Robert Randisi: I'm a fool to kill you

Las Vegas, Fall, 2003

Jenny Phillips was a looker.

She had the prettiest blue eyes, the kind of nose you’d see on statues of a Roman princess, and a helluva rack on her. Maybe I should have felt like a dirty old man, looking her up and down as she stood in the doorway of her apartment, but she was only eighteen years younger than I was.

She was sixty-five.

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘You look great.’

‘For an old lady?’ she asked, smiling.

‘Look who you’re talkin’ to,’ I said. ‘People are gonna think you’re my daughter.’

She reached out and straightened my tie.

‘You’re a handsome old gent, Eddie G.’ she said. ‘Don’t look a day over seventy-five.’

‘Why are people always telling an octogenarian he looks young?’

‘I didn’t say young,’ she said. ‘I gave you about eight years, but you still look like an old geezer.’

‘Thanks very much,’ I said. ‘The car’s downstairs. Are you ready?’

‘Do I need a shawl, or a jacket?’ she asked.

‘Jacket,’ I said. ‘It’s getting cool.’

‘I’ll be right back.’

I watched her ass as she walked away from me. Still firm and sassy. Sorry, but I’m an old-fashioned guy. I still think the way I did back in the 60s, when I was eyeing every waitress and showgirl’s ass that went by at the Sands.

She came back, stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her, made sure it was locked. Then she turned and kissed me on the cheek.

‘What was that for?’ I asked.

She smiled fondly, wiped off the lipstick with her thumb and said, ‘That was for looking at my ass as I walked away.’

‘I don’t have much of a choice, Jen,’ I said. ‘It’s a great ass.’

‘I love Ava Gardner,’ Jenny said in the limo.

I didn’t comment.

‘I mean, in Mogambo ? Why does anyone even look at Grace Kelly?’

‘I agree.’

‘So you like her movies?’

‘Why else would I invite you to an Ava Gardner retrospective?’ I asked.

‘Well, you know how much I like her.’

‘Yes, I do.’

The limo stopped and Jenny looked out the window.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Dinner first,’ I said. ‘We have plenty of time.’

This was my sixth date with Jenny. I kept count because ever since I was a young man I’d never been able to get past the sixth date, except for my wives, and you can guess where those relationships went.

So I took Jenny to my favorite Italian restaurant, my usual table. Which was always for two. I ordered for both of us. She liked that. I liked the way she was staring across the table at me. I was amazed at how smooth the skin of her face was, wondered if she’d had some work. I didn’t think so, though, because there were some lines in her neck and at the corners of her mouth and eyes. She would have had those smoothed out as well. I decided she just had extraordinary skin. And her hair was still mostly black, with some grey streaks, worn long. On her, sixty-five was the new fifty.

‘Do you know why I like you, Eddie?’

‘I could guess,’ I said, ‘and I might get lucky, but I’d rather hear it from you.’

‘You have manners,’ she said. ‘Old world manners.’

‘Me?’ I said. ‘I’m still a kid from Brooklyn; inside, I mean.’

‘Well, the man on the outside has a lot of polish.’

‘And that’s why you like me.’

‘That’s one of the reasons.’

The waiter came with wine, bread and olive oil. He poured; I tasted and nodded like I knew what I was doing. I would have preferred beer, but over the years I had learned a little about wine. For instance, I learned that after you taste it you’re supposed to nod.

‘Should you be drinking that?’ Jenny asked. ‘Eating bread and pasta?’

‘Why not?’

‘Your diabetes?’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘my toes are numb, and my fingertips are getting there. I’m out with a beautiful woman, and I probably won’t be able to feel the softness of your skin, but at least I can taste the wine, and the bread and the pasta.’

‘You can’t feel my skin?’ she asked, looking sad.

I reached over and touched her wrist with the fingertips of my right hand.

‘Hardly,’ I said.

She reached across the table and touched my mouth.

‘Your lips aren’t numb, are they?’

I took hold of her, ran my lips over the back of her hand.

‘Smooth and soft,’ I said, kissing it.

‘If you’re good tonight,’ she said, ‘maybe I’ll let you feel more than my hand.’

I frowned, then sighed and pushed away the wine and the bread.

‘Tell you what, Jen,’ I said, ‘I’ll just eat the pasta.’

She blew a kiss across the table. I may have been eighty-three years old but, on occasion, I was still pretty virile.

This was one such occasion. .

After her veal and my pasta I ordered her a tiramisu for dessert.

‘Nothing for you, Eddie?’ the waiter asked.

‘Just coffee, Luigi.’

He nodded.

‘You are being good,’ she said.

‘I’m keeping my eyes on the carrot at the end of the stick.’

She laughed.

‘That’s the first time I’ve ever been called a carrot.’

‘I’m a romantic devil.’

‘Romantic,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘Do we have time-’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ve got it all timed out. We’ll be there for the opening credits of The Barefoot Contessa .’

‘The Barefoot Contessa and Mogambo ,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Two of my favorite movies with my favorite actress and my favorite man.’

‘Bogie or Gable?’ I asked.

‘Who’s talking about them?’

The dessert came and I watched her eat.

‘You remind me of her, you know,’ I said.

‘I do? Of who?’

‘Ava Gardner.’

‘Yeah, right. . Eddie, don’t worry, you’re going to get lucky tonight.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘OK,’ she said, ‘in which movie?’

‘Not in any movie,’ I said, ‘I mean in person. In real life.’

She stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth, then put it down and leaned forward.

‘Eddie. . you knew her? You knew Ava Gardner?’

‘Would that surprise you?’

‘Well. . no, I guess not. After all, you are Eddie G., a Vegas legend, friends with all the Rat Pack.’

‘Well, I was kind of an acquaintance of Peter’s. We never really got along. And I’m no legend. I just had some special friends.’

‘Like Marilyn Monroe?’ she asked. ‘And Ava Gardner?’

‘Among others.’

There had been a magazine article out a few months ago about the Rat Pack women. Alongside ran a sidebar about me and Marilyn. There had been enough material for more than a sidebar, but I’d made sure that most of the research disappeared. So when I met Jenny at a party at a friend’s house and we were introduced, she knew who I was. I like to think we would have connected anyway, but what are you gonna do?

‘Eddie,’ she said, ‘you have to tell me about her.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘What was she like?’

‘She was a great broad,’ I said.

‘That’s all?’

I took a deep breath, sorry that I’d even mentioned it. I’d gotten carried away with the moment.

‘Eddie,’ she asked, ‘did you sleep with Ava Gardner?’

‘Are you kidding?’ I asked. ‘Frank would have killed me.’

I turned around, waved at Luigi to bring me the check.