No One Ever Tells You

When I arrived in Vegas, I was too green to recognize lousy advice when I heard it.

In the Sixties, Vegas was undergoing a sea change: from the Mob to Howard Hughes. I’d missed Bugsy Siegel by a mile, and even Handsome Johnny and Sam Giancana were fading from view. Vegas still had gangsters, but nobody with the same style. The old-timey Vegas glamour was sustained, by and large, by the Rat Pack.

And here I was, auditioning for Dean Martin’s opening act. Well, not quite opening. That would be the showgirls.

The guy holding the auditions—whether he was with Dino’s entourage or the casino, I never heard—was heavy-set and cigary.

“You got pretty good phrasing, kid,” he said. “Not much range, maybe. And cool it with the vibrato, okay? Too much vibrato sounds pussy-whipped.”

I promised to tone down the vibrato.

“This your playlist? Buddy, you gotta update this. Nobody wants to hear those old songs. They reek of World War Two. Lots of our patrons lived through it, and don’t wanna be reminded.” He chewed on the Havana. “Neither do I. It’s the Swinging Sixties, right?”

“‘She Loves You?’”

“Nah, a little of that goes a long way. Movie tunes. Show tunes.” He hummed a few bars of “The Impossible Dream.” “Wait, scratch that one. Your voice ain’t big enough. But that’s the idea. You know that Burt Bacharach feller? That kind of thing. Nothing from before forty-nine, you dig?”

So I revised my playlist, and now I’m stuck with it.

#

You could argue that the audition was the high point of my career. And I didn’t even get the job.

Still, I wasn’t doing bad. The place I performed—every night except Mondays—wasn’t on the Strip, but wasn’t far off: an old-school Italian steakhouse with leather-covered menus, waiters, and no gambling in the music room. Tony Verdi, the owner, liked it that way, being old school himself. I didn’t know if he was mixed up with the rackets and didn’t ask. My wages paid the rent and kept my tuxedos dry cleaned.

The band was tiny. Piano, bass fiddle. No drums. They’re overkill in a small venue and drown out the vocals unless you’re mic’d, but if you go that route, you screw the intimacy. Plenty of beat from the upright.

A sax player joined us on occasion. He’d been a first stringer once, but was now sadly down at heel. But man, Benny sure could blow. He sounded a lot like Dex, even if he wobbled from time to time. Who doesn’t? Tony didn’t like having him around—too shabby—but the customers loved the added pizzazz.

#

I closed out the first set with “Come Fly With Me,” always a crowd pleaser. Sparse audience tonight; it was raining, and the locals stay home when it’s wet. We don’t get many tourists: they’re either splurging at a big casino or eating cheap at a squalid buffet. I sang a lot of Sinatra—easy to do, Frank sang anything and everything—and Bobby Darin. Lots of movie tunes, as the auditioner had advised. They were popular, even if most of them are crap, but I plowed through them. If I never hear “The Shadow of Your Smile” again, it’ll be too soon. Ditto “Lara’s Theme.”

And don’t get me started on “The Windmills of Your Mind.”

After the closing number, I called for requests. One old lady—who showed up, come rain or shine, every evening except Sundays—always asked for “Danke Schoen.”

“Danke Schoen” is horrible, and Wayne Newton is godawful—although more successful than I’ll ever be, so put it down to jealousy if you’re inclined, but what really burned me was the pronunciation. Donka shane. Fucking donka shane.

I know, I know, you have to sing it that way to make it rhyme with pain, explain, etc., but it bugged. Couldn’t they have used burn or learn? They’re close to rhymes, with that soft r in schoen. Hell, they could’ve thrown in a milkmaid with a churn.

She was nice, so I complied. Someone else requested “I Believe in You” and then someone wanted “Mack the Knife” but settled for “Beyond the Sea,” and I was done, glad that “Make Someone Happy” hadn’t been in the mix tonight. It’s garbage.

I retreated to the closet known as my dressing room, took off my jacket and wiped my face. Don’t get me wrong: I was lucky. Smaller clubs generally expected you to use the men’s room.

A knock at the door revealed Benny, the saxophonist. I was anticipating a mea culpa—he’d been wobblier than usual—but no.

“I got some trouble,” he said.

I invited him in and gave him the chair, while I perched on the corner of the dressing table.

“What’s up, Benny? You need some dough? I can lend you some.”

“You ain’t got enough money to fix this.”

“Then how can I help?”

“Don’t reckon you can. It’s about my daughter.”

“Didn’t know you had one.”

“I don’t, not anymore. She died in sixty-four.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, well. It’s been tough. But now, they tell me her killer’s gettin’ outta prison. Not positive I got the whole story from the DA. Somethin’ technical about the evidence.”

“Maybe he screwed up and doesn’t want to admit it?”

“Anyways, verdict’s been overturned. So what do I do?”

“I’m not sure what you can do.”

“I gotta do something. For my girl. My Emma. This … this ain’t right.”

“Okay, okay, calm down. Do you know when he’s getting out?”

“Lawyer said it’ll take a day or two for the paperwork. Then he’ll be free as a dove. I figure he’ll head for Vegas. Got family here. Associates, too. Jimmy the Handler, they call him. Fixer.”

“I’ve heard the name. Small potatoes, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but he ain’t finicky. The big boys call him in when they don’t want dirty hands. Been inside more than once. He don’t snitch.”

“How’d your daughter get mixed up with him? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Usual story. Swept her off her feet. Didn’t come clean until he had her right under his thumb.” He sighed. “I warned her. Didn’t do a bit of good.”

“It never does.”

“Guess not. He killed her ’cause she was plannin’ to leave. Strangled her. Even his family didn’t like it. Thought it made ’em look unprofessional.”

“That … would never have occurred to me.”

“Private killings don’t sit well with those folks. But they’ll take him back. Families like Jimmy’s, they stick tight.”

“More’s the pity. But Benny, what outcome do you want here?”

“I want him dead.” His tone was emotionless; almost matter-of-fact. Should revenge be this cold? But Benny was a quasi-pal, and you oblige pals when you can.

“Benny, meet me here after the show. Maybe I can help, after all.”

“You, Larry?”

“Yep. They’d connect him to you. Not to me.”

The old lady never stayed for the second set, so I was spared another round of “Danke Schoen.”

#

We made a plan, or a whiff of one. Now I’d wait until Jimmy arrived. And figure out where I’d stashed my piece. Never fired it except at a range. Hadn’t seen it in ages. I’d need to find it, and my nerve, which I hadn’t seen recently, either.

But Jimmy didn’t come home. If I drove or walked by the apartment building where his parents lived too often, well, that was the mother of bad ideas. I was stumped. After a week or so, Benny was getting exasperated too. If Jimmy had gone elsewhere—L.A., Houston, Phoenix—we were sunk. We couldn’t ask a family member. The odds of that conversation going well were infinitesimal. Something like,

“Why d’you wanna know?” they'd ask.

“So we can whack him.” I'd say.

That wasn’t going to play.

I continued—glumly—my not-too-frequent surveillance of the neighborhood. For another couple of weeks.

Life went on.

#

About three weeks later, Tony was giving me a hard time between sets.

“Why you tellin’ people the band don’t know ‘Moon River?’ You perform ‘Moon River’ on the regular. What gives, Larry?”

“I didn’t feel like singing it tonight.”

“Makes the customers sad when you don’t take their requests. You know that. It ain’t like you to be testy.”

“I have some personal stuff going on.”

“Not during showtime, you don’t.”

“Okay, Tony, I hear you. I’ll cheer up.”

During the next set, I complied with both “Charade”—the up-tempo Darin version, which doesn’t suit the lyrics, but what the hell, it’s the one people like—and also “Sway,” which sounds like shit without a full orchestra. Tony gave me a thumbs up from behind the bar.

#

I drove by Jimmy’s apartment on my way home. I didn’t usually bother; by this hour, even if he was in town, he was either cozied up in bed or at a bar. Call it a hunch. Or my trying to work off frustration.

I pulled up in front of the building and lit a cigarette, one of the six-a-day I allowed myself, and massaged my sore neck.

I’ll own it: I wasn’t paying attention. My expectations had plummeted to near zero. When someone tapped at the passenger window, I was so startled I almost—well, never mind. If this was Jimmy, he had the drop on me. Christ.

Instead of Jimmy, it was a woman, making roll-down-the-window motions. I could probably handle a gal, so I complied.

“I seen you ’round here more’n once,” she said, making a complete monkey of me and my amateur sleuthing: I’d never noticed her. “You looking for somebody?”

Since I was already busted, I’d try for some info.

“Yeah. Jimmy. You know him?”

“Little late on that, aren’tcha?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s over at Woodlawn. Been there since sixty-four. Resting in peace, I don’t think.”

Woodlawn was the big old cemetery north of downtown.

“Must be some mistake,” I said. “Different guy.”

“Un-uh. Jimmy the Handler, right?”

“Well, I’ll be damned. Benny told me he’d just been released from prison.”

“He got it bass-ackwards. He does that a lot. Listen, it’s a long story. Mind if I sit?”

I reached over and pushed the door open.

“Oof. That’s better. Needed to take a load off. Feels like I’ve been walking for weeks.”

“Have you been? Walking for weeks?”

She shook her head. “Turned out what I went looking for wasn’t far.”

“And did you like what you found?”

“Not exactly. Thought it would be more … peaceful-like. Say, can I bum a smoke?” I handed her one and flicked my lighter.

“Classy,” she said with a grin. “So here’s the deal on Jimmy. He died in sixty-four, like I told you. Stabbed. At first, the cops thought it was a rival, maybe, or an unhappy client. You know what he did for a living?”

“Hit man.”

“Yeah, that’s it. But then they thought things weren’t adding up. In Jimmy’s world, stabbing ain’t in the cards. Too … personal.”

“Bullets preferred.”

“You got it. So they started looking a little closer to home. No wife, but he did have a girlfriend.”

“Benny’s daughter.”

“Yep. That would be me.”

“What the? You’re Emma? Benny told me that she—you—died in sixty-four.”

“He got that wrong too.” She blew a perfect smoke ring. “You gotta understand about Daddy. He gets things wrong a lot. Some kind of dementia, the doc says. He built up this whole fantasy where Jimmy killed me. The only thing he still gets right is the music. That’s his gift, his lodestar, praise be. Everything else is bull.”

“You’re right about the music.” I wasn’t going to mention the wobbles. Why burst her bubble? “You sure about the rest?”

“Got your doubts? Here, I’ll give you the number of Jimmy’s plot. You can check.” She scribbled and passed it over. “I attended the funeral. They didn’t arrest me until after.”

“But you’re out now.”

“Yeah, I’m out. They wouldn’t buy self-defense—didn’t think my bruises were serious enough—but my lawyer got it knocked down to manslaughter. They don’t throw away the key for that. So here I am, wondering what in heaven or earth I’m gonna do next.”

“Did you do it?”

“What, knife Jimmy? You bet. Wasn’t just ’cause he beat me up some. It was that on top of him telling me I was only a fling. What is it they say? All’s fair? All his lies. All my dreams. None of it worth a plugged nickel. I sure was dumb.”

“We’ve all been there.”

“Yeah … I should tell you: I know who you are. You’re the singer where Daddy toots his horn sometimes.”

“That’s me. Larry, the official lounge lizard at Verdi’s.”

“Aw, don’t beat yourself up. You sing pretty good.”

“You’ve seen the show?”

“Once or twice … You know, Daddy used to write me. He couldn’t come in person much, ’cause no car, but he wrote. He liked playing with you. Said you were generous, made sure he got his solos.” She took a drag. “And you don’t scat. Daddy hates scat.”

“Unless you’re really good, it’s bunk.”

“Uh-huh. I hope he’ll be okay. Haven’t seen him … lately.”

“You want the truth?” She nodded. “He’s getting pretty frail.”

“Damn. I was afraid of that.” She sighed. “Hey, listen, it’s been swell talking to you, but I gotta go.” She crushed out the cigarette.

“You need a ride somewhere?”

“No, I’m good. I belong here now. But I’ll take another smoke if you’re offering.”

“One more for the road? Sure.”

“Thanks, Larry. Take care.”

“You too.”

She sauntered away.

I caught a drifting scent, something like lilies. Sweet and cloying, it cut right through the cigarette smoke. Must be Emma’s perfume. Funny I hadn’t smelled it while she was in the car.

What the hell was I going to tell Benny?

#

I took the trip out to Woodlawn. And yeah, he’s there. I took a snap of the headstone: James Giancarlo, beloved son, brother, nephew, cousin. Boyfriend didn’t make the cut.

Then I visited the library, found the report on Jimmy’s death, and made a photostat. Poor sap hadn’t even made the front page.

I hoped the photo and article would jog Benny’s memory. He wouldn’t abandon Emma because she’d offed a punk like Jimmy. And Benny had written her while she was inside. What happened? She’d gotten out and Benny shut down, pretending she’d been murdered. Despite what the medico had said, it didn’t resemble any dementia case I’d ever heard about.

Time to beard the lion in his den.

Except I didn’t know where the den was.

He’d stopped showing up at the club. He could be sick, or flat busted, or dead, for all I knew.

Emma didn’t come, either.

I looked them up in the White Pages, but nothing doing. Emma might not have permanent digs yet; how’d she put it? “I belong here now.” Odd turn of phrase. I’d thought she meant she was staying somewhere in the neighborhood. Now I wasn’t so sure. I knew, from the newspaper, that the murder had taken place near the Giancarlo’s joint. She’d told me she’d seen me there a few times. Even if she didn’t regret killing Jimmy, why would she choose to hang around the scene of the crime? She must be practically haunting the place.

But after a while, I mostly forgot all about it.

I missed Benny’s horn, but well, that’s life.

#

Vegas wasn’t known for its green spaces. But I enjoyed going to the playground with the plaster turtles and the big blue whale that the kids climbed on. It wasn’t lush, but it felt spacious, worlds away from crap tables and slots. Come to think of it, it was only a stone’s throw from the Woodlawn Cemetery.

I was lazing on a bench when I heard the sax. No mistaking that tone.

Benny. Playing as if he was in some club on Bourbon Street. Playing better than I’d heard him in a long, long time. Looked sprucer, too.

Everyone was ignoring him; no head bobs, no toe taps. I’d have expected the teenagers to bust out some steps—twist, Watusi—whatever dances the kids do nowadays. But no one moved. As if no one could hear.

I went over, dropping a twenty in the sax case. That got his attention.

“Hey, Benny,” I said when he’d finished the tune. “Nice duds. How’s it going?”

“I know you?” he asked, squinting.

“Sure you do. Larry? Singer at Verdi’s?”

“Don’t recall.”

“I was thinking about Emma the other day.”

“Emma? You knew my Emma?”

“I spoke to her once. She made an impression.”

“Bright as a whip, she was. Pretty, too.”

“Uh-huh. Where you living these days?”

“Nursing home of some kind, I guess. Food’s decent and the bed’s soft. Got no complaints.”

"Glad they’re taking good care of you. We miss you at the club.”

He stared at me, wary, suspicious.

“You sent me to look for Jimmy the Handler.” I took the headstone photo out of my wallet. “I found him.”

He gazed at it. “Let’s sit.”

We trudged back to the bench.

“I didn’t mean to lie to you,” he began. “I wasn’t thinkin’ straight. Get kinda fuzzy, sometimes.” He cackled. “Bein’ old is a bitch.”

“Doesn’t matter about me.”

“No, but you oughta know the truth. Least I can do.” He coughed and rubbed his temple. “After Emma got out ...got out...”

“Of the slammer.”

“Yeah. She came and stayed with me. I thought things were okay, but the guilt ate at her. Finally she left me a note, sayin’ she couldn’t take it no more and was headed out to the desert.”

“On foot?”

He nodded. “I didn’t know if she was dead or alive, not for certain. It was easier for me to imagine Jimmy had murdered her than accept I couldn’t help soothe her mind.”

“I can understand that. Did you file a report?”

“Nah. I wasn’t gonna stick the cops on her tail.” He cleared his throat. “You ever been out to the desert?”

“Sure. Lots of times. Not really my thing, though.”

He chuckled. “Maybe you need that horse with no name.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, I’m just joshin’ with you. That song ain’t been written yet.”

“Not written yet? Then how? I don’t understand.”

“You’re kinda, damn, what’s that word? It’s all fancy. Naïve, that’s it. You’re kinda naïve, aren’tcha?”

“If you say so.” I tried to get him back on track. “How long ago was this, Emma’s trip to the desert?”

“Damned if I know. Time don’t mean much anymore.”

Had she come back and not let him know? She wasn’t the type, unless something had happened out in the Mojave, something that had changed her mind about committing suicide-by-desert. But was any of this story true? Or was this more dementia talking? Unless …

“Did she ever turn up? It’s been months.”

“Sure, sure. She comes by sometimes, when they allow it. They got rules, see. Call ’em the beats.” He laughed again. “Ain’t no beats I can hear.”

“Beats? What are those?”

“Dunno. The beattie toots, somethin’ like that. Don’t hear no toots, either. Anyhow, somethin’ about bein’ a fine, upstanding citizen. I told ’em I’d missed that bus long ago.”

“What did they say to that?”

“Told me jazz was my ticket in.”

I couldn’t make head nor tail of what Benny meant. In where?

“Hey, thanks for telling me,” I said. “I should be shoving off. You want a lift?”

“Don’t need one. The home’s close by.” He tilted his head in the direction of Woodlawn. Talk about a memento mori. Who would put an old folks’ home so close to a cemetery? Nobody, that’s who. But there was nothing I could verify about my sax-playing pal, one way or the other.

Or maybe I didn’t want to.

“Well, see you around. You know where to find me, if you feel like playing.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

I turned to go, when I noticed that damn lily scent again.

“You smell that, Benny? Where the hell is that coming from?”

He grinned. “You’ll figure it out.”

#

I drove to the club, wondering if I’d ever see Benny or Emma again. No one to ask, no way to know. I hoped I would; the alternative was depressing. Maybe they’d wander into Verdi’s some night, Benny would grab his sax, and we’d swing into a jazzy take on “The Second Time Around,” and I’d order a bottle of champagne. Yeah, maybe they still would. In some form or another. I’d welcome them, either way.

Best of all, neither was likely to request “Danke Schoen.”

BIO: Carlotta Dale lives in Los Angeles, a city she adores from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, in a house that's essentially an oversized cabinet of curiosities. She's had many jobs, including gigs as a ghost writer. She still uses adverbs—sparingly—and her novelette, The Parrots Come Again, is available on Amazon (Alien Buddha Press). Dale has also had short stories published in Punk Noir Magazine and Pistol Jim Press. She can be found on Twitter @carlottadale38 and on BlueSky @carlottadale.bsky.social.