Robert Randisi: Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

“Charlie the Seal?’ I asked.

“That’s Peter,” Joey explained. “He has a smoker’s cough.”

“The Needler has to be you.”

“Correct.”

“The Dago is Dean; Smokey is Sammy?”

“Right,” Joey said, “because Sammy smokes.”

“Right. And what does Frank have on the back of his robe?”

“What else? ‘The Leader.’”

“And who gave out the names?”

“Frank.”

“Figures.”

Joey walked to the robes on the wall and took down “The Dago.”

“This looks like your size.”

“I–I can’t wear Dean Martin’s robe,” I said.

“Wrong,” Joey said. “You can’t wear mine or Sammy’s because they’d be too short.”

“But-Dean Martin?” Joey didn’t know it-few people did-but I was a huge Dean Martin fan. In my opinion his level of cool was head-and-shoulders above the rest of the Rat Pack combined.

“Okay,” Joey said, with a shrug, “wear Peter’s.”

He started to put “The Dago” back on the wall and I said, “No wait … I’ll wear Dean’s.”

Joey smiled and handed me the robe.

“I’ll be upstairs,” he said. “Frank wants to talk to you alone. Think you can find your way back out?”

“I’m sure I can.”

“Then I’ll see you upstairs.”

As Joey left I undressed, put on Dean Martin’s robe and then approached the steam room door. I wasn’t sure what to do at that point, knock or just walk in. I hesitated, almost knocked, then figured, “What the hell,” and walked right in.

“Over here.”

In just two words the familiar voice made chills run up my spine. The Jersey accent was never very far removed. Being from New York I recognized even a hint of it. I’d been out of Brooklyn for twelve years and still hadn’t completely lost my accent.

The steam was kind of thick but I followed his voice and gradually he came into view.

The Leader.

The Chairman of the Board.

Sinatra.

Frank.

“Eddie Gianelli?”

“That’s right.”

Frank extended his hand. For a moment I wondered if I was supposed to kiss it, but in the end I just shook his hand. I was surprisedat how small it felt in mine. I was also surprised at how frail he looked, sitting there in his robe.

“How’s your bird?” This was Rat Pack-ese for “How are ya?” They were so cool they had their own language.

“Good, Frank. I’m good.”

“Have a seat.”

Rather than join him on the set of risers he was sitting on I climbed the ones adjacent to him. He was seated on the upper most level of his, so I chose to sit one from the top on my side. Later I realized it had been a kind of unwitting deference.

“First, thanks for coming.”

“No problem.” I was already sweating, probably from the steam.

“Here,” he said, tossing me a towel. “It’s clean.”

“Thanks.” I caught it and wiped my face. Okay, so maybe I was nervous.

“I see Joey gave you Dean’s robe.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I hope that’s okay. It’s the only one that fit.”

“Hey, it’s jake with me,” Frank said, “and I’m sure Dino won’t mind.”

I was kind of annoyed at my reaction to meeting him, being in the same room with him-the steam room. I was impressed, there was no denying it, but I’d once heard him refer to himself as just “a lounge singer.” That’s what he was, an entertainer. I mean, it wasn’t as if I was in the presence of Ike, or even Joe DiMaggio, for Chrissake.

But then again, he wasn’t just some entertainer, he was Frank Sinatra. By anyone’s standards, that was big. By Las Vegas standards, it was huge!

“I guess you’re wonderin’ why I asked you down here,” Frank said.

“Yeah, you could say I’m curious.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I guess you would be.”

Sinatra paused long enough to wipe his forehead on the towel he was wearing around his thin shoulders. His chest looked almost concave to me. I wondered if being on the big movie screen added weight, or bulk, or if it was just a matter of the image being so big.

“They call you Eddie G, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Eddie, I’m told you know a lot of people in Las Vegas.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“And I’m told you can get things done.”

“Well … you can get things done, Mr. Sinatra-”

“Oh no, Eddie,” Sinatra said, waving his forefinger at me, “no, no, no …” He pursed his lips, the way I’d seen him do in countless movies. “Not ‘Mr. Sinatra.’ Call me Frank.”

“Okay … Frank.”

“You’re from New York, aren’t ya?”

“Yes, Mr.-yeah, Frank, I’m from New York-Brooklyn, to be exact.”

“I didn’t catch the accent the first time we talked, but I got it now.”

“I’ve been away a while,” I said. “It comes and goes.”

“You don’t mind that I call you Eddie, do ya?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay, Eddie,” Frank said, “I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

Frank frowned.

“‘Name it,’ means you’ll do it, no matter what I say. Did Jack tell you that you had to do what I asked?”

“As a matter of fact,” I answered, “what he said was he’d consider it a favor if I came and listened to what you had to say.”

“So you had a choice.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I could come and listen, or eat shit for a while before he forgave me.”

“Would he fire you?”

“Nah, he wouldn’t fire me,” I said, “I’m too good at my job, but he’d make me miserable for a while.”

“But he didn’t say that, exactly?”

“It was understood.”

“Well, understand this,” Frank said. “I’m gonna ask you a favor, and you’ve got a choice. You can say yes, or you can say no. No consequences. Understand?”

“Yes, sir-Frank.”

“So nothing’s ‘understood,’” Frank said. “Everything’s clear?”

I hesitated a moment, getting it straight in my head, then said, “Everything is clear.”

“Okay.” He wiped his forehead again, then leaned forward.

“What’s the favor, Frank?” My curiosity was killing me, but I tried to appear cool. It wasn’t easy, though, since I was in a steam room with Mr. Cool, himself.

“A friend of mine has been receiving death threats,” Frank explained. “I want you to find out who’s sendin’ them.”

“You need a private detective for that, Frank, not me.”

“If that’s what you think, then you hire him,” Frank said, “but I want you takin’ care of this for me, Eddie. You pay the detective, and I’ll pay you.”

I figured this must be a pretty good friend of his if he was willing to foot the bill.

“Who recommended me for this?”

“Nobody recommended you for this specific job because I haven’t told anybody about it,” Frank said. “I haven’t even told you the whole story, yet. But Jack speaks very highly of you, and I asked around. Your name always comes up when I tell people I need something done in Vegas. ‘Get Eddie G,’ they say, so I got you. Now ask me the other question you wanna ask.”

“The other question?”

“The obvious one.”

“Oh,” I said, “who is this friend of yours whose life’s been threatened?”

Frank pointed at me.

“Me?”

“On your back, pally,” he said, and I realized he was pointing to the robe I was wearing. “The Dago.”

“Dean?” I asked. “Dean Martin is the man we’re talkin’ about?”

“That’s right,” he said, “Dino.”

“Why would somebody threaten Dean Martin’s life?” I asked.

“Who knows why a wacko does what he does?” Frank asked. “If they were threatenin’ Sammy I’d say it’s because he was black, or a Jew, or both. Joey? Maybe somebody don’t like his jokes. But Dean? He’s a pussycat. Everybody loves the guy.”