right, Mr. G.,” Jerry offered.

“That’s just great,” I said. “I need a drink. Anybody else?”

“Sure,” Sammy said.

“I’ll get ’em,” Jerry said.

“Here.” Sammy picked up a glass from the table next to the sofa and handed it to Jerry. “Bourbon, rocks.”

“Me, too, Jerry.”

Jerry went to the bar and built three drinks while I stayed where I was and watched Sammy, who actually crouched down and stared at the gun.

“Do we know for sure the cat was killed with this gun?” he asked.

“No,” I said, “but it seems pretty obvious somebody wanted you to get the blame.”

He used one finger to move the gun, just touching the cloth. Jerry came over, handed me my drink and put Sammy’s down on the table.

“Is that gun registered to you?” I asked Sammy.

“No,” he said, “none of them are registered. They’re all supposed to be collector’s pieces.”

“Does that mean they’re not supposed to fire?”

“Right,” Sammy said. He grabbed his drink and stood up. “Most of them are plugged, like the two you saw yesterday.”

“But this one actually works?”

“Yes.”

“Who knew that?” I asked. “Who knows about your guns?”

“Just a few people,” Sammy said, “but I trust them. May, Silber, my dad …”

There was an overstuffed armchair behind me and I decided to sit down. Jerry sat in an identical chair a few feet away. Sammy remained standing, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, and it looked to me like he was swaying.

“Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you sit down?”

He stared at me for a moment, then seemed to process what I said and sat on the sofa.

“Somethin’s wrong here,” I said. “You’re not tellin’ me everything.”

He hesitated.

“Come on, Sam. One of your guns goes missin’ and you don’t know it? I don’t buy that.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry, man. Yeah, the gun was taken the same time the photos were.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m not sure I know the answer to that, Eddie,” he replied. “Maybe I didn’t think you’d help me if you knew about the gun.”