Robert Randisi: Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

“Hold your horses, Joe.” I put my hand out to stop him.

“What? You wanna finish your coffee?”

“No,” I said, “I’m just not sure I wanna go and meet Frank Sinatra.”

Joey got comfortable again.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know … what could he possibly want with me?” I asked.

“Eddie,” he said, leaning forward, “you’re not lettin’ all those stories get to you, are you?”

“What stories?”

“You know,” Joey said, touching his nose, “the Mafia, Giancana, all that stuff?”

The rumors about Frank Sinatra’s connection to the mob had been around for years, even before they were supposed to have gotten him the part in From Here to Eternity that won him the Oscar and revived his career. There were many stories about that, but the one I’d heard the most was that Johnny Roselli had gone to studio head Harry Cohn’s office and simply said, “Frank gets this part or we’ll have you killed.”

Did I believe it?

“No … well, maybe … I’m not all that sure … Joey, I just don’t see what Frank-Mr. Sinatra-would want with me.”

“I can’t tell you that, Ed,” Joey said. “Only Frank can.”

“Well … I think I’m gonna have to pass, Joe,” I said. “I mean … if that’s all right?”

“Sure, it’s all right,” Joey said, with another characteristic shrug. “You don’t wanna see him, don’t see him. It’s no skin off my nose.”

“Okay,” I said, “okay.”

Bev came with my coffee and put it down, then walked away. Neither Joey nor I watched her, this time.

I dug into my pocket. “Lemme get the Java-”

“Hey, I got it,” Joey said, waving his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I gotta get back to work.”

“Sure,” Joey said, “go.”

I stood up, but didn’t leave.

“You’ll tell him I was, uh, flattered, but … I’m kinda busy-”

“Hey, Eddie,” Joey said, spreading his hands, “forget about it, okay?”

“Okay … then I’ll go back to work.”

“Sure.”

I started to walk away, then turned to look back at him. He was still sitting in the booth. He smiled and waved.

I was only back at my pit half an hour when one of the other pit bosses, Richie Castellani, came over and whispered in my ear, “Boss wants you, G. Now.”

The boss was Jack Entratter, who had left his job as assistant manager and bouncer at the Copacabana in New York to come to Vegas to run the Sands Hotel and Casino for Frank Costeilo-or so the story goes. All of the entertainers who went through the Copa while Jack was there had come to love him, so not only had Frank, Dean, Sammy and the others made the Sands their place in Las Vegas but others, too, like Lena Horne, Nat King Cole, Milton Berle, Danny Thomas, Tony Bennett and Dean’s old partner, Jerry Lewis.

Richie stepped into the pit and I left and headed for Jack’s office. I knew what this was about. Entratter and Sinatra were friends, and Frank was a two-percent owner in the casino; I had the feeling Joey Bishop had gone over my head.

I knocked on Entratter’s door and he shouted, “Come in!”

If Entratter was really running the Sands for Costello, he was the perfect choice. He wasn’t Italian, and nobody would ever take him for one. Jack was six three or four, a hulking brute of a man who had been left bandy-legged by the childhood disease osteomyelitis. As a twenty-six year old in 1940 he had signed on as bouncer at the Copaand over the next twelve years had moved up to assistant manager without giving up his bouncer job. At thirty-eight he had left the Copa to take over the newest casino in Vegas, the Sands. Now Jack was forty-six and ruled the Sands with an iron hand, but he was even better known as a showman. There were times he even got up on stage with the Pack. I envied him that. I was a shower singer who dreamed about being on stage.

He was sitting behind his desk, alone in the office, when I entered. His suit was sharp, but it lost some of its edges because it was on Entratter’s body. His tie was askew and his shoulders were threatening his seams.

“What the hell are you tryin’ to do to me?” he demanded.

“Boss?”

“Who’s my best friend in the world?”

Well, the answer to that varied from week to week, but I knew what he wanted to hear.

“Frank Sinatra.”

“You bet your ass, Frank Sinatra,” he growled. “So when my best friend in the world asks you for help, what do you tell him? You tell him no.”

“Well, uh, I told Joey I’d like to take a pass,” I tried to explain. “I never did talk to Mr. Sinatra-”

“Don’t you think you should?” Entratter asked. “I mean, before you take a pass shouldn’t you find out what you’re takin’ a pass from?” He made it sound like the most reasonable request in the world.

“Jack, I-”

“You work for me, don’t ya, Eddie?”

“Well, yeah, Jack, I do, but-”

“So if I ordered you to talk to Frank you would, right?”

“I, uh, well, sure-”

“But I ain’t gonna do that.”

“You’re not?”

“Siddown, Eddie.”

I sat across from him.

“You’re from New York, right?” He knew that, but I answered the question, anyway.

“That’s right. Brooklyn.”

“I never saw you at the Copa.”

“I never went,” I said. “It was more than I could afford back then.”

“Yeah, it was kinda expensive.”

For a moment Entratter retreated a dozen or so years inside his head, then shook off the reverie and looked at me again. “I ain’t gonna order you to talk to Frank, kid.” He called me “kid” a lot, even though he was only about six years older than I was.

“I appreciate that, Jack-”

“I’m gonna ask ya to do it as a favor to me, Eddie,” he went on, cutting me off. “Go and talk to him, see what he wants. If you can help him, help him. If not …” he shrugged.

I owed Entratter a lot and he knew it. That’s why he was asking me instead of telling me.

“You’re the man here in Vegas,” Jack said, then. “You know everybody there is to know in this town. You got it wired. Hookers, pimps, valets, doormen, high rollers and bums, you know ’em all. If anybody can help Frank it’s Eddie G-”

“Okay, Jack, okay,” I said. “Geez, enough. A guy can only take so much stroking. I get the picture. I’m your man.”

“Great!’ Jack said, clapping his big hands together.”Joey’s down in the casino waitin’ for you.”

“You knew I’d say yes?”

“If ya hadn’t,” Jack said, “I woulda ordered ya to. But I knew I could count on you, kid. Now get out. I got work to do.”

I headed for the door, but never made it.

“Eddie.”

“Yeah, Boss.” I turned to face him with my back to the door.

“I’m curious,” he said. “Why’d you refuse in the first place?”

“Like I said,” I replied, “I’m from Brooklyn.”

“So?”

“Frank’s from Jersey.” I made a face.

“Get out!”

I left Jack’s office and made my way back to the casino floor. Joey was seated at an empty blackjack table, waiting for me. As I approached him he stood up, his face expressionless.

“Steam room?” I asked.

“Steam room,” he said.

The steam room was in the bowels of the Sands. Since it was so exclusive-just the Rat Pack and their close friends-I half expected there to be a guard on duty. According to Jack Entratter I was “the man,” but I’d never been down there before.

When we got there I spotted some robes hanging on the wall. On the backs were written the names “Smokey,” “The Needler,” “The Dago” and “Charlie the Seal.” There was an empty peg, which I assumed would hold Frank’s robe, but hanging on it at the moment was a shoulder holster.