Slim Chance - A Las Vegas Adventure (c)  By Burt Peretsky... 

Chapters 6, 7, 8 & 9

 

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Chapter 6

A Good Mystery Needs a Good McGuffin

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A couple of relatively uneventful days went by.   On the other hand, considering what eventful days I had seen in recent weeks, days without fires, earthquakes, or nuclear bombs would have been "uneventful."

 

Well, to be truthful, there was a nuclear bomb on one of those days.  Out at the Test Site, they had one of those "scheduled" nuclear tests.  It was the 684th announced explosion since testing began at the Nevada site on January 27, 1951.  My guess was that about one of every three was announced beforehand, probably because they were the larger tests that could be felt in town, and so some explanation had to be given in advance.  Otherwise -- I was sure -- the Federal authorities would just as soon have kept word about them quiet. 

 

This particular bomb, code-named Oklahoma City, according to the Energy Department announcement, was buried 1650 feet beneath the surface of Yucca Flat, and, said the Feds, it had an explosive yield of between 20 and 150 kilotons.  That was vague enough, I suppose, should any Russians be reading the Energy Department handout. 

 

Back in the Fifties, Las Vegas made a big deal out of the Test Site and the bombs they'd set off there.  Every once in a while, a mushroom cloud would rise in the horizon, and a silhouetted skyline of the downtown hotels would stand in stark contrast to the scene in the desert 75 or 100 miles away.  Hotels bragged about their having the best views in town for the blasts.  In fact, in the Fifties, the city would crown an annual "Miss Atom Bomb," such was the pride of being a town on the frontier of the future. 

 

In the literature the city's tourist bureau has, it says that Las Vegas is the only American community ever to have had its residents see mushroom clouds from within the municipal boundaries.   Wow, Armageddon ...  what an attraction!

 

Today, in more rationale times, announced tests are always preceded by a government press release advising people that the blast would occur some time after such-and-such a time, and that people in high places should be wary.   People in high places usually are more wary of things than we ordinary people.    But, I guess they were referring to construction workers on towers, and the like, given the possibility of buildings swaying from the shockwaves running through the earth after nuclear explosions. 

 

Some 45 years after the dawn of the nuclear age, I couldn't imagine what sense there was in still testing these bombs.  Certainly by now, we knew that they worked.   What possible good were we doing by setting off more of these things?  What possible improvements could be made in nuclear bomb technology that hadn't already been made?  Could they make them more powerful?   If so, why weren't they testing more powerful bombs?  The most powerful bombs were those set off in the 50's and 60's.  Since then, the power of the bombs tested were tame by comparison and, more to the point, by treaty.   Could they be testing to make the bombs smaller, lighter, and more easily portable?  Yes, that could be the case.   The smaller the bomb, the easier to deliver it to the target.   Missiles could be smaller; bomber planes could be smaller and faster; and submarines could carry greater payloads.   Where before bigger was better, today smaller was preferred; smaller was bigger.   With recent events in the world, bringing Russian and American together, erasing the communist threat, continued nuclear testing made even less sense.  

 

Would bomb number 684 be the last?  Would its shock waves that sway tall buildings be the last to rumble through the desert ground?

 

The Vegas Castle had finally stopped swaying from the bomb that had rocked it.  Lefty Needham’s murder was now more than two weeks in the past.   The police were getting nowhere.   All they would tell the press was that they were working on the case.  Speculation wasn’t exactly running rampant as to who killed Lefty.  Everyone, including the FBI, from what Sandra had told me, assumed that Lefty was killed by the Mob.  It made perfect sense to those who thought Lefty was himself Mob, and that was nearly everyone, and it made sense to me, I regret to say, even though I knew Lefty was not Mob. 

 

The accepted theory was that Lefty was having trouble balancing the hotel books.  He was having trouble over a long period of time.  Yet, each time a mortgage payment came due, each time a major win was recorded in the casino, each time a big bill needed to be paid, Lefty would find the money from somewhere.  Chief Casey, in that first staff meeting after Lefty's death, said it all.  Referring to Lefty's source of money, that "somewhere" which produced the payments he made, Casey said, “The police are trying to find out where the 'somewhere' was.  They think it might have something to do with the murder."

 

Even that banker who brought the close-the-hotel ultimatum with him from Chicago said that Lefty was constantly coming up from somewhere with payments that needed to be made. 

Everyone assumed that Lefty was into the Mob loan sharks for many millions of dollars.  Perhaps, Lefty did owe millions to Mobsters.  Even though I knew, or at least I thought I knew that Lefty wasn't Mob himself, I also knew that he knew all the Mobsters in town.  He must have borrowed heavily from them.  And suppose these guys wanted a piece of the hotel in return for the money, or at least as collateral?  Suppose they wanted it all?  I was sure that Lefty would have resisted.  The Vegas Castle was Lefty's life.  He would have told them where to go, and that would have been an unhealthy thing to do, maybe the last unhealthy thing Lefty ever did. 

 

Not only was the investigation into Lefty’s death going nowhere, but efforts to save the hotel financially and my search for John-Boy, now aided by Harry, were going nowhere, as well. 

In my PR Director’s capacity, I had talked with George Purdy about the status of the hotel.  He told me that he had briefly considered massive layoffs in an effort to save money.  "But, realistically," he said, "the money we’d save with layoffs wouldn’t be enough within the short time we have left." I agreed with his additional point that to lay off people now who would probably be permanently laid off within a month anyway would be like throwing salt on the wounds.  No action along those lines would be taken. 

 

And no action on my search for John-Boy meant that I wasn’t helping Sandra.  And that meant I wasn’t going to get Sandra into my apartment nor would I be getting into hers ...  her apartment, that is. 

 

It was a Wednesday.  I had arrived at the Castle early, at about 7AM.  I had not taken a morning drive on that day, because I had been busy paying bills at home.  My monthly alimony check was a week overdue thanks to Miss Nomer’s shenanigans, and while I had the checkbook out and was doling out my weekly salary check, it seemed like a good idea to also make the MasterCard, VISA, Mervyn's, and Bullock's payments.  To rid myself of the taste of bills, I decided I'd do breakfast at the hotel. 

At the Little King Coffee Shop, I ordered French toast, a Western omelet, a side order of sausage, home fries, an English muffin, and coffee.  For my health, I started off with a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.  I considered having oatmeal, which I like, but that would have been overdoing it, and I was watching my weight.  One of the perks of being a Castle department head was having free meals in hotel restaurants.  I figured that during this last month, I might as well take advantage of things. 

 

Graveyard shift Little King Manager Delilah David walked over to my table just as I was polishing off my muffin. 

 

"Mr.  Purdy is looking for you, Slim," she said.  "He's up in his office." A heavy-set black woman, a charmer and one of my favorite people, she plugged a house phone into the phone jack on the side of the booth where I was sitting and handed it to me as she spoke. 

 

I dialed George's office extension. 

 

"Slim, can you come up here after you finish breakfast? I've got some news that I can't talk about on the phone."

 

That intrigued me.  I skipped a second cup of coffee, dropped a dollar toke on the table, and reported to George's second-floor office right away. 

 

The "news" was, he told me, that an office cleaner on Housekeeping Director Anna Leo’s staff had made an important discovery while cleaning Lefty Needham’s empty office the day before.  Behind a picture on the wall, the cleaner had found a locked wall safe. 

 

"I had security notify the police, Slim.  This may be important in their investigation.  On the other hand, because the safe may hold significant amounts of money, which the Vegas Castle could surely use, I asked Chief Casey and our lawyers to seek a ruling in court late yesterday that would guarantee that the hotel would own any of the valuables or money found in the safe."

 

"What did the judge rule?" I asked Purdy. 

 

"Nothing yet.  He scheduled a hearing for Monday on our request, and he ordered that the safe remain closed and locked until then, over the weekend.  I think the police may claim that, if any money is in there from illegal activities, the contents are not necessarily ours.  And the judge asked the court officer to notify the FBI in case the Feds have a claim on the contents.  Last but not least, I’ve notified Arlene, as she might have a claim on any personal belongings in the safe.  I’m telling you all this, because the papers will probably have something on the story, and you should be aware of what’s going on."

 

"Thanks, George, I appreciate that," and I did.  "There was nothing in the papers this morning.  But," I added, "if this all happened late in the day yesterday, it might still get into the later editions."

 

I was right on that score.  The late morning edition of the Sun and the early afternoon edition of the Review-Journal had front-page stories on the safe, and before long, the all-news radio station was paraphrasing the newspaper accounts. 

 

"Judge Andrew Sebastian," the radio report said late in the day, "has ordered the safe to remain closed pending a Monday hearing on rightful ownership of its contents.  The safe may hold enormous amounts of money or evidence leading to the murderers of slain hotel boss Lefty Needham, according to informed sources." The informed sources quoted by the radio station were the same "informed sources" quoted by the newspapers.  In truth, I knew there weren’t really any "informed sources." This was a typical newspaper reporter’s way of pretending there was attribution for what was really his own opinion.  Better editors would have caught him on it. 

 

By mid-afternoon, claims on the safe did indeed include those of the hotel, the Metro police, Arlene Needham, and the FBI. 

 

During the day as I thought about the safe, I remember thinking about a magazine piece I had read about Alfred Hitchcock.  The great movie director had told an interviewer that it didn’t matter what it was, but a good mystery needs a good "McGuffin," something that is unknown to both the characters and to the audience.  The contents of that safe, I thought, the safe claimed by the police, the suspicious widow, and the hotel she assuredly would like to run, was the good "McGuffin" of the Lefty Needham murder mystery. 

 

But I didn't have much time that day to reflect on the mystery, because that was the day that Mr. B, at the Vegas Castle for one of his regular visits, started winning, and winning big!

 

Mr. B was, unlike some high rollers, a heck of a nice guy.  Well, he always treated me well.  Mr. B made jeans, and Mr. B made money.  Actually, he made money making jeans, and he lost money playing craps.  Usually.  But not this particular week. 

 

Mr. B -- I am told his last name is Baker -- was a Vegas Castle regular, a "high roller" from New York, one of our last high rollers.  For that matter, he was one of the town's last high rollers from the East.  Atlantic City had cut into Las Vegas' business, not in a big way in terms of the number of gamblers, but in terms of the number of high rollers.  I heard one estimate that only four percent of the total number of visitors Vegas had at one time was now going to Atlantic City.  But, that had to be the Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce estimate.  I would have guessed the percentage of lost visitors was closer to 15 percent. 

 

Vegas gets about 18 million visitors a year.  Atlantic City has about 30 million people annually.  More people visit Atlantic City in a year than visit Las Vegas, Disneyland, and Miami Beach! Enough said?

 

High rollers from New York, like Mr.  B,, and rollers from Philadelphia, Boston, Washington, Baltimore, or any of the population centers in the Northeast, get treated fabulously by the Atlantic City casino hotels.  To those high rollers, it’s simply easier to get on a plane or into a limo for an hour and visit their plush suites in Atlantic City than to come out to Vegas.  A visit out here means sitting on a plane for five hours, and what do they get for their trouble -- plush suites in hotels in Vegas and craps or blackjack tables which look just like those they find near home in Atlantic City.  Why kill two days traveling, when you can use those two days making more money with which to gamble next time? Or at least, so goes the roller’s argument. 

 

Craps was Mr.  B’s game.  Mr.  B.  was a black chip better, that is he’d normally draw $50,000 in markers over a weekend and lose it betting black -- or $100 -- chips, two or three at a time.  On a craps table, a high roller like Mr.  B.  might have a couple of thousand dollars bet at any one time, and, in the course of a roll on a hot table, he could win scores of thousands of dollars. 

 

Which Mr.  B. was doing on this particular day. 

 

I got a phone call in the office from a distraught shift manager, and I hurried downstairs to the casino to see if I could do anything about the situation. 

 

"Hi, Slim! How's my boy?"

 

"Hi, Mr.  B.  I'm doin' Just fine.  I see you are, too!"

 

After many trips to the Castle, and after many comp'd dinners with me, Mr. B knew me pretty well. 

I looked at the table, and where I would have normally seen Mr.  B's black chips, pinks each worth $500 -- were sitting, one in each place where a black would normally be.  I eyed the stack of chips in fLont of the Jeans king, and some quick arithmetic told me that he had about $50,000 right there.

“Press it," he told the dealer; another of his place bets, the eight, had Just won for him, and he was increasing his bet, nearly doubling it on that particular number. 

 

I watched the dealer transform a $600 bet on the eight to a $1200 bet.  One black chip was placed in front of Mr. B as change, and the rolling and his winning continued. 

 

I slipped into the pit and whispered to the floor man, "What's the damage so far?"

 

"About 50, but he's only been playing for two hours."

 

This was an obviously worried floor man.  For some reason casino managers, floor persons, and dealers are among the most superstitious people in a casino.  They should all know better, but they all think that certain people are jinxes, or "Jonahs" In the vernacular, and that the house luck can improve, simply by changing the dealer.  And they also suspect, with some justification, that floor men on a pit where big wins are posted, are in danger of losing their jobs, as they must certainly be house Jonahs!

Dealers, on the other hand, loved to see players winning big, because with the big wins came big tokes.  The difference between dealing to losers or dealing to big winners was often hundreds of dollars per dealer per shift. 

 

So, here I was, with the only sensible task from the point of view of the hotel.  My mission: take Mr. B away from the tables.  If he isn't playing, he isn't winning.  Maybe later, when he comes back to the table, his luck won't be as good. 

 

As floor men looked at me for salvation, and dealers with dislike, a seven was thrown, ending a rather long roll.  As the dealers gathered the chips together, cleaning them off the table to re-set the game for the next dice thrower, I sensed a chance to talk with Mr. B. 

 

Sidling next to him, I gave it my best shot.    "You gotta be hungry, Mr. B.  It's three hours later right now in New York, and most people are just finishing dinner there."

 

Mr. B scratched behind his ear, squinting, the way people do when they're coming to a sudden realization.  "You know,” he said turning to me, “you're right, Slim, I am kinda hungry.  Been having so much fun here, I just didn't realize how late it was.” Then, turning to the dealer opposite him, “Color me up, willya, Pete?”

 

You could feel the tension easing suddenly behind the dealers.  You could also feel the disappointment among the dealers.  The casino officials in the pit drew a little closer, as the dealer slid Mr. B's chips over to the box man who began to count them for conversion to higher value checks.

 

“You wanna be my date, Slim? The Missus didn't make this trip, you know.”

 

“Be delighted, Mr. B.  How about Pierro’s for some Italian?”

 

Pierro’s, on Convention Center Drive, near the big Hilton, was about the best Italian restaurant I knew, and more importantly, it was outside of the Vegas Castle.  That would give everybody, and perhaps Mr.  B’s luck, some time to cool down. 

 

It was only about 6:30 when we finished dinner, and Mr. B wanted to play some more, but he wanted to go over to Caesars.  That was fine with me, because I had a class to teach on Wednesday nights at the University.  I dropped him at Caesars and told him to call our hotel for a ride back.  We’d send our hotel limo for him, of course. 

 

I headed over to UNLV. 

 

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Chapter 7

Corned Beef on Our Breath

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Elaine Chase, was, I had thought, more bookish than fun.   But, some time ago, I learned differently.  I had been teaching one class a week at UNLV for nearly two years.  It was a Monday and Wednesday night course on hospitality industry public relations.  The University has an excellent hotel school, and I was lucky to be even a part-time part of it.  Elaine taught full time; her field was library science, and her schedule brought her into the school one night a week, also on Wednesday. 

Because her last name and mine came so close in the alphabetical order of names, our mailboxes were next to one another, and over a period of time, we became casual, mailbox friends. 

 

Elaine was a plain-looking woman, single, and in her mid-30’s.  She had never been married.  After our respective classes one night, I asked her to join me for a sandwich at a nearby Jewish deli, which she did.   I had asked more out of courtesy and hunger rather than lust, but after the corned beef – among the leanest I had eaten in quite some time, incidentally – I invited her up to "my place for a drink."  Once we were upstairs, to my complete surprise, she turned on me in the most delightful and lustful way.  It turns out that she was a sexpert, and – let’s hear it for the kid – she thought chubby was cute!

 

Since that first time, Wednesday night’s after-class sandwich and sex with Elaine became a regular part of my routine.   I don't to this day know whether Elaine was using me as a sex object, whether I was using her as one, or whether we were both using one another.  But, a Don Juan I’m not, and regular sex with Elaine, week after week, Wednesday after Wednesday, was one of the highlights of my life.   Elaine taught me sex techniques I had only heard about.  She even taught me things that I had no idea even existed.  Bedroom science, I learned, was as much her specialty as was library science.  Often wordlessly, or at the most with a half-sentence here or there, Elaine would lead me through this sex routine or that, into this position or that, utilizing this appendage or that.  She was all business on those Wednesday nights we spent together, all sex business. 

 

I can't tell you much about Elaine, other than that she was good at what she did with me.  Once in a while, especially at the beginning of our relationship, as we lay in bed together, as I caught my breath, and as she silently planned our next position, I would ask her about herself.  But her typical reply was no reply.  Or she would say something like, "I'm just an average girl, Slim.  I like books.  I spend my time in libraries.  Isn't that enough to know?”

 

I decided not to press my luck with Elaine.  She obviously didn't want to talk about herself, and I worried that if I did press her on personal details, I'd risk losing my Wednesday nights with her. 

Wednesday nights like this one. 

 

Corned beef on our breath, we were going hot and heavy at my place; I had my tongue in her ear; she had her hand on my manhood.  And someone was calling me on the telephone.  “Oh, shit!" I exclaimed.  "Excuse me, Elaine.  Hold that thought!"

 

It was – who else – Margaret, the hotel operator. 

 

This time, she had Chief Casey on the phone for me. 

 

"Slim, this is the Chief."  One expected to hear a clarion at that point.  "Lefty's safe was broken into and robbed.  You better get down here."

 

Elaine was not amused.  I explained what the call was all about, and I asked her to get dressed, as I was already doing.  On the way to the hotel, I dropped her off at the University, where she had her own car.  I told her I would make it up to her on Saturday night.  We could go out to a fancy dinner and to a show, I said.  She agreed to the suggestion; it would be our first real date. 

 

To tell you the truth, I was looking forward to a real date with Elaine.  Her reluctance to talk about herself had naturally piqued my curiosity, and I thought a real date would provide her the opportunity to open up and give me the opportunity to learn something about her without risking the loss of our regular sex sessions. 

 

Instead of parking in the employee's lot, I left my car at the front door with the valet and hurried up to Lefty's office.  Chief Casey was there with a couple of his officers, including my “Eye" tour guide Roger Webster.  Also there was a pair of Metro Police technicians running a fingerprint check. 

Casey filled me in on what had occurred.   "Somebody broke in during the afternoon or at night," he said.  "There's no sign of forcible entry into the office, but the safe was blown with either a small stick of dynamite or nitro.”

 

"Did anyone hear anything," I asked. 

 

The Chief shook his head.  "No, apparently whoever did it masked the explosion with pillows." Only then did I notice feathers all over the floor of the boss' office.  A few, I also noticed, still hung in midair.  Briefly, a picture flashed through my mind of masked marauders packing pillows and dynamite under their arms and picking Lefty's lock. 

 

George Purdy came into the room.  He had also been called from his bed at home, but I doubt his bed was anything like mine on that night or on any other.  Casey repeated to George the story of the break-in, and as he finished, one of the Metro cops at the safe called to the Chief. 

 

We all walked over. 

 

"Look here," the cop told Casey.  He was reaching into the safe.  From the very back of the opening, he pulled out a shoebox, and in the shoebox were about a hundred pink Vegas Castle chips.  A hundred of those would be worth $50,000, a worthwhile haul for any burglar. 

 

I forget who spoke next.  I think we all did.  We all certainly had the same question: why didn't the burglars take the chips?

 

The police had no answers to that one, but they, and we, had similar theories.  We all pretty much assumed, and the placement of the box with the chips at the very back of the safe was the evidence, that the burglars didn't know the chips were there and didn't see them. 

 

The police had nothing to go on.  No prints had been left on the safe, nor on the doorknob, nor on anything in the office.  It looked like a professional job.  What was puzzling, however, was how the burglar or burglars entered the locked office. 

 

If he or they had a key, that would indicate that the break-in was an inside job.  On the other hand, if he or they were as professional as the blown safe would indicate, he or they probably picked the lock. 

 

The theft was discovered by the same woman office cleaner who had discovered the safe's existence the other day, but nobody suspected that she was the burglar.  She entered the office on her normal rounds with her own passkey, and when she saw the mess from the feathers and the blown safe, she reported it immediately to hotel Security, who in turn called the police. 

 

We speculated that the radio, TV, and newspaper reports about the safe that day led to the burglary, tipping off whomever that riches lay behind the picture in Lefty's office. 

 

There was no way of knowing what was taken.  All we knew for certain was that $50,000 in chips was not taken.  Had they been stolen, the hotel would have suffered a loss of 50 Grand.  But returning them to the Castle's coffers didn't translate to a gain for the hotel.  Until someone pays cash to get them, or until the hotel pays cash to get them back, 100 pink chips are merely 100 pieces of plastic. 

Without clues to the contrary, we had to assume that the burglary was in response to the publicity about the new-found safe, and without additional information as to what, if anything, was taken and how the burglar or burglar gained entrance to the office, we had no idea as to who or perhaps, if it were an inside job, who among us – was responsible. 

 

It seemed just another setback in a fortnight of setbacks that had visited the Vegas Castle.  We should have looked more carefully at the evidence surrounding the burglary.  But, we had no way of knowing, at the time, how the events of that night fit into the course of events that was unfolding that month. 

 

 

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Chapter 8

Milton Meets Miranda

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Vegas Castle Hotel & Casino jackpot winner, Mrs. Loretta Locke of Worthington, OH, is shown being congratulated by Vegas Castle Slot Machine Manager William Wallace, as she is presented with a check for $25,000, her winnings on the Vegas Castle's "Spin to Win" big payoffs slot machine.  Mrs. Locke won the money on the quarter slot machine after playing for only five minutes at the famed Las Vegas resort.  She said she would use the money to pay off her car loan and help with her grandchildren's college tuition.

 

A  day late, thanks to my spending so much time on the mystery of Lefty’s safe and with “Mr. Lucky,” better known as Mr. B., I typed the caption onto a stencil and handed it to Pinky, who would reproduce it and send it out with copies of the black-and-white five-by-seven that I had taken two days before.  Other PR offices were equipped with word processors, or at the very least, sophisticated Xerox equipment, but we still relied on stencils and mimeographs for our press release needs.  For picture duplication though, we all used Vegas Photolabs, which developed, printed, and copied the picture of Worthington's Mrs. Locke  for the usual $35 rush charge.  I could have saved the hotel a few bucks on the rush charges had I known that I would be spending most of the day after Mrs. Locke 's jackpot dealing with Lefty's safe, the robbery, and Mr. B's winning streak. 

 

This morning though, Mrs. Locke 's picture and the caption would be sent by Federal Express to the Columbus, OH-area papers and by regular mail to all the other dailies in her home state.  Tomorrow, the news of Worthington's Mrs. Locke hitting it big in Vegas' famed resort would – with luck – start appearing in the Ohio papers, and my job insofar as it pertained to this slot winner – would have been done. 

 

The thought of doing my job and, conversely, the thought of possibly not having a job to do in a few weeks, preyed on my mind this day.    Most of the Castle employee talk in the offices, corridors, dealers rooms, and in the employee cafeteria was about the imminent closing of the hotel.  Rumors of a possible purchase of the hotel also were making the rounds.  Everyone, from Donald Trump to Merv Griffin, was mentioned as a possible buyer. 

 

But I knew better.  Nobody was going to buy the Vegas Castle with its incredible debt and its poor business profile.  We would all be better off to be looking for other jobs now, before the rush, before all 1200 of us are out on the streets simultaneously. 

 

The only open position in town that I could handle and that would pay as much as I needed to support myself, my ex-wife, and her kid in the style to which we've all become accustomed was the job with my title at the hotel next door, the Eagle's Nest Hotel & Casino.  But my applying for a job with the Eagle’s Nest owner, Bill Fineberg, would be an insult to Lefty’s memory.  Of all the rivalries in a town where rivalries are famous, Lefty’s and Bill Fineberg’s was the most notorious.  Fineberg was a holier-than-thou type who resented Lefty Needham for, among other things, Lefty’s reputed Mob ties.  In that respect, Fineberg was very much like Pat Andrea; they both were successful in rough-and-tumble Las Vegas, they were both clean-as-a-whistle, and they both eschewed anyone who had anything to do with the Mob.  They also carried their Mr. Clean act to where, frankly, they sometime sounded rather sickening, if you ask me. 

 

At meetings of the Convention and Tourist Bureau, Fineberg, for instance, was always the first to speak out about how Las Vegas "should rid itself of the Mobsters, the prostitutes, and the vermin," as he called all those who didn’t agree with his way of thinking. 

 

Lefty once told me that Bill "holier-than-thou" Fineberg was, in truth, a child molester.  Fineberg, like Lefty, originally came from Chicago, and both arrived in Las Vegas in 1975.  Fineberg, according to Lefty’s sources in the old town, came to Vegas one step ahead of a couple whose 10-year-old boy had come into his clutches in the Windy City.  Fineberg bought off the couple, so no charges were ever filed against him.  But Lefty – for my money one of the most decent, moral men in this town – vowed, from the day he heard that story, that he would bring Fineberg to justice some day, and not necessarily the justice dished out in formal courtrooms. 

 

In the years that followed their dual migration from Chicago to Vegas, the Needham and Fineberg names were linked in several celebrated battles.  The last such battle was a takeover attempt that Fineberg tried to engineer that would have resulted in his becoming the owner of the Vegas Castle.  Fineberg bought the Vegas Castle’s second mortgage from the mortgagee, a union pension fund.  And, when Lefty was ten days late with a payment on the loan, Fineberg went to court to begin foreclosure proceedings against the Castle.  Had Lefty not come up with the payment – from a source that still remained a mystery – Fineberg would have taken the Castle, for better or for worse. 

No, I wouldn’t be applying to the Eagle’s Nest.  I was too loyal to Lefty and to his memory.  Maybe something would open up; maybe I’d move back East, to Atlantic City, perhaps.  Though that thought repulsed me, I had to find work.  Just as surely as bankruptcy loomed for the Castle, personal bankruptcy, were I to be out of work even for a short time, awaited me.  It was like a vulture circling overhead, eyeing me hungrily, waiting for me to stop moving, for me and my parts to stop working.

As Pinky was putting the stencil on the mimeo machine, the office phone rang, and I answered.  It was Chief Casey, and once again he sounded excited. 

 

"Slim, come on down to the casino.  Metro is about to make an arrest in Lefty's murder."

 

"I'm on my way." I pulled my jacket off the back of my chair, put it on – the jacket, not the chair – and headed to the casino, down the stairs next to my office. 

 

As I reached the casino floor, I met Casey, accompanied by two guys I knew to be Metro detectives, two hotel security guards in their blue Vegas Castle uniforms, and two more uniformed Metro police officers.  I joined the parade into the casino, sidling up to Casey. 

 

"Chief, who are they going to arrest?" I asked.  His one-word answer gave me a chill: "Vic." Vic? Vic Milton?

 

Vic "The Stick" Milton, the Vegas Castle's casino manager, was a fixture around the hotel.  No matter what time of day it was, Vic could be found in the craps pit, or by the cage, or in the Casino Hosts' office Just off the casino.  This day was no exception. 

 

Our little group found Vic easily.  He was standing at the cage talking to one of the cashiers when we approached.  As we neared him, I noticed the ever-present toothpick in Vic's mouth, bobbing up and down as he talked.  I briefly wondered whether it was the toothpick or Vic's background as a craps dealer and "stickman" that gave him his nickname.  One of the detectives brought me out of my reverie, as he faced Vic. 

 

"Victor Milton? You're under arrest for the murder of Lefty Needham.  You have the right to remain silent.  Anything you say may be used against you ...  "

 

As the detective gave Vic the rest of the Miranda warning, the thin casino manager – maybe his rail-like build was the reason for his moniker – mumbled back to the cop, "You're crazy!” Then, he looked around to see me and Chief Casey.  "What kind of shit is this? Slim! Chief! What is this? What the fuck is going on?”

 

I couldn't screw up enough courage to answer.  All I could say was, “I'm sorry, Vic.  I didn't know until just now.”

 

Chief Casey wasn't sorry: "They know about you and your wife, Vic, and the Army, and what you did there."

 

One of the uniformed cops searched Vic for weapons, making him lean against the wall with his arms high above his head.  Heads everywhere in the casino were turned to watch, but only a couple of tourists drew near to catch a better look.  The casino employees, what few there were that were able to leave their tables, simply froze.  The one rule about casinos that all employees respected was to mind your own business.  This was Vic's business, and police business, and Chief Casey's business, and my business.  Nobody else's. 

 

It was dirty business, too.  I couldn’t believe the scene I saw, as they led a handcuffed Vic Milton out through the hotel lobby to a waiting unmarked police sedan at the front door. 

 

This couldn’t be! I had known Vic Milton since my first day at the Vegas Castle, and I had never known him to be capable of murder.  And, why would he kill Lefty Needham? Did the arguments they had over casino procedure get out of hand? But, everyone fought with Lefty, or more to the point, Lefty fought with everyone.  And everyone knew that the boss’ bark was worse than his bite, especially when it came to casino employees.  Lefty was the most excitable, most contrary, person in the world.  He argued with people sometime as a devil’s advocate, sometime because he simply knew better than they, and sometime simply to remind them who was boss. 

 

I had always assumed that Vic and Lefty confided in one another.  In fact, I was somewhat jealous in that I had to share Lefty’s confidence with someone else, namely Vic.  After staff meetings were dismissed, only Vic and George Purdy would stay behind in the conference room with Lefty to "go over the books," as Lefty liked to say, to examine the casino accounts a bit closer than could be done In the general staff meeting.  It was at these private sessions with the boss, his top casino man, and his business manager that the real business of the Vegas Hotel & Casino would be conducted – what high roller owes what, and what’s the status of his markers, what games were doing especially well or especially poor, what discrepancies were in the books of that day or that week.

 

Sure, Vic had his occasional problems with the boss, but if anyone was a trusted lieutenant of Lefty, it was Vic.  Now, to see him arrested for killing the boss ...  this was too much to be believed. 

As the police drove off with their suspect, I turned back from the front door to see what Chief Casey knew.  I waited until he had dismissed his two officers.  Then, “What was that all about, Chief, that stuff about Vic and his wife, and about what he did in the Army?"

 

Casey squinted as he faced me and the sun behind me. 

 

“C’mon, kid, let’s go inside and get some coffee.  You youngsters once in a while need a good lesson about how police work is done."

 

So we went inside, and into the coffee shop.  And we sat at the Chief’s usual table, in a corner near the back of the second dining room section.  We were the only ones in that part of the restaurant.  From out of nowhere as we sat down, a waitress asked us if we wanted coffee.  She had a glass pot filled with it, poured us each a cup, and presented us each with two little containers of half-and-half that she produced from a pocket at the front of her apron.  

 

When she left us alone, I asked the Chief again what he knew, and he told me a story that seemed to put the pieces together. 

 

Casey said that his own staff had come up with some pretty incriminating evidence against Vic "the Stick" and that they had turned it all over to Metro. 

 

Vic Milton, it turns out, had been in the Army during Korea, and his specialty, his expertise, was – guess what – explosives.  Further, he had joined the Army only after being given the opportunity by a judge in Kansas City.  The judge’s offer was simple – if Vic didn’t join the Army, the judge would give him a year or two in jail for an assault and battery conviction rendered earlier that day.  It seemed Vic’s jealousy and temper had gotten the better of him, and when a guy at a booze party had spoken to Vic’s girlfriend in what you or I might think was an innocent manner, Vic exploded and popped the guy a couple of times.  And it wasn’t the first time the young Vic had been before the law in his then 18 years on the planet. 

 

And, according to the Chief, there was this thing with Vic and his wife. 

 

In more recent years, the Chief explained, Vic’s wife, the same girl he had defended at the party so expertly, was having an affair with a craps dealer with whom Vic worked when he was a box man at the Castle.  Vic found out, went nutso, and threatened his wife and the dealer, in front of witnesses, mind you, that he would blow them up. 

 

The remark was reported to hotel security and found its way into Vic’s personnel jacket.  Roger Webster, in running a check on all hotel employees that might have a reason to kill Lefty, noticed that item in his folder, the Chief told me.  A little more checking showed that Vic was able to get the craps dealer fired; and there was talk about how he beat the hell out of his wife – at least she wasn’t seen in public for a few weeks after the incident.  In any case, Vic wasn’t arrested, but his reputation for violence had been enhanced. 

 

Casey leaned toward me.  "We think the Mob put Vic up to the murder of Lefty," he said.  "It’s possible that Vic was in the Mob himself, that he may have been skimming.  Or, it’s possible that the loan sharks, wanting to make Lefty an example of what happens when they’re not repaid, hired Vic to kill Lefty.  We’re checking all those possibilities right now with Metro."

 

More than a bit shell-shocked with the Chief’s account of Vic’s past and more than a bit astounded that a guy I knew pretty well could possibly be a murderer, I returned to my office after my coffee with the Chief and switched on my radio to the all-news station.  It was already reporting Vic’s arrest.  "Details are sketchy," the anchor reported. 

 

Details are always sketchy on all-news radio, at least until the afternoon editions of the newspaper comes out!

 

==================

Chapter 9

Ringing Sandra’s Bell

==================

 

The ramifications of Vic’s arrest were many, but one selfish thought that occurred to me early was that without a murder investigation into Lefty’s death, perhaps Sandra Emerson wouldn’t need a spy in the hotel to be on the lookout for this John-Boy fellow.  She had said in our meeting that John-Boy may or may not have had something to do with Lefty’s murder, but the timing of her request for that meeting, coming as it did only a week after Lefty was killed, seemed a bit fishy.  After all, if her investigation into John-Boy’s comings and goings didn’t have anything to do with Lefty’s murder, why hadn’t she recruited me over the past ten years, all of which I spent working at the Castle? Why now? Why me?

 

By Friday morning, I determined I had a legitimate excuse in Vic’s arrest to call or see Sandra.  I kicked around the apartment until 8 AM, two or three hours later than I would usually be there.  By then, I figured, I could call Sandra without waking her.  I dialed her apartment phone, but nobody answered.  In the silence of the morning, I could actually hear her telephone ringing through the walls of our building. 

 

Sandra’s car wasn’t in her usual parking spot when I got into Miss Nomer and headed for work.  For a moment, I jealously considered the possibility that she had spent the night at someone’s house, specifically a man’s.  But no, she probably had gone to work early, I insisted to myself.  I’d call her from my office. 

 

"FBI ...  This is agent Williams." His voice was crisp, businesslike. 

 

"Hi, I’m wondering if agent Emerson is there?" I tried to make my voice sound as crisp and businesslike, but it just wasn’t!

 

"Who’s calling?"

 

"James Chance, of the Vegas Castle Hotel." I got a kick out of my "Slim" nickname, but when calling someone on business I always used my given name. 

 

After a long pause – without even a "please hold" – agent Williams came back on the phone.  "I’ll have to take your number.  She’s not around."

 

That sounded contrived, especially given the long pause.  I mean, she was either there or not there.   The FBI bureau couldn’t be so large as to require a check of 25 offices, a telephone page, a thorough search of hundreds of square miles, a mounting of an air-sea search and rescue squadron, and the gathering and dispatch of a posse.  Yet, the long pause was indeed long.   Too long.  Or, maybe I was being too suspicious. 

 

I gave the hotel number and my home number, just in case.  I had a feeling Sandra wasn’t going to call me back right away.  I had a feeling I was a low-priority with her now that Vic Milton had been arrested.  I also had a feeling that Sandra was right there in the cozy confines of the FBI Las Vegas Bureau, and that she told agent Williams that she didn't want to be bothered talking to me now, that I couldn't help any more, and to take a message.  Fat people are used to the brush-off.  Thanks, Sandra, it was fun!

 

I waited all day Friday for Sandra to call me back, but she never did. 

 

 

 

"Oh, shit.  Who's that?" I asked nobody in particular and certainly not Elaine Chase.  You're in the tub with a hot bath, the phone rings; you're in the sack with a hot woman, the doorbell rings.  To Elaine, I said, "Stay right here.  Whoever it is, I'll get rid of him."

 

I got out of bed, grabbed my bathrobe from its usual resting place over the bedroom door, and yelled – a bit prematurely – "I'm coming!”

 

As I reached the door, I tugged the terrycloth belt around my robe and tied it into a bow knot.  I noticed the clock on the wall over my dinette set said 1:05.  Who the hell would be ringing my door at this time of night on a Saturday?

 

I opened the door a crack.  Shit!   It was Sandra!

 

Agent Emerson!  And, oh, was she beautiful!  For a moment, I forgot about Elaine and the wonderful sex I was about to experience. 

 

"Hi, Sandra.  What brings you?" I instinctively held the bow of my bathrobe belt.  These one-size-fits-all robes have a habit of not fitting chubboes. 

 

"You called my office yesterday, when I was out of town.  I wanted to talk with you, so here I am.  Can I come in?" she asked. 

 

"Yes.  Uh, no!" Christ, I had a girl in my bed. 

 

"Couldn't I call you back, say in the morning? I've got company now, Sandra." In an instant, I had decided my course of action.  I would get rid of Elaine in a hurry in the morning.  There was no emotional involvement with her, only physical.  With Sandra, on the other hand ... 

 

"I'll ring your bell, first thing, I promise.” I was whispering, and I noticed Sandra's eyes went past me looking into my apartment.  Why was I feeling a feeling of guilt? I was single, and it's my right to have a girl in my apartment with me, if I should so choose? What did I owe Sandra, anyway? She never even allowed me a date!

 

"Okay," she said.  "I'll see you at my place in the morning, Slim.”

 

I went back to my bedroom, where Elaine was sitting up in bed, the sheet and blanket over her legs covering her luscious lap but leaving her considerable breasts in the open. 

 

"What's goIng on?" She asked. 

 

"You didn't hear the conversation?" I asked in return.  I had planned to lie to her, but I wanted to see if I'd be caught in the lie. 

 

“No, who was it?"

 

“Uh, you heard that we had an arrest Thursday in the casino, an arrest for the murder of Lefty Needham, the guy who owned the place?"

 

"So?"

 

This wasn't going to be easy!

 

“So, that was the police.  They want to talk to me about the case.  Uh, they wanted to talk with me now, but I put them off until the morning.  I gotta go down to police headquarters then."

 

"What the hell can be so important that they want to talk to you at 1 o'clock – on a Saturday night? And, anyway, if that was the police, why didn't they talk to you here? Why go downtown tomorrow, if they're already at your door to talk tonight?" Elaine was smart if nothing else.  So, I appealed to her common sense. 

 

"Elaine, I told the cop I had company.  I winked.  He understood.  He said OK.  So, first thing, I gotta go downtown tomorrow.  So, forgive me, but you've gotta get up early.  Okay? Now, why don't we both get some sleep?  I'll drive you home in the morning.”

 

“Thanks, Slim.  You're a real gentleman!" She was pissed.  She obviously wasn't buying my routine. 

 

In the morning, we dressed in silence, and I drove her home, pretending that I would be going to the police station from there.  Instead, of course, I headed back to the apartment house.  Now, it was my turn to ring Sandra's bell.  Or, so I hoped. 

 

"Hello, Sandra."

 

"Hi, Slim, c'mon in." Sandra was already dressed in the same type of clothes she was wearing when I saw her at the Mint, a skirt, a blouse, a jacket.  She ushered me into her apartment.  It was the first time I had been there, and a quick glance around left me unimpressed.  The room was adequately, but not ostentatiously furnished.  The dominant color – the rug and the sofa both exhibited it – was beige. 

 

I found myself, once again, apologizing for "having company" when she rang my condo doorbell. 

 

"Oh, really, Slim, you don't have to apologize to me for that.  It is your place, after all."

 

"Yeh." That's all I could add to that!

 

"I wanted to talk with you about Vic Milton's arrest."

 

She got right to the point, her point. 

 

"Yeh, poor Vic, I guess that about wraps the case," I volunteered, hoping against hope she would contradict me.  

 

To my surprise, she almost did.  "In a way, Slim, it wraps it up from Metro's point of Vicw, but I'd appreciate your continued assistance.  The Bureau still has some loose ends to tie up.   By the way, have you seen our man?"

 

This was an interesting question.  I thought Vic's arrest would have rendered moot the question of another suspect.  But, I guess I was wrong. 

 

"Are you saying," I asked, "that Vic may not have killed Lefty? Do they have the wrong guy? Is this guy with the mole the killer?"

 

"Hold on, Slim.  I'm not saying any of that.  I'm simply saying that there's more to the case than just who killed Lefty.  And I'm asking you as a friend and as a citizen to continue to give us a hand with our investigation. 

 

"Sure, Sandy, you don't have to resort to my citizenship.  I'm delighted to help.  Why didn't you want to talk with me on the phone Friday?"

 

"What do you mean?" She put on her most innocent face for that question. 

 

“The agent who answered the phone, a guy named Williams, obviously was acting on your say-so.  I mean, it doesn't normally take so long to tell a caller that someone is either in or isn't in.  Does it?"

 

"I was out of town, Slim, in Reno.  Perhaps Williams didn't know that, and he was checking.  Bureau business is keeping me quite busy, and anyway," she added, “as I told you from the start, I'd rather talk to you here in this building, where we both have some privacy, rather than at the hotel, at the FBI office, or even on the phone."

 

“OK, Sandy, but I’m really confused now.  I t sounds like you’re saying that Vic Milton did have something to do with Lefty Needham’s murder, but that there’s also more to this case than just simply who killed Lefty Needham? Can’t you tell me anything more? And what about poor Vic? Did he kill Lefty.  and if not, why isn’t the FBI doing something about his being in jail?"

 

"Please, Slim, trust me.  Just stay out of things, at least until I give you the word.  Vic Milton’s being in jail doesn’t hurt anyone right now, and, without getting into specifics, it may serve to cause our friend with a mole to become a little more visible.  Please just keep your eye out for him.  And, please Slim.  don’t tell anyone about what you and I are talking about.  OK?"

 

I said OK, knowing full well that my enlisting of Harry had been a no-no.  But as Harry was fond of saying, "Hear no evi1…"

 

"Now," she said, "I think you better go."

 

"Why?"

 

"For one reason, you’re a man, and I’m a woman, and you’re in my place on reasons other than our being of the opposite sex.”

 

"But, I could argue," which I was doing, "that I should stay.  because I’m a man, and you’re a woman.  Remember, I sent my company home early this morning, because you were inviting me into your place."

 

"Slim, you’re cute.  But, honestly, I’ve had a tough week, and this is Sunday.  I really have lots to do.  It’s my first day off in two weeks, and there’s laundry, housecleaning, and everything.  You understand, don’t you?"

 

Every time a woman puts it on that basis – you understand, don’t you – I know it’s time to go.  So, we said goodbye.  It had been one visit with Sandra I really hadn’t expected.  Nor had I expected it to go the way it did.   I too had had a tough week.  My friend Vic had been arrested.  Some guy with a mole who may be a killer was still hanging around the hotel.  My sexpot Elaine was pissed at me because I threw her out.  And the girl of my dreams, my Sandra, was interested in me only for what I could do to help her with some kind of investigation she’s running.  And what kind? She won’t tell me!

 

Slim, you’re a twit! You let people use you! You get the stick end of the lollipop every time! You strike out more times than the entire Cleveland Indians do during the regular season.  Georgia Susan Alcott Chance was right.  You were, and are, a failure.  And soon, you’re going to be a failure who’s out of a job!

 

-end, Chapter 9-