I heard somebody coming down the hall and turned to see Mack returning.
“Dean’ll be out in a minute,” he said in a monotone. He still had his hand pressed to his head, this time the heel. “He said you should help yourself to a drink if you want.”
He headed for the door.
“You’re not staying, Mack?”
He turned, dropped his hand and glared at me.
“I ain’t been invited to stay,” he said, and left. The big man’s feelings may have really been hurt, but that wasn’t my problem. I wondered if he had any idea what was going on, or if Dean was keeping it from him? I also wondered if Joey knew what the problem was, or Sammy and Peter, for that matter.
I went over to the bar and looked it over, but nothing appealed to me until I opened the refrigerator and found it stocked with beer. There were enough brands in there for a variety of tastes and I finally chose a can of Piels. I found a can opener and had it ready to use when Dean Martin came down the hall and into the living room.
He was wearing a yellow polo shirt with a white collar, light gray slacks and a pair of black loafers. His hair was wet, so he had probably showered after the show. I stood rooted behind the bar, because when I woke up that morning I had never expected to be in the sameroom as Dean Martin. He walked over to the bar and extended his right hand, after shifting his cigarette to his left.
“Eddie?” he said. “I’m Dean Martin.”
I shook his hand and said, “I know. I saw the show tonight.”
“Did ya, now?” he asked. He shifted the cigarette back to his right hand, holding it between his forefinger and middle finger. “What’d you think?”
“It was … entertaining.” That sounded lame, even to me.
“Entertaining,” he repeated. “Well, I guess that’s what we want, eh?”
“I mean … it was great. You and Frank and Sammy, you’re great entertainers.”
“Ah,” Dean said, “alone, we’re great entertainers. When we get together we’re a bunch of clowns-but hey, the people loved it, right?”
“They did,” I agreed. “They loved it.”
Dean sat on a bar stool and faced me.
“Why don’t you get me something to drink, if you don’t mind, since you’re already behind the bar?”
“Sure, Mr. Martin,” I said, “what’ll it be?”
“First,” he said, “call me Dean, and second, just get me a bottle of soda water out of the refrigerator, and a glass of ice.”
“Oh, uh, right.”
I’d expected him to ask for gin or bourbon, but I filled a glass with ice and took a bottle of water from the fridge. I opened it and poured it for him, and left the bottle on the bar.
“Thanks, pally,” he said, and took a generous swallow. He sucked the cigarette to death and stubbed it out in a heavy glass ashtray.
“So you talked to Frank,” he said. “He gave you the run down?”
“He only told me that you were gettin’ death threats, Mist-uh, Dean. Nothing more than that.”
“I’m not sure there is anything more than that,” Dean said, “but Frank’s worried. When Frank worries everybody tends to worry.”
“Well, how many people know about these threats?”
“So far,” Dean said, “you, me and Frank.”
“Not Mack?”
“Mack doesn’t need to know. He’d mother-hen me to death, and he’d give himself an ulcer to go along with his headaches.”
“Seems to me he left with his feelings hurt.”
“Mack’ll get over it.”
“What about Joey?”
“He doesn’t know the particulars, either,” Dean said. “Frank just used him to get you involved.”
“Don’t you think you should tell the folks who are involved with the movie? The director? The producer? The other actors?”
“Eddie,” Dean said, “I’m not absolutely convinced that there is really something to the threats. Why raise the alarm without knowing?”
“And you want me to find out?”
“Frank tells me you know everybody in town,” Dean said. “You could make some discreet inquiries.”
“To tell you the truth, Dean,” I said, “I don’t know exactly what I can do, but I’m willing to try to help.”
“That’s fine,” Dean said. “I appreciate that. Just no police, and no reporters. Not yet, anyway.”
“All right, then,” I said, “I suppose we should start with the threats. How did you get them?”
“Just a minute.”
Dean got off his stool, walked to a writing desk at the far end of the room, and took some papers from a drawer. He brought them back to the bar and put them down in front of me. I spread them out and saw that they were letters-notes, really. Half a dozen of them.
YOU AIN’T TOO BIG TO GET HURT one of them said. Another went IF YOU’RE NOT CAREFUL YOU COULD GET REAL HURT. Some of the others were more to the point about what the injuries could be.
“They’re printed,” I said, “in block letters. Hard to identify handwriting from that.”
“I know,” Dean said.
“And I get the feeling the person who wrote these isn’t very educated.” I looked at him. “Do you suspect anyone, Dean?”
“I can’t really think of anybody who’d want to harm me.”
“What about somebody who maybe just wants to scare you?”
“For what reason?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “You’re rich, handsome, famous, maybe somebody’s jealous. Somebody you stepped on gettin’ to where you are now.”
That annoyed Dean. He pushed away from the bar and paced the room.
“I never stepped on anybody in my life,” he said. “I worked hard getting where I am.”
“Well, then maybe it’s somebody who’s jealous of you, simply because you’re you.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Well, it’s got to be someone,” I said. “We’ve got the notes to prove that.” I spread the papers out. “Where are the envelopes they came in?”
“I threw them out, I guess.”
“They came in the regular mail? Or were they delivered by messenger?” I was running out of questions. Not being a cop or a private eye, I wasn’t sure what else to ask.
Dean thought a moment, then said, “Regular mail. They had stamps on them.”
“Okay,” I said, “if you get anymore I guess you should keep the envelopes.”
“They didn’t have any return address on them.”
“What about postmarks?” I asked. “Were they mailed from here in Las Vegas? Were the stamps even canceled?”
Dean’s shoulders slumped.
“I didn’t notice,” he said. “That was stupid.”
“Never mind,” I said. “Just remember with the next one … if there is a next one.”
I wasn’t sure what to ask him next, but the guy looked so disheartened, I didn’t want to leave yet.
Suddenly, he asked, “Where are you from?”
“New York,” I said, “Brooklyn.”
“When did you leave?”
“About twelve years ago.”
“I worked hard to get the Ohio out of my tone,” he said. “I always thought it was part of the reason I succeeded.”
“Could be,”
“Why would someone want to hurt me,” he asked, abandoning the small talk, “or threaten to hurt me just because I succeeded?”
“Success is somethin’ to envy, Dean,” I said, “and, for some people, somethin’ to resent.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He looked at his watch. “There’s an old John Wayne film on the television in five minutes. Ever since we did Rio Bravo together I try to catch all his early movies. Want to stay and watch?”
What an invitation! Any other time I would have jumped at the chance to watch television with Dean Martin in his room.
“I think I better get started on this, Dean,” I said. “I’d like to find out right away whether I can help or not. I don’t wanna waste your time.”
“My time, pally?” Dean asked. “I got nothin’ but time to waste. It’s your time you’ll be wastin’. I hope we’re payin’ you enough.”