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

I said they had guns, I didn’t say the weapons were in their hands. No, one had a gun on his belt, the other in a shoulder holster. They stood with their hands on their hips, so that the weapons were displayed.

“Are you Eddie Gianelli?” the older one asked. He had about ten years on his partner. He stood up straight, the younger one slouched. Sometimes I think that’s the definition of experience.

“The man asked you a question,” the young one said, “twice. Don’t you think it would be polite to answer him?”

“You’re probably right,” I said. I looked at the older one. Forties, I thought, like me. “Yes, I’m Eddie Gianelli.”

“The one they call ‘Eddie G’?”

“Well, I don’t know who ‘they’ are, but yes, that’s a nickname of mine.”

“Well, Eddie G,” the older one said, “somebody wants to see you.”

“Who?”

“A very important man.”

“The President of the United States?”

“More important than him.”

“Who’s more important than the President?”

Neither one answered.

I tried to judge them by their clothes, the way Jerry had done earlier with the other three. These two had decent suits and shoes, and thin ties. I gave up after that.

“What do I call you?”

“Call him Number Two,” the older man said, “and me Number One.”

“Why are you Number One?” the younger one asked.

The older one looked at him.

“Because I’m not dumb enough to ask a question like that.”

“He’s right,” I said to Number Two. “That was a dumb question.”

He came out of his slouch and asked, “You callin’ me dumb?”

I looked at Number One, who shrugged wearily.

“Are you comin’?” he asked.

“What’s my alternative?”

“We bring you.”

“How far are we goin’?” I asked.

“Not far.”

“Am I comin’ back?”

“No reason to think otherwise.”

For some reason I believed him. These actually were messenger boys, not hit men.

“Well,” I asked, “when do we go?”

“Now,” Number One said, “but first … you wouldn’t be carrying a gun, would you?”

There was no point in lying, since they’d probably search me no matter what I said.

“As a matter of fact.” I raised my hands and indicated my right jacket pocket.

Number One stepped forward and fished the.38 out.

“I’d like to get that back when we’re done.”

“Don’t see why not,” he said, tucking the gun into his belt. “Shall we go?”

They had a black sedan parked in the lot. Number Two got behind the wheel, Number One in the shotgun seat next to him. I got in the back. I didn’t have a car.

“When will we-” I started, but Number One cut me off.

“There’s no point in asking questions,” he told me. “All we know is that we were to come and get you and bring you back. We don’t know why.”

“But where-”

“Where will be apparent shortly,” he said, turning to look at me. “It’s not far, like I told you. Just sit back and relax. Somebody wants to talk to you. Nobody wants to hurt you.”

If I took him at his word this would probably be one of the few times I would actually be able to sit back and relax for a while.

We drove out of Tahoe and past some of the ski lodges that were going up almost as fast as casinos. There were also some impressive homes out this way. We were most of the way around the beautiful lake, almost to the California border, when the car pulled into a long driveway that led up to a palatial house. Whoever I was being brought to see had money, or friends who had money.

“Nice little cottage,” I said. I got no reply.

Number Two stopped the car in front of the house and we got out. I followed them up the stairs and inside.

“Leaving the door unlocked is not smart,” I said, “even around here.”

“We’re expected,” Number Two said.

Behind me I heard Number One lock the door.

They took me to a room that was lined with books-a library, or a den. Since all I have is a living room, I can never tell the difference.

“Wait here with him,” Number Two said to Number One.

“Okay.”

We waited in silence. He stared off into space while I walked around and looked at the books, a mixture of classic fiction, nonfiction, and law books. That’s as far as I got before my host entered the room.

“You can go,” he said to Number One.

“Yes, sir.” He headed for the door, but stopped just short of leaving. “Want me to stay outside?”

“Just stay in the house,” my host said. “I’ll only need you to drive Mr. Gianelli home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Number One left and closed the door behind him.

My host was a man in his seventies, gray-haired, ramrod straight, wearing an unmistakably expensive suit and wire-rimmed glasses.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said. “I’ve seen photos. You’re Joseph Kennedy.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

Father of the President of the United States. In point of fact Joe Kennedy always wanted his oldest son, Joseph Kennedy Jr., to become President, but after he was killed in World War II he turned his ambitions to his second oldest son, John F. Kennedy. He planned strategies, did the fund-raising, and generally oversaw the entire campaign. It was believed by people in the know that Joe Kennedy was pulling the strings on both Jack and Bobby and that he insisted when Jack became President that he appoint Bobby as attorney general.

“Would you like a drink, sir?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “I’d like to know why I was brought here.”

“I’ll have some Irish whiskey, if you don’t mind.”

He walked to a sideboard and poured two fingers into a tumbler.

“Please, have a seat,” he said. “I must sit, myself. I don’t often leave the compound anymore.”

I knew from television and newspapers that the Kennedy residence in Hyannisport, Massachusetts was referred to as “the Kennedy Compound.”

The room had two maroon leather armchairs and we each took one, so that we were facing each other.

“I had you brought here for a reason, Mr. Gianelli.”

“I hope so.”

Joe Kennedy’s entire countenance was a stern one. I’d never heard anything about the man having a sense of humor. Now that I was seeing him for the first time the lack of it was very evident.

“I understand you have been engaged in the pursuit of a certain photo.”

I quickly wondered how to play this. If Joseph Kennedy wanted me dead, I’d be dead, so I decided to play it straight.

“Actually,” I said, “I’m trying to buy an entire roll of film.”

“I see. Do you know what this roll of film contains?”

“Not a clue,” I lied.

“Then why are you trying to purchase it?”

“I’m acting on someone else’s behalf.”

“And who would that be?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, at this time.”

“I see,” he said, again. “One of your Rat Pack cronies?” He said “Rat Pack” with intense dislike. I knew he hadn’t liked Jack consorting with Frank, but they’d needed Frank to deliver the Teamsters. As soon as JFK got elected, Frank was out.

I decided not to be passive.

“I understand you’re trying to buy a photo, too,” I said.

Kennedy frowned, but said, “Well, yes …”

“Do you know what it is a photo of?”

“I’m afraid I do,” he said. “Do you?”

“Nope.”

He studied me, as if trying to decide if I was lying or not.

“I’ve checked you out, Mr. Gianelli,” he said. “You work for Jack Entratter at the Sands hotel, and you consort with Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin … those types.”