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

“Save it for your defense,” he said. “You’re gonna need it.”

He let go of my arm and I went out the door.

I found Jerry outside.

“Did you see anybody?” I asked. “Talk to anybody?”

“Nope,” he said. “They just let me go. What happened?”

“I made a phone call.”

“That number?” he asked.

“Yeah, that number,” I said. “Come on, we gotta get a cab.”

In the Sands parking lot minutes later, in my car, Jerry said, “We could call the cops and have them picked up.”

“Hargrove would never go for it.”

“There are other cops.”

“Picked up for what?” I asked. “The most they’d get them for would be carrying guns.”

“If we do this,” he said, “you’re gonna have to use that gun.”

“Unless we can talk them out of it.” Jerry shook his head.

“These bozos are tryin’ ta hold up the government,” he said. “You ain’t gonna talk them outta nothin’.”

“You’re probably right.”

“You ever killed anybody with a gun before, Mr. G.?” he asked.

“In the army.”

“Up close?”

“No.”

“I got your back, Mr. G.,” Jerry said. “I gotta know that you got mine.”

I looked at him.

“You can ask me that after what happened in my house?”

“You didn’t have ta shoot nobody,” he said, “and you killed that guy by a fluke. Tonight ain’t gonna be no fluke.”

I took the gun out of my pocket and held it in my hand.

“Don’t worry, big guy,” I said, “I’ve got your back.”

We pulled into the same parking lot behind the same warehouse. It was the only place we could think of that would be away from people. At first we thought about having them meet us on our ground, in a casino, but with them being armed there was a possibility that innocent people could be hurt.

We got out of the car and walked to the same door we’d used to enter the warehouse the other two times. There was yellow crime scene tape across the door, but it had been broken. Either someone had gone inside previously, or they were in there now.

We looked around the lot. There was no light other than the headlights from my car.

“Let’s cut the car lights, Jerry,” I said. We both had flashlights this time.

He went to the car and turned off the lights. When he came back he had a flashlight in his left hand, and a gun in his right.

I took the gun out of my pocket, adopted the same position.

“Mr. G., you’re gonna do the talkin’, but you gotta let me have the lead on the action, okay?”

“Okay.”

“It would’ve been better if we coulda arranged for some backup,” he said. “Gettin’ picked up really fucked any chance for a plan.”

“I know,” I said. “I guess we should just go in and get it over with.”

“We don’t have ta do this, ya know,” he said. “You don’t have ta.”

“First, I’m not lettin’ you go in there alone,” I said. “That’s out. Second, yeah, I do have to do this, if just to get Hargrove off my back. Once he knows what was goin’ on maybe I’ll be off the hook for that bullet in my wall bein’ connected to a murder weapon.”

“Or not,” he said.

“Yeah, well, let’s be a little more optimistic here.”

“Okay, Mr. G. You ready?”

I took a deep breath. Was I ready?

No.

“Yes.”

We stepped inside and switched on our flashlights. It was quiet but then, in quick succession, other flashlights were turned on.

One … two … three …

… four and five.

“This ain’t good,” Jerry said in my ear. “There was only supposed to be three.”

I nodded, then said, “Yes,” because he probably couldn’t see me nod.

“Walter?” I shouted.

The five points of light came closer to us, but stayed spread out. Jerry and I played our lights across them, saw five guys in their thirties who, like us, were holding lights and guns.

“You’re outgunned,” someone said. “Put ’em down.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“We can put you down and take the money.”

“If we have the money on us,” I countered.

“You better have it on you.”

“Look, if you start shootin’ we’ll start shootin’. You might kill us, but some of you won’t leave this place alive. So why don’t we just do business?”

That was met with silence.

“Walter? Is that you doin’ the talkin’?”

More silence, then, “No, it’s me.” Then: “Jerry, is that you?”

The speaker shone his light on Jerry, who returned the favor. Jerry’s light showed a black-haired guy in his thirties.

“Hey, Angelo,” Jerry said. “What’re you doin’ with these amateurs?”

“Somebody killed the pros I was usin’,” he pointed at me, “left them all in here. I didn’t have any idea who killed them … up ta now …”

“That’s too bad,” Jerry said.

“What’re you doin’ with him?”

“Mr. G., this here’s Angelo DeLucca,” Jerry said. “Angelo, meet Eddie Gianelli. He’s a good friend of Mr. Sinatra’s.”

“So what?” Angelo said, looking unimpressed.

“Does Handsome Johnny know what you’re up to, Angelo?” Jerry asked.

I knew “Handsome Johnny” was Johnny Roselli, who represented Sam Giancana in Vegas, as well as Hollywood. In fact, some folks said Roselli was employed by Monogram Studios as a producer.

I did the math in my head: DeLucca/Roselli, Roselli/Giancana, Giancana/Sinatra, Sinatra/Sammy Davis, not to mention Sinatra/JFK and it wasn’t hard to figure out how this Angelo might know about Sammy’s photos. It wouldn’t take much for DeLucca to have someone creep into Sammy’s house for the film.

“Just tryin’ to do some business on the side, Jerry,” Angelo said. “You know how that is.”

“I do know, Angelo,” Jerry said, “but I’d never cross Mr. Giancana this way.”

“I ain’t crossin’ MoMo,” Angelo said. “This dough ain’t comin’ outta his pocket.”

“Yeah, you tell him that,” Jerry said. “You tell him how you used his connection to Mr. Sinatra to not only hold up Sammy Davis Jr., but President Kennedy.”

“Hey, that wasn’t me tryin’ ta squeeze the nigger,” Angelo said. “That was Ernie and his girl, and Walter’s idiot brother.”

“Where’s Tony?” a voice asked. I assumed it was Walter.

“I’m not sure, Walter,” I said. “Up to half an hour ago the cops had him.”

“The cops?”

“I told you,” DeLucca said, wearily, “I told you to keep that idiot away from us.”

“I didn’t-”

DeLucca turned and fired one shot. One of the flashlights fell to the floor. That was the end of Walter.

“Easy,” DeLucca said, as we all jumped at the sound of his shot. “Just doin’ some housecleanin’.”

And cutting the odds for us, I thought. Two to one, now.

“Too bad,” DeLucca said, looking back at Jerry and me. “He was a waiter at the Sands last year when JFK came to see the Rat Pack.”

“Ah,” I said, “so he spotted Sammy takin’ a picture, saw somethin’ in the background that would be worth money, if it was played right.”

“He was always hangin’ around me,” DeLucca said, “wantin’ a job. When he came to me with this I knew how to play it.”

“Right,” I said, “sit on it until JFK got comfortable in the Presidency.”

“Right,” DeLucca said, “but he was actually as big an idiot as his brother. He kept that six-gun he took when he creeped the nigger Jew’s house.”

“He did the house?” Jerry asked.

“He went with one of my men,” Angelo said. “Spotted the guns, decided to take one.”