Robert Randisi - Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

Dean thought a moment, then said, “Regular mail. They had stamps on them.”

“Okay,” I said, “if you get anymore I guess you should keep the envelopes.”

“They didn’t have any return address on them.”

“What about postmarks?” I asked. “Were they mailed from here in Las Vegas? Were the stamps even canceled?”

Dean’s shoulders slumped.

“I didn’t notice,” he said. “That was stupid.”

“Never mind,” I said. “Just remember with the next one … if there is a next one.”

I wasn’t sure what to ask him next, but the guy looked so disheartened, I didn’t want to leave yet.

Suddenly, he asked, “Where are you from?”

“New York,” I said, “Brooklyn.”

“When did you leave?”

“About twelve years ago.”

“I worked hard to get the Ohio out of my tone,” he said. “I always thought it was part of the reason I succeeded.”

“Could be,”

“Why would someone want to hurt me,” he asked, abandoning the small talk, “or threaten to hurt me just because I succeeded?”

“Success is somethin’ to envy, Dean,” I said, “and, for some people, somethin’ to resent.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He looked at his watch. “There’s an old John Wayne film on the television in five minutes. Ever since we did Rio Bravo together I try to catch all his early movies. Want to stay and watch?”

What an invitation! Any other time I would have jumped at the chance to watch television with Dean Martin in his room.

“I think I better get started on this, Dean,” I said. “I’d like to find out right away whether I can help or not. I don’t wanna waste your time.”

“My time, pally?” Dean asked. “I got nothin’ but time to waste. It’s your time you’ll be wastin’. I hope we’re payin’ you enough.”

“You’re not paying me at all,” I said. “This is a favor all the way down the line.”

Dean regarded me for a moment, then stuck out his hand and said, “Thanks, Eddie. I really appreciate it.”

I shook hands with him and said, “I’ll be in touch.”

When I left the room he was turning on the TV to watch John Wayne. I hoped the movie would take his mind off the threats that were obviously bothering him more than he let on.

I went straight home that night after my meeting with Dean because I had no idea where Bev had gone. It was a good bet she was with Frank and Nick and Henry and the Ocean’s 11 crowd. Since this had been our first “date” and we’d had no previous relationship beyond waitress and customer-and two employees of the Sands-I wasn’t really that upset about it. I might have been worried, but I’d left her in the care of Frank Sinatra. Or maybe I should have been worried because I’d left her in his care. Whatever the case, when I couldn’t find her or Joey Bishop, or anyone else connected to the Rat Pack, I went home.

I lived just far enough off the strip so I couldn’t see the bright lights. That was actually as far from it as I wanted to be, because I drew energy from the lights and activity of Las Vegas. I knew some folks who worked for the casinos and stayed far away from them when they weren’t working. You could often find me on the strip, in the casinos, in my off hours. I didn’t gamble as much as I used to, but I still liked to play some blackjack now and then-but never at the Sands. I didn’t shit where I worked.

But this night I decided to have a drink in the privacy of my own living room and think about the events of the day. Meeting two of themost famous men in the world, Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. Nothing could have prepared me for that.

I got up the next morning and went out for breakfast after making a phone call. When I got to the Sands coffee shop I found Danny Bardini waiting for me.

Danny and I grew up together in Brooklyn and ended up in Vegas. He came a few years after I did, and had to quit working for the New York cops to do it. Me, all I’d left behind was a job as an accountant. Being good with numbers was what made me a good card player. He came out to Vegas, got a P.I. ticket and had been keyhole-peeping his way to wealth ever since. We shook hands, and he bruised me with a big, shiny diamond pinky ring.

“Breakfast at the Sands on you?” he said. “Must be something you need, bad, for you to call me on short notice.”

“You came, didn’t you? On short notice?”

“Hey,” he said, “I love ya, Eddie. Why wouldn’t I leave a warm bed with an even warmer broad in it to have breakfast with you?”

“Let’s get seated and I’ll tell you a story.”

We got a table easily and both ordered steak and eggs. Danny was a few years younger than I was. Actually, back in Brooklyn his older brother, Nick, had been my best friend. When Nick was killed in a gang fight I sort of took Danny under my wing, until he joined the police department and had plenty of new brothers in blue. That’s when we sort of went our separate ways until we met up again in Vegas.

When we had coffee in front of us Danny said, “Okay, so tell me a story.”

I did, starting with Joey, moving onto Frank and then, finally, Dean. I threw Jack Entratter in there for good measure.

Danny’s eyes were wide when I finished and he said, “You got to meet Dean Martin?”

“That’s the little picture, Danny,” I said. “Take a look at the big picture.”

“Hey,” Danny said, “for me that is the big picture. Did you see Angie Dickinson?”

“Only in the audience.”

“Hey, what happened to Bev-”

“Big picture, Danny,” I said, “I need you to look at the big picture.”

“Okay,” Danny said, “okay, somebody’s threatenin’ Dean Martin. Is that unusual? Don’t Hollywood types get threats all the time?”

“I suppose they do, but Frank Sinatra seems to think there’s something to this one.”

“Well,” Danny said, pushing his nose to one side, “if Frank thinks so why doesn’t he get some help from the boys?”

“Look,” I said, “Jack asked me to help Frank, Frank asked me to help Dean-”

“Geez,” Danny said, as the waiter appeared, “you’re turnin’into some helluva name-dropper.”

I waited for the waiter to leave and then leaned forward.

“I need your help, Danny. I’m not sure how to go about this.”

“Eddie,” he said, around a mouthful of steak and eggs, “I peek through peepholes. What do I know about death threats?”

“Look,” I said, “between you and me we got this town wired, don’t we?”

“That’s true.”

“We know everybody.”

“Just about.”

“So between us we can find out what’s going on.”

Now it was Danny’s turn to lean forward.

“If I help with this do I get to meet Dean Martin?” he asked.

“I’ll arrange it.”

“And Angie Dickinson?”

“I’ll work on it.”

“Are we gettin’ paid for this gig?”

“Not a cent.”

“Geez, we’re a couple of swell guys, huh?”

“Dean Martin, Danny,” I said. “Remember?”

“I gotcha,” he said. “Tell me about the threats.”

“I left the notes with Dean,” I said, “but some of them were pretty fuckin’ graphic.”

“They come in the mail?”

“Yes.

“Postmarks?”

“I don’t have the envelopes.”

I gave him everything Dean had told me about the notes, which admittedly wasn’t much.

“Boy, you don’t want much for steak and eggs, do ya?” he asked. “There ain’t much to go on here, Eddie.”

“I know it,” I said, “but how was I supposed to say no to Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra?”

“Good point.”

We finished our breakfast and were on our last cup of coffee when Danny looked up and his eyes widened.