I
WOKE THE NEXT MORNING stiff and sore—but I was grateful to wake up, at all. If Dori hadn’t come to the door, I might have been dead.
Dori stayed the night. She checked my eyes to make sure my pupils contracted in the light—she’d seen a doctor do this to the girl that had fallen onstage—and pronounced me concussion free.
We went to bed but didn’t have sex. Not that I didn’t want to. Dori’s all woman, and having her next to me gave me a raging hard-on all night, but my aches and pains just wouldn’t allow it. Believe me, we tried. The second time she whacked my sore knee with one of hers and we gave it up.
However, when we woke the next morning I was still hard, and she had pity on me.
Then she sprang a surprise on me while she was getting dressed.
“I think you should consider that a goodbye blowjob, Eddie.”
“What?” I’d been distracted watching her move about the room naked, enjoying the play of her dancer’s muscles beneath her smooth, pale skin.
“You’ve gotten yourself into something funny,” she said, “and I don’t mean ‘ha ha’ funny.”
“Well,” I said, “you’re right about that.” I watched as she fit her showgirl tits into her bra, then pulled on her top.
“Those men scared the shit out of me last night,” she said, pulling on her panties and hip-huggers at the same time, “so now that I know you’re all right I don’t think I want to be around if and when they come back.”
I couldn’t blame her for that. They’d pretty much scared the shit out of me, too—which, according to one of them, had been their job. Hurting me, that just seemed to be something the first guy wanted to do because he liked it.
She put on her shoes, grabbed her purse and came over to the bed to kiss me goodbye.
“Give me a call when you’ve got it all sorted out,” she said, then added, “then we’ll see.”
After she was gone I realized she’d been feeling the same thing I had, that maybe we’d run our course. We’d probably bump into each other around town—I’d even go to see her show—but we both knew that anything more than that was no longer an option.
In other words, we were done.
Being from Brooklyn I had seen a lot of street fights in my life. Hell, I had even done my time as a kid in a street gang, but had outgrown that stage very quickly. My point is I’m not really all that brave, but getting beat up didn’t send me running right to the cops, either. In the light of day I decided not to bring them into it—at least, not until I talked to Dean, again.
I took a shower when I got up and then checked myself out in the mirror. None of my injuries were visible except for a bruised knee—and no one would see that once I got dressed. The wound on my scalp was covered by my hairline, at first glance no one could tell I’d been attacked. Probably the only explaining I’d have to do was about the slight limp. Good thing Dori and I had iced the knee the night before, or it would have been much worse come morning. It was still somewhat swollen, but not so bad I couldn’t get my pants on. As far as the
limp went, I was hoping that it would get stronger and start to handle all my weight as the day progressed.
I made myself some coffee and tried not to rub my knee while I drank it. There was nothing else going on in my life that would cause two men to break into my house, wait for me, and then try to hurt me. And “break” was not even the right word. There was no damage to my door, or to any of my windows. Those guys had gotten in slick as you please, which meant they were pros—and that meant they had probably been paid to do what they did—only they hadn’t gotten the job done. Did that mean they’d be back? And wasn’t that a good enough reason to call the police?
I was still going over the one hand and the other hand when the phone rang.
“Is this Eddie Gianelli?” a man’s harsh voice asked. I didn’t recognize it, but got a chill down my spine anyway. I had a feeling I knew why he was calling.
“That’s right. What can I do for you?”
“Stay healthy, Eddie,” the man said. “I can always send my friends back around.’
“Who is this?”
“That don’t matter.”
“Then what the fuck do you want?”
“Stick to what you know best,” he said. “Don’t be tryin’ to branch out.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talkin’ about stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong,” the man said. “I’m talkin’ about doin’ favors for people and gettin’ hurt.”
“You’re talking about vague threats,” I said, starting to get angry. “How am I supposed to know what you’re warning me off of if you don’t tell me?”
“Names don’t matter,” he said. “You got a job, do it. Just don’t be freelancing, Eddie. It ain’t healthy.”
“For Chrissake,” I yelled, “this isn’t a Bogart movie, you stupid sonofa—”
But he was gone. I hung up, feeling totally frustrated. He had to
be talking about me helping Frank and Dean, but why wouldn’t he say it?
I picked up the phone and dialed.
“Bardini investigations,” a girl’s voice said.
“Is he there, Penny?” I asked. “It’s Eddie.”
“Hey, Eddie, how’s it goin’? Yeah, he’s here. Hold on.”
She put me through to Danny.
“Lookin’ for results already?” he asked. “You’re a harsh taskmaster, buddy.”
“I think I may have already gotten more results than I bargained for, Danny,” I said. “I need to talk to you. I’m coming to your office. I can be there in about twenty minutes.”
“Bring coffee,” he said, and hung up.
T
HE OFFICES OF Bardini Investigations were at 150 Fremont Street, between the Fremont Street Casino and Binion’s Horseshoe Club, above a gift shop. When I opened the door Penny O’Grady looked up at me from her desk. I walked over and put a container down in front of her. She switched off her portable radio, cutting off the howling of what sounded like Buddy Holly. Dean Martin he ain’t.
“Coffee or tea?” she asked.
“Tea,” I said. “It doesn’t take me long to learn.”
“I’ve only been working for Danny for five years,” she said. “It’s taken me that long to get his files in shape, and for you to learn I drink tea.”
Penny had come to Danny right out of college and convinced him to hire her. At the time he’d been running his office alone. Now she was twenty-seven and pushing him to make her a partner. She had freckles, long legs and red hair and the only thing that kept her from being a knockout was a snub nose she was saving to have fixed. In my opinion she was smart enough to be a partner, but Danny liked the idea of a one-man shop—with secretary. Neither of them had ever bothered to satisfy my curiosity about whether or not they were sleeping or had ever slept together.
“Go on in,” she said. “He’s not doing anything important.”
“Thanks.”
I went past her and through the door to Danny’s office without knocking.
“What happened to you?” he asked, immediately.
“Does it show?”
“You’re limping,” he said, “and walking hunched over. And what happened to your head?”
I put my hand up to my scalp. I’d gotten past Penny, but not old eagle-eye Danny.
“I didn’t think it showed.”
“I’m a detective, remember?” he asked. “Speaking of which, I deduce that’s coffee in your hand. Fork it over here.”
I limped to his desk, sat across from him and handed him his coffee. He opened it, inhaled it, tasted it and then sat back and closed his eyes with a sigh. He liked it with four sugars, so I was always surprised his teeth didn’t just drop out of his mouth.
“I swear I’m gonna fire that girl if she doesn’t start makin’ coffee.” He opened his eyes and looked at me. “Okay, now give.”
I told him the story, starting from when I entered my house without using the key and ending with Dori leaving the next morning.
“Not having to use your key to get in should have been your first clue,” he commented when I was done.
“I came here so you could tell me something I don’t know, Danny.” My tone was a bit testy.
“Okay, okay,” Danny said, “calm down. No damage to doors or windows, you said?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you were dealin’ with pros,” he said. “If you can describe them I can identify them for you.”
“I got hit as soon as I walked in,” I said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t focus.”
“Well,” Danny said, “toss in the phone call you got this morning and it’s obvious this is all because of this … Rat Pack thing you’re involved in.”
“Why didn’t he just say so on the phone?”
“Maybe he thought your phone would be tapped.”
“Why would someone tap my phone?”
“Maybe,” Danny said, “he knows his own phone is tapped.”
“You’re saying he was with the mob?” I asked.
“Who else would have their phones tapped?”
“So that’s why he didn’t want to say Frank or Dean’s name.”
“Especially Sinatra’s,” Danny said. “And the guys they sent were real pro leg-breakers, not hit men, or you’d be dead.”
“One of them told the other one to hold me so he could hurt me.”
“Figures.” Danny took time to sip his coffee and eye me over the rim. “There’s nothing else you can tell me about them?”
“Well,” I said, “they bitched at each other like an old married couple.”
He laughed. “Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”
“Why?”
“Because now I know who they are.”
“Who?”
“Lenny Davis and Buzz Ravisi.”
“Are they workin’ for the mob?”
“They’re pros,” he said, “but not top of the line. They freelance as leg-breakers for the books, so I’m sure they’ve done some work for the mob at one time or another, but not for the big boys.”
“So what’s this mean for me?”
“It means that whoever’s skin you’ve gotten under, he’s not connected high up.”
I thought about that for a moment.
“Or he doesn’t want you to think he is.”
“That’s a big help.”
“You want a gun?” he asked. “I can give you one, or get you one.”
“What would I do with a gun?” I asked. “No, no gun.” Not yet, anyway. Besides, I hadn’t handled one since Korea. I’d shoot myself in the foot.
“This Dori,” he said, then, “she the one with the big knockers from the Sahara?”
B
EFORE LEAVING DANNY’S OFFICE I verified for him that yes, Dori was the one with the big boobs from the Sahara, and he told me not to worry about Lenny and Buzz, that he’d check them out for me.
“I’m sure they did what they did just for the money,” he said, “and nothing personal. If I pay them enough they might roll over on whoever they’re working for.”
“How much is enough?”
“I don’t know,” Danny said. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it and let you know.”
He hadn’t picked up any word on the street about who might want to threaten Dean Martin, but he’d only been working on it since yesterday. I knew he had the word out, so I wasn’t worried about that.
“You want to see a doctor?” he asked, before I left.
“I’m trying to be discreet, Danny.”
“I got a guy who won’t ask any questions,” he said. He opened his drawer and gave me a card. “I’ll call ahead and tell him you’re comin’.”
It wasn’t a bad idea, so I said okay.
“I don’t see any cracked ribs on the X-ray,” Doctor Gregory Edstrom said. He was holding my X-ray up to the light to show me. I didn’t know what I was looking at, but I nodded.
“That’s good.”
“You’ve got a deep-tissue bruise on your back,” he said, putting the X-ray down. “Take a few hot baths over the next few days, let the heat soak in. You got a heating pad?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Get one, use it, too.”
“What about my knee?”
“No permanent damage there, but it’s gonna hurt like a motherfucker for a while. Can you stay off of it?”
“Not likely.”
His language belied his appearance, which was remarkably clean-cut and youthful, even though he had to be in his late forties.
“Here.” He handed me a container of capsules. “Take these if the pain gets bad.”
“What are they?”
“Demerol,” he said. “They’re strong, so don’t take them unless you have to, and if you do, stay inside and don’t drive.” He tapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t fuck up.”
“Okay.” I put them in my pocket with no intention of ever taking them out.
“Your scalp wound took only three stitches,” he said. “I could put a bandage on, but if I don’t your hairline will hide them and no one will notice.”
“I don’t need a bandage.”
“Don’t get it wet.”
“Right.”
“Your eyes are responsive, so you don’t have a concussion. Far as I can tell you got away pretty cheaply from whatever you were doing.”
“I was just—”
He held up his hand.
“I don’t ask any questions, and I’d appreciate the same courtesy.”
“Okay, fine. Are we done?”
“You’re done,” he said. “No running or jumping for a while. Keep your life down to a low roar.”
“What do I owe you?”
“Fifty bucks.”
I gave him cash.
I came away from Danny’s doctor knowing pretty much what I’d known before, but fifty bucks poorer. Well, at least I had three stitches and some Demerol to show for it.
I was driving a ’52 Caddy then, the car I’d bought to celebrate getting the job at the Sands. I loved that car, kept it in good shape, and was going to drive it as long as I could.
I got behind the wheel and rubbed my face with both hands. Did I have the balls to go to Jack Entratter, Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin and pull out of this thing? I’d only been at it a day and already I had a sore back, bruised ribs, swollen knee and stitches in my head—and it could’ve been a lot worse.
However, the longer I sat there fingering the bottle of painkillers in my pocket the angrier I got. Some sonofabitch had sent two leg-breakers to my house and then had the balls to call me the next day and play gangster games with me, thinking he could scare me off.
I was scared, all right, but just too mad to walk away.