Hey There (You with the Gun in Your Hand) (2 page)

“Still no free drinks?” Joey asked, when I paid the bartender for my bourbon and his coffee.

“Jack doesn’t want to start a trend.”

Joey nodded and sipped his coffee.

“What’s on your mind, Joey?” I asked.

“Why does somethin’ have to be on my mind?”

“Look,” I said, “I had a great time tonight. Buddy’s great and the two of you together are a riot. But when’s the last time you invited me for a night on the town?”

“You’re a smart man, Eddie,” Joey said. He pointed his finger at me. “I said that first, and the rest of the guys found it out later.”

“Not Peter.”

“Peter’s okay,” Joey said, but didn’t go any further.

“Where is he, Joey?” I asked. “Where’s Frank?”

“He’s at the Cal Neva, in Tahoe,” Joey said. “He’d like you to come there.”

“Why didn’t he just call me?”

Joey shrugged helplessly.

“Maybe you could ask ’im when you see ’im.”

“And when is that?”

“Well, hopefully tomorrow,” Joey said.

“He wants me to drive to Tahoe tomorrow?”

“Fly,” Joey said. “He said you can use his copter.”

“Copter?”

“One of the improvements Frank made at the Cal Neva was putting in a helipad.”

“Really?”

“You ever been up in a helicopter?”

“No.”

“You’ll love it.”

“I thought the Cal Neva was only open from June through September. After all, it’s a lodge, not a real hotel.”

“Frank’s convinced it could be a moneymaker all year round,” Joey said. “That’s why he’s there, in his cabin. The casino isn’t open yet, but it will be.”

“I have a job, Joey.”

“I have a feeling Jack will let you go, don’t you?” he asked.

No, it wasn’t a feeling. I
knew
Jack Entratter, my boss, would let me go. He’d do anything to keep Frank Sinatra happy.

“Okay, Joey,” I said. “You callin’ Frank tonight?”

“As soon as I get back to my room.”

“Tell him I’ll be there.”

“Thanks, Eddie.” Joey slid off his stool. “You finish your drink. I’m gonna turn in.”

“I’ll have to talk to Jack first thing,” I said. “Tell Frank to have his helicopter ready by ten.”

“I’ll tell ’im,” Joey said. “ ’Night, Eddie.”

“Thanks for the show and dinner, Joey.”

“Sure, anytime.”

The bartender came over. I could tell he was impressed. “Still hobnobbin’ with the stars, huh, Eddie?”

I finished my drink and set the empty glass down on the bar.

“You got it wrong, Harry,” I told him. “They’re hobnobbin’ with me.”

F
RANK ANSWERED THE DOOR HIMSELF
, holding a paperback novel in one hand.

“Eddie G! How the hell are ya, pally?” He grabbed my hand and pumped it, then pulled me in, slamming the door. I looked around the cabin. His majordomo, George, was nowhere to be seen.

“Flyin’ solo this time,” he said, reading my mind. “Come on, come on, sit down. I’ll get you a drink. Bourbon?”

“Bourbon’s good, Frank.”

He put the book down on the coffee table and went to the bar. There was a girl in a black dress against a yellow background on the cover. The title was
Miami Mayhem
by Anthony Rome. I picked it up and was still reading the back when he returned with the drinks.

“That came out last year,” he said, handing me the glass. “I’m thinking of makin’ a movie out of it. I’d play the lead, Tony Rome, a Miami private eye. There’s another one, too, came out last month. It’s called
The Lady in Cement.”

“Sounds interesting,” I said. “Any parts for the other guys?”

“Naw,” Frank said, sitting in an armchair across from me. “Well, maybe Nick Conte. I just need somebody to play the cop. Nick looks like a cop.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “ ‘Tony Rome’ is the P.I.? And the author is Anthony Rome?”

“It’s a pen name,” Frank said. “The guy’s real name is Marvin Albert. I’ve talked to him once, already.” He leaned forward, picked the book up, looked at it, put it down and said, “It’s gonna be good. Kinda like
The Maltese Falcon
my buddy Bogey made, only in this one the guy’s
ex
-partner is killed, and there’s no Falcon, just a pin, a piece of jewelry. It’s gonna be good,” he said, again.

“I’m sure it will be.” I was wondering if he was trying to convince me, or himself. I sat back and sipped my drink.

“How do you like the cabin?”

“It’s great. Kind of like a rustic suite.”

“Exactly,” Frank said. “It’s got a huge bedroom. Three, four and five never get rented out.”

“Never?”

“Five is mine,” Frank explained, spreading his arms. “Three is for broads—like when Marilyn comes out. She’s in Reno now, making
The Misfits
with Clark Gable. I asked her to come out here, but they’re givin’ her a hard time about bein’ late to the set.”

I nodded. I’d read about that in the papers.

“And four is for guys. If you stay here, Eddie, you get four.”

“That’s what I’m here to talk about, isn’t it, Frank?” I asked.

Not only had his copter flown me from Vegas, but his driver had brought me to cabin five from the heliport in Frank’s car. Now it was just him and me, no Rat Packers, no hangers on.

“You’re right, Eddie,” Frank said, “and I didn’t thank you for comin’. I guess Jack had to give you some time off, huh?”

“When Jack heard you wanted to see me, he gave me all the time I’d need,” I said. “So now all I have to find out is, how much time
will
I need?”

“I don’t know, Eddie,” he said. “Maybe I should just tell you what the problem is, and then we can figure it out.”

“I’m all ears, Frank.”

The Chairman of the Board sat back in his chair and said, “It’s Sammy, this time.”

“Joey said he was playin’ Harrah’s, up here.”

“He is,” Frank said. “I offered him a cabin, but it seems like Harrah’s is lettin’ him stay on the premises.”

“Things are startin’ to change,” I said.

“Not on their own, they’re not,” Frank said. “You know I made Jack Entratter let Sammy stay in the hotel when we play the Sands.”

“I heard that.”

“Well, Sammy told them at Harrah’s he wasn’t gonna play their place if they didn’t let him have a room. So they did.”

“Good for him,” I said. “Now tell me he got some threatening letters, or phone calls, and I won’t be surprised.”

Frank laughed.

“Naw, Smokey’s used to that,” he said. “That wouldn’t bother him at all. Ya know, he’s a little guy but I don’t know if the biggest part of him is his talent, or his balls.”

“So if he’s not gettin’ threats what
is
the problem?”

“I think you oughtta go and talk to him about it, Eddie,” Frank said.

“Did you tell Sammy you asked me to come?”

“I did,” he said.

“And what’d he say?”

“It doesn’t matter what he said,” Frank answered. “Last year if you’d asked Dean if he needed help he woulda said no. Hell, if you’d asked me back in August if I needed your help to find that dame I probably woulda said no, but you did it both times. You helped Dean and you helped me. Now I’d like you to help Sam.”

“Well, Frank, I’ll help if he’ll let me,” I said.

“I’ll have my driver take you over to Harrah’s,” Frank said, as we both stood up. “Cabin four’s yours for as long as you want it.”

“I didn’t bring an overnight bag.”

“Well, the copter can take you back to Vegas if you want, or we can buy you something to wear.”

He slapped me on the back and kept his hand there while we walked to the door.

“You know, Frank, if Sammy’s having trouble here in Tahoe maybe you should get somebody local—”

“We trust you, Eddie,” he said, cutting me off. “I could get some
local guy, but I wouldn’t know him. Or I could bring some fixer out from L.A. But I trust you. We all do. You’re our guy, Eddie. And your Vegas contacts? I’ll bet they’ve got tentacles that spread all over the country, so I’m not too worried about you findin’ your way around Tahoe. But talk to Sammy before you make any plans.”

“Okay, Frank.”

He opened the door and stepped out behind me so that we were both standing on the wooden deck. His driver was leaning against the side of the car.

“Henry,” he called down, “take Eddie anywhere he wants to go.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Sinatra.”

I turned and shook hands with Frank.

“When you’re done with Sammy either come back here or head on back to Vegas,” Frank said. “Your choice. Just give me a call and let me know, huh?”

“I will, Frank.”

The driver held the back door open for me, then trotted around and got behind the wheel.

“Where to, sir?” he asked.

“Harrah’s, James.”

“It’s Henry, sir.”

“And it’s still Harrah’s, Henry.”

“Yes, sir.”

H
ARRAH’S WAS FIRST OPENED
in South Lake Tahoe in Stateline, Nevada, by William F. Harrah in 1955. In ’59 it moved across the street and became Harrah’s Stateline Club.

The South Shore Room, where Sammy was playing, opened in ’59. The 750 seat room cost $3.5 million dollars. The opening act was Red Skelton.

Since Sammy was expecting me, and Frank had given me his room number, I walked through the lobby, went right upstairs and knocked on his door. Harrah’s could not have been called an integrated property by any means at that time, but this was Sammy’s first appearance in Harrah’s Shore Room. They obviously wanted to keep him happy, so they gave him a room in the hotel rather than making him stay off premises.

Like Frank, Sammy opened the door to his own room. Unlike Frank, Sammy was wearing a pair of six-guns in twin holsters.

“Eddie G,” he said. “Come on in, man.”

He backed away into the room, leaving the door open. I entered, expecting to find others in the room, but we were alone. I knew that Sammy usually traveled with his friend Arthur Silber, Jr., who had met Sammy when he was fifteen, just a little younger than Sammy himself. Back then Silber—as Sammy called him—was the son of the
man who managed the Will Maston Trio, Arthur Silber. Arthur Jr. was on salary, but in reality he and Sammy were best friends.

“Whataya think of this?” Sammy asked, as I closed the door. The room was a suite, but a much smaller suite than we had at the Sands in Vegas.

Sammy drew one of the guns left-handed, twirled it a few times, then returned it to the holster a bit awkwardly.

“I’m tryin’ to get as good with my left hand as I am with my right.”

He drew the right one, executed the same maneuvers and then returned it to the holster flawlessly.

“You should be makin’ westerns, Sam,” I said.

“We’re gonna start shootin’ one in a few months,” he told me. “Me, Frank, Dean, Peter and Joey. It’s called
Sergeants 3
. It’s a western based on Rudyard Kipling’s ‘Gunga Din.’ Frank’s producing, from a W. R. Burnett script. I hope that will lead to some more westerns.”

“Good luck.”

He smiled at me.

“But there’s not much call for a one-eyed black Jew in westerns these days,” he admitted.

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“Hey, where are my manners?” he asked. “Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?”

“Bourbon would be good.”

“Comin’ up. Rocks?”

“Is there any other way?”

He laughed, went to the bar and made us both drinks. I wasn’t sure what he was having, but it was roughly the same color as mine.

“How’s May?” I asked.

“Good,” he said. “She stayed home this time. Her mom’s there.”

“And Silber?”

“Had some business in L.A.; I’m on my own.”

“You seem to be keeping yourself occupied.”

“These?” he asked, looking down at his holsters. “You’d think guns would get me into more trouble, wouldn’t you? Actually, I do
get out, but I’m watching my p’s and q’s while I’m here without May and Silber. Of course, I don’t have the guys to get me into trouble.”

“Frank is here.”

“He’s keepin’ to himself,” Sammy said. “Dean’s at the Sands, isn’t he?”

“End of the week.”

“Maybe I’ll come down and catch that.”

“Joey’s there,” I said. “He’s staying to see Dean.”

“I’ll have to talk to Frank. Maybe he’ll want to go, too.”

“Sammy,” I said, “Frank thinks I might be of help to you.”

Sammy put his drink down, then drew both guns and tried twirling them together. He almost dropped the left one, then holstered both.

“Eddie, I know what you did for Frank and Dean last year,” he said. “I also know none of that got out to the press.”

“I don’t talk to the press, Sammy,” I said. “That’s not part of my job.”

“Neither is helping any of us when we get into trouble.”

I snorted and said, “Tell that to Jack Entratter.”

“We both know Jack wouldn’t have fired you if you’d refused to help Frank and Dean.”

I almost snorted again, but stopped myself.

He took a moment to unbuckle the gun belt and set it aside on a chair, then picked up his drink and sat in another chair.

“Sam, are you asking me if I’ll be discreet?”

“No, Eddie,” Sammy said, “I’m asking if you’ll keep your damned mouth shut.”

“I
’
VE GOT A SLIGHT PROBLEM
,” Sammy began.

That much I already knew, but I let Sammy get to it in his own time.

“There’s a picture … a photo … floating around that could be … embarrassing to me.”

“A photo.”

“Yeah.”

He sat there and waited. I didn’t say a word.

“Frank was right about you,” he said, then.

“What’d he say?”

“That you wouldn’t ask any questions.”

“Oh, I’ll ask questions,” I said, “when the time is right. Why don’t you just go on?”

“Okay, here’s the deal. The photo is not exactly floating around,” he said, “it’s in somebody’s hands.” He paused, took a drink. “This is the thing I can’t get my head around. A year ago my house was broken into and some negatives were taken. They were from a certain roll of film.”

“Wait, somebody broke in and stole one roll? That’s it? Nothing else?”

“Nothin’,” he said, “and I have some expensive equipment, jewelry, some cash—nothin’ but this roll of film.”