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

“So why did you leave it on the body?” I asked.

“Why not? I knew Walter had it on him, so after I killed Ernie I took it from him and left it there. Give the cops somethin’ ta think about.”

“But why frame-”

“Where’s the fuckin’ money?” DeLucca demanded, cutting me off.

I wondered if we could cut the odds down a little more.

“You guys see that?” I asked. “That’s what he’s got in mind for all of you.”

“Shut up,” Angelo DeLucca said. “Shut yer friend up, Jerry.”

“Why, Angelo?” Jerry asked. “He’s right, ain’t he? You ain’t gonna share any of the money with these bozos. I’ll bet they was all brought into the game by Walter, right? And now you shot their friend down right in front of them.”

“A four-way split is better than five,” DeLucca announced to his cohorts.

“And a one way split is the best of all,” I said. “Come on, guys, Angelo here is a pro. He knows how to tie up loose ends, and you guys are all loose ends.”

“You’re the biggest loose end,” Angelo said to me. “I should take care of you right now.”

He extended his gun toward me.

“Don’t Ang-” Jerry said, but he had no time to finish. He had no choice but to fire. The shot lit up the room. The bullet hit Angelo dead center. He spasmed, pulled the trigger of his own gun, firing a round wild and lighting the darkness again.

That left three of them and two of us.

“Drop ’em, boys,” Jerry said. “It’s all over.”

We played our lights over them. They were all nervous, jittery, sweating and biting their lips, wondering what to do because the two men who were their leaders were gone. If they panicked and started shooting it wasn’t going to go well.

Suddenly, we heard what sounded like a bolt being thrown and the sliding metal door to the bay slid up. The glare of several sets of headlights lit the interior of the warehouse and nearly a dozen men came charging in with guns.

“Drop ’em, everybody!” somebody yelled. “Federal agents.”

One guy got antsy and turned his gun toward them. He caught three slugs and went down. In quick succession his buddies met the same fate, and then it was just me and Jerry standing.

“Take it easy!” I yelled, and we put our hands in the air.

I had no doubt these were Joe Kennedy’s men. He’d sprung us after my phone call, and then obviously had us followed. Now the question was, what were their orders where we were concerned?

“You Eddie Gianelli?” one of the agents asked.

If I said yes would they gun us down? Tie up the last of the loose ends?

I had to play the hand that had been dealt to me.

“I’m Gianelli.”

The dead men were being searched by other agents, and one of them came up with a brown manila envelope. He brought it over to the man who’d questioned me, obviously the agent in charge. The envelope had blood on it, but that didn’t seem to bother him. He had a flashlight of his own. He opened the envelope, shined the light in, and then closed it. All he’d been able to see was that there were photos and negatives inside, but I didn’t think he’d been able to see what they were photos of.

He folded the envelope lengthwise, stuck it in his inside jacket pocket, then turned his attention back to his men.

“Pack it in!” he yelled.

The agents brought in plastic bags, which they used to remove the bodies. I still wasn’t sure what they were going to do with us.

The agent-in-charge looked at us as his men cleaned up the scene and said, “Mr. Kennedy’s compliments. You and your buddy better get out of here.”

Jerry and I looked at each other. If they hadn’t shot us by now they weren’t going to shoot us as we left.

“You don’t have to tell us twice,” I said, and we got the hell out of there.

As soon as Sammy opened his door I handed him the photo and the negative.

“Come on in.”

I entered, closing the door behind me. It was the morning after and Jerry had remained in Vegas. I wanted to get the photo back to Sammy right away.

“Did you … look at it?”

“Once,” I said, “just to make sure it was the right one.”

“We were just … bein’ silly,” he said, looking embarrassed, “and I had one shot left. May … isn’t usually this … free with her body-”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“Not that she’s a prude,” he went on, “but, man, if this picture had gotten into the papers-you dig?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I do.”

He put his hand out and I shook it, then he pulled me into a big hug.

“Thanks, Eddie. Man, I owe you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He put the photo and negative into his pocket, then asked, “And the other thing? You fix that, too?”

“I hope so,” I said.

I didn’t want to tell him there could have been more prints out there, that there was still the possibility that a photo of a naked May Britt, or a compromised JFK, could still show up in the newspapers or a magazine. It seemed like all the guilty parties were either dead or-as in the case of Caitlin and Tony-in jail, at the moment.

Apparently, the same phone call that had sprung me and Jerry had sealed Caitlin and Tony’s fate. When I had gone to sleep the night before I was almost expecting to be awakened by cops at my door, but the morning dawned with no such intrusion. Hargrove may have still had it in for me, but for the moment I seemed to be in the clear.

“Did you hear about Joe Kennedy?” Sammy asked.

“What about him?”

“He had a stroke,” Sammy said. “Yesterday.”

“Dead?” I asked.

“No, but pretty bad. They think he’ll be in a wheelchair from now on.”

“That’s too bad,” I said. “Guess I was one of the last to see him on his feet. He was … pretty damn impressive.”

“Who did it, Eddie?” he asked. “Who broke into my house and stole the photos?”

I told him.

I spent the night in the room at the Sands, and that’s where Jerry still was, but it was time for me to go home. I needed to talk to Jack Entratter, but I was putting that off for later in the day.

The rug had dried, the bullet hole was still in the door frame, but the bullet was gone. Hargrove had it.

Could he use it to come after me again? Now that Joe Kennedy was incapacitated? Well, it wasn’t as if I hadn’t been looking over my shoulder for him ever since the first time we met. So nothing had really changed.

I was making a pot of coffee when the phone rang. What I needed to do was sit quietly, drain the pot by myself, and finally stop shaking from the confrontation in the warehouse.

“Hello?”

“Eddie?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s Jack.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Jack Kennedy. The President?” he added.

“I know who you are.”

“I’m sorry to call so unexpectedly,” JFK said, “but I wanted to thank you for what you did.”

“I, uh, was under the impression that you didn’t know what was going on.”

“Oh I didn’t,” he said, “until my father had his stroke. Then I was told.”

Yeah, right.

“So … it was you who got me sprung last night?”

“Yes.”

Hargrove didn’t know how right he’d been about my connections going higher.

“Of course, no one knows it was me, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Of course.”

“You did your country a great service, Eddie.”

“Um, well, okay.” Now was not the time to tell him I was glad I didn’t vote for him.

There was a moment of silence, and then he asked, “Uh, you didn’t see the photo, did you, Eddie?”

“What photo was that, Mr. President?”