‘Right.’
‘So how’d they know you was here?’ Jerry asked.
‘I’m figuring either the desk clerk or manager gave me up.’
‘So you told them your name when you got here?’
I thought for a moment, then looked at him and said, ‘Jerry, did you know you’re a genius?’
‘I ain’t no genius, Mr G.,’ he said. ‘I just sometimes know what questions ta ask.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Just like in the movies I had to drive through a big front gate with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer above it, which meant I had to talk to a portly uniformed guard. Before going there, though, I had found an out of the way garbage dumpster to stash the towel and clothes. There was no reason anyone would look for it there, and if anyone found it they couldn’t connect it to Ava.
‘Who you here to see?’ the guard asked.
‘Louis B. Mayer,’ I said, even though I knew he had died in 1957.
‘Sorry, you’re out of luck,’ the man said. ‘He’s dead.’
‘So who’s in charge?’
The guard must have been having a bad day — or week, or life — because he was ready to bitch to anyone who’d listen.
‘You know, that’s a good question,’ he said. ‘Right now this place has got a lot of Indians and no Chief, if you know what I mean.’
‘Hard times?’ I asked.
‘Hard? There are more cartoons and TV shows comin’ out of here than movies,’ the guard said. ‘MGM ain’t what it used to be, pal.’
‘Well, I need to talk to somebody about Ava Gardner.’
‘What about Miss Gardner?’
‘Frank Sinatra sent me to talk to somebody about Ava Gardner.’
The man stared at me for a minute, then asked, ‘You serious?’
‘I am.’
He stared some more. ‘Wait here.’
‘Sure.’
He stepped into his booth and made a phone call. Then leaned out the booth.
‘Hey, what’s your name?’
‘Eddie Gianelli, from Las Vegas.’
‘Where in Vegas?’
‘The Sands.’
He went back inside, spoke into the phone some more, listened, then hung up and came back out.
‘Pull inside and park there,’ he said, pointing to some parking spots.
‘OK.’
‘Somebody’ll be along to take you inside.’
‘Thanks.’
He gave me a short salute, prepared to turn his attention to the next car.
I pulled into one of the parking spots he’d pointed to and waited. Lots of MGM’s talent spent time in Las Vegas. I wondered if I’d see anybody I knew?
I had my head back and my eyes closed when somebody knocked on the window. I looked up at a grim, striking face dominated by nose and chin. I opened the door and stepped out.
‘What the hell,’ George C. Scott said, ‘I thought that was you, Eddie.’
‘George,’ I said, grabbing his hand. Scott had been to the Sands more than once, and we usually took good care of him. ‘How are ya?’
‘Not bad. What are you doin’ here?’
I shrugged.
‘Gotta see a man about a debt.’ It was a good enough story. ‘How about you. New movie?’
‘TV,’ he said, a little sheepishly.
‘You’re kiddin’.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘A show called East Side, West Side. What are you gonna do? Everybody needs work, right? At least I get to work with a babe. She’s a tall drink of water named Barbara Feldon.’
‘The one that does the commercial in the tiger suit?’
‘The same.’
‘Yeah, not a bad gig, I guess.’
‘Ah,’ Scott said, ‘it won’t last, but it’ll keep me busy for a year or so. MGM ain’t what it used to be.’
‘So I heard.’
‘Are you Mr Gianelli?’ a voice asked.
I looked at a man with a pencil thin mustache, black hair that came to a widow’s peak, and piercing blue eyes. His mouth was a thin, straight line. I rolled the window down.
‘That’s right.’
‘What are you doing driving a cab?’
‘Tryin’ to make some extra money?’ I asked. He didn’t enjoy the joke. ‘I borrowed it. I needed a set of wheels.’
‘I gotta go, Eddie,’ Scott said. ‘Nice seein’ you.’
We shook hands and he moved off. The other man didn’t seem impressed. Then again, he worked there.
‘You got some I.D.?’
I gave him my driver’s license. He looked at it then gave it back.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘come with me.’
I rolled the window back up, got out and closed the door behind me.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Vargas,’ he said.
‘What do you do, Mr Vargas?’
‘I talk to strangers who want to talk to the man in charge,’ he said. ‘Once you talk to me, I’ll decide if you get to talk to him.’
I thought that over and then said, ‘That sounds fair.’
‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
We walked across the parking lot to a two-story building with lots of doors in it. Apparently, it had been broken up into many small office spaces.
‘This is where all the writers used to work when we had them under contract,’ he told me. ‘William Faulkner wrote in here.’
He opened a door and we stepped into a small office sparely furnished with a desk, two chairs and a file cabinet.
‘You mentioned some big names to the guard,’ Vargas said, seating himself behind the desk. ‘Why should we believe that you have any connection to Frank Sinatra or Ava Gardner?’
‘Come on, Mr Vargas,’ I said. ‘I had time to take a little nap in the cab. That means you spent that time checking me out.’
Vargas stared at me.
‘Look, I know things are in an upheaval around here, and I’m not lookin’ to take up your time. I just need to ask somebody a question.’
‘What kind of question?’
‘About Ava Gardner.’
‘We haven’t had anything to do with her since nineteen sixty.’
‘But there are people who don’t know that,’ I said. ‘If somebody was interested in talking to her they’d most likely come here.’
‘What’s your question, Mr Gianelli?’ he asked.
I was thinking the only reason I hadn’t been kicked out was because Vargas had probably talked to Jack Entratter at the Sands. Also, Vargas knew who owned the Sands. He wasn’t exactly being polite to me, but he was giving me more time than he normally would have.
‘Has anyone been askin’ about Ava Gardner lately?’ I asked.
‘Asking about her. . how?’
‘Tryin’ to find her, get in touch with her.’
‘Who are we talking about, Gianelli?’ he asked. ‘The police?’
‘Anybody, Mr Vargas,’ I said.
Vargas studied me for a few moments.
‘Look,’ he said, finally, ‘I’m willing to cooperate with you, but you’ve got to give me something.’
‘Like what?’
‘We’re interested in getting Frank to do a picture for us,’ he said.
‘I don’t have that kind of authority,’ I told him, wondering what Jack had told him about me?
‘I understand that,’ Vargas said. ‘All I’m asking is that you. . talk to Frank. Put a little bug in his ear.’
‘A bug in his ear,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Vargas said. ‘We just need him to be. . open to the possibility.’
I thought a moment, then decided Frank would probably do anything for Ava.
‘OK,’ I said.
‘OK. . what?’ he asked.
‘I think I can guarantee that Frank will be open to the possibility.’
His eyes widened and he smiled for the first time.
‘That’s wonderful!’ he said.
‘Sometimes,’ I said, ‘all you need to do is ask.’
‘Wow,’ Vargas said, ‘well, OK then, exactly what do you want to know?’
‘Has anybody been asking about Ava Gardner in, say, the last week or two?’
‘Somebody looking to make a movie with her? Get an interview? Or are we talking legal-’
‘Mr Vargas,’ I said, cutting him off, ‘you’re makin’ this harder than it has to be.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, backing off. ‘I don’t mean to do that.’
‘Just answer the question and I can be on my way,’ I said.