Robert Randisi: Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

“Not everybody, I guess.”

“No, you’re right,” he said, “not everybody.” He leaned forward, put his hands on his bony knees. I always wondered what Ava Gardner saw in the guy, but let me tell you, up close, when you’re in the same room with him, he’s got something. It worked on women better than on men, but it was still there. Sex appeal. Charisma. Whatever you wanted to call it. It made women love him, and men want to be his friend.

“Look,” he said, “we’re filmin’ this picture here in town.”

“Right, Ocean’s Eleven,” I said. “Everybody knows about it.”

“Yeah, well that’s probably part of the problem. Too damn many people know about it. We got a three-week shoot on this thing, startin’ tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you put it off until you can find out who’s sendin’ the threats?” “Can’t,” Frank said, “it’d cost too much money.”

“Then why not give Dean some time off, shoot around him?” I asked. “You do that sometimes in the movies, right? Shoot around somebody?”

“Yeah we do it,” Frank said, “and I’ve suggested it to him, but he won’t have it. He’s not takin’ these threats serious enough.”

“But you are?”

“I’ve had death threats, pally,” Frank said, “and you don’t want to know who from. They’re no fun, and a lot of the times they’re serious.” He picked up a towel that was sitting on the riser next to him and I saw a.38 Smith amp; Wesson. He dropped the towel back down. Now I knew why there was a shoulder holster hanging on a peg outside. I wondered if the steam was bad for the gun. “I pack heat wherever I go now. And yeah, I got a license for it.”

“Why not go to the police?’

“Publicity,” Frank said. “I know, you’re thinking that there’s no bad publicity. If it was me I’d go to the cops and let it get out, but Dean’s a private person. He’s not like me. He doesn’t want to go to the police.”

“Does he know you’re talkin’ to me?”

“No,” Frank said. “If he knew he’d take my head off.”

“Well then, how can I help him?”

“You come to the show tonight,” Frank said. “Joey’ll give you tickets. Bring a dame. After the show Joey’ll take you to Dean’s suite. Once you’re there he won’t toss you out. He’s too much of a gentleman.”

“I get to meet Dean Martin?”

Frank regarded me with an amused look on his face.

“So you’re a fan?”

“Well … yeah …”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Frank said. “I’m a big fan of Dino’s, too. He’s the real deal. I may be a crooner, but he’s a singer. He’s got the pipes.”

I was surprised to hear Frank talk that way about somebody else.

As if reading my mind Frank said, “Does that surprise you, to hear me talk that way about Dean?”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Hey, relax,” Frank said. “Dean doesn’t have a bigger fan than me. He’s so cool he doesn’t care about all this.” He waved his hands to encompass-I assumed-all of Las Vegas. “He’s only doin’ themovie as a favor to me. That’s why I want to help him, why I want you to help him.”

“Frank,” I said, groping for the right words, “I’ll do what I can.”

It sounded lame to me, but apparently it was what Frank wanted to hear.

“Hey,” he said, “that’s all I’m askin’.”

I left the steam room before Frank, feeling like a dried out prune. I don’t know how he could spend so much time in there, but it may have had something to do with his being so thin-or cool. I replaced Dean’s robe and took a quick shower before getting dressed.

When I got back to the casino floor I didn’t see Joey anywhere. Instead of looking for him, I went to the bar and ordered a cold beer, to replace some of the fluids I’d lost in the Rat Pack steam room.

A hand fell on my shoulder from behind and Joey Bishop said, “There you are.”

He took the stool next to me.

“Drink?” I asked.

“Not for me,” he said, smiling. “Where do we stand?”

“You’re supposed to give me a ticket to tonight’s show.”

“How about two?” he asked, plucking them from his pocket.

“That’ll be fine.” I grabbed them and put them in my breast pocket, then had some more beer. I checked my watch. I needed a change of clothes and a second, more thorough shower. Luckily, I’d be able to do that without leaving the hotel, one of the perks of being a pit boss, and somebody Jack Entratter-usually-liked.

“Well,” Joey said, “I’ll see you after the show and we’ll go to Dean’s suite.”

“Hey, hey,” I said, turning in my stool and grabbing his arm, “what’s the story between Frank and Dean?”

“Truthfully?”

“Yeah, truthfully.”

He settled back onto his stool.

“You tell anybody I told you this and I’ll deny it.”

“Agreed.”

Joey took a moment to form his thoughts.

“Frank and Dean are two very different people,” he said, finally. “Frank likes to surround himself with people who need him. Dean doesn’t need anybody. He’s very secure in who he is.”

“And Frank’s not?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Joey warned. “Just let me tell it.”

“Sorry.”

“The truth of the matter is Frank has wanted to be Dean’s friend since he first met him. He thinks Dean is the coolest cat he knows. Personally, I agree. As for Dean-well, he’s Dean. Talk to him about being part of this Rat Pack and he can take it or leave it.”

“And the rest of you?”

Joey hesitated, then said, “Let’s just say that Dean is the only one who doesn’t absolutely need Frank on some level.”

I figured that was fair. I couldn’t really expect Joey Bishop to say that Joey Bishop needed Frank Sinatra. But I thought pretty much anyone who paid attention to the news knew what Peter Lawford brought to the table. Personally, while Dean Martin was the one I wanted to meet, I thought Sammy Davis Jr. had the most talent. Unfortunately, there were things in Sammy’s life that held him back. He probably needed Frank in order to get around those things.

But I wasn’t really interested in the inner workings of the Pack. I was concerned with the Sinatra/Martin relationship.

“So Frank and Dean are friends?”

“Frank and Dean are good friends,” Joey said.

“That’s what I wanted to know.”

“Then I’m out of here,” Joey said, getting down from his stool. “I’ve got to get ready for the show. Meet me backstage when it’s over, okay?”

“Okay.”

Joey waved and left the bar. I was finishing the last of my beer when Beverly sidled up next to me.

“You gettin’ friends in high places, Eddie?” she asked.

I turned and looked at her. She was a redhead in her thirties, and fit her Sands uniform very nicely. She probably didn’t have the legs to be a showgirl, but she sure had everything else. Her red hair seemed natural, her green eyes sparkled, and she had full, kissable lips. I knew from other conversations that she was the sole support of a kid, although I didn’t know if it was a boy or girl, or how old the child was.

I slid the two tickets from my pocket and said, “How would you like to go to a Rat Pack show with me tonight, doll?”

“Really?” She sighed and her eyes got wide. “I love Frank Sinatra.”

“Have you been to see the show?”

“I haven’t had the time,” she said, “or the money-not for tickets, and not for a babysitter.”

“Well, I’ve got the tickets,” I said, waving them, “and I’ll pay for the babysitter. Whataya say?”

“Eddie,” she said, breathlessly. “I don’t know what to say.”

I looked down at the creamy white of her swelling cleavage and replied, “Please say yes.”