Fool's Errand Page 7

  I laughed. “I’m sweaty just looking at you.”

  “Yeah, well, you live out here a while and your blood thins out. Come inside, I’ll buy you a beer.”

  We sat in his living room, a wave of cool air blowing from a wall vent that provided relief from his dark, East Coast clothing. The room was furnished with a couch, two matching chairs and some tables that were all obviously sold in a set.

  “Where’s Selma?” I asked.

  “Out at the store I think. She’ll be glad to see you.”

  I didn’t think so, but I nodded anyway and drank some of the cold beer he handed me. It’s amazing how quickly the hot, dry air out there can make you thirsty.

  “You didn’t waste any time coming out here.”

  I shrugged.

  “So how long you in town for?”

  I looked around, as if the answer might be written on a wall someplace. “I don’t know.”

  “Uh huh.” He stared at me, waiting.

  I said, “This is a great place Benny, but what made you choose Vegas?”

  “I like the warm weather, you know. And Selma didn’t want to move to Florida with all the old Jews.”

  I hesitated. “Wasn’t Selma Jewish?”

  “Still is,” he told me. “Funny life, eh?”

  “It sure is,” I agreed.

  Benny waited for me to say something else. When I didn’t, he asked about my mother and sisters. I told him they were still fine, since I’d spoken to him three days ago.

  “Mom sends her regards,” I lied. If my mother knew I was coming out here she would have burned my plane ticket.

  “She never knew quite how to take me, your mother. Good lady, though.”

  “Thanks. I think she knows you were the only real friend my father ever had.”

  Benny stared at me for what seemed a full minute. “All right,” he finally said. “Let’s have a look at the friggin’ letter.”

  I considered making a big show of going out to the car and looking for it in my suitcase, or saying something like, “Oh, the letter, right,” but I pulled it from my pocket and handed it to him.

  He took so long, I tried to decide if he was memorizing it or if he was the slowest reader in the universe. I thought he might go on studying it until nightfall when he looked up and handed it back to me. His eyes were pretty moist, and I knew it wasn’t me he was seeing.

  “Some guy, your father. Best friend I ever had.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” I told him. I certainly loved my father, even if there were times I didn’t love everything he put me through. But it was a totally different matter to see him through Benny’s eyes. Was he a reliable friend? Loyal? Generous? I knew how much fun he could be, but could you count on him when the shooting started?

  Benny said, “I told you on the phone I want no part of this. Your father warned you about that in the letter. What’d you think? You were gonna come out here and con me?”

  “No,” I said, “but I needed to come here and ask. To find out what it’s all about.”

  His round face gave way to an uneasy little smile. “You got a lotta your father in you, you know that? This is something he’d pull, showing up here like this.”

  I have to admit, I felt happy to hear him say that, but I tried not to look too pleased.

  “You wanna know the story, is that it?”

  “I do,” I said. “My father always talked about making a huge score, but this is something else.” I held up the letter for him to look at again, just in case he’d forgotten about it. “I want to know what money he was talking about.”

  “Money?” he asked, suddenly looking a bit puzzled.

  “Sure,” I said. “The stolen money.”

  Benny pulled the letter out of my hand and looked it over again. “Oh sure. The stolen money.” He handed the letter back to me and really smiled this time.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, remaining as serious as I could which was not too difficult, since I didn’t get the joke. “What’s so funny?”

  “Blackie, that’s all,” he said. “So what happens if I tell you what I know? What do you do then, you chase this pot o’ gold to the end of the rainbow?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On the risks, I suppose. On where the money came from. Like if it was from drugs, for instance, I’d want no part of it.”

  “Nah, Blackie never touched narcotics, you know that. It wasn’t his style.”

  “All right, what then?” I folded the letter and put it back in my pocket. “Did he rob a bank?”

  That made him smile again. “Come on, kid. You can do better than that.” He finished his beer as he watched me. “You ready for another?”

  I drank off what was left in the can and said, “Sure.”

  When he stood to go the kitchen, I went with him. I wanted to make sure he was going to keep playing this guessing game, if that’s what it would take.

  “You wanna eat something?” he asked over his shoulder as he leaned into the refrigerator.

  “No thanks. The beer is fine.”

  He handed me another cold can and we went back to our matching chairs in the small living room.

  “Look kid, you oughtta let this go. I did. It’s the smart move. You’re a nice boy. You don’t wanna get yourself in a jam.”

  “No,” I agreed with him, “I don’t. But I can’t let it go, can I? He left me this letter for a reason. I can’t just ignore it.”

  “I understand.” He paused, thinking it over. “You know, people do some strange stuff. They make mistakes. A guy like Blackie, he made a lotta wrong turns. Now all these years after he’s gone, it shouldn’t matter.” He shook his head, obviously unhappy with that approach to the subject.

  I waited.

  “What does your mother know about this?”

  “Not much,” I said, “or at least she’s not willing to talk about it. The envelope was sealed, not sure she ever read the letter. She just says I shouldn’t be chasing my father’s fantasies.”

  “She’s right. Leave it alone.” He sat back in his chair, looking comfortable, and I was afraid he was getting comfortable with the idea of leaving it alone.

  “I notice you haven’t said it’s not for real. Or that the money isn’t still there, wherever there is.”

  He puffed up his round, chubby cheeks and blew out a stream of air, looking like one of those sculptures that symbolize the winds of summer and winter. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I’m not saying that.”

  “So give me something, anything.” I was leaning forward, doing my best to convey earnest desperation. Benny didn’t seem impressed.

  “Go get married. You’re not married, right? Have some kids. Don’t get involved with your father’s crazy schemes.”

  I gave up the curious son angle and did the best I could to give him a serious man to man look. “You know I can’t do that Benny.”

  “I suppose not,” he admitted sadly. “But what are you gonna do if all you have is the letter?”

  “I don’t know. I’m starting with you.”

  “You haven’t shown the letter to anyone else?”

  “No, although I told my cousin Frank about it.” I didn’t see any need to bring Nicky into the discussion.

  He sat up again. “You told Frank?”

  “I just told him there was a letter. I didn’t show it to him or anything.”

  “Well don’t. Frank’s a bum, you don’t want him involved.”

  “All right.”

  “Did you tell him you were coming to see me?”

  “I said I might. He’s the one who told me you were living out here. I didn’t have anyone else to ask,” I told him, sounding as apologetic as I could.

  “Damn,” he said, which com
ing from Benny was a strong statement of disapproval.

  “Does Frank know anything about this?” I asked him.

  Benny didn’t answer me. Instead he asked, “Did your father ever tell you about our days in the south of France, at the end of the war?”

  “Not much. When he talked about the war he mostly told me about your tour in India.”

  His smile returned as he mulled over those memories, but only for an instant. “Did he ever tell you about our friend from Marseilles?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  The “Uh huh,” I got in response made it clear that I’d given the wrong answer.

  “Did he have something to do with this?” I asked.

  Once again, he didn’t answer me. “Your cousin didn’t mention anything about France or about a guy there, did he?”

  “Frank? No, he claimed he didn’t know anything. I only spoke with him so I could find out where you are.”

  “Uh huh. Well watch out for him, will ya? I never trusted that creep, I don’t understand why Blackie did.”

  “I think he saw Frank as being like him in certain ways.”

  “I guess so. In style, maybe. Not in here.” He pointed to his chest, in the vicinity of where his heart would be.

  “So you think Frank knew something about this? Before I told him about the letter?”

  “Knowing your father’s big mouth? Yeah. That’s my guess. But don’t tell him another thing about it, kid. Nothing.”

  I took a moment to deal with the notion that my father would have entrusted this secret to my cousin and not me. Benny read my mind.

  “You’re not like him, believe me. Your cousin I mean. You never were.”

  I nodded.

  “If I could make the whole thing go away, I would. I don’t want to see you in trouble or getting hurt.” He paused. “I don’t know how he talked me into the idea, but we were friendly with this Frenchman, and he was a straight shooter and so we figured, what the hell, we take a shot. I didn’t realize how big this thing would get. None of us did. When we realized that we backed off.”

  “You mean you never really did it?” Whatever it was.

  “Oh, we did it all right. And then we knew we had to let it go. It’s like robbing a bank and realizing all the bills are marked or numbered or whatever. You got ‘em but you can’t use em, capisce?”

  I nodded. “So why would my father leave me the letter?”

  He shook his head. “He probably figured if you wait long enough, even the hottest rock cools off. That’s all. I think he was wrong and believe me, the guy in France feels the same way.”

  “So that’s it, then?”

  He gave me a look as grim as a heart attack, and said, “That’s it. Rip up the letter. Stay away from Frank. Tell him you saw me and I had no idea what Blackie was talking about. Period. End of discussion.”

  I fell back against the sofa cushion and took a long drink of cold beer.

  “Look, I know you’re disappointed. I know you miss your father. So do I. But what am I supposed to do, get you all screwed up, because of something we did all those years back? I don’t wanna give you the old song and dance about how I love you like you’re my own son, but believe me, Blackie wanted a different life for you. You’ve got that life, you’ve done good. Stay with it. Run with it. Don’t get into this, okay?”

  I could see that he meant it, that the case was closed. “Can we talk again?”

  “Sure. Any time. Just not about this. You get in a jam on this and I can’t help you. How do those corporate stiffs say it? I’m outta the loop, know that, right? I got no more influence, no pull. I’m retired.” He lifted his hand to show me his small bungalow, as if that would convince me he was truly retired. “You wanna stick around, say hello to Selma?”

  I knew what Selma thought of my father, which wasn’t much. Funny how the wives of Serious Guys never like other Serious Guys or anything having to do with them. I suppose they need to blame someone for what their husbands become, and I didn’t see any purpose in waiting to say hello so she could ask me what the hell I was doing there. She was a tough old bird, that Selma. “Maybe later,” I said. “I better check into a hotel.”

  “You got a reservation?”

  I said I didn’t, that I was told finding a place for a night or two wouldn’t be a problem.

  “Go to Caesar’s. Ask for Johnny Wendt at the front desk and use my name.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  “You staying in town long?”

  I managed to laugh for the first time that day. “I came here for this, as you know. I guess I could leave now.”

  Benny nodded. “I’m sorry kid, I really am. I’m glad to see you, though. And maybe it was worth it, you coming here I mean, just so I could tell you what I told you.”

  “To drop it, you mean.”

  “That’s right. And to steer clear of that cousin of yours.”

  He stood up and so did I, then I followed him to the front door. We said our goodbyes out in front, next to his yellow and red flowers, under the heat of the sun as it was setting somewhere in the desert.

  We didn’t hug or any of that stuff, but we shook hands for quite a long time.

  “Listen to what I’m telling you,” he said. “I wouldn’t do you any harm.”

  “I know that, but you know I can’t just forget it and do nothing,” I said. Then, as I was walking away, I stopped and turned back. “Thanks for always being such a good friend to Blackie.”

  He nodded, but didn’t say anything else, so I got in the car and drove into town.

  CHAPTER SIX

  After I left Benny I went to Caesar’s Palace. As he suggested, I asked for his friend, a manager there who got me a room at a discount. After checking in, I went upstairs, dumped my bag on the bed and went back down to get something to eat.

  Dinner for one is a bore, so I hunted for a spot where I could have a quick bite before heading to the casino. One of the hotel restaurants pronounced itself a “New York Style Deli,” which sounded good enough for my purposes.

  My father always got a kick out of people around the country who claimed to hate New York, then coveted everything to do with the city, flocking to delis that proclaimed themselves “New York Style,” or restaurants that served New York Style Cheesecakes or New York shell steaks. What the hell has New York City got to do with shell steaks? When was the last time you spotted a herd of cattle in Central Park?

  I sat a small table where I was served a sandwich stuffed with corned beef sliced so thick and fatty that if they served it on Broadway the place would have been out of business in a week.

  I thought of what my father would have done, and called the waiter over.

  “This sandwich is full of fat,” I said.

  The waiter was a skinny young guy with a dark Mexican face and heavy accent.

  “Corned beef, man,” he replied, as if that was an answer.

  One time my father complained about a serving of veal marsala. When Blackie didn’t like the waiter’s response, he picked up the cutlet and slapped the guy across the face with it. Somehow, I didn’t see myself taking a swing at this Chicano with half of a corned beef sandwich.

  “Right,” I said. “I know it’s supposed to be corned beef.” I picked up the top piece of rye bread to show him the grizzly mess that lay beneath. “Looks more like corned fat to me, don’t you think?”

  He stared at me with a look as blank as a handball wall.

  I thought about calling over a manager or something, but it felt too ridiculous. I mean, it was just a corned beef sandwich after all.

  “Forget it,” I said, then watched him shrug his narrow shoulders and walk away.

  I did my best to cut away the pale fat, then wolfed down what remained of the sandwich and washed it away with a couple of Heinekens. It was time to
play blackjack and donate some of my money to the local economy.

  I found a quiet table with a couple of players and sat down. My heart wasn’t really into gambling, and I made one bad pull after another, alternating lousy hands with some poor decisions the other players did not appreciate. Blackjack players tend to be critical of mistakes that ruin their hand and kill the flow of the shoe.

  I didn’t care.

  After losing enough to feel sufficiently beat up, I stood, collected the few chips that were still mine, and found my way to the sports lounge. I needed a lift, and the sports parlor is an assault on the senses if ever there was one.

  The room was huge, with high ceilings and walls lined with banks of large monitors displaying what appeared to be every sporting event going on around the world at that moment. Football, basketball, soccer, dozens of different racetracks—you name it and you can watch it. And bet on it, of course. The din is incredible as players cheer, moan, holler and curse at the images on the wall. An ever-present cloud of thick gray cigarette and cigar smoke hung in the air like a Calder mobile.

  In the middle of all this was a large square bar. I found an empty seat, ordered a Jack Daniels and watched the proceedings. I was getting tired, but there was enough energy in the room to keep me going. The bar stool was comfortable, with a padded seat and a nice high back. I’ll bet there isn’t an uncomfortable chair anywhere in Vegas.

  Someone behind me said, “I thought I might find you here.”

  I turned at the sound of his voice.

  “I checked the blackjack tables first,” Benny told me. “You like blackjack, just like your father. Am I right?”

  “You’re right,” I said.

  Benny was wearing the same gray slacks and dark, long sleeved shirt he wore that afternoon. He looked around the room as if it were the first time he’d ever seen the place. “Some joint, eh?”

  “It is.”

  “You got any action going?”

  “Not yet. I thought I might wait for a really exciting bowling tournament to come on.”