Robert Randisi - Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

“Well … I’m a big Dino fan.”

“I see. Frank must have appreciated that, since he’s a big Dean fan, too.”

“So he said.”

“Is that why you agreed to help, finally?” Joey asked. “When you heard it was Dean who needed the help?”

“Joey,” I said, “I went to the meeting with Frank because Jack Entratter told me to.”

“And what about now? Frank didn’t tell you to talk to Dean, did he?”

“No,” I said, “he asked me to, and he told me to feel free to say no.”

“But you didn’t.”

“For two reasons,” I said. “One, if I said no I’d pay for it one way or another, and two, like I said, I’m a big fan. It’s a chance for me to meet Dean. And if I can help him, I will.”

“Okay.” He looked at his watch. “I gotta go. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Joey-”

He turned as he reached the door. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” And he left. I was standing alone in the living room of Dean Martin’s suite, not sure what to do with myself. I was impressed to meet Frank Sinatra, but this … this was different for me. I had a shitload of Dean Martin records at home, and never missed any of his movies. In my humble opinion, his split with Jerry Lewis was the best thing that had ever happened to him. The Young Lions, Some Came Running, and the more recent Rio Bravo proved his acting ability, and his recordings proved what a great singer he was. Even before Joey told me, I always had the feeling Dean didn’t need Frank. He didn’t need to make a movie like Ocean’s 11, he simply wanted to. He did not need a career boost from Frank Sinatra. Dean Martin out-cooled them all-Sinatra, Sammy … hell, even George Raft.

I heard somebody coming down the hall and turned to see Mack returning.

“Dean’ll be out in a minute,” he said in a monotone. He still had his hand pressed to his head, this time the heel. “He said you should help yourself to a drink if you want.”

He headed for the door.

“You’re not staying, Mack?”

He turned, dropped his hand and glared at me.

“I ain’t been invited to stay,” he said, and left. The big man’s feelings may have really been hurt, but that wasn’t my problem. I wondered if he had any idea what was going on, or if Dean was keeping it from him? I also wondered if Joey knew what the problem was, or Sammy and Peter, for that matter.

I went over to the bar and looked it over, but nothing appealed to me until I opened the refrigerator and found it stocked with beer. There were enough brands in there for a variety of tastes and I finally chose a can of Piels. I found a can opener and had it ready to use when Dean Martin came down the hall and into the living room.

He was wearing a yellow polo shirt with a white collar, light gray slacks and a pair of black loafers. His hair was wet, so he had probably showered after the show. I stood rooted behind the bar, because when I woke up that morning I had never expected to be in the sameroom as Dean Martin. He walked over to the bar and extended his right hand, after shifting his cigarette to his left.

“Eddie?” he said. “I’m Dean Martin.”

I shook his hand and said, “I know. I saw the show tonight.”

“Did ya, now?” he asked. He shifted the cigarette back to his right hand, holding it between his forefinger and middle finger. “What’d you think?”

“It was … entertaining.” That sounded lame, even to me.

“Entertaining,” he repeated. “Well, I guess that’s what we want, eh?”

“I mean … it was great. You and Frank and Sammy, you’re great entertainers.”

“Ah,” Dean said, “alone, we’re great entertainers. When we get together we’re a bunch of clowns-but hey, the people loved it, right?”

“They did,” I agreed. “They loved it.”

Dean sat on a bar stool and faced me.

“Why don’t you get me something to drink, if you don’t mind, since you’re already behind the bar?”

“Sure, Mr. Martin,” I said, “what’ll it be?”

“First,” he said, “call me Dean, and second, just get me a bottle of soda water out of the refrigerator, and a glass of ice.”

“Oh, uh, right.”

I’d expected him to ask for gin or bourbon, but I filled a glass with ice and took a bottle of water from the fridge. I opened it and poured it for him, and left the bottle on the bar.

“Thanks, pally,” he said, and took a generous swallow. He sucked the cigarette to death and stubbed it out in a heavy glass ashtray.

“So you talked to Frank,” he said. “He gave you the run down?”

“He only told me that you were gettin’ death threats, Mist-uh, Dean. Nothing more than that.”

“I’m not sure there is anything more than that,” Dean said, “but Frank’s worried. When Frank worries everybody tends to worry.”

“Well, how many people know about these threats?”

“So far,” Dean said, “you, me and Frank.”

“Not Mack?”

“Mack doesn’t need to know. He’d mother-hen me to death, and he’d give himself an ulcer to go along with his headaches.”

“Seems to me he left with his feelings hurt.”

“Mack’ll get over it.”

“What about Joey?”

“He doesn’t know the particulars, either,” Dean said. “Frank just used him to get you involved.”

“Don’t you think you should tell the folks who are involved with the movie? The director? The producer? The other actors?”

“Eddie,” Dean said, “I’m not absolutely convinced that there is really something to the threats. Why raise the alarm without knowing?”

“And you want me to find out?”

“Frank tells me you know everybody in town,” Dean said. “You could make some discreet inquiries.”

“To tell you the truth, Dean,” I said, “I don’t know exactly what I can do, but I’m willing to try to help.”

“That’s fine,” Dean said. “I appreciate that. Just no police, and no reporters. Not yet, anyway.”

“All right, then,” I said, “I suppose we should start with the threats. How did you get them?”

“Just a minute.”

Dean got off his stool, walked to a writing desk at the far end of the room, and took some papers from a drawer. He brought them back to the bar and put them down in front of me. I spread them out and saw that they were letters-notes, really. Half a dozen of them.

YOU AIN’T TOO BIG TO GET HURT one of them said. Another went IF YOU’RE NOT CAREFUL YOU COULD GET REAL HURT. Some of the others were more to the point about what the injuries could be.

“They’re printed,” I said, “in block letters. Hard to identify handwriting from that.”

“I know,” Dean said.

“And I get the feeling the person who wrote these isn’t very educated.” I looked at him. “Do you suspect anyone, Dean?”

“I can’t really think of anybody who’d want to harm me.”

“What about somebody who maybe just wants to scare you?”

“For what reason?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “You’re rich, handsome, famous, maybe somebody’s jealous. Somebody you stepped on gettin’ to where you are now.”

That annoyed Dean. He pushed away from the bar and paced the room.

“I never stepped on anybody in my life,” he said. “I worked hard getting where I am.”

“Well, then maybe it’s somebody who’s jealous of you, simply because you’re you.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Well, it’s got to be someone,” I said. “We’ve got the notes to prove that.” I spread the papers out. “Where are the envelopes they came in?”

“I threw them out, I guess.”

“They came in the regular mail? Or were they delivered by messenger?” I was running out of questions. Not being a cop or a private eye, I wasn’t sure what else to ask.