The Way You Die Tonight (3 page)

‘Got a message for you, Eddie.'

‘Thanks, Bobby.'

He handed me a message slip, gave me a salute and hurried back to the hotel. At that moment one of the dealers came over, reporting that a player wanted to raise his limit. I pocketed the message to read later.

I
had a typical day in the pit: okayed two players who wanted their limit raised, turned down another one who got nasty about it, so I had him escorted off the premises. I don't have to check with anyone before making a decision. It's my pit, and I usually know the players. If it's someone unfamiliar, I observe them for a while, see what kind of player they are. Find out if they're registered, maybe get some guidance from the hotel staff on what kind of money they're flashing.

I was finished with my shift before dinner, so I had the option of eating in the casino or heading out and getting something on the way home. I was single at that time, not seeing anyone in particular, so I had nobody else's wants or needs to consider. My friend Danny Bardini was out of town, and he was the only one I might have had dinner with. So I decided to head home, stop along the way for some Chinese take-out, and eat in my own kitchen.

Laying out containers on the table made me think of Jerry Epstein, my buddy from Brooklyn. I remembered having Chinese with him a time or two, and his share left less room on the table. Jerry's appetite was prodigious. While he was a big man, he managed to burn off most of what he ate and not get fat. I envied him that. I stayed in pretty good shape, but every once in a while I'd have to change the size of my belt and have to start cutting back on the booze and burgers. A girl once told me that the size of a belt was determined by the middle hole, so I used that to gauge my weight. As long as I was in the middle, I was doing OK.

While I was eating out of the containers – instead of dirtying my plates – I emptied my pockets onto the table, and came across the message slip Bobby had given me. I washed down some pork lo mein with a sip of cold Piels and unfolded the slip so I could read it. It was a request for me to call someone named Robert Maheu. He'd left a phone number. At the bottom another word was written and underlined. It said, ‘Personal'.

I put the slip down and picked up a spare rib. The name Maheu sounded familiar to me, but I just wasn't placing it. I was on my second rib when the phone rang. I wiped my hands on a napkin and answered it.

‘Hey Eddie, what are you doin' home?' Danny asked.

‘What are you doing callin' me if you didn't expect me to be here?'

‘I called the Sands, they said you weren't there. I didn't know where else to call, even though you're hardly ever home.'

‘That's why I decided to eat here,' I said.

‘Whatayagot?'

‘Chinks.'

‘Enough for two?'

‘You back?'

‘Just got back.'

‘Come on over, then. It'll keep in the containers. And bring some beer.'

‘On my way …'

Danny Bardini had been my brother's friend when we were all kids in Brooklyn. After my brother was killed in a gang war, we became friends. And after I moved to Vegas, he followed, hung his PI shingle on Freemont Street, down from the Horseshoe.

He held up a six pack of Piels and said, ‘Enough?'

‘It'll do.'

He followed me into the kitchen, where we sat together and dug into the containers. This time I provided plates. We both used forks, never having mastered the art of chopsticks.

Danny told me about the case he'd settled in Los Angeles, and I told him about the robbery attempt at the poker game.

‘Sounds like you made a pretty foolish move at the hold-up,' Danny said.

‘I know,' I said, ‘I wasn't thinking.'

He reached for a napkin, picked up the message slip instead, glanced at it.

‘Maheu?'

‘You know him?' I asked. ‘The name's familiar, but I can't place it.'

‘He's got a PI ticket, ran his own shop in LA until Howard Hughes hired him.'

I snapped my fingers as it came back to me.

‘That's it! Hughes' right-hand man, right?'

‘Right,' Danny said. ‘When Maheu speaks, it's the same as Hughes speakin'. What's he want with you?'

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘I haven't had time to call him back.'

He frowned at the slip. ‘No area code. Must be a local number. Call 'im,' he urged, holding the slip out to me. ‘Let's find out.'

It was almost eight p.m., but time didn't mean much in Las Vegas.

I wiped my hands again and picked up the phone.

I
agreed to meet Maheu the next afternoon in a restaurant in Henderson, the next city over from Vegas, but I had to clear the decks first.

Danny wanted to come. He'd listened to my end of the conversation the night before, which hadn't gone on too long.

‘I have some person business here in Vegas that I need some help with, Mr Gianelli, and I'm told you're the man to talk to.'

‘Is this your business, Mr Maheu,' I'd asked, ‘or Mr Hughes'?'

‘There's really no difference, Mr Gianelli.'

Hughes had made his fortune as an aviator, aerospace engineer, and film-maker. Of late he hadn't been seen much in public, preferring to speak through Robert Maheu. I was curious about what he was doing in Vegas, so I agreed to meet.

I told Danny he couldn't come with me, but promised to tell him what it was all about. I called Jack Entratter the next morning, finding a dried smear of rib sauce on the phone I must have left there the night before.

‘Robert Maheu?' he said. ‘What's he want?'

‘Right now all I know is he wants to talk to me.'

‘He's gotta be actin' for Hughes,' Entratter said. ‘Find out what it's about, Eddie. We don't need Hughes stickin' his nose in Vegas.'

‘OK,' I said, ‘but I'll be in late.'

‘I'll put somebody in to cover your pit,' he said. ‘What else is new?'

As I hung up the irony of that comment was not lost on me, given the conversation we'd had the day before.

The restaurant Maheu had chosen turned out to be a greasy spoon. I guess he'd figured nobody would be looking for Howard Hughes' man in a place like that. Luckily, I liked greasy spoon food.

Our meet was set for eleven a.m. The breakfast crowd had cleared out and the lunch crowd hadn't come in yet. I picked Maheu out pretty easily, as he was wearing a suit that cost more than the clothes of everyone else in the place combined.

I walked to the booth he was seated in and said, ‘Mr Maheu?'

‘Mr Gianelli?'

He stood to shake hands, invited me to sit. I got the side of the booth with the cracked leather seat.

Maheu was unremarkable in appearance, mid-forties, with the look of a businessman – which he basically was. According to Danny, though, a lot of that business had been dirty business in the past. He had done some work for both the FBI and CIA before hanging out his own shingle, and eventually going to work for Howard Hughes.

The safest thing to order in a greasy spoon was breakfast, so I had bacon and eggs and Maheu ordered a Spanish omelet. We both had coffee.

‘You said this was personal,' I said, as we started to eat, ‘but isn't everything Mr Hughes does business?'

‘Mr Hughes doesn't differentiate between business and pleasure. It's all the same to him, so I was being only slightly disingenuous with my message in order to get you to call me back. I apologize.'

‘Hey,' I said, ‘I'm getting a free breakfast out of it, right?'

‘Indeed.'

Maheu was dry, with no hint of humor. But with everything Danny had told me about him I was sure he'd lie, cheat or steal for Hughes.

‘Why don't we get down to … it,' I said. I almost said ‘business'. ‘What do you need from me?'

‘Actually,' Maheu said, ‘my sole purpose for seeing you is to convince you to meet with Mr Hughes.'

That shocked me. Nobody got in to see Hughes. In fact, years later I discovered that in all the time Maheu worked for him, he never saw the man. All of their contact was through messages and telephone.

‘Me? To see Mr Hughes?'

‘That's right.'

‘Where?'

‘Right here, in Vegas.'

‘When?'

‘At your convenience.'

‘Where is Mr Hughes staying?'

‘That you will find out the day you see him,' Maheu said. ‘We will send a car for you.'

‘Do you know what this meeting is about?'

‘Nobody knows everything Mr Hughes is thinking but Mr Hughes.'

I drank some coffee, lifted my cup to the waiter to indicate I wanted more. One thing about a greasy spoon, the waiter and waitress practically walk around with a coffee pot glued to their hands. Maheu also accepted a refill.

‘How long has Mr Hughes been in Vegas?' I asked.

‘Not very long.'

‘Is Mrs Hughes with him?' Hughes was married to the actress Jean Peters at that time. She was one in a long line of beautiful women he'd been involved with, an impressive list that included Jane Russell, Terry Moore, and Ava Gardner, who I also had some history with.

‘No, she chose to remain behind in Hollywood.'

I took a moment to pick my words carefully.

‘What kind of shape is Mr Hughes in?' I asked. No, that didn't come out right. ‘I mean, how is his health?'

‘I think I know what you're asking, Mr Gianelli.'

‘Please, just call me Eddie.'

‘Eddie,' Maheu said, ‘if and when you agree to see Mr Hughes, there will be some things you'll need to know before you actually meet with him.'

‘Well,' I said, pushing my empty plate away, ‘maybe we should just get some more coffee and you can start telling me.' Or warning me.

‘Does that mean you are agreeing to meet with him?' Maheu asked.

‘Howard Hughes is the most notorious, the most enigmatic man in the country,' I said, ‘and possibly the richest. Where is the down side to meeting with him?' Enigmatic? Where did I pull that word from?

‘Very well,' Maheu said. ‘Listen carefully.'

I
called Entratter when I got home and told him I wasn't coming to work that day.

‘You meeting with him today?' he asked. ‘Already?'

‘Why wait?' I said. ‘He's sending a car for me tonight.'

‘You could leave from here, you know,' he suggested.

‘Maheu and I have already arranged for the car to pick me up at my place.'

‘OK,' Entratter said, ‘just keep me informed. If a man like Hughes is planning to move in on Vegas, that's somethin' we should know about as soon as possible.' I knew by ‘we' he didn't mean me and him.

I hung up and called Danny, flirted with his girl Penny, then told him about the meeting.

‘Jesus, you're gonna get to see the great man himself?' he commented.

‘Yeah,' I said, ‘but this meeting came with a lot of warnings.'

‘What kind of warnings?'

‘The kind I'm not supposed to talk about,' I said.

‘Maybe after?'

‘Not even after.'

‘You can't even tell me?'

‘Danny,' I said, ‘I signed a confidentiality agreement.'

‘A what?'

‘A contract, saying I wouldn't talk—'

‘I know what a confidentiality agreement is,' he said, cutting me off. ‘You mean he whipped one out right there and then?'

‘Even got some egg on it,' I said.

‘And you signed it?'

‘Sure I did,' I said. ‘It was the only way for me to find out what this is all about.'

‘You know you're gonna tell me in the end, don't ya?' he said.

‘Probably.'

‘Well,' Danny said, ‘if it's something you need help with you know where to find me.'

‘I do,' I said. ‘Thanks, Danny.'

After I hung up I did what any man who had an appointment with Howard Hughes would do – I took a nap.

When I woke up I took a shower and put on a suit. One of the things Maheu had told me was that although Hughes might greet me naked, he liked people around him to be properly dressed. But there'd be more about that later.

Maheu explained it to me very carefully. ‘People think Mr Hughes is crazy when he sits around naked,' he explained, ‘but the fact is he suffers from allodynia.'

‘What's that?' I asked.

‘It's a condition that makes it painful to be touched,' Maheu said. ‘Wearing clothes and shoes sometimes aggravates it. So the only thing he can do is remain naked and distract himself from the pain by watching movies or television. Sometimes, he can't even brush his teeth because of the pain.'

‘I never heard that before,' I said.

‘He's also been in several plane crashes,' Maheu said, ‘survived injuries that might have killed other men. He suffers from pain caused by those injuries, as well. Don't get me wrong,' Maheu said, ‘he has his idiosyncrasies, but he's not crazy.'

‘Well,' I said, ‘I can see where people who don't know that would think he was crazy.' I was one of them. I felt small, at that moment, for judging a man I apparently knew so little about …

There was a knock at my door at seven p.m. sharp. I opened it, saw a man standing there dressed as a chauffeur.

‘Mr Hughes' car, sir.'

‘I'm ready.'

I stepped out onto the stoop and pulled the front door shut behind me, locking it.

When I was in the back of the limo and we were underway, I asked, ‘Where are we going?'

‘My instructions are to drive you, sir, and not to answer any questions.'

‘OK,' I said. ‘I've got it.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

There was a small bar in the back of the limo, and a phone. I didn't put either of them to use. Before long we were on the Strip, and then we were pulling in at the Wilbur Clark's Desert Inn.