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

We washed up, put on clean shirts-we’d been cleaning in our t-shirts-and left the house. There was a place not far from my house where Jerry and I had had breakfast a few times last year, and he remembered the way. He ordered a tall stack of pancakes while I went for eggs, bacon and the works.

“I can’t believe I’m hungry after what we just did,” I said.

Jerry leaned forward and lowered his voice, despite the fact that there was no one seated near us.

“Mr. G., we didn’t shot nobody.”

“I know it, but we broke a helluva lot of other laws,” I said. “You may be used to that in New York, but I’m not.”

“You and me bent a lot of ’em last year. Did ya lose sleep over those?”

“So I guess this is what happens when you start bendin’ the laws,” I reasoned. “Eventually, you end up breakin’ ’em, too.”

“Don’t beat yerself up, Mr. G.,” Jerry said. “You’re doin’ what you always do.”

“What’s that?”

“Tryin’ ta help somebody. Ya kept Mr. Davis out of it.”

“Sammy,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve got to call and tell him what’s goin’ on.”

“Didn’t he head back to Tahoe today?”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll wait a while.”

“Call him after ya get some sleep,” Jerry suggested. “You don’t look so good.”

I didn’t feel so good, either, but I was still hungry, so we dug in.

When we came outside the sun was shining brightly and I thought about those four bodies inside that warehouse-one already partially ripe. I shaded my eyes.

“Back home?” Jerry asked.

“Only to get your things,” I said. “I don’t want to take a chance on somebody comin’ to the house again. We’ll catch some sleep at the Sands.”

“I got two beds in my room, Mr. G.,” Jerry said. “You’re welcome to one.”

“Thanks for the offer, Jerry,” I said, “but I don’t think I’ll have any trouble getting myself a room.”

“Naw, probably not,” he said.

We drove from the diner to my block and as we started to pull in I saw the black-and-whites complete with flashing lights. Jerry stopped the car cold and we stared down the block.

“Cops!” he said, and in that one word you could hear his disdain.

“What the fuck-” I said.

“They’re in front of your house.”

“Jerry, get us out of here,” I said, “and don’t screech the tires.”

“I’m way ahead of you, Mr. G.”

We headed for the Sands. If we had to, we could get lost there.

“How the hell did they know?” Jerry asked.

“I guess some neighbor did hear the shooting, after all.”

“Then why did it take this long for them to come?” he asked. “The cops usually respond real fast to a call of shots fired.” He seemed to think a moment, then said, “Shit, if they go inside-”

“-they’ll find a recently cleaned living room rug, and nothing else.”

He gave me a quick look, then turned his attention back to the road.

“What?” I asked.

“There’s one thing we forgot, in all the hurryin’ around, gettin’ rid of the bodies an’ cleaning up the blood.”

“Forgot? What did we-oh crap.” I remembered one of the men took a shot at Thomas while he stood in the kitchen doorway. “There’s a bullet in the wall.”

“Yes.”

“Shit.”

“Maybe they won’t go inside,” he offered. “Or maybe they weren’t even in front of your house.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Maybe Mr. Benson was beating his wife again.”

The police did respond to the Benson home about once a month. I couldn’t remember when the last time was.

“On the other hand,” I said, “maybe somebody called the cops and told them what happened.”

“Who would know that?”

“Whoever sent the messengers.”

“But why would they do that? You’re the go-between.”

“Maybe they want another go-between,” I said. “Maybe they’ve lost too many people as it is.”

“Like I said before,” Jerry said, “you ain’t shot nobody.”

“Maybe they don’t know that. And maybe,” I added, “we don’t know what the hell is going on.”

We parked behind the Sands and went inside. I felt like I was literally dragging my ass behind me.

“I’m gonna get some sleep,” I said. “I suggest you do the same.”

“What if the cops come lookin’ for us?”

“Then they’ll wake us up.”

He went to the elevator court and I went to the front desk to get the key for one of the rooms kept for employees.

I knew the pretty young blonde behind the desk. Her name was Rose. She had a husband who worked at the Riviera, and she was a bit of a flirt.

“Do you have Mr. Entratter’s okay for this, Eddie?” she asked, closing her hand into a fist with the room key inside.

“You can check with him if you like, Rose,” I said.

“And what will you be using this room for?” she asked. “Entertaining one of your showgirls?”

“You know I only have eyes for you, Rose.”

She smiled and said, “If only I didn’t have a husband.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

She smiled broadly, batted her eyes at me, and handed the key over.

“I’m just gonna get some shut-eye.”

“Sleep tight,” she said, and then moved down the line to handle a check-in.

I hoped I would.

I slept more than tight; I slept like the dead for ten hours. I came awake slowly, rolling over and checking the clock, then looking around the room a few moments before I remembered where I was and what had happened. It was 9 P.M., not too late to call Sammy. In fact, I’d have to call him later, after he got off-stage. That was okay with me. My stomach was growling.

I’d gone to my locker for a fresh shirt and underwear before heading for the room. I’d just have to wear the same pants I wore the day before. That wasn’t a problem. The shirt was a casual one, but since I wasn’t working I didn’t need a tie.

I turned the TV on as I dressed to see if there was anything on the news about bodies being found, or maybe even something about my block or my house. Thankfully, there was nothing-yet.

I left the room and went down to the Garden Room. When I got there it was no surprise that Jerry was already at a table, with a full dinner in front of him. I joined him.

“When did you get down here?” I asked.

“I just woke up half an hour ago, Mr. G.,” he said. “And I woke up hungry.”

“What a shock.”

A waitress came over and I ordered a steak dinner, which was what Jerry was working on, and a beer.

“No cops,” he said, around a huge chunk of meat.

“No,” I said, “not yet.”

“Maybe not at all.”

“We can hope.”

The waitress brought me a mug of beer.

“Thanks, Lucy.”

“Sure, Mr. Gianelli.”

“I forget you know everybody,” he said.

“Lucy’s been here a few months,” I said. “She’s putting herself through college.”

“Pretty girl,” he said. “You hittin’ that?”

“There are a lot of pretty girls in Vegas, Jerry,” I said. “One man can’t hit ’em all.”

He grinned and said, “You could try.”

I sipped my beer, frowning as something he said hit me.

“You know, you’re right.”

“About what?”

“I do know a lot of people in this town,” I said. “Maybe I should start using some of those contacts.”

“To do what?”

“To find out what the hell is goin’ on.”

“That,” he said, popping a potato into his mouth, “would be real helpful.”

Jerry went to watch the blackjack tables while I returned to my room to call Sammy. He was there, fresh from the stage. I asked him if he wanted to take a shower and wind down and I’d call him later.