I'm a Fool to Kill You

  The Rat Pack Mysteries from Robert J Randisi

  EVERYBODY KILLS SOMEBODY SOMETIME

  LUCK BE A LADY, DON’T DIE

  HEY THERE – YOU WITH THE GUN IN YOUR HAND

  YOU’RE NOBODY ’TIL SOMEBODY KILLS YOU

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2010 in Great Britain and in the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of 9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2010 by Robert J. Randisi.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Randisi, Robert J.

  I’m a fool to kill you.

  1. Gardner, Ava, 1922–1990 – Fiction. 2. Rat Pack

  (Entertainers) – Fiction. 3. Private investigators – United

  States – Fiction. 4. Las Vegas (Nev.) – Fiction.

  5. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  813.5’4-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-054-8 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6940-1 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-287-1 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  To Marthayn, I’d be a

  fool to want anyone else.

  ‘I’m A Fool To Want You’

  Words & Music by Jack Wolf, Joel Herron, Frank Sinatra, 1957.

  PROLOGUE

  I

  Las Vegas, Fall, 2003

  Jenny Phillips was a looker.

  She had the prettiest blue eyes, the kind of nose you’d see on statues of a Roman princess, and a helluva rack on her. Maybe I should have felt like a dirty old man, looking her up and down as she stood in the doorway of her apartment, but she was only eighteen years younger than I was.

  She was sixty-five.

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘You look great.’

  ‘For an old lady?’ she asked, smiling.

  ‘Look who you’re talkin’ to,’ I said. ‘People are gonna think you’re my daughter.’

  She reached out and straightened my tie.

  ‘You’re a handsome old gent, Eddie G.’ she said. ‘Don’t look a day over seventy-five.’

  ‘Why are people always telling an octogenarian he looks young?’

  ‘I didn’t say young,’ she said. ‘I gave you about eight years, but you still look like an old geezer.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ I said. ‘The car’s downstairs. Are you ready?’

  ‘Do I need a shawl, or a jacket?’ she asked.

  ‘Jacket,’ I said. ‘It’s getting cool.’

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  I watched her ass as she walked away from me. Still firm and sassy. Sorry, but I’m an old-fashioned guy. I still think the way I did back in the 60s, when I was eyeing every waitress and showgirl’s ass that went by at the Sands.

  She came back, stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her, made sure it was locked. Then she turned and kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘What was that for?’ I asked.

  She smiled fondly, wiped off the lipstick with her thumb and said, ‘That was for looking at my ass as I walked away.’

  ‘I don’t have much of a choice, Jen,’ I said. ‘It’s a great ass.’

  ‘I love Ava Gardner,’ Jenny said in the limo.

  I didn’t comment.

  ‘I mean, in Mogambo? Why does anyone even look at Grace Kelly?’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘So you like her movies?’

  ‘Why else would I invite you to an Ava Gardner retrospective?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, you know how much I like her.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  The limo stopped and Jenny looked out the window.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Dinner first,’ I said. ‘We have plenty of time.’

  This was my sixth date with Jenny. I kept count because ever since I was a young man I’d never been able to get past the sixth date, except for my wives, and you can guess where those relationships went.

  So I took Jenny to my favorite Italian restaurant, my usual table. Which was always for two. I ordered for both of us. She liked that. I liked the way she was staring across the table at me. I was amazed at how smooth the skin of her face was, wondered if she’d had some work. I didn’t think so, though, because there were some lines in her neck and at the corners of her mouth and eyes. She would have had those smoothed out as well. I decided she just had extraordinary skin. And her hair was still mostly black, with some grey streaks, worn long. On her, sixty-five was the new fifty.

  ‘Do you know why I like you, Eddie?’

  ‘I could guess,’ I said, ‘and I might get lucky, but I’d rather hear it from you.’

  ‘You have manners,’ she said. ‘Old world manners.’

  ‘Me?’ I said. ‘I’m still a kid from Brooklyn; inside, I mean.’

  ‘Well, the man on the outside has a lot of polish.’

  ‘And that’s why you like me.’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons.’

  The waiter came with wine, bread and olive oil. He poured; I tasted and nodded like I knew what I was doing. I would have preferred beer, but over the years I had learned a little about wine. For instance, I learned that after you taste it you’re supposed to nod.

  ‘Should you be drinking that?’ Jenny asked. ‘Eating bread and pasta?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Your diabetes?’

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘my toes are numb, and my fingertips are getting there. I’m out with a beautiful woman, and I probably won’t be able to feel the softness of your skin, but at least I can taste the wine, and the bread and the pasta.’

  ‘You can’t feel my skin?’ she asked, looking sad.

  I reached over and touched her wrist with the fingertips of my right hand.

  ‘Hardly,’ I said.

  She reached across the table and touched my mouth.

  ‘Your lips aren’t numb, are they?’

  I took hold of her, ran my lips over the back of her hand.

  ‘Smooth and soft,’ I said, kissing it.

  ‘If you’re good tonight,’ she said, ‘maybe I’ll let you feel more than my hand.’

  I frowned, then sighed and pushed away the wine and the bread.

  ‘Tell you what, Jen,’ I said, ‘I’ll just eat the pasta.’

  She blew a kiss across the table. I may have been eighty-three years old but, on occasion, I was still pretty virile.

  This was one such occasion . . .

  II

  After her veal and my pasta I ordered her a tiramisu for dessert.

  ‘Nothing for you, Eddie?’ the waiter asked.

  ‘Just coffee, Luigi.’

  He nodded.

  ‘You are being good,’ she said.

  ‘I’m keeping my eyes on the carrot at the end of the stick.’

  She laughed.

  ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever been called a carrot.’

  ‘I’m a romantic devil.’

  ‘Romantic,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘Do
we have time—’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ve got it all timed out. We’ll be there for the opening credits of The Barefoot Contessa.’

  ‘The Barefoot Contessa and Mogambo,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Two of my favorite movies with my favorite actress and my favorite man.’

  ‘Bogie or Gable?’ I asked.

  ‘Who’s talking about them?’

  The dessert came and I watched her eat.

  ‘You remind me of her, you know,’ I said.

  ‘I do? Of who?’

  ‘Ava Gardner.’

  ‘Yeah, right . . . Eddie, don’t worry, you’re going to get lucky tonight.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, ‘in which movie?’

  ‘Not in any movie,’ I said, ‘I mean in person. In real life.’

  She stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth, then put it down and leaned forward.

  ‘Eddie . . . you knew her? You knew Ava Gardner?’

  ‘Would that surprise you?’

  ‘Well . . . no, I guess not. After all, you are Eddie G., a Vegas legend, friends with all the Rat Pack.’

  ‘Well, I was kind of an acquaintance of Peter’s. We never really got along. And I’m no legend. I just had some special friends.’

  ‘Like Marilyn Monroe?’ she asked. ‘And Ava Gardner?’

  ‘Among others.’

  There had been a magazine article out a few months ago about the Rat Pack women. Alongside ran a sidebar about me and Marilyn. There had been enough material for more than a sidebar, but I’d made sure that most of the research disappeared. So when I met Jenny at a party at a friend’s house and we were introduced, she knew who I was. I like to think we would have connected anyway, but what are you gonna do?

  ‘Eddie,’ she said, ‘you have to tell me about her.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘She was a great broad,’ I said.

  ‘That’s all?’

  I took a deep breath, sorry that I’d even mentioned it. I’d gotten carried away with the moment.

  ‘Eddie,’ she asked, ‘did you sleep with Ava Gardner?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ I asked. ‘Frank would have killed me.’

  I turned around, waved at Luigi to bring me the check.

  ‘That’s not a denial,’ she said.

  ‘Jenny, we have to leave now if we’re gonna make the movie.’

  ‘Damn you, Eddie,’ she said, as I pulled her chair out, ‘maybe you won’t get lucky tonight.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and stared at me.

  ‘I tell you what,’ I said. ‘We’ll talk about it after the movies.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  I had gotten us perfect seats for the movies. Not too close, not too far away. Either way, I had to put on my glasses.

  ‘You better come through, Eddie,’ Jenny whispered in my ear.

  I passed her the popcorn as the lights went down and the credits began to roll.

  My big crush in the 60s had been Angie Dickinson, who I had finally met thanks to my association with Frank and Dean. Ava Gardner, however, had always been unattainable to me. She was a goddess on the screen – had actually played Venus, the Goddess of Love in the movie, One Touch of Venus – but her unattainable status stemmed from the fact that she was Frank’s ex-wife when I met her. Ex-wife but still the love of his life.

  I had to figure out just how much I wanted to tell Jenny about me and Ava Gardner. So while her eyes were riveted to the screen, I let my mind drift back . . .

  ONE

  Las Vegas, Sept., 1962

  The dealer’s name was Rachel. She was young, pretty, stacked.

  The only thing that kept her from being showgirl material was that she was too short. So we lucked into getting her as a blackjack dealer—and I lucked into getting her at one of the tables in my pit.

  I hadn’t had anything to do with hiring her, and I didn’t much mind having her at one of my tables, but even from where I was standing I could see that she was – at best – inept. Not only was she clumsy with the cards, but she wasn’t standing when she was supposed to stand, or hitting when she was supposed to hit. In short, she was a looker, but she was costing us money.

  I waved over Zack, one of our regular dealers, and told him, ‘Relieve Rachel.’

  ‘I’d love to relieve her of—’ he started, wiggling his eyebrows.

  ‘Just do it, Zack.’

  ‘But . . . it ain’t time.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it is. And then send her right over to me.’

  ‘Uh, sure, boss,’ he said, once he realized I was serious.

  He went over and tapped her on the shoulder. She frowned at him, listened to what he had to say, then looked over at me. I nodded. She put her cards down, clapped her hands together once, then left the table.

  ‘Mr G., I—’

  ‘Take the rest of the day, Rachel.’

  ‘But . . . why?’

  ‘We’ll have a talk tomorrow morning.’

  She stared at me and asked, ‘Like . . . over breakfast?’

  ‘What?’ Then I realized what she meant, and felt stupid. ‘No, no, it’s nothing like that, kid. Geez, I’m not hittin’ on you!’

  ‘Oh. Well then, wha—’

  ‘I’m the boss, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So I’m tellin’ you to take the rest of the day off, with pay, come to work tomorrow, and then we’ll talk. OK?’

  She stared at me like she still didn’t think I was on the up-and-up, then said, ‘OK, Mr G.’

  ‘Good. Now get outta here.’

  She shrugged, turned and walked away. Every male head within sight of her shapely butt watched it leave, including me. Then I turned and saw the dealers all looking at me, wondering if I was fucking her.

  ‘Deal!’ I growled at them. Now all I had to do was figure out what to do with her, because she was never going to make a good blackjack dealer.

  Later in the day Dean Martin showed up at the blackjack tables. He, Frank and Sammy were all in town to play the Sands. It wasn’t the entire Summit – not without Joey and Peter – but it would do. The Copa Room would be filled the next three nights.

  ‘Hey Dino,’ I said.

  ‘Eddie G.,’ he said, shaking my hand warmly. ‘Good to see you, Pally.’

  He looked sharp in an expensive suit, his only jewelry a watch and a pinky ring on his left hand.

  ‘You wanna play a little? Or deal?’ Dino was known to deal a little blackjack and pay the pretty ladies off on 22.

  ‘No, not today,’ he begged off. ‘I’m just here checking on a friend. Well, the friend of a friend . . . of a friend.’

  ‘You’re making me dizzy.’

  ‘You know how it works. Friend of a friend of a friend?’ He had a cigarette in his right hand, held it between his forefinger and middle finger and used his thumb to bend his nose.

  ‘Oh, a friend of Momo’s?’ Momo was Sam Giancana, number one man in the mob in those days. And a good friend of Frank’s. He would like to have been friends with Dean, but the wise guys didn’t fascinate Dean the way they did Frank. If Dean was doing a favor for Momo, his favor really was for the Leader.

  ‘Now you got the picture, Pally. So where is she?’ He looked around. ‘I’m supposed to check on her.’

  ‘On who? Where’s who?’

  ‘Rachel.’

  I swallowed and asked, ‘Rachel?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s supposed to be the new dealer. Didn’t Jack tell you?’

  ‘He told me he hired her,’ I said. ‘He didn’t tell me why, or who she was. Who is she?’

  ‘Just somebody’s . . . niece.’

  Right, I thought, somebody’s Goumada was more like it.

  ‘So where is she?’

  ‘I gave her the rest of the day off.’

  ‘Isn�
�t this her first day?’ Dean asked.

  ‘Well, yeah . . .’

  ‘Oh boy,’ Dean said, ‘was she that bad?’

  ‘No, I just – we need to find somethin’ – I have to talk to Jack in the morning about her.’

  ‘Look, Eddie,’ Dino said, ‘you don’t have to hide anything from me. I’m just doin’ somebody a favor by asking.’

  ‘The truth is,’ I said, still being careful, ‘she needs more training.’

  ‘More training?’

  ‘Some training,’ I said. ‘She needs training . . . in something.’

  ‘She as good looking as I heard?’

  ‘Oh yeah . . .’

  ‘Well, OK,’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘Listen, you wanna get some dinner later?’

  ‘Sure.’ When would I ever turn down Dean Martin’s invite to dinner?

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a car out front after the show.’

  ‘What about Frank?’

  ‘He’s got Nancy and the kids in town, gonna be spending time with them.’

  ‘And Sammy?’

  ‘Yeah, May’s with him, so it’ll just be you and me. That OK?’

  ‘Fine with me, Dean.’

  ‘Good, see you then.’

  Dean waved, turned and walked back across the casino floor.

  I was going to have to approach this very carefully with Jack. Although I wished he had told me we were dealing with some mob boss’s ‘niece.’ But the bottom line for Jack should also be that she was costing the casino money. All I was going to do was suggest that we get her some training as . . . something.

  I got called back to the pit to OK a limit increase, and then got busy the rest of my shift. Afterward, I went to the locker room where I kept some extra clothes and changed into something appropriate for having dinner with Dean Martin.

  TWO

  Dinner with Dean after a show was usually a raucous affair. Frank, Sammy, Joey, Peter, sometimes other friends like Buddy Hackett and Buddy Lester (a comic actor and friend who had appeared in Ocean’s 11), or Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh might show up. But on this particular night it was just Dino and me, and I gotta tell you, it was a thrill. I’d known Dean personally for a couple of years then, ever since the filming of Ocean’s 11. I was a huge fan long before that, but although I now considered us to be friends, it was still a kick having dinner with him and getting all his attention.