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

“Really?”

“They ain’t the sellers,” he said. “They’re too well dressed. An’ they ain’t the mob on account of they ain’t dressed good enough.”

I couldn’t argue with him. He had the experience edge on me.

I looked back outside. They were milling about, looking at the ground. One of them walked over to the half-a-house and took a look, then he turned and pointed at the barn. The other two nodded, and they all turned to face us.

“Come on, Mr. Gianelli,” one of them said. “We can see by the tracks your car made that you’re in the barn.”

“What the fuck-” I said. “Who are these guys, Daniel Boone?”

“Feds,” Jerry said again, and if possible he made it sound like an even dirtier word than when he said “Cops.”

“And if you or your big friend have a gun, please toss it out first,” a second man said. “We’d hate for any accidents to happen.”

I turned and looked at Jerry.

“I guess we better do it.”

“Yeah,” he said, then added, “unless you wanna shoot it out?”

“Gee,” I said, “I only wish I had a gun, then I would, but we’re a little outgunned here, don’t you think?”

“It was just a thought.”

He tugged his.45 free from his shoulder holster, walked to the door and tossed it out.

“Gonna have ta clean the damn thing when I get it back,” he muttered.

I walked to the door and shouted, “We’re comin’ out.”

“Come ahead. Hands in the air!” came the reply.

Jerry and I raised our hands and walked out of the barn.

The three men were identically dressed and, except for slight differences in height and weight, alike in appearance, as well.

“Frisk ’em,” one man said, and as the other two approached us the first took out an ID holder and flashed it.

“My name is Agent Sloane, these are Agents Simpson and Byer.”

“Agents?” I asked. “FBI?”

“No, sir,” Sloane said, “Secret Service.”

“Secret Service?” I repeated as Byer did a quick pat-down on me and Simpson did the same to Jerry-although it may have been the other way around. I was glad I’d left the money in the hotel safe.

I looked Byer-or Simpson-in the eye and said to the three of them, “Can I see all your IDs up close?”

Sloane came closer, while Byer and Simpson-mine did turn out to be Byer-opened their ID holders. They all had credentials imprinted with UNITED STATES SECRET SERVICE on them.

“Can we put our hands down now?” I asked.

The three of them backed away a safe distance and Sloane said, “Sure. And while you’re at it produce your own IDs.”

We lowered our hands, took out our wallets and handed them over.

“Edward Gianelli?” Sloane asked, looking at me.

“That’s right.”

He gave Byer our wallets so he could hand them back to us.

“Who was carrying?” Sloane asked. Byer went over, retrieved the.45 and carried it to Sloane, who tucked it into his belt.

“I was,” Jerry said.

“You got a permit?”

Jerry took it out and handed it to Byer, who carried it back to Sloane. There was absolutely no doubt who was in charge, here.

“This is for New York and New Jersey.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know if you’re aware of it, Mr. Epstein, but you’re in Nevada.”

“I’m visiting.”

“Why were you carrying?”

“For protection.”

“Against what?”

“You didn’t need my wallet to know who I was,” I said, interrupting. “You called out to me by name.”

Sloane looked at me, then handed the permit back to Byer, who gave it to Jerry. Apparently, the head man had decided to let Jerry off the hook for a while.

“You’re right, Mr. Gianelli,” Sloane said, “I do know who you are. What I’d like to know, however, is what you and your friend are doing here.”

“What are you doing here, out in the middle of nowhere?” I asked.

“We heard there was a buy going down,” he said, candidly. “So what are you doing, sir, buying or selling?”

“Damn, you guys are polite,” Jerry said.

Sloane looked at Jerry.

“I’m sure you’re used to dealing with New York and New Jersey cops, Mr. Epstein. We could’ve shot you in the kneecaps and we’d still be more polite than they are.”

“You got that right.”

“But don’t think for a moment that means you can fuck with us.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Nobody’s tryin’ to fuck with you, but isn’t your job safeguarding the President of the United States?”

“That’s right.”

I looked around and said, “I don’t see JFK anywhere around here.”

“The man doesn’t have to be here himself for us to be investigating a danger to him.”

“You think we are a danger to Jack Kennedy?”

Sloane’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m sure the President wouldn’t like you calling him Jack, Mr. Gianelli.”

“Well, you might ask him that when you see him, Agent Sloane. It happens I know Jack Kennedy personally.”

Jesus, but I was stretching the truth. I’d met Kennedy through Frank, and that was a year ago in Vegas. I wasn’t even sure Kennedy would remember.

“Be that as it may,” Sloane said, “I still need to know why you’re out here.”

We still had some hours before we were due to make our buy, but I didn’t want to stay out there any longer than we had to.

“Do we have to do this here?” I asked. “I don’t know what you came out here lookin’ for, but you found us, and I’ll bet we’re not it.”

None of the agents replied.

“It’s hot out here,” I said, “you guys are wearin’ suits and we’re wearin’ sports jackets. Why don’t we go back to town and do this where it’s cool, and we can get something wet?”

“Suits me,” Jerry said.

After a few seconds Agent Byers said, “Me, too,” and then seemed to realize he’d said it out loud.

“Okay,” Sloane said, “let’s go get something wet.”

I did some convincing that I was very proud of.

First, I convinced them that we had to bring our car. Sloane put us in the backseat of their sedan and Byers drove our rental.

Second, I convinced them that we had driven there directly from the airport, and had not checked into any hotel. It was the same with them.

Third, I convinced them that the bar in Harrah’s would be the best place to talk and get a drink. They didn’t know anything about Reno, so they went along with it.

“But don’t try anything until we’re finished talking,” Sloane said. I smiled from the backseat and said, “We’ve got no reason to try anything, Agent Sloane.”

“Yes, well,” Sloane said. “I guess you’ll have to convince us of that.”

We got a table in the back of the lounge and pulled some extra chairs over. We weren’t exactly blending into the background, but that didn’t seem to bother our Secret Service friends.

A pretty waitress showing lots of leg and cleavage came over.

“What can I get for you gentlemen?” she asked.

“Five cold beers,” Sloane said.

“Any particular kind?”

“Just whatever you have on draft will do,” he said.

“Comin’ up.”

“You mind if I ask the first question?” I said to Sloane.

“Yes.”

“How did you know my name?”

“I said I minded.”

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “I thought you meant yes, I could ask the question.”

“I understand you’re a bit of a wise guy, Gianelli,” he said. “That doesn’t impress me.”

I wasn’t exactly sure which definition of “wise guy” he was referring to.

The waitress returned with five draft beers and leaned over, showing lots of skin while she set them down, attracting the eyes of the other two agents. But not Sloane.