Robert Randisi - Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

“So what’s this mean for me?”

“It means that whoever’s skin you’ve gotten under, he’s not connected high up.”

I thought about that for a moment.

“Or he doesn’t want you to think he is.”

“That’s a big help.”

“You want a gun?” he asked. “I can give you one, or get you one.”

“What would I do with a gun?” I asked. “No, no gun.” Not yet, anyway. Besides, I hadn’t handled one since Korea. I’d shoot myself in the foot.

“This Dori,” he said, then, “she the one with the big knockers from the Sahara?”

Before leaving Danny’s office I verified for him that yes, Dori was the one with the big boobs from the Sahara, and he told me not to worry about Lenny and Buzz, that he’d check them out for me.

“I’m sure they did what they did just for the money,” he said, “and nothing personal. If I pay them enough they might roll over on whoever they’re working for.”

“How much is enough?”

“I don’t know,” Danny said. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it and let you know.”

He hadn’t picked up any word on the street about who might want to threaten Dean Martin, but he’d only been working on it since yesterday. I knew he had the word out, so I wasn’t worried about that.

“You want to see a doctor?” he asked, before I left.

“I’m trying to be discreet, Danny.”

“I got a guy who won’t ask any questions,” he said. He opened his drawer and gave me a card. “I’ll call ahead and tell him you’re comin’.”

It wasn’t a bad idea, so I said okay.

“I don’t see any cracked ribs on the X-ray,” Doctor Gregory Edstrom said. He was holding my X-ray up to the light to show me. I didn’t know what I was looking at, but I nodded.

“That’s good.”

“You’ve got a deep-tissue bruise on your back,” he said, putting the X-ray down. “Take a few hot baths over the next few days, let the heat soak in. You got a heating pad?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Get one, use it, too.”

“What about my knee?”

“No permanent damage there, but it’s gonna hurt like a motherfucker for a while. Can you stay off of it?”

“Not likely.”

His language belied his appearance, which was remarkably clean-cut and youthful, even though he had to be in his late forties.

“Here.” He handed me a container of capsules. “Take these if the pain gets bad.”

“What are they?”

“Demerol,” he said. “They’re strong, so don’t take them unless you have to, and if you do, stay inside and don’t drive.” He tapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t fuck up.”

“Okay.” I put them in my pocket with no intention of ever taking them out.

“Your scalp wound took only three stitches,” he said. “I could put a bandage on, but if I don’t your hairline will hide them and no one will notice.”

“I don’t need a bandage.”

“Don’t get it wet.”

“Right.”

“Your eyes are responsive, so you don’t have a concussion. Far as I can tell you got away pretty cheaply from whatever you were doing.”

“I was just-”

He held up his hand.

“I don’t ask any questions, and I’d appreciate the same courtesy.”

“Okay, fine. Are we done?”

“You’re done,” he said. “No running or jumping for a while. Keep your life down to a low roar.”

“What do I owe you?”

“Fifty bucks.”

I gave him cash.

I came away from Danny’s doctor knowing pretty much what I’d known before, but fifty bucks poorer. Well, at least I had three stitches and some Demerol to show for it.

I was driving a ’52 Caddy then, the car I’d bought to celebrate getting the job at the Sands. I loved that car, kept it in good shape, and was going to drive it as long as I could.

I got behind the wheel and rubbed my face with both hands. Did I have the balls to go to Jack Entratter, Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin and pull out of this thing? I’d only been at it a day and already I had a sore back, bruised ribs, swollen knee and stitches in my head-and it could’ve been a lot worse.

However, the longer I sat there fingering the bottle of painkillers in my pocket the angrier I got. Some sonofabitch had sent two leg-breakers to my house and then had the balls to call me the next day and play gangster games with me, thinking he could scare me off.

I was scared, all right, but just too mad to walk away.

I drove back to the Sands and turned my Caddy over to a valet named Tim Daly.

“You ready to sell this car yet, Eddie?” Tim asked. “I’ll make you a good price.”

“No, not yet,” I said. “Probably not ever.”

“You always say that,” Tim said, getting behind the wheel, “but everybody’s got their price. Hell, this is Vegas, after all.”

Well, he was right about that, anyway. It was Vegas: it was a place where too many people found their price.

I went inside, not sure what my next move was going to be-or what it should be. Tell Entratter what happened to me? Or Sinatra? Or Dean Martin? Or maybe just the little Ringmaster, Joey Bishop.

It turned out I didn’t get to make the choice. As I entered the casino a large hand fell on my shoulder. I reacted violently, pulling away from it-or trying to-but it clamped down hard. I turned to throw a punch but he easily caught my fist with his other hand. All I got for my efforts was a twinge from my back and knee.

“Mack!” I said, recognizing him.

He released me and stepped back, eyeing me curiously.

“Damn it, what the hell-”

“I wasn’t tryin’ to hurt you.”

“It’s not you,” I said, getting myself under control, “it’s just-never mind. What do you want?”

“Somebody wants to talk to you.”

“Who?”

“Come with me.”

“Where?”

“The Flamingo.”

The Flamingo. Bugsy’s place-before Ben Siegel was shot in 1947. It was suspected that Bugsy’s own people gunned him down because he had stopped being a team player and because expenses had skyrocketed. Bugsy had already cost them too much money. His place, however, remained in their hands, as did so many of the casinos on the strip.

“What’s at the Flamingo, Mack?” I asked. “Or should I ask, who?”

“Come with me and find out.”

I studied Mack Gray for a few moments while people walked around us. We were partly blocking the entrance while I made up my mind whether to go with him or not. In the end I figured, Why not? It kept me from having to decide my next move.

“All right,” I said. “Lead the way.”

“The way” led to a penthouse apartment at the top of the Flamingo. Not the best room the hotel had to offer, but pretty damn close.

Mack stopped in front of the door and knocked, then used a key to open it. I followed him in and looked around. It was about the size of Dean Martin’s room at the Sands, but the furnishings were plush, all purples and red. It looked like the inside of a bordello. I had no doubt that Bugsy Siegel had approved the decor, and the rooms had been left the way he’d “designed” them even after his death.

“Who’s room is this, Mack?” I asked.

“It’s mine,” a man’s voice said.

I hadn’t seen him when I walked in. He was standing at the window, which was a few steps up from the rest of the floor. His backwas to me, his hands clasped behind him. He was a man of medium height and, from behind, all I could tell was that he was not young. He didn’t have the bearing of a young man. I couldn’t see the color of his hair, not with the light from the window distorting my view, but the one striking thing about him that stood out was his voice. It was a famous voice, and even with only a few words spoken I could tell before he turned around that I was in the room with George Raft.