Robert Randisi - Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

Raft turned to looked at me, keeping his hands where they were. He was silver haired, in his sixties and had grown portly with the years, but he was still a dashing figure. To me he was still Gino Rinaldi from Scarface .

“Mr. Raft.”

“Hello, Eddie.” He took his hands from behind his back and slid them into his jacket pockets. “You mind if I call you Eddie?”

“Not at all.”

“Mack,” he said, “get Eddie a drink.”

“Bourbon,” I said, “rocks.”

“I’ll have one with my guest, Mack,” Raft said.

“Yes, sir.”

Mack moved to the bar at the far end of the room, as well-stocked as the one Dean had at the Sands.

Raft stepped down from where he stood and came across the room to me. I was surprised when he took one hand out of his pocket and extended it.

“Thanks for comin’.”

I shook hands with him, and his grip was powerful. He was shorter than I was. In fact, I was surprised at how short he was, but then I was used to seeing him on the big screen.

Mack came over and handed each of us a drink, then stepped back, folding his arms across his chest.

“Sit down, Eddie,” Raft said. “I wanna talk to you.”

I sat on the plush sofa with my drink while he chose one of the armchairs across from me. He lit a cigarette with an expensive lighter after I turned down the offer of one.

“Where are you from, Eddie?”

“Brooklyn, New York.”

“What part?”

“Red Hook.”

“Tough boys from Red Hook.”

“Some.”

“I grew up in Hell’s Kitchen, myself,” he said. “Left there when I was thirteen. I fought and clawed my way to Hollywood-literally. I was a prizefighter for a while, you know.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I’m a big fan,” I said. “You were a fighter and a dancer. When you got to Hollywood they wanted you to be a romantic lead, like Valentino.”

He laughed, but I wasn’t sure if it was because Hollywood had wanted him to be another Valentino, or because I knew that.

“Valentino,” Raft said, shaking his head, “Me. That’s rich.”

“Pretty soon everybody realized you should be playing gangsters, especially after Scarface.”

“Scarface,” he said, and seemed to drift off into some kind of trance-maybe remembering when he was a huge star. He pretty much invented the whole gangster picture thing. “That was Muni’s film. I prefer They Drive by Night or Johnny Angel, myself.”

I looked at Mack, who was frowning at Raft. Apparently, this conversation was not going the way he had expected it to. I decided to say what I was thinking.

“Bogie, Cagney, Edward G, they wouldn’t even have careers if it wasn’t for you, Mr. Raft.”

He focused on me, then.

“Naw,” he said, waving my comment off with his hand, “those guys, they were great. They’ll always be great. They’re makin’ a movie about me, did you know that?”

“I didn’t know.”

“Got some handsome young actor to play me. What’s his name, Mack?”

“Ray Danton, Boss.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Raft said, “Ray Danton. You know who he is?”

“I’ve seen him in some things,” I said. TV mostly. All the private-eye shows like ’77 Sunset Strip, Hawaiian Eye, The Untouchables, Bourbon Street Beat. Okay, I’m a TV crime-show junkie when I’m home to watch it.

“How do you think he’ll do?”

“Not bad,” I said, “he won’t do a bad job, but he’s no George Raft.”

Raft stood up, then, started pacing.

“I owned a piece of this place, you know,” he said, “kicked in some bucks back when Benny needed it to open. Poor Benny …”

“Boss?” Mack said.

Raft turned, looked at Mack, then nodded and went back to his chair.

“Mack tells me Dean’s got a problem that you’re helpin’ him with.”

“You’d have to ask Dean about that, Mr. Raft,” I said. “That’s what I told Mack.”

“I know, and Mack feels kind of hurt about bein’ left out,” Raft said. “Not that I blame him.”

“No, sir.”

“If you were to tell me what Dean’s problem was,” Raft offered, “maybe I could help.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Raft-”

“Just call me George, Eddie.”

“Uh, George,” I said, not at all comfortable with that, “I sort of promised Frank and Dean I’d keep my mouth shut. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

“No,” Raft said, thoughtfully, “wouldn’t want to disappoint Frank. He gave me a part in Ocean’s Eleven, you know. Small part. I play casino owner. Lots of fun, this movie. Gonna be a hit.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“Well,” Raft said, “Mack will take you back down.”

“I think Eddie can find his own way, Boss.”

“Sure,” I said, putting my glass down and standing up, “sure, I can find my way.”

“I’m not gonna stand, if you don’t mind,” Raft said. “I’m … kinda tired.”

“No, I don’t mind at all, Mr. Raft.”

“George,” he said, “I told you, call me George. Us New York boys, we gotta stick together.”

“Yes, we do.”

I waited to see if he wanted to shake hands, and when he didn’t make a move I walked to the door. When I turned around I saw Mack helping Raft up and walking him out of the room, probably to a bedroom to lie down.

I let myself out.

I left the Flamingo and walked back toward the Sands. The marquee proclaimed it “A PLACE IN THE SUN.” Underneath that it had the names of the Rat Pack members in descending order: Frank, Dean, Sammy, Peter Lawford and Joey Bishop. The day was living up to that name, the sun already baking the pavement beneath my feet.

When I got to the front doors of the Sands I stopped. I felt confused, didn’t know what to do next. Finally, somebody from inside opened one of the doors, stepped out and held the door for me. That seemed to break the spell. I thanked him and walked in.

I looked around for Mack, not wanting to be surprised again, but I had left him at the Flamingo with Raft. My first instinct was to go for a drink, but my ribs were hurting and I had a pounding headache. I didn’t want to take the powerful painkillers the doctor had given me, so I went in search of some aspirin. My feet, as if they had a mind of their own, took me to Jack Entratter’s office. I figured since I was there looking for aspirin I might as well talk to him, fill him in, and maybe get some answers. Or maybe it was the other way around.

Jack’s girl told him I was there and she buzzed me into his office.

“Could you get me some aspirin?” I asked, before going on.

“Of course, Mr. Gianelli,” she said. “How many?”

“Uh, three should do it.”

“And to take them with?”

“What?”

She smiled, blinked and said, “What would you like to drink, to take them with?”

“Just water.”

“I’ll bring them right in.”

I thanked her and entered Jack’s office.

“I know I told you to check in with me, kid,” Jack said around his huge cigar, “but it ain’t the end of the day, yet.”

“I need to tell you some things,” I said, “and ask you some things.”

“Okay, siddown,” Entratter said. “What’s on your mind, Eddie?”

At that moment the girl opened the door and stepped in.

“What?” Jack barked.

“Mr. Gianelli’s aspirin.”

“Whataya need aspirin for?” he asked me.

“Pain.”

“Okay, give it to ’im.”

“Yes sir.”

She handed me the pills and a glass of water, smiled and backed out.

“What’s goin’ on?” Entratter asked me. “Yer movin’ funny.”

I held up one finger, took the aspirin, washed them down and placed the glass on his desk. I then proceeded to tell him what had been waiting for me when I got home last night, and the call I got in the morning.