“Guess you didn’t need me after all, Dean,” I said. “Fact is, you saved me.”
“Hey, hey,” Dean said, “don’t sell yourself short, pally. You worked your ass off on this. I’m not gonna forget it.” He turned to look at Mack. “Ain’t that right, Killer?”
That was Mack’s nickname from the days when he was a fight manager, before hooking up with George Raft.
“That’s right, boss,” Mack said. “His ass.”
“So no more notes,” Dean said. “That’s good. And the guy’s in the slammer.”
“For a long time,” I added.
“I’ll have to tell Frank,” Dean said. “He was worried, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.” I put my glass on the bar and got down from my stool. “Guess I’ll be back on the clock now. If you want to deal any blackjack the rest of the time you’re here, let me know.”
I took it easy on his sore right hand as we shook.
“You really did save my bacon out there today, Dean,” I said. “Not to mention Bev’s. Thank you.”
“We’re even, Eddie,” Dean said. “That’s the way I see it.”
“Okay.”
He walked me to the door with his arm around me.
“You comin’ to the show tonight? There’s somebody I want you to meet.”
“Milton Berle’s comin’ tonight,” Mack said. “And Mr. Sinatra’s new girl.”
“New girl?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Dean said, “we won’t be seein’ Judith around tonight. Juliet Prowse is coming. Gorgeous dancer. What a pair of gams!”
“Sounds like I shouldn’t miss it,” I replied. “I’ll be there.”
“Come back stage after and I’ll introduce you around.” He squeezed my shoulder when he said that, and then released me so I could go out the door. I found it an oddly touching gesture, like he was saying we were friends now.
Epilogue
Las Vegas
November 26, 1996
2:26 A.M.
You okay, Eddie?”
I opened my eyes and looked around. I was the center of attention, a circle of people standing around me, looking down at me with worried or curious looks on their faces.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Where the hell am I?”
Sheldon Adelson said, “You passed out. We called an ambulance. You’re lyin’ on a gurney.”
“Well, get me off,” I demanded. “I’m fine.”
Actually, I was better than fine. All that Rat Pack stuff had passed through my head while I was out-was it seconds? Minutes? Whatever it was I appreciated it. I would much rather have those memories of the Sands than any from the implosion tonight.
“Come on, somebody help me up!” I demanded.
Sheldon and Wayne Newton stepped forward and helped me sit up and get off the gurney. I looked at Wayne and could still see the fresh-faced kid in there who came to Vegas so many years ago. He patted me on the back affectionately and turned to leave. I knew he had his own memories of the Sands.
I looked at my watch. I’d been out about twenty minutes.
“You want me to take you home, Eddie?” Sheldon asked.
“I’ve got my car, Shelly,” I said. “Don’t worry about me. It was just … you know, the dust and … everything …”
“Yeah, I know, Eddie,” Sheldon said, “I know.”
The crowd was starting to disperse and I decided to get to my car and turn on the air-conditioning. I was still feeling kinda woozy, but I didn’t want anyone to know.
I reached my Coupe Deville and got inside. I still liked Caddies. I started the engine, turned up the AC and put my head back. For one more moment I was back in the Copa Room at the Sands in 1960. Frank, Dino and the guys would leave Vegas on February 18th and head to Hollywood to finish shooting Ocean’s 11 there. The movie would be a big hit, and the guys would go on to make a few more-except for Peter Lawford. After Kennedy got elected he’d snubbed Frank and never let him come to the White House. Oddly enough, Frank never blamed JFK. He blamed Peter, and after 1962 the two never spoke again. I didn’t like Peter much, but I thought he got a raw deal from Frank.
But that night in the Copa Room in 1960 the show went great. I saw Danny and Marcia enjoying it from their front seats, and I hoped the two would get along. But I didn’t expect much, because Danny was a ladies’ man and not ready to settle down. They had a ball, though, especially when they went backstage and met Frank and the guys.
While we were all backstage Dean came over to me and clapped me on the back again.
“Glad you made it, Eddie. Come on, I wanna introduce you to somebody.”
I had already shaken hands with Milton Berle, and Frank had introduced me-briefly-to the beautiful Juliet Prowse, so I didn’t know who Dean was taking me to meet.
But even now, thirty-six years later, I smiled in my Caddy as I remembered Dean Martin walking me up to a vision of loveliness, the owner of the best legs in Hollywood, and saying to me, “Eddie, I’d like you to meet Angie Dickinson.”