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

“Sam?”

“Hmm?” He looked at me over his shoulder. “Oh, hell, Eddie, to make a long story short, I took a picture that somebody wants to sell back to me.”

“A picture of what?”

He turned and looked at me.

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, Sam-”

“I’m missing a roll of film,” he said, “that has a picture that is … personally embarrassing. I’m trying to buy it back before it shows up in the papers. I don’t really wanna say more about it, Eddie.”

“So it’s not one photo we’re tryin’ to buy back?”

“It’s one photo I want,” he said, “but there’s twenty-four on the roll.”

“What if they’ve developed the whole roll?”

“It’s not actually a roll, it’s an envelope with the negatives from that roll,” Sammy said. “That’s how they know they have something to sell.”

I looked at Jerry.

“I’m lost, Mr. G. Wanna drink?”

“Sure, why not?” I asked. “This whole thing’s got me drinkin’ a lot earlier, these days.”

“Bourbon?”

“Please.”

“Mr. Davis?”

“Yes, thanks, Jerry.”

Jerry went and built three bourbons in a moment that was definitely filled with deja vu.

As he handed us our drinks I said, “Sammy, don’t you know what else is on that roll?”

He sat back down on the sofa, so Jerry and I once again took our armchairs. I couldn’t help thinking we were having our own summit, only without the Leader, Frank Sinatra.

“I know it’s the envelope with the photo I want,” he said, “the last one. I’ve been wracking my brain tryin’ to remember what else is on it….”

“Where was it taken from?”

“My home in L.A. I have a darkroom. I develop my own pictures.”

“So somebody with access to your home took them?”

“Somebody broke in while we weren’t home.”

“And that was all they took?”

“Yeah, that envelope and the gun.” He shook his head. “Like I told you before, I’ve been waitin’ for one or both of them to come back and haunt me.”

“Don’t you … keep a file? Catalog your film?”

“I was starting to,” he said, “but I hadn’t gotten to all of them yet.”

“You must know something. What year did you take the photos?”

“It was last year.”

“And where did you take photos last year?”

“All over,” he said. “Vegas, here, L.A., New York, Europe …”

“What kind of photo would be worth fifty grand?” I said aloud.

“It’s a … candid shot. Like I said, personal.”

“Candid?”

“I like to catch people … unaware.”

“Like me?”

“Yes,” he admitted, “most of the shots I took of you were candid, but …”

“… but I’m certainly not worth fifty thousand dollars.”

“Few people are.”

“But most of the people you photograph are famous,” I said. “Frank, Dino, Joey, Peter …”

“… Jerry Lewis, Kim Novak, Nat Cole, Buddy Hackett, Tony Bennett, May-”

“And some, like me, who aren’t entertainers?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Businessmen?”

“Sure,” he said, “producers, directors, money men-”

“Money men?”

“The men who put up the cash for movies, records-”

“Oh,” I said, “I thought you meant … mob money men.”

“I don’t usually associate with mob money men,” he said.

“But you have performed at clubs owned by the mob,” I said. “The Copa, the Ambassador?”

“Well, yes-”

“And you took photos?”

“Yes.”

“So there could be some candid shot of, say, MoMo Giancana on there?”

“I suppose …”

“Or …”

I stopped myself. “Or what?”

“Just a thought,” I said. “So many men have died already, and it can’t be for your personal photo. There’s got to be somethin’ else on there….”

“What’s your thought?” Sammy asked.

“Last year, when you were all here for Ocean’s Eleven … when JFK was here … did you take photos then?”

“Yes, but … I didn’t take any shots of the President.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He said. “In fact, the Secret Service wouldn’t let me, even though he wasn’t president yet.”

“Too bad.”

“Why too bad?”

“Well, if you’d taken a photo of Kennedy when he was … enjoying himself …”

“Oh, I get you,” Sammy said. “That would be worth a lot of bread.”

“A lot,” I repeated. “If that was what it was they would’ve asked for a hell of a lot more than fifty grand, don’t you think?”

“Well, yeah, but …”

“But what?”

“If you’re right,” he pointed out, “they wouldn’t be askin’ for it from me, would they?”

When Jerry and I left Sammy’s room we walked down the hall to the elevator.

“Jerry, we can’t talk about this when we’re around other people,” I said. “The drivers, the helicopter pilots … nobody.”

“I getcha, Mr. G.,” he said. “Mum’s the word.”

“That way we can control who else hears about this.”

The elevator doors opened and we got in. There were two people already there-a man and a woman who weren’t together-and we picked up a few more along the way. When we got to the main floor we let them get out first, then followed.

“Whataya think, Mr. G.?” he asked.

“I can’t figure out how somebody knew to break into Sammy’s house in the first place,” I said. “If we could figure that out, we might get some answers.”

“So how do we figure it out?”

“We’ll have to think about it once we get back to Vegas,” I said. “While we’re in the car, and the copter, we’ll talk about something else entirely.”

“Like what?”

As we approached the limo I said, “Cars, women, sports … anything but what we’ve just been talking about.”

Before we got into the car Jerry said, “You know what I think the photo might be?”

“What?”

“A naked picture of May Britt. That’d be somethin’ Mr. Davis would pay to get back. Man, a picture of that blond babe with all that pale skin … She’s kinda like Marilyn, ya know?”

I didn’t say anything as we got into the car, but from the beginning I had been thinking the same thing. And then when Sammy said something about candid photos I was even more sure that was it.

I knew that May Britt had not made a film since she married Sammy Davis Jr. In fact, her film career would virtually end because of the marriage. I also knew, at the time this was all happening, she was about four months pregnant.

I could only wonder what they’d gone through to be together. But while the effects on her were obvious, the effects on Sammy were not. He must have been holding everything inside, where no one else could see. Where he could suffer alone.

We didn’t talk about it again until we were in my room at the Sands.

Jerry sat on the bed and looked at me, then looked around.

“Can’t you get yerself a swankier setup?”

“I guess we could go back to my house,” I said. “If the cops were lookin’ for me they would have come here by now.”

“I guess.”

“Then again, we might be safer here,” I added. “After all, they obviously know where I live-whoever ‘they’ are.”

“What’s this?” Jerry asked.

“What?”

He picked up an envelope from the night table. It had my name written on the front. I grabbed it from his hand and stared at it.

“It’s the same kinda envelope,” I said, “and the same handwriting as the first note. The one stuck to my door in Tahoe.”

“Another note.”

I opened the envelope.