Robert Randisi - I'm a fool to kill you

‘What the hell,’ George C. Scott said, ‘I thought that was you, Eddie.’

‘George,’ I said, grabbing his hand. Scott had been to the Sands more than once, and we usually took good care of him. ‘How are ya?’

‘Not bad. What are you doin’ here?’

I shrugged.

‘Gotta see a man about a debt.’ It was a good enough story. ‘How about you. New movie?’

‘TV,’ he said, a little sheepishly.

‘You’re kiddin’.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘A show called East Side, West Side . What are you gonna do? Everybody needs work, right? At least I get to work with a babe. She’s a tall drink of water named Barbara Feldon.’

‘The one that does the commercial in the tiger suit?’

‘The same.’

‘Yeah, not a bad gig, I guess.’

‘Ah,’ Scott said, ‘it won’t last, but it’ll keep me busy for a year or so. MGM ain’t what it used to be.’

‘So I heard.’

‘Are you Mr Gianelli?’ a voice asked.

I looked at a man with a pencil thin mustache, black hair that came to a widow’s peak, and piercing blue eyes. His mouth was a thin, straight line. I rolled the window down.

‘That’s right.’

‘What are you doing driving a cab?’

‘Tryin’ to make some extra money?’ I asked. He didn’t enjoy the joke. ‘I borrowed it. I needed a set of wheels.’

‘I gotta go, Eddie,’ Scott said. ‘Nice seein’ you.’

We shook hands and he moved off. The other man didn’t seem impressed. Then again, he worked there.

‘You got some I.D.?’

I gave him my driver’s license. He looked at it then gave it back.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘come with me.’

I rolled the window back up, got out and closed the door behind me.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Vargas,’ he said.

‘What do you do, Mr Vargas?’

‘I talk to strangers who want to talk to the man in charge,’ he said. ‘Once you talk to me, I’ll decide if you get to talk to him.’

I thought that over and then said, ‘That sounds fair.’

‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’

We walked across the parking lot to a two-story building with lots of doors in it. Apparently, it had been broken up into many small office spaces.

‘This is where all the writers used to work when we had them under contract,’ he told me. ‘William Faulkner wrote in here.’

He opened a door and we stepped into a small office sparely furnished with a desk, two chairs and a file cabinet.

‘You mentioned some big names to the guard,’ Vargas said, seating himself behind the desk. ‘Why should we believe that you have any connection to Frank Sinatra or Ava Gardner?’

‘Come on, Mr Vargas,’ I said. ‘I had time to take a little nap in the cab. That means you spent that time checking me out.’

Vargas stared at me.

‘Look, I know things are in an upheaval around here, and I’m not lookin’ to take up your time. I just need to ask somebody a question.’

‘What kind of question?’

‘About Ava Gardner.’

‘We haven’t had anything to do with her since nineteen sixty.’

‘But there are people who don’t know that,’ I said. ‘If somebody was interested in talking to her they’d most likely come here.’

‘What’s your question, Mr Gianelli?’ he asked.

I was thinking the only reason I hadn’t been kicked out was because Vargas had probably talked to Jack Entratter at the Sands. Also, Vargas knew who owned the Sands. He wasn’t exactly being polite to me, but he was giving me more time than he normally would have.

‘Has anyone been askin’ about Ava Gardner lately?’ I asked.

‘Asking about her. . how?’

‘Tryin’ to find her, get in touch with her.’

‘Who are we talking about, Gianelli?’ he asked. ‘The police?’

‘Anybody, Mr Vargas,’ I said.

Vargas studied me for a few moments.

‘Look,’ he said, finally, ‘I’m willing to cooperate with you, but you’ve got to give me something.’

‘Like what?’

‘We’re interested in getting Frank to do a picture for us,’ he said.

‘I don’t have that kind of authority,’ I told him, wondering what Jack had told him about me?

‘I understand that,’ Vargas said. ‘All I’m asking is that you. . talk to Frank. Put a little bug in his ear.’

‘A bug in his ear,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ Vargas said. ‘We just need him to be. . open to the possibility.’

I thought a moment, then decided Frank would probably do anything for Ava.

‘OK,’ I said.

‘OK. . what?’ he asked.

‘I think I can guarantee that Frank will be open to the possibility.’

His eyes widened and he smiled for the first time.

‘That’s wonderful!’ he said.

‘Sometimes,’ I said, ‘all you need to do is ask.’

‘Wow,’ Vargas said, ‘well, OK then, exactly what do you want to know?’

‘Has anybody been asking about Ava Gardner in, say, the last week or two?’

‘Somebody looking to make a movie with her? Get an interview? Or are we talking legal-’

‘Mr Vargas,’ I said, cutting him off, ‘you’re makin’ this harder than it has to be.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, backing off. ‘I don’t mean to do that.’

‘Just answer the question and I can be on my way,’ I said.

‘As far as I know,’ he said, ‘nobody’s been looking for Miss Gardner. She made a picture recently in Spain, but we had no involvement in that. Nobody’s asked to interview her, and there have been no police here asking about her. Does that answer your question?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I think that about does it.’

‘We’re done?’ he asked.

‘I am,’ I said, standing

‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I’ll walk you back to your, uh, car.’

At the cab he stood by while I opened the door.

‘When can we, uh, expect a call from Mr Sinatra?’ he asked.

‘I suggest you get in touch with his representative,’ I said. ‘They’ll get back to you.’

‘We’ve been trying, but-’

‘They’ll get back to you this time.’

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

I started to get in, then paused. He seemed so damned uncomfortable at that moment.

‘Tough times around here, huh?’ I asked.

‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he said. ‘Television! This place has made some legendary movies. It’s a damn shame.’

‘And nobody’s runnin’ the place?’ I asked.

‘You know, I don’t even have an office,’ he answered and shook his head.

As I drove through the front gate the guard said, ‘You get what you wanted?’

‘Pretty much,’ I said ‘but things sure sound grim around here.’

‘Yeah,’ the man said, ‘I’m, thinkin’ of makin’ a move.’

‘Sounds like a good idea,’ I said.

Driving back to the Beverly Hills Hotel from the MGM lot I thought again about the question Jerry had asked me that morning, before I left.

I had not identified myself to the clerk or the manager before going to Ava’s room. How, then, had someone managed to be in the lobby in time to hear me being paged, and see Larry pick up the call?

Had I been followed from the hotel? If so, why? Nobody knew I was in L.A., or why I was there, except Frank, Jack, Ted Silver from McCarran Airport, and Ben Hoff from LAX. I knew Frank and Jack would never talk, felt fairly sure about Ted.

That left Ben Hoff.

I’d have to go to the airport to talk to him, and I wanted to take Jerry with me.

And if the airports weren’t safe — if information was being sold, or the airports were being watched — I’d have to rent a car to take Ava back to Las Vegas with me.