‘Why didn’t I know about ’em?’ he asked, with a frown.
‘It was a spur of the moment thing,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry, I made sure they’re staying here. I got them two suites.’
‘Good work. Anything going on with you?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because, Eddie,’ he said, giving me a look, ‘somethin’s always goin’ on with you.’
‘Well, now that you ask. . let’s get a drink.’
We went to the Silver Queen lounge and sat at the bar, eyeing the Allan Stewart mural that ran the length of the wall behind it. It illustrated the history of Vegas from Gold Rush to A-bomb.
It was quiet in the lounge. About an hour ago Jack Jones had wrapped up a set, and while half of that crowd was still there, they were well-behaved, sharp-dressed men with their elegant ladies. That was the kind of crowd Mr Jones attracted.
When we had a beer each I said, ‘I got a visit from Detective Hargrove. He hauled me in for questioning this morning.’
‘What did you do now?’ Entratter asked. ‘Oh, wait. It’s more likely something you and Jerry did while he was here, right?’
‘It ain’t even our fault,’ I said. I told him about going to see Irwin — without telling him exactly why — and how he had some cheap muscle named Wayne there who Jerry had choked out fairly easily.
‘He killed him?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘we left him sleeping on the floor.’
‘And?’
‘Now, a week later, he turns up dead.’
‘What’s that got to do with you?’
‘Hargrove got an anonymous call and somebody dropped my name in his ear.’
‘This Irwin guy?’
‘That’s what I figured.’
‘You go and see him?’
‘He’s gone to ground,’ I said. ‘His studio and home are empty.’
Entratter took a pad and pen from inside his jacket.
‘Gimme his particulars.’
I told him Irwin’s full name, described him, and both his addresses.
‘I’ll see what I can find out.’ He stashed the pad away. ‘You put out the word?’
‘Yeah, and Danny’s keeping his ears open.’
‘That big Jew ain’t here, is he?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘Jerry’s in Brooklyn.’
‘Good. We don’t need him tearin’ through this town.’
‘Jerry’s got more finesse than you’d think, Jack,’ I said.
‘Yeah, sure,’ he said, taking a hit of his beer, then shoving it aside. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’
I grabbed my beer and gave it a little more attention than he’d given his. A cute waitress came over and flashed me a smile. She was new, and reminded me that I still hadn’t learned the name of the new girl behind the desk in the hotel.
So many pretty girls, so little time.
THIRTY-FOUR
Barney Irwin disappeared.
Into the first week of December the photographer still had not reappeared. With all the contacts we had — mine, Danny’s and Jack Entratter’s — we still received no word of him being spotted anywhere in Vegas.
But, on the bright side, nobody had tried to frame me for murder again. Hargrove had come around one more time, but he’d done so a little more politely, possibly because Jack Entratter had sent him word not to harass me. He’d simply asked a few questions about Wayne and Barney Irwin, and then I didn’t see him again.
I had one conversation with Frank during that time, and he told me he was doing fine. Then I talked with Dino, who said that Frank was still depressed over JFK, but that it wasn’t showing in his work. But Frank was a pro. He’d never let his private life interfere with his professional one.
The morning of December 9th I was home in bed when the phone rang. At least it wasn’t someone banging on my door. I rolled over and grabbed the handset on the fifth ring.
‘Yeah, what?’
‘Eddie? You awake?’
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Whozit?’
‘Eddie, goddamnit, wake up! It’s Frank.’
‘Frank?’ I sat up in bed. ‘What’s going on, Frank? You in town?’
‘No, I’m in Reno,’ he said. ‘I need you to come here.’
‘Why? What’s going on?’
‘I’ll tell you when you get here,’ Frank said. ‘Don’t tell anybody you’re coming.’
‘Frank-’
‘Goddamnit, Eddie!’ he said, cutting me off. ‘No more questions! I need you here now! Yes or no?’
‘Sure, Frank,’ I said. ‘Where are you? Cal-Neva?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m at the Mapes Hotel. Just ask for me at the desk. Pack a bag.’
‘The Mapes-’ I caught myself before I asked another question. ‘OK, Frank. I’ll be there as soon as I can get a flight.’
‘Take a ’copter,’ Frank said. ‘It’s waiting for you at McCarron.’
‘You cleared this with Jack, Fra-?’ I started to ask, but he hung up.
I hung up, wondering if I should call Jack Entratter and check. I decided that if the helicopter was waiting for me when I got there, it meant Entratter had okayed it.
I got dressed and drove to the airport.
There was a car waiting for me when we landed in Reno. All the driver said was that his name was Walter. He took my bag and tossed it in the trunk, then drove me right to the Mapes.
The Mapes Casino and Hotel was located on Virginia and E. To get there from the airport we drove past the Flamingo, The Sahara, and the five showgirls standing on the marquee over the doors to the Primadonna casino. At night all five ladies lit up. Just south of the Primadonna was the Horseshoe, across the street from Harrah’s.
The Mapes had a twelve-story hotel and, according to their marquee, Milton Berle was playing.
I asked for Frank at the desk. They told me he was on the eleventh floor. When I asked what room, they just said to go up to the eleventh floor. On the twelfth floor was their restaurant, The Sky Room.
Still wondering what the fuck was going on, still shaking off the cobwebs, I took the elevator up. When the doors opened I stepped out, and immediately got grabbed on both sides.
‘Hey!’
‘We just have to frisk you, Mr Gianelli,’ one man said.
‘Frisk me for what?’
‘Just a precaution.’
They put me against the wall, face first, started patting me down. One lifted my wallet, took a look at my license, and put it back.
‘While you’re at it you want to show me some ID?’ I asked. In my mind it was a toss-up — cops, or hoods.
They finished patting me down, turned me around and put their IDs in my face. FBI.
‘What the hell-’ I said.
‘This way.’
They walked ahead of me, which was encouraging. That meant I was following them of my own free will, not being ‘taken’ by force.
They stopped at a door with no number on it, knocked and opened it.
‘He’s here,’ one said.
‘Go on in,’ the other one said.
I entered the room, the two FBI agents closed it from the outside.
The room was full of men. When I entered they spread out a bit, revealing Frank in their midst. He was sitting by the window, next to a table with a phone on it. He was holding something in his hands, clenching and unclenching. I realized it was a roll of dimes.
There were five other men in the room with us. One of them stepped forward and put out his hand.
‘I’m Jim Mahoney, Eddie, Frank’s publicist.’
In fact, he was Frank’s new publicist, replacing Chuck Moses, who I knew.
‘This man is Bill Raggio, District Attorney of Washoe County, Nevada; that’s Frank’s lawyer, Mickey Rudin. These two gents, and the two outside, are FBI agents.’
‘Hello, Frank,’ I said.
‘Hey, Eddie,’ Frank said, without taking his eyes off the phone. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘You wanna tell me what this is about?’
Frank tore his eyes away from the phone to look at me.
‘You guys wanna step outside, let me talk to Eddie?’ he asked.
‘Mr Sinatra-’ Raggio started.
‘Frank, listen-’ Rudin said.
‘I just need a few minutes to talk to my friend!’ Frank shouted. ‘Get the fuck out!’
One by one the men filed out. Rudin went last, pulling the door closed.