You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Kills You by Robert J. Randisi

down to the dead man’s waist.
    “No,” I said, “that’s not him.”
    “Good,” Stanze said.
    I guess we were both glad I had been able to dodge that bullet. The attendant covered the poor guy up and we moved to the next table. True to my Vegas background I was wondering what the odds were that man number two was Danny Bardini.
    We positioned ourselves at the table, Stanze and me on one side, the attendant on the other.
    “Ready for this one?” Stanze asked.
    I thought he was incredibly sensitive for a detective. The Vegas dicks I’d dealt with wouldn’t have cared if I was ready or not. In fact, I knew one who would have taken real pleasure in peeling the sheet down and showing me Danny’s body.
    I felt nauseous.
    “Mr. Gianelli?”
    I was afraid if I opened my mouth I’d vomit, so instead I just nodded.
    “Okay,” Stanze said to the attendant.
    The man nodded, grasped the top of the sheet and pulled it down.

Twenty-three
    D ETECTIVE STANZE TOOK ME INTO AN OFFICE .
    “This is my lieutenant’s office, but he’s not in today,” he said, seating himself behind the man’s desk. He looked uncomfortable.
    “Okay, neither body was that of your, uh, cousin, Danny Bardini,” he said, sitting back in the chair. It slipped and he righted himself before he could fall. Further proof that he wasn’t used to sitting there. “You want to tell me about him and what he was doing when he went missing?”
    I had been giving this some thought ever since I saw the face of the second dead man and realized it wasn’t Danny. How much to tell the detective? And then I thought, why not tell him everything—except about Jerry.
    “Okay,” I said, “I work in Las Vegas at the Sands Hotel and Casino. I’m a pit boss there, but sometimes I’m called on to do special favors for our celebrity customers.”
    “You mean like get them tickets to shows, or girls? Like that?”
    “Not quite.”
    “Go on.”
    “You can check this out with a simple phone call to my boss, Jack Entratter,” I said. “I can give you the phone number—”
    “If I want to check it out I won’t call any number you give me, Mr. Gianelli,” he said, cutting me off. “I can look up the number for the Sands and call myself. But for now, why don’t you just continue with your story?”
    “I was asked by Dean Martin to try to help a friend of his who was having some trouble.”
    “What friend?”
    I hesitated, then said, “Marilyn Monroe.”
    “Dean Martin and Marilyn Monroe,” he repeated.
    “That’s right.”
    He stared at me for a moment, then said, “Okay, go on.”
    I told him how Marilyn felt she was being watched and followed. How I’d asked Danny to keep an eye on her, and then was called away to New York for a funeral. In my absence Danny had followed Marilyn all the way home to make sure she was all right.
    “He called his secretary, told her what motel he was staying in, and now he’s missing and she hasn’t been able to locate him.”
    “Have you gone to his motel?”
    “Yes.”
    “And he wasn’t there?”
    “No,” I said, “but I talked with the desk clerk and he did check in.”
    “And when did the clerk see him last?”
    “When he checked in,” I said. “He suggested the night man or girl might have seen him later. I was going to go back later and ask.”
    “Where are you staying?” he asked. “At that same motel?”
    I hadn’t gotten myself a room anywhere.
    “At Miss Monroe’s.”
    “In her house?”
    “No, she has a guesthouse.”
    He drummed his fingers on the desktop.
    “Detective, why would I lie about things that can be checked out?”
    “Okay,” he said, “sit here a while. Don’t get impatient. I’ll be back.”
    “I’ll be here.”
    He left. I knew he was going to check up on me, I just didn’t know how much checking he was going to do. I tried to follow his advice, but it was easier said than done.
    Detective Stanze returned in half an hour.
    “Okay,” he said, “let’s