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

Chapters 10-14...

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Chapter 10

“You Please to be Careful, Mister!”

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It had been three weeks since Lefty's murder and five days since The Stick had been arrested.  The murder, the arrest, the imminent closing of the hotel, and the two women in my life were all very much on my mind.  It was getting to be too much to handle. 

Two days after I kicked her out of my apartment into the early morning haze, I patched up things with Elaine.  I surprised her with a call and an invite to see a special dress rehearsal of the Siegfried and Roy show that was scheduled to play at the soon-to-open Mirage Hotel, Steve Wynn’s $360 million mega-resort.  I had seen the show years ago, when the two magicians played the Frontier, and I had forgotten how terrific a Las Vegas show could be.  Elaine, though she barely talked during our date, did say that she loved the show, and that because of my kindness, I was now "forgiven" for my transgression of a few days before.  She backed up her forgiving words with deeds, or shall we say misdeeds, later that night. 

Vic was still in jail, unable to post a bail that had been set at $1 million.  I was confused.  On the one hand, Vic was my good friend.  On the other, he was accused of killing my best friend and boss.  The police seemed to have a good case against him, but I was privy to information, through Sandra, that would indicate – at least to me – that he may have been innocent.  I visited Vic once during this period, but the sadness surrounding him was so intense that I vowed to myself that I wouldn't go back.  I walked out of the Clark County Jail visiting room, and his words echoed in my mind: "Somebody's framing me, Slim!  Somebody's framing me!”

I wanted to do something for Vic, but I had no proof as to who killed Lefty.  And the guy in the picture that Sandra showed me was merely a guy in a picture.  I didn't know who he was, and I didn't have any real evidence to bring to the authorities to help Vic.  All I had was Sandra saying that my help was needed and that I shouldn't jump to conclusions about Lefty's murder. 

She said that Lefty was probably killed by the Mob.  So, what if this guy in the picture, John-Boy, were really Lefty's killer?  If you put the logical conclusion to this line of reasoning, a killer, Lefty's killer, a Mobster, was still hanging around the Castle. 

Or was the logical conclusion that this Mobster killer with a mole on his face was hanging around the Castle looking to kill someone else? 

And, given that set of likelihoods, wasn't the ultimate logical conclusion that I was risking my life?  Yes, but for what?  For whom? 

I'm not the hero type, you may have noticed, and in the days that followed Vic's arrest and my second session with Sandra, my dream of helping Sandra, or ingratiating myself to her, as the case may be, faded.  Every corner I turned at the hotel could have been the corner around which John-Boy waited.  With a gun.  With a knife.  With a bomb.  With my name on his lips: “Chance, you fat pig!   Here’s what I think of you FBI slobs!”  Bang!   Or boom!  Or… or what’s the sound of a knife slashing through a chubby stomach, liver, and assorted guts?   I didn’t want to think about it, but I couldn’t think of much else. 

Squish!  Isn’t that it? 

I started eating a lot more than usual, and that was a lot.  I remember when I was having that trouble with Georgia, before our divorce, I gave up thinking about how fat I had become.  In fact, I gave up caring about everything.  I adopted an apathetic depression that seemingly had no cure, except in eating, and eating was only a temporary salve.  I was now experiencing that same uneasiness again.  What did the future hold for me?  What future?  I was going to be unemployed.  I was going to be shot, or blown up, or stabbed to death.  There was no future for me. 

The feeling led me to the refrigerator, to the potato chip shelf in the supermarket, to the gourmet ice cream store in the mall.  Everything depressed me, including the fact that I was eating more.  That depressed me most of all. 

It was a Tuesday, another hot July day, and at about 4:15PM on that Tuesday, I nearly died.  Right there in the hotel elevator.  I wasn’t, as I had feared I would be, shot, nor was I stabbed.  I wasn't strangled.  I didn't have a sudden heart attack.  But I did bump into the guy with the mole.  John-Boy.   I bumped into him.   Literally.   And, I nearly died.  The notorious – God only knows why – John-Boy! 

I had been in my office, and Harry had called me downstairs.  Actually, one of the other dealers made the call – Harry doesn't do phones – and said that Harry wanted to speak with me in the casino, as quickly as possible, that I should hurry.  He wanted to show me something, before it was too late. 

So, I ran to the elevator, and even before I pushed the down button, the door opened.  A passenger withdrew, and I got in, accidentally bumping someone already in the elevator.   Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed he was a blond guy with a suit.   He had been standing in the elevator, off to one side, and when I got in, I, in my haste to get downstairs to see Harry, I more than brushed him; I bumped him rather hard.  He was one of two men on the elevator; the other was a huge hulk of a man. 

"You please to be careful, mister,” the guy I bumped said to me.   I remember thinking that, whoever this guy was, he had an accent that made him sound like Boris Badenov on the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. 

"I'm sorry, sir," I said barely looking at him, "I was in a hurry." Politeness was always my credo, especially since the hotel made us wear these stupid ID badges from which anyone could identify – and report us. 

The elevator wasn't going down, as I, for some reason, expected and would have liked.  It was going up, and up, and up.  This was the express elevator to the Towers section of the hotel, the top three floors of the hotel that were specially set aside for high rollers, special guests, and for those willing to pay about double what the average room cost.  The express elevators stopped only at floors 12, 14, and 15, there being no 13.  They also stopped on the hotel's third floor, where the health club was located, on the second where the ballrooms and our executive offices are, and, naturally, at the lobby-casino level. 

I was going up.  Oh, what the hell, there was nothing to do but go along for the ride.  Coming back down wouldn't take too long on the express elevator, and I'd see what was up with Harry in just a minute or two.  I began eyeing my fellow passengers, absent-mindedly, like you do, like anyone does, in an elevator.  And it didn't take me any time before I saw the mole on the face of the blond guy in the suit, the guy I bumped into, the guy with the accent. 

Then it dawned!  It was John-Boy!  Shit!  The one in the picture!  The one who may have killed Lefty!  The one who may be looking to kill whomever was working with the FBI!  The one who may be looking to kill me!  Shit! 

And this other one.  Big!  Mean!  I've seen tamer-looking rhinos, and better-looking ones! 

Moments after I “made” them – hanging around with the Chief will teach you language like that – they got off the elevator.  On the 14th floor.  Or to be precise, the 13th, which was numbered the 14th.  I had controlled my fear until then, but as they departed, I started trembling.  Eventually – it seemed like forever – I reached the casino floor and drew a deep breath of relief. 

I hurried over to the pit, where I knew I would find Harry.  And sure enough, he told me that he had summoned me because he had seen John-Boy.  He and his partner, the big guy, had just walked through the casino.  The big guy wanted to play a slot machine, Harry said, but John-Boy had said no and had pulled him away from a quarter slot machine. 

“He didn't exactly say 'no,' Slim.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

“I read his lips.  He actually said, 'Vee haven't enough money, stupid!'   Is this guy supposed to have an accent, Slim?” Harry was clever enough and a good enough lip reader to be able to detect an accent even without being able to hear it.  I told you that Harry was amazing, didn't I? 

“Yeh, I bumped into the two of them on the elevator, on my way down here.  And yeh, the one with a mole on his face has an accent thick enough to cut caviar with, not that you can actually cut caviar.”

I thanked Harry for his attention to detail, asked him to continue watchIng, and to let me know should John-Boy or his big, silent, and in the words of John-Boy, stupid, partner show up again.  I went back to my office. 

I considered, for a moment, calling Sandra at the FBI office.  But, here was an opportunity for me to prove something to her, and to myself.  Before calling her, I would attempt to find out a little more about John-Boy and his friend.  I’d show Sandra I wasn’t the fool. 

Back in my office, I sprung into action.  On my desk was a computer that I rarely used.  It was connected to the front desk computer, which, in turn, was connected to the casino computer.  If you knew the right passwords, you could get the goods, so to speak, on any hotel guest, or on any credit player whose name the hotel had in its files. 

I punched in the front desk code, and the computer cycled into gear, or whatever computers do when they’re booted.  I decided I would call up every room on the 14th floor until I got to a suspicious-looking name or set of circumstances.  It wasn’t much to go on, but I had nothing else, except a lot of curiosity. 

Room 1400 was a suite, and typically for the Vegas Castle, it was empty.  Number 1401 was a couple, a husband and wife, from Kansas City.  He was a moderate high roller in the meat packing business, and I knew what he looked like.  On and on, until after a few minutes I came to room 1492.  The computer screen lighted up with what looked to me to be a red, no pun intended, flag.  Dmitri Zarofsky.  His roommate wasn't named on the registration card, but I was pretty sure that they weren't a couple of touring golf pros. 

The address they listed was a San Francisco location, 2790 Green Street.  They had come a long way not to play slot machines.  

Green Street was – I knew from having visited San Francisco – a downtown street rather than a residential one.  I figured the address had to be a business, rather than their home.  Of course, I didn't figure the two would be living together; they both looked old enough to have their own places. 

Neither of them had a casino credit line according to the computer.  I could have figured that from Harry's story about the slot machine.  There was some useful, or at least curious, information on the computer about Zarofsky – he had been at the hotel off and on, a few days at a time, since about six months ago.  He always paid the bill – room and food, never any bar bills – with cash.  His visits to Vegas seemed irregularly scheduled; he'd stay two or three days at a time, then maybe come back a couple of days later, maybe a week later, and on and on.  I was right.  These weren't touring golf pros.  And, they weren't gamblers, nor conventioneers on a once-a-year visit to the city.  So, what kind of business was bringing them back and forth to town? 

And what kind of work were they in to afford the Towers section of the Vegas Castle each time they came to town?  Unfortunately, the computer held no answer to those questions. 

I logged off the computer, more confused than when I logged in.  The only silver lining in this incident, I figured, was that now I had something to tell Sandra.  But, as I dialed the FBI phone number, I remembered how she said that she’d rather exchange information with me at the apartment house.  So, fine, I hung up before it started to ring – I would wait until at least that night before talking with her about John-Boy – or should I say Zarofsky. 

My plans for the night, however, were to change in a hurry.  Pinky was buzzing me on the intercom. 

“Slim, you have a call on line one, a woman named Elaine Chase.”

I looked at the phone.   Line 1 wasn’t even lighted.   Lines 2 and 3 were on hold, their lights flashing almost in unison.  “Pinky, do you mean, line 2, or line 3?   Come on!"

“Oh sorry, boss.   It’s the first one.  It’s gotta be line 2 for you.  Line 2.”  Was she asking or telling me? 

Pinky had guessed correctly this time.  Elaine was on line 2. 

“Slim?  Is that you?   This is Elaine.”

“Elaine?   To what do I owe this surprise?" This was the first time she had ever called me at the office. 

"Our date the other night was really a lot of fun for me, Slim.  To make up for it, I'd like to invite you to dinner tonight, at my place."

"Wow," I said, "this is an offer too good to refuse.  I'd love to come."

"You can do that afterward, Slim," was her answer, and a pretty good one, at that.  I was already becoming aroused.   But suddenly, my thoughts turned from sex and food to murder and intrigue.  It occurred to me that Elaine could be of some assistance with this Zarofsky character. 

"Say, Elaine, would you help me out with something, before tonight, if possible'?"

"What can I do'?"

"I need some information on a couple of guys who've been in the hotel recently.  They, uh, may be involved in some of the things that have been happening here lately."

"Like what, the murder'?"

"No, nothing like that.  But, they may be involved in a scam of one sort or another.  Would you help me?"

"I'd be delighted to help you, Slim, but if you need information on a couple of men, what can I do about that?"

"You're a librarian, right?"

"Yes.”

"Do all cities have directories and even reverse directories, like they did when I was a reporter?"

"I guess so," she said haltingly. 

"Can you get your hands on a directory for San Francisco?"

She thought for a moment.  Then: "The university library has a city directory for some of the large cities.  But, Slim, you're making me curious.  Can you tell me a little more about what's going on – who are these two men, for starters, and why are you asking about them?"

That sounded familiar.  Hadn't I said something similar to Sandra a couple of weeks before? 

Elaine was being a tough customer.  So, I decided to make up a story for her. 

"We've had a slot machine cheating ring lately at the Castle," I said.  "Somebody's been ripping off the quarter machines by putting slugs in them.  There's two guys who seem to stay at the hotel every time the slugs are found, and they're from San Francisco.  I only have a name for one of them.  But I also have his street address, either for his home, or more likely, considering it's a downtown street, it's probably his business address."

Elaine was pensive for a moment after that, obviously digesting my story.  Finally, "So, why isn't hotel security investigating this, or the police?"

Shit, a good question.  I stalled to think of a good answer.  "That's a good question.  I can't tell you why I'm involved.  You know how these security things are, Elaine.”

In her lack of familiarity with hotels and the world of gaming, she bought that, and agreed to look up information on my friend Zarofsky.  I gave Elaine the San Francisco address Zarofsky and his pal were using at the Castle, 2790 Green Street. 

"And, Elaine, could you look it up this afternoon, and maybe tell me what you can about these guys tonight?   I’ll make it up to you, I promise!  "

Elaine agreed to help, and we both agreed I’d be over her house at 7:30 for dinner. 

I was using Elaine again, and I wasn’t proud of myself, especially since I was using her to help me out with another woman.  On the other hand, Elaine made no bones about using me for sex.  At least, that’s the way things had been.  Our date the week before may have changed our relationship in Elaine’s mind, however.  I’d have to play it more carefully with her from now on.  The last thing I wanted was to hurt her again.  As I sat there mulling over what had happened, the phone rang again.  Mr. B was back in our casino, and he was starting to win big again.  The Seventh Cavalry, under the command of General James Michael – call me "Slim" – Chance, would have to ride to the rescue once again.  Saddle up!  

 

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Chapter 11

The Dream Merchants Cometh

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I’m told that in Spanish, the words "las vegas" means "the meadows."  A spring-fed creek once flowed across this valley, watering a natural meadow of nearly 100 acres. 

Water from that spring gave bloom to an oasis in the desert, and the oasis became an important stop on a pack trail that linked New Mexico and California.  The first American explorers came into the valley in 1826 and were met by nomadic Southern Paiute Indians.   The valley was finally settled early in 1855 when the Mormon Church sent a mission to Las Vegas to establish a halfway station for travelers between the Pacific Coast and Salt Lake City.  Las Vegas had the only reliable water supply within 75 miles along the Mormon Trail, so a stop there was an absolute must for Mormon teamsters. 

In the next century, three events were to change Las Vegas forever, from a sleepy 1930's desert town – a dusty rail spur for the San Pedro, Los Angeles, and Salt Lake Railroad – to one of the world's best-known resort cities. 

The first of these events was on March 19, 1931, when Governor Fred B. Balzar signed Assembly Bill 98, legalizing gambling in the Silver State.  Gambling had been legal once before in Nevada, from 1869 to 1909, during the state's mining boom. 

The second momentous event in modern Nevada's history was less than a year later, April 20, 1932, when construction began on Boulder now officially, Hoover – Dam.  Within weeks, thousands of construction workers had arrived in Southern Nevada.   And, while Gov. Balzar had made gambling legal throughout Nevada, the Federal government, which operated the construction tent camps at Boulder, prohibited gambling within its jurisdiction.  In fact, Boulder City still prohibits gambling.

With Boulder Dam construction workers numbering in those years as many as 5218 men, earning a gross monthly payroll of more than $750,000, they needed a place nearby for rest and relaxation.  The brothels, saloons, and gaming tables of Las Vegas were the inevitable answers.  And so the city and its legend were born and nurtured. 

Slowly during the 1930’s and through the war years of the 40’s, Las Vegas grew along Fremont Street, in what is known as the downtown district today.  

Finally in the 1950’s came the third momentous event in Las Vegas history, the coming to town of the most important people it has ever known – the PR men, the Las Vegas dream merchants. 

Now, some will argue with me over my calling them the most important people the town has ever known, but think about it for a minute ...  This is a town built on dreams, a fantasy village.  And for it to have grown, for the people to have continued coming, the word about Las Vegas needed to be spread – the word that a city exists in the desert that can mean fame and fortune for someone – anyone – a city where anything is possible, where paupers can become princes overnight, where anything goes, where fantasy rules. 

Without PR men doing their job – and it was always "men" until just recently – Las Vegas' allure would have been known by only a few in the cities of California and the West in general.  If not for PR, Bugsy Siegel wouldn't have invested his ill-gotten millions into building a hotel on a desert strip in the middle of nowhere.  Howard Hughes wouldn't have invested his billions.  And countless others wouldn't have ventured into the desert heat in search of their fortune, if not fame.  Thank – or blame – PR and those hearty PR men who pioneered this town.  They're the ones responsible for the name and attraction that is Las Vegas!  They were the most important people to have come to Las Vegas! 

There was no question – at least in my mind – that the PR man for the Vegas Castle was that institution's most important person at this moment in time.  He – read that "I" – earlier in the week had rescued the Castle from Mr. B, at least for the time being.  But now, Mr. B was back in our casino.  He had won another $50,000 at craps.  His total win from our place on this trip was now about $150,000, and he was still winning. 

I hurried downstairs, taking the stairs this time not eager to run into my newfound friends, nor interested in riding the wrong direction to our top floors. 

There was Mr. B, again, in his usual spot, at his usual craps table.  He stood near the back corner of the table, as close to the pit as players can stand.  He, and a lot of the better craps players, normally stand in the back corner of the table, so that, when the table is cold, the player can bet the "don’t come" line, in effect, betting against the shooter.  The place to set down your "don’t come" money is only accessible from the corner position at the table. 

Mr. B rarely bet the "don’t" line, but he, like most smart high rollers, liked the security of being near it. 

As I approached the table, I witnessed a scene not unlike earlier in the week, except that Mr. B had attracted a number of other bettors around him, who were, like he, cleaning up, as point after point, pass after pass was being made. 

I stood behind the bettors, as there was no room for me at the rail.  Just getting into the second tier of people crowded around the table was tricky enough, such was the crowd. 

After a few minutes, Mr. B saw me.   “Hi, Slim!   Howya doin’?"

"Not as well as you are,  Mr. B."

"Yeh, and today, Slim, you’re not going to get me away from this table.  I lost a bundle at Caesars the other night, you know.”

No, I didn’t know, but knowing it told me that my job today in dragging Mr. B away was going to be a lot tougher than it was the last time. 

In fact, I couldn’t do anything without being obnoxious or, perhaps, alienating him.  And even though he was winning this time, the odds, over the long run, remain with the house, and there’s no sense in alienating your joint’s highest roller. 

So, on and on Mr. B’s lucky streak went, and what was particularly annoying was that the table, now filled with bettors, continued to win with him.  By the time it was over, this streak of his, Mr. B had won about $75,000, and the table’s other bettors had collectively collected more than $25,000 for themselves. 

I walked to the cage with Mr. B, he to cash in his chips, I to get a fix on his plans.  If he continued to play and continued to win the way he was, the Vegas Castle would go broke.  Plain and simple!  We wouldn’t even have the 15 days left on our make-it-or-break-it deadline. 

"Is there anything the hotel can do to make you more comfortable, Mr. B?" I asked, hoping he’d ask me to take him to the airport. 

"Nah, thanks, Slim.  I'm going up to my room to take a nap.  I'll see you later."

With that, we parted, he to his nap, I to get ready for my date with Elaine. 

 

“Slim, why would Russians be ripping off slot machines at the Vegas Castle?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Elaine took my jacket and hung it in a closet near her front door.  Her words, the first she uttered when I had arrived, weren't making sense. 

“Didn’t you tell me that those two guys from San Francisco were involved in some slot machine cheating ring? Isn't that what you said?"

"Yeh.  But, Elaine, what the hell are you talking about? Which Russians? Where do Russians come into this?  The address you gave me to check out, Slim.  You said it was their address.”

"Yes."

"You said they lived at 2790 Green Street, in San Francisco, didn’t you, 2790 Green Street?"

"If that was the address I gave you, then that was the address!” This wasn't getting any clearer for me, and I may have raised my voice a little. 

"Slim, that’s what I’m saying.  I checked the address, and 2790 Green Street is the Russian consulate, the Soviet consulate."

That didn’t register the first time.  The Russian consulate.  It didn’t register the second time, either.   The Soviet consulate.

"Elaine, you must have made a mistake.  Tell me what you did.”

"Slim, I did what you asked me to do.  I know how to use a city directory, and first thing after we talked, I looked in the UNLV library’s copy of the San Francisco city directory.  Whatever you’re into with these two guys, this Zarofsky and the other guy, whatever they’re doing at the hotel, whether it’s breaking into slot machines or whatever, they’re using the Soviet consulate as their address.  Say, can’t you tell me the truth? They’re not slot bandits, are they, Slim?"

“I don’t know, Elaine.”  At last, I was telling her the truth.  "I don’t know.  Honestly, I don’t."

If Zarofsky and his friend were indeed Russians, then the FBI’s interest in them made much more sense.   But, what were they doing in Vegas, and what in the world were they doing in the Vegas Castle Hotel?

Were they spies? But what did the Vegas Castle have that was worth spying on?

Throughout dinner, Elaine questioned me, and I evaded each question. 

After dinner, and after a 50-minute toss in Elaine's king bed, during which her Lhasa Apso parked next to us and stared, and as we lay there in the darkness of her bedroom, hip-to-hip facing the ceiling, each of us holding a lighted cigarette, she – Elaine, not the Lhasa – asked me, or I guess, told me: "There's something really wrong, right?"

I hesitated a moment, considering my answer, then phrasing it in my mind.  "There's an awful lot going on in my mind and my life, Elaine.  You really don't want me to get into it with you, do you?"  It seemed I could properly extricate myself from having to explain anything to her by using her technique, the statement and the question. 

"I was angry at you a whole week, you know."

"No I didn't know.  Why were you angry." I flicked my cigarette into an ashtray sitting atop my stomach.  Both of us looked straight up at the ceiling as we talked. 

"That business last week, when that policeman came to the door ...  that sounded pretty fishy.”

"But, I didn't make up the arrest at the Vegas Castle, or the murder of Lefty Needham.  Christ, Elaine, that's all been in the papers.  It couldn't be more true.  If anything can make sense in a situation like this, a cop coming to my door to ask questions about a murder makes sense.   Perfect sense."

I paused for effect.  "And, didn't we settle this last week? We had a pretty good time at the Mirage last Saturday, didn't we?”

Now, It was Elaine's turn to be quiet.  After a long moment, she changed her tack.  "Yes, Slim, we did, but I think you know that I'm selfish.  I need you, and I get the feeling you don't want to be with me any more.   You're using me, Slim, but I feel that you don't want to be with me anymore.  Is that it, Slim? Is there another woman? Do you want to break up with me?"

This time, I didn't hesitate with my answer.  "Whoa, Elaine, first let's get something clear and out in the open.  I haven't had sex with anyone else but you, since you and I met." That was no lie; I was hardly a Casanova.  "And I don't want our relationship to end."  That was another truth, given the fact that I had nobody else in my life for recreation or for any other kind of sex. 

That seemed to placate Elaine for the moment, but I had the impression that while she knew I was being technically honest with her, I wasn't telling her the whole truth. 

What had been a simple relationship with Elaine was now becoming more difficult.  I was still attracted to her for the sex and only the sex, but pure sex was no longer the reason she was attracted to me.  We had struck a temporary truce again, but I wanted to get out of Elaine's clutches. 

I wanted to remove myself from an uncomfortable situation, to give myself breathing room, and I also wanted to mull over what I had learned about Zarofsky and friend.  And down deep, I knew I wanted to see Sandra that night, to tell her about what I had learned, to perhaps impress her with my enterprise. 

"I've got to go, Elaine." I stood next to the bed, gathering my clothes.  "I've got to get up early in the morning, and there's no sense bothering you at that hour."

"Really, Slim? Do you really have to go, or are you just making another excuse?

She had me there, but I put on my best innocent face. 

"No, really, I've got lots of things to do in the office.  I wouldn't lie to you." Ouch! 

I returned to my place, eager to knock on Sandra's door and to see her again.  It was only about 10 o'clock.  She'd still be up.   But once again, as I pulled into the parking lot next to the apartment house, I looked for Sandra's car, and it wasn't there.  I got upstairs to my place.  On the answering machine was a call from First Interstate Bank.  My VISA payment has not yet been received.  Could I call them?  Right! 

I sat on my couch pondering my next move. 

I decided to place a call to Sandra at her office.  If she's there, great!  If not, I can leave a message for her to call me at my apartment.  Maybe she would explain what was going on.   Maybe she’d level with me, given what I now knew.  Were these two men in Room 1492 Russian spies?  Was Lefty involved with the Russians?  Did they kill Lefty, and if so, why?  And if they did, why was the FBI allowing Vic Milton to remain in prison, charged with the crime?

“Sandra Emerson, please.  This is Mr. Chance, from the Vegas Castle.”   Once again, it was a man that answered the FBI phone, which is pretty jarring, especially in Las Vegas.  In this town, hardly any male executive would be caught dead taking a call without it first being screened by his “girl.” Sexism is alive and thriving in Las Vegas.    It was 1989, and Women’s Lib wasn’t even knocking yet at Las Vegas’ door! 

Then, suddenly, I heard Sandra’s voice.  “Slim, how’s my next-door neighbor? Are you calling about that drink you promised me?”

Now I was confused.  “What drink?” I asked. 

“I’d love one, Slim.”  I was sure I was hearing things. 

“How about the Peppermill? Say about 11 o’clock?”

And then, before I could even utter an appreciative “yes,” she hung up, leaving me with my mouth wide open.  Briefly, I considered that she might be moonlighting for First Interstate Bank and wants to talk to me about that VISA payment. 

I recovered my senses and placed the phone back on its carriage. 

Was I crazy, or was she pulling my leg? What the hell was that all about? For whose benefit was she saying all that? Did I black out somewhere along the line and forget something that happened between Sandra and me? Or was she going crazy from the pressures at work?

I looked at my watch.  I'd get my answers soon.  It was a little after 10 o'clock now.  I could use some answers. 

 

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Chapter 12

Half-High Heels – Huh?

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I had enough time to snap on the TV and watch a bit of the Red Sox playing on the TV game of the week.  They were still my favorite baseball team, just like the Celtics were in basketball.  Having come from a major league sports city like Boston, and living in a town where no major league teams existed, I remained loyal to “my” home teams. 

I graduated from Boston University In 1967, the year that the Red Sox were in the Series, and Yaz, the winner of the Triple Crown, was MVP.  It was also the year of “The Graduate," when Benjamin made it with Mrs. Robinson. 

I was the graduate that didn't make it with anyone that year.  I met Georgia Alcott in 1968, at a party.  We were married a few months later.  From the start, even before the wedding day, Georgia tried to reshape me in the image of what she thought I should be.  Reshaping me is hardly easy, as she discovered. 

When our marriage deteriorated from unpleasant to downright nasty, when every conversation between us ended in fights over her criticism of me, and when she finally refused to have sex with me, I called it quits and headed west, west to Las Vegas and its boom years. 

I had a $100 bet that the Sox would beat the A's that night.  The odds said the Sox were underdogs, by 6-5.  The bookies had it right this time.  The Sox were losing 7-0 in the eighth inning, and that meant I was about to lose a C-note I could ill-afford losing. 

Although it wasn’t working in my favor this particular night, one of the things I like most about living in Las Vegas is the legal sports betting.  During the winter, I’ll often bet a couple of hundred a weekend on NFL games, and hardly a week goes by during the basketball season when I haven't any action. 

Sentimentality, I learned early, has no place in sports gambling.  Proof of that would come were I to bet with the Red Sox, Celtics, Patriots, and Bruins on a consistent basis.  I'd probably lose consistently.  However, I still subscribe to the Boston Sunday papers by mail, and I can often pick up items about Boston teams that have a bearing on their game performance.  In this way, I have become a bit of a specialist in sports gambling.  I probably know the Boston teams a bit better than the average bettor and, I hope, a bit better than the average odds maker. 

The Sox were making what the announcer said was their fourth pitching change of the night.  I shut the TV.  Mind you, I wasn’t giving up.  True gamblers never do. 

I had gone straight from work to Elaine’s house and still had on my work clothes, white shirt, suit and tie, although I had been wearing considerably less for a half-hour at Elaine’s.  I found a pair of jeans and a sport shirt and put them on. 

Legal sports betting and dressing down for a date were two of the everyday differences that living in Las Vegas meant to someone like me, someone from a city back East, someone still relatively new in town. 

Otherwise, to most residents, living in Vegas is just like living in any other city in America. 

My family back in Boston, tourists in town for the week, talk show hosts, and probably even the Pope – they all want to know: what’s it like to live in Las Vegas? 

Oh, it can be fun.  Like once, Miss Nomer blew a muffler.  So, I took it down to Willie’s service station.  Great guy, that Willie.  Load of laughs.  He fixed my muffler for me.  Drove me to work too.  Then picked me up after work.  Charged me $165.  Great guy, that Willie!  Load of laughs.  What fun! 

Exciting.  Last weekend, the apartment house washroom was too crowded, so I did my laundry at Wash-Ington Self-Serve Laundry on Tropicana.  Whattatime! 

Glamorous.  A couple of weeks ago, I saw Robert Goulet shopping at Breuners Furniture.  I was looking for a couch to replace the one I salvaged from my divorce and brought west from Boston.  Bob and Slim, Goulet and Chance, we only shop at the best furniture stores! 

Tell the Pope.  Behind the glitter of Glitter Gulch and the chrome and glass of the Strip, nearly 700,000 relatively normal people live in about 250,000 household in the nation’s 80th largest city.  They send 100,000 kids to school, give birth to about 11,000 babies a year, sell about $15 billion worth of goods and services every 12 months, and are visited by about 18 million more people a year.  And here’s one for the Pope: Las Vegas has more churches per capita than any city in the world, including Rome! 

On the other hand, it’s said that Bugsy Siegel, a late Las Vegan who built the Flamingo, the Strip’s first hotel, used a rather strange mulch for the rose garden he had planted on the grounds of his gambling joint, when it opened in 1946.  It was planted shortly after several of Bugsy’s underworld friends had disappeared, never to be seen again. 

Las Vegas has 11 phone book yellow pages devoted to "wedding chapels" and 11 more pages for "entertainers" or girls who’ll come right to your home or hotel for private entertainment – of most any kind! 

And the daily newspaper has column after classified column of "personals." That would not be abnormal for any big city, were it not for the type of "personals" the Sun prints. 

"Dominique Seeks Obedient Men.  386-6276." "Aggressive and Arrogant.  735-5151."

“Call Anytime.   Mistress Natasha.  881-9987.”

I’ve never met Dominique, nor Natasha.  But, I’ve been a fan of theirs ever since I moved to town.  One of my passions, or should I admit, one of my fetishes, is reading the "personals." Not every day, mind you.  But, once in a while, with my coffee, I’ll drink in the offerings of the day, the offerings of the dailies.  Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but after so many years in Vegas, I still get a kick, and I still shake my head at the brazen character of these ads.  First, the idea of prostitution amazes me.  Next, the idea of selling it in a newspaper and putting your phone number there for all to see?  And finally, here comes the ex-journalist, how can a newspaper allow these kinds of ads?  Children read these papers too.  The Review-Journal stopped running personals like these.  But what about the Sun?   What kind of money-grubbing justifies acceptance by that paper of these ads? 

Who knows?  But they are fun to read. 

 

I shaved again and put on fresh after-shave lotion, the best I had in the house.  My drive back to the Strip to the Peppermill took only 10 minutes. 

The Peppermill is one of my favorite hangouts.  The lounge is dark and romantic.  At each low, circular table, a small flame burns from a watery base, probably oil of some kind.  The smoke, what little there is, rises into a funnel attached to a pipe that leads into a ceiling.  Fake but graceful palms and delicate but equally fake white – imagine that, white – trees add to the soothing atmosphere of the lounge, which itself is situated in the back of the Peppermill, separated from the often-busy restaurant whose windows look out at the always-busy Strip and at the Stardust Hotel directly across the street. 

I walked through the restaurant on my way to the lounge.  A group of VFW conventioneers and their wives were having dinner, their campaign hats bouncing on their heads as they chewed and talked. 

Sandra was there before I arrived, waiting in the reception area in front of the slot machines.  My heart bounced a little when I saw her.  She was wearing a gray skirt with a matching gray jacket, white blouse, and gray half-high heeled shoes.  I briefly wondered how FBI agents could chase bad guys in high heels. 

“Hi,” I said.   I put on my best smile. 

"C'mon, Slim, let's get that drink." Sandra was starting off, as usual, all business.  She barely acknowledged me, turned on her high heels, and headed toward the lounge.  I followed her, obedient puppy that I was.  Good boy, Slim!  Down, boy!  Good boy! 

She apparently wasn't one for small talk, at least not with me.  Almost as soon as we sat down, she asked me, "So, have you seen our man?"

"Wait a minute, Sandra.  Slow down a bit, will you?   Yes, I've seen 'our man.' But, don't you want to know how I am?  And I certainly want to know how you are."

"I'm sorry, Slim.  Of course!   It's just that this case, I should say these cases that I'm working on, they just take so much out of me.  They're all I can think of sometime. 

"And, I'm sorry about the rush on the phone before.    It's force of habit when someone calls the office on a case.  It's never a good idea to talk about specifics on the phone.  Not that the FBI phone is bugged.  No, don't worry about that.   But, you never know what phone a person is using to call us.”

She had apparently anticipated my first question before I had even asked it. 

A long-legged waitress wearing a black dress with a deep-plunging neckline took our drink orders. 

"And anyway,” Sandra continued when the waitress left, “I was looking forward to seeing you again.   I thought it would be nice to have a drink with you, Slim."

I took a deep breath.   Then, suddenly, she turned all business again.  "So, have you seen our man?”

So, if it's business she wanted, I'd give her business. 

"Yes, I've seen our man – Zarofsky!"

I figured that would impress her, and I figured right.  She hesitated, as if trying to remember if she had ever mentioned Zarofsky's name to me.   Then: "How do you know his name?”

Here was my chance to press my bet.  “Was I right, Sandra?  It is Zarofsky, isn't it?  And he's from San Francisco, right?”

“Slim, wait just a minute.   Tell me everything you know, and while you're at it, tell me how you know what you know.   Don't you realize that you could be in real danger?  I should never have involved you.”

I must have gone too far in impressing her.  She appeared quite alarmed, so I leveled with her in a hurry.    I told her the story, about Harry, about my bumping into John-Boy in the elevator, going up with him to the 14th floor, and about my computer investigation.  It all seemed to assuage her, except for the part about Harry. 

“Slim, I asked you not to involve anyone else in this.   You shouldn't have enlisted that dealer's help.  The fewer people who know about this, the better for everyone.”

I agreed with her, but I reassured her that investigating the possibility of spotting John-Boy from the Eye and finding that to be impossible, that I needed Harry's help and that absolutely nobody else would be involved.  I emphasized that Harry would not be in danger of being discovered.  “That was why I asked him for help,” I said, putting the emphasis on “him.” 

“Harry belongs in the casino.  That's where he works.  Nobody would suspect him of being another pair of eyes for me, or for the FBI.    "And, Sandra," I added, "there's one other thing about Zarofsky that I know.”

Sandra leaned closer.  "What, Slim?"

"I know he's from the Soviet consulate in San Francisco." I didn't want to tell her how I knew; that wasn't important, and she didn't have to know about Elaine.  It was bad enough, apparently, that I had involved Harry.  "I looked up his address in the San Francisco city directory, and it turns out that he's with the consulate." A little white lie to protect Elaine – or was I protecting myself – seemed in order.  "I'm right, aren't I?"

"What else do you have, Slim?  Please tell me everything!”

"That's it, Sandra.  That's a lot, isn't it?  Now, Sandra, suppose you tell me what's really happening, why you're asking me to keep tabs on this guy.  And what is he doing in the Vegas Castle in the first place?  He's not gambling, that's pretty plain to see.  And if he's not gambling, what's he doing there?  And if he's in town for another purpose, what is it?   And what does he have to do with Lefty's murder?   Please.   Give me some answers."

Sandra was quiet for a moment.  Her head was motionless, while her eyes stared at mine.  I could have leaned over just then to kiss her, and I wanted to.   But, she shook her head, as if to say no to my thoughts of ardor.   "Slim, I shouldn't tell you anything more.  It's FBI business.  But if you promise, if you swear, not to do any more unauthorized snooping, I'll level with you as to why we asked for your help."

"Okay," I said. 

"Okay, you won't snoop any more than authorized?"

I was more curious than ever.  "Absolutely no more unauthorized snooping.  I promise."

"Okay, Slim.  Here's the story.   The FBI has always prohibited travel to Las Vegas, or for that matter to Nevada, by any Soviet citizens, diplomats included.  And the reason, as you may guess, is because of the large amount of secret defense work and the many secret projects at Nevada defense installations.  Even Las Vegas has been off limits, because the Test Site and Nellis Air Force Base are right outside of town.”

"So, what's Zarofsky doing here?" I interrupted.    “Isn't he a Soviet diplomat, what with his being with the Russian consulate and all?"

“I'm getting to the point, Slim.   Relax, will you?"

I sat forward in my chair.  I was finally being told something of substance.    But, Sandra was also rebuking me!   Easy, Slim!

Sandra continued: "Zarofsky is the Soviets' West Coast trade attaché.  He's in Las Vegas and has been in town on several occasions in recent months on a State Department-approved fact-finding mission for his country.  You're not going to believe this, Slim, but Zarofsky is researching the casino industry, because the Soviets, in order to help their emerging free-enterprise economy, want to set up casinos at hotels in several of their major cities.  I'm told that those cities include Moscow, Leningrad, Vladivostok, and a couple of the Black Sea resort cities."

She paused to take a sip of her whiskey sour. 

"Because the State Department doesn't want to upset the good relationship being built by the President with the Soviets, State specifically asked the FBI to permit Zarofsky's trip to Las Vegas, and while he's in town, that we not tail him or harass him in any way.  We were asked, in effect, to give him free rein.  And, we agreed, or at least the Attorney General agreed on our behalf and against FBI advice."

"So, Sandra," I interrupted, "where does that leave me?"

"It leaves you, Slim, as the loophole for the FBI.   You're the one doing the surveillance, not the FBI.  You’re the one keeping tabs on Zarofsky."

"And,” I countered,” Lefty Needham was the one who preceded me in keeping tabs on Zarofsky.  Right?"

"Right!”  Sandra had confirmed my suspicions, at least in regard to my having been recruited to take Lefty's place. 

"Did Zarofsky have anything to do with Lefty's murder?"

It was the same question I asked Sandra long before I knew Zarofsky's identity, when I had only seen his picture.  “Did Zarofsky kill Lefty?   Did he have Lefty killed?”

“No, Slim.  As far as the FBI knows, Lefty was killed by someone else.  It may have been the Mob.  It may have been Vic Milton.   But, it doesn't appear to have been done by Zarofsky.  For one thing, Zarofsky had left town a couple of days before Lefty's murder.  We can't be sure of anything, but right now it appears that Lefty's murder is unrelated to our surveillance of Dmitri Zarofsky, er, I mean, your surveillance.”

Sandra drew a breath.  “Look, Slim, I've already told you too much.  You're not being forced to help us, and you can quit anytime.  But, I'm asking you, as a friend, to please continue to keep an eye on Zarofsky, and report anything unusual to me.  He's a man not to be trusted.  I don't have any specific information, but I'm sure he's up to more than just casino fact-finding.  Please understand, I can't say anything more, even if I wanted to.”

On the word 'more,' even before she finished the sentence, she stood up.  "Thanks for the drink.  I've got to get back to the office.”   She hadn't even finished her whiskey sour. 

“Wait just a minute," I blustered.  “You haven't finished your drink.  Hey, come on, give a guy a break!  Stay put a while!”

“I’d love to spend more time with you, Slim.   But, some other time.  Really, I’ve got to go now.”

And she was gone.  And I was sitting there.  Confused, more than ever! 

I paid the check and, leaving my car at the Peppermill for the time being, I walked along the Strip toward the Castle.  It was dark now, and the Strip was awash in neon. 

I wish I had the money that one night’s worth of electricity for those lights cost.  It would probably be enough to pay my entire VISA bill. 

I walked behind a group of VFW members, as other vets and their wives passed me going the other way.  As I walked, I tried to make sense of what Sandra had told me. 

The VFW convention was filling the city.  The men in their quasi-uniforms, mostly veterans of World War II, looked like aging, rusting battleships.   Las Vegas, normally a city of hats and caps ranging from LA Dodger blue to ten-gallon Texas Stetsons, was now filled with VFW hats, campaign hats in a variety of service colors, from navy to khaki to gray.  Pins and badges were everywhere.  State names were written on hats and on the back of red vests worn by the vets.  "Coffeyville,” said one of the names on a vest.  That’s a town in Kansas, isn’t it?   And did every member of the VFW have a paunch? 

I don’t remember how long I walked.   I just walked. 

Post commanders from cities and towns across America strutted their stuff around me on the Strip.  This was big-time, coming to Las Vegas for a convention.  Las Vegas is that Disneyland for adults, a safety valve of sorts where one can do almost anything he can’t do at home.  Well, one can do a lot of anything at least. 

I walked on, almost oblivious to the conventioneers. 

All I could think of, as I passed hotel after hotel, VFW hat after hat, was Sandra.   I had screwed up again with her.   I went too far.   All she wanted me to do is to watch for John-Boy and to tell her if I saw him.   I had involved someone else in my assignment.   I had done a little digging on my own to find out Zarofsky’s name, address, and even his employer’s name. 

All I wanted to do was to impress Sandra.  But instead, I had worried her.  In a way, I had made progress with Sandra in one respect.   Her worrying about me seemed to be genuine.   That was a good sign.   Or was it? 

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

Chapter 13

Meet Z.  1492.  Thu.  2.

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

 

"Massage, Dancing, Sensual Pleasures.   In your hotel.   Debby.”   Maybe I'll call Debby. 

"Discreet and Elegant.  Delicious Fantasies.  Visa, MC, Amex.  Call Missy.”  Gee, I've got a MasterCard. 

My eye scanned the column, as my finger prepared to turn the page of the Sun, and my brain prepared to return to the news of the day just beginning.  Then, I saw it ... 

 

Meet Z.  1492.

Thu.  2.

 

It was a two-line ad.  The "Meet Z.  1492." part was on the top, "Thu 2." on the second line.  It wasn't your normal "personal.” And the “Z” and "1492" jumped out at me.   For the second time in three days, I nearly died of fright. 

Z.  Zarofsky.  1492.  Room 1492 of the Vegas Castle Hotel & Casino.   Meet Zarofsky in Room 1492 of the Vegas Castle on Thursday at 2 o'clock.   There was no question as to what I was looking at.  This was a message from Zarofsky, John-Boy, or Dmitri as it were, for someone to meet him in his hotel room.   They were to meet on Thursday – today!   The number 1492 was what tipped me and caught my eye.   Zarofsky's room number was – I had made a mental note – the year that Columbus discovered America. 

I must have stared at the ad for five minutes before my mind started functioning again. 

What should I do?  I could call Sandra.  But, all I had was a hunch.   Granted, it was a hunch of which I was sure.   But would she believe me?   Wouldn't she argue that I was playing boy detective, that I was too caught up in the chase, so much so, that I was imagining mysterious, coded messages placed in the personals? 

On the other hand, I had been clever enough to find out Zarofsky's name and even his address.  Now, armed with his plan for a meeting, I could do just what Sandra wanted me to do, to watch Zarofsky and report on his meetings with others.   Yeh, there was no reason to call Sandra, not yet, anyway.   I would simply be doing what I was asked to do.   Watch and report. 

I could give Sandra some more information at our apartment house tonight.   Not only would I have another reason to see her – in a more cozy setting than last night's – but, if I played my cards right, I could really impress her this time.  Who knows?  She might even be so impressed with my detective work, she'd be inclined to recommend me for a job with the FBI.   The way things were going with the Vegas Castle, it wouldn't be long before I'd be looking for a job. 

I dressed and went straight to the office.  Although I had the time to kill, I didn't take my morning drive to nowhere.   I was a man on a mission.   The Vegas Castle and America – and, most important, Sandra Emerson, needed my help. 

The casino was nearly empty when I arrived at the hotel.  It was 5:45AM.  The second floor offices were all dark; their doors closed, as I walked the corridor to the one marked Public Relations.   I opened it with my key, flicked on the light switch and threw my navy 46-regular sport jacket onto the oak coat rack that stood in front of my inner office.   I considered, only for a moment, leaving the inner office in darkness and catching a few more winks on the couch opposite my desk.   But, the "Meet Z" message and/or the two cups of coffee I had at home had stirred my adrenaline, and I knew I couldn't sleep, much less relax. 

I again considered the 2PM appointment.  I wanted to be there, even if it meant being an uninvited participant.  But without being seen myself, how was I going to see what was what and who was who? 

I needed a plan. 

I sat at my desk, switched on my clock radio and grabbed some papers from my "in" basket.  The announcer on KNUU, the all-news station, droned on about a Circle K robbery in North Las Vegas and some Arab terrorists reported to be somewhere in the US planning some terrible attack.  I tuned him out in my mind, and his voice became like audio wallpaper, there but not noticeable, heard but not listened to.   Before I knew it, Pinky had arrived at work.  I looked at my watch.  It was ten past nine. 

"Hi, boss!" The round "hi" that Pinky sounded still had a bit of New Jersey in it.  She had been a stripper in one of the Garden State's best joints, a Secaucus club, and when she married husband #1, a two-bit talent agent; he gave Pinky her first big break.   It was the only big break in show business she was ever to get and the only good turn from a man.   He signed her on as a legitimate dancer in New York's Copacabana Club. 

The one-time boss of the Copa, Jack Entratter, later came to Vegas to start the Copa Room at the Sands.  He needed dancers, and over the years, he summoned a few from his old haunt in New York – but not Pinky, whose husband was a friend of his. 

At about the same time, Pinky's marriage was in mid-disintegration, and she wanted out.  The husband wasn't about to give her the freedom she wanted, probably because he knew he'd never again have a woman of his own who was as beautiful.  Pinky was desperate.  Secretly, she made a deal with one of her chorus line buddies who was going west to Vegas – if Pinky could come along on the trip, she'd pay half of the friend’s expenses, and if the friend could get her a job at the Sands as a Copa girl in the new Copa Club, then Pinky would owe her the remainder of the expenses incurred on the trip.  The deal was struck.  Pinky got to Las Vegas and when she arrived, she convinced Entratter to let her work at the Sands as a Copa Girl. 

She danced there, divorced her husband long-distance, danced some at the Flamingo, bounced around a bit more, was married, married again, married again, and married again.  Then, she was married again.  Let's see, now.  That's five marrieds.   Add a couple more to the story ...  Then, after number seven didn't work out – probably because she forgot his name – Pinky got divorced for good, or so she says.  Along the way, she danced her way up and down the Strip, eventually finding her way into the Vegas Castle showroom chorus line.  When she became too old to hoof it any more, she stayed at the Castle, first as a cocktail waitress and then, probably because she knew how to make a good cup of coffee, as secretary to my legendary predecessor, Duke O’Callaghan. 

With Pinky, the rest is history – without question, a history of secretarial goof-ups unparalleled in clerical history.  Pinky cannot handle mechanics, electronics, communications tools, or computers without bringing havoc to bear.   I know.   You're thinking what earthly good can she do as a secretary?   Why do I keep her on?   How can my office function with a Pinky Dawson attached to it?   It can't; it doesn't!   But, there are more important things in life than a smooth-functioning office.  And anyway, if I were to let go of Pinky, where would she work? 

Look at her.   She's still beautiful in her late 40s; she's absolutely hopeless and harmless; she means well; she's about the best-hearted person you'll ever meet. 

"Everything OK, boss?"

And she always calls me "boss."  I kinda like that! 

"Got lots to do, Pinky."  In the three hours I had sat alone in my office, I had come up with an idea." You could be a big help to me by asking security for a floor plan of the 14th floor.   I need it for a newspaper story some reporter's doing on superstition in Las Vegas.   Seems they heard that our 13th floor is labeled number 14."

Pinky headed out.  A floor plan would get me started on my spy mission.  I was proud of myself.  The FBI would probably want to decorate me.   Sandra Emerson would probably do the honors.   Then, with any luck, I'd say thank you, as only I could.  

 

 

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

Chapter 14

The Place To Be?

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

 

 

Jan.  12, 1954 was a Monday, and it must have been a cold day in Las Vegas.  I know it was a Monday, and I assume it was a cold day.  I have a publicity picture in my office taken that day, and it shows four men in overcoats and hats.  Handwritten in ink on the bottom margin of the eight-by-ten is, "Monday, Jan.  12, 1954." The men are standing on a piece of Las Vegas desert holding shovels.  They're smiling, looking at the camera, and pretending to be digging into the rocky sand.  Behind them, sitting on metal legs about four feet off the ground is a billboard. –  You can read the sign quite clearly:

 

ON THIS SITE – THE FABULOUS VEGAS CASTLE HOTEL.

OPENING JANUARY, 1955!

Merrill Construction Co.

 

Thus are legends born!

 

The four men in the picture are all dead now.  They were the original owners of what was to be, a year later, Las Vegas' greatest resort to date.   Ed Carson, Matt Roberts, Carl Hudson, and Barney Weinstein looked decidedly out-of-place posing for the photographer. 

All of them looked like Mob, and all of them, except for Barney Weinstein, were Mob.   I'm not sure that, back then, "Mob" was the right term.   In any case, these were unsavory characters, and they looked it, Carson, Roberts, and Hudson coming indeed from the Chicago underworld, and Barney Weinstein, having emerged from the streets of the Bronx to become Gotham's premier nightclub operator.   Carson, Roberts, and Hudson, flushed with Mob money and Mob connections, were ready to build a new, "safe" haven for their confreres back home.   Weinstein, a visionary in the entertainment business, saw Las Vegas as the next show business frontier. 

Vegas was wide open in the mid-’50s.  It was a true lover of people back then, ready to embrace prince or pauper, saint or sinner, reverend or rogue.   But, the town of the meadows was especially attractive to the paupers, sinners, and rogues of the day.   Carson, Roberts, and Hudson would fit right in.   Weinstein had to make it on his talent. 

Of the four Vegas Castle developers, Weinstein was the moneyman as well as the entertainment genius, and shortly after the Castle opened, he had outmaneuvered his partners and had gained sole ownership of the hotel.   Perhaps "outmaneuvered" is the wrong word.   His three partners had big troubles with the boys back in Chicago.   Carson and Roberts sold their interests in the place to Weinstein during the first year of the Vegas Castle's existence, and then they hurried back to Chicago.  

Hudson, meanwhile, went for a ride into the desert one fine day and met with an unfortunate fate.  It seemed he got his hands tied behind him, got locked in the trunk of his Cadillac, and somehow got three bullets into his head.  The police were pretty sure it wasn't a suicide, but beyond that, they had no clues. 

Hudson’s wife of six months, the widow Mitzi, as it were, married Barney Weinstein a short time after the funeral, as coincidentally Weinstein had just been divorced.   She brought with her to Weinstein her late husband’s Chicago Mob ties and their protection in Vegas.   Apparently, she had been closer to the boys back home than Hudson was. 

It sounds like Wild West stuff, I know, but it’s history, and I’ve got the yellowed newspaper clippings and the old pictures to prove it. 

A few years ago, we were celebrating the hotel’s 30th birthday, and I talked Lefty into letting me build a "Walk of Fame" gallery along one wall of the casino, on the way into the showroom.  I lined the Walk of Fame with blown-up photographs from my publicity files, pictures of some of the stars to have played the Castle, pictures of Jimmy Durante, Sophie Tucker, and Eddie Cantor, among others.   I also had hung a number of shots of other famous individuals who had either stayed at the Castle or had visited there in its heyday.  These included Ernest Hemingway, Marilyn Monroe, Buster Keaton, and Ronald Reagan (who was performing at the time down the street at the New Frontier.   It was the only Las Vegas showroom appearance the would-be President would make. 

In nearly every picture, a smiling Barney Weinstein was there, greeting, bussing, hugging, shaking hands, playing every bit the gracious host he was.   Weinstein was a natural hotelier, a host extraordinaire, the greeter of greeters.  He was a fixture on my Hall of Fame easels, most often wearing a tux, most often with his arm around a star, or his cheek next to the cheek of a starlet. 

In later years after Barney died in 1975 of natural causes, Lefty Needham took his place on the bridge of our desert cruise ship and in the pictures, at the side of visiting dignitaries and Hollywood luminaries. 

Lefty and Barney were monuments hewn from the same Rushmore; they were bigger than life.  Barney had created a legendary place in the sun, to borrow the old Sands motto, and Lefty had continued the tradition in marvelous fashion, adding to the luster of the Castle and the lore of the Strip.   What Barney lacked, however, the raconteur's gift of gab, Lefty had in spades!   While Barney was reluctant to grant newspaper interviews and left his talking to his publicity guy, Duke O’Callaghan, Lefty sought out the visiting press and gave them interviews they'd certainly never forget and absolutely use in big stories on Vegas when they returned to their home cities and their newspapers' city rooms. 

Lefty developed close relationships with the big Hollywood and show biz columnists of the LA papers, Variety, the Hollywood Reporter, and even Billboard.   Lefty spoke in superlatives.   Everything to him was "the biggest," "the best," "fabulous," and the "most expensive."  And he practiced what he preached.   As mega-hotels began to sprout around the Vegas Castle, threatening to block its spotlight, Lefty would find a gimmick to out-gimmick the others.   He created one sensation after another, once setting up a "floating" craps games in the hotel pool, once importing a circus to entertain under a big-top tent he had constructed outside behind the casino, and once even converting the hotel ballroom into a boxing arena, where he staged some of Las Vegas’ earliest and most successful championship boxing matches. 

A staple of Vegas Castle fame was Lefty’s weekly schedule of fireworks displays.   Every Friday, precisely at 10PM – you could set your watch by it – a single percussion shell was fired into the night sky from a launching pad behind the Vegas Castle.   Its boom and brightness could be heard and seen from anywhere on the Strip.   For the next 20 minutes, Vegas visitors would be treated to an amazing display of pyrotechnics, easily as large as the average city’s annual Fourth of July fireworks.   And no wonder!   Lefty spared no expense on the fireworks, spending upwards of $20,000 to $30,000 every week on them.   With the crowds the Castle attracted every Friday night and with those that lingered into the wee hours and returned over the weekend to play in our casino, Lefty's pyrotechnics investment returned hundred-fold dividend bursts. 

Even in December, when business – especially in the week before Christmas – was slow, Vegas Castle weekends were always hopping.  The hotels next to ours likewise became flushed with our success, bathing in the overflow of our players and those who couldn't or didn't want to battle the crowds in our casino. 

Next door, the Eagle's Nest Hotel was literally built with the overflow money spilling from the Vegas Castle. 

The Castle became the “in” place, Las Vegas' most famous resort, or as Lefty's now-famous motto called it, “The Place To Be!"

 

An entire section of my Walk of Fame was devoted to Pat Andrea, then and now America's greatest singer-actor and, especially now, America's most vocal elder citizen-patriot.   From the day he first walked into the Castle in 1961, Andrea and his entourage made the hotel their home-away-from-home, their personal, private country club.  There, they partied, laughed, gambled, and gamboled. 

Most often when he was in town, Andrea was there to play the Castle's showroom, where he attracted throngs of fans.  Often, however, he would be simply visiting, those visits often coinciding with appearances on the Castle stage of friends of Pat Andrea, like Nat King Cole, Xavier Cugat, Benny Goodman, or Esther Williams.  (Actually, Esther Williams, renowned for her swimming movies, was the only Castle entertainer ever to headline the hotel's pool, a clever idea concocted by Barney Weinstein in 1965, near the end of her career.)

More than were even the fireworks, Pat Andrea was responsible for the Castle’s fame during the 60’s and 70’s.   More than the other stars, Pat Andrea was the attraction the crowds came for.   More than the gambling, more than the swimming and the golf, more than just about anything else, the crowds came to the Vegas Castle, because they knew it to be Pat Andrea’s place.   The entertainment world and the entertainment capital of the world had never seen a phenomenon like Pat Andrea before or since, and Las Vegas has never had a hotel like the Vegas Castle of the 60’s and 70’s.   "The Place To Be!" was certainly the place to be! 

Would it have continued into the late 70’s, this love affair between Andrea and the Castle, had Barney Weinstein lived and had Lefty Needham not taken over the hotel?   I don’t know.   The reasons for the falling-out that Andrea and Lefty had, about a year after Lefty had become the hotel’s owner, have always been shrouded in mystery.   Andrea once told a Hollywood columnist that it was "something that Lefty Needham had said" that caused the schism.   Lefty, who as I told you, counted many of the columnists among his confidantes, never said a word about the sudden and total detachment from one another he and Andrea had.   His friends in the press never pressed him, either, if you’ll excuse the pun. 

One day, Pat Andrea was there, at the place to be, and then, on the next day, he wasn’t there!   It was as simple as that.   Or, was it?   You can look back now, and you can see that the dividing line between the ascent of the Castle's fame and its descent was drawn in that year, 1976, the year Pat Andrea departed the scene.  

It was a year in which Las Vegas turned its attention elsewhere, however, a year when the death of mysterious billionaire Howard Hughes was the talk of the town he helped build, and a year when a major culinary union strike finally ended, after 15 major Strip resorts were nearly crippled. 

There were no headlines written about whatever happened between Lefty Needham and Pat Andrea, no news bulletins on TV.  One day, Pat Andrea was there.  On the next day, he wasn't.  And he hasn't returned since. 

Our press kit on the hotel has all the historical facts fit for print, but it doesn't have the flavor of the true story of the Vegas Castle.  History has a way of reducing character to chronology, personality to a person perfunctory. 

 

I lamented that dehumanizing inevitability of history, and my mind wandered, as I sat crouched on the 14th floor landing of the Vegas Castle's emergency stairway.  If I had been standing, I would have been able to see, through the glass panel of the emergency door, the door across the hall, marked 1492, the door to Zarofsky's room. 

The floor plan for the 14th floor that Pinky had brought me – about an hour after I sent her after it – gave me the layout I thought I would find.  Room 1492 was located at the south end of the floor, across from the fire emergency stairway.   Nobody ever used the stairs that high up in the tower, so I figured I could stake out Zarofsky's room from the protected position, beneath the glass panel.   I wasn't sure how I was going to catch a glance at whomever was going to visit Zarofsky, but I figured I could improvise, depending on the circumstances. 

It was a couple of minutes before 2 PM, when I heard a knock on the door across from my hiding place.  The corridor rugs had muffled the visitor's footsteps down the hall from the elevator.   For a moment, I thought of standing up and peeking through the glass to see what was what.   But, I thought better of that.   I'd only see the back of whomever would be there, and how clever would I be if Zarofsky were to come to his door just as I was looking through mine? 

He'd certainly see me.  In fact, he'd have a face-to-face look at the famous boy detective.  No, I'd stay down. 

I heard another knock.  Then, I heard the door open, and a muffled deep voice say something quick.  I couldn't make it out, but it was probably something like, "Come on in," because right after it was said, I heard the door close.   And then, nothing but silence came from the corridor. 

I had been holding, or perhaps "gripping" is the better word, my set of keys, and I must have been holding them really tightly, because when the door closed, my body relaxed, and I could feel the blood rushing once again to the hand that held the keys.   I had been holding them to both keep them from jingling and giving me away, as well as to use them as a sticking weapon, should I be discovered by someone who would harm my chubby person.   "Take that, you villain!   Take that Plymouth Reliant key across your pitiful body!   Nay, Take that!   A house key to your ugly face!  Slash!”

This wasn't working out.   Here I was behind a door I didn't dare peer through.   There was Zarofsky, his big, ugly friend, and Mr. or Ms.  X, all behind a door I couldn't see through.   I needed to figure something out, and I needed something fast, because there was no telling how quickly this meeting of theirs would end. 

Mr. X, let's assume it was a guy, would finish his meeting with Mr. Z.  Mr. Z would see him to the door.   The door would open.   I would hear that.   They'd say their goodbyes.   I'd hear that.   Mr. X would walk down the hall to the elevator.   Mr. Z would close the door.   I would hear that.   Or, maybe Mr. Z would walk with Mr. X to the elevator and go downstairs into the lobby or the casino with Mr. X?   No, if Mr. Z wanted to be seen in a public place with Mr. X, why would he run that personals ad in the paper?   No, Mr. X would be leaving by himself, of that I was pretty certain. 

What if I waited until hearing the door close, opened my door and looked down the hall?   No, because then I’d only see the back of Mr. X.   And, if he turned around, he’d see me, and after what Sandra said, that might not be too healthy for me. 

Then, I realized what I could, should, and would do.   On hearing the door open and the goodbyes being said, I'd edge over to the stairway, sneak down to the next floor, run to the elevator, and summon it.   In all probability, since I’d still be on the Towers floors, I’d get the same elevator, the Towers elevator, that Mr. X would be taking on its way down from the 14th floor.   I’d just be another passenger getting on, just like Mr. X did before me.   It could, should, and would work! 

Sure enough, after a couple of minutes, I heard Zarofsky’s door open and the muffled goodbyes I expected to hear.   I remained low, working my way to the stairway, continued crouching as I quietly descended the first few stairs, and then hurried down the remainder of them to the 12th floor, there being no 13th, as you may remember!   I shot through the emergency stairway door into the 12th floor corridor and ran its length toward the elevator, nearly knocking over a room service cart, loaded with used flatware and glasses from a lunch that had been served and eaten in the privacy of someone’s room. 

As soon as I had hit the "down" button, the elevator door opened, and pretending to be just another hotel guest, I entered.   I tried not to show the fact that I was out of breath. 

There stood Mr. X – indeed a guy, as I, Sherlock Chance, had deduced.   He looked normal enough, but I noticed – it was hard not to – that he was carrying a bowling ball bag. 

I caught my breath, which wasn't easy, having just run my 230-lb.  body the hundred-yard length of the Vegas Castle's 12th floor. 

I nodded to him; he barely acknowledged me and averted his eyes.   I presumed that, whatever his reason for meeting with Zarofsky, he wasn't eager to be seen by anyone.   He was an average-looking fellow, young – probably in his 30s black hair with a crew-cut.  He looked like that cartoon figure Steve Canyon would look like, were he not a cartoon. 

The elevator continued down.   At the lobby level, the door opened.   I hesitated, allowing Mr. X to depart from the elevator first.   He headed left.   I headed left and followed him at a safe distance.   He went through the casino, as I shadowed him from a fair distance back.   Then, much to my surprise, he went into the Castle Bowladrome. 

As there was only one way out of the Bowladrome, I figured I could wait anonymously in the casino.   I selected the Moat as a vantage point from which I could watch the comings and goings at the Bowladrome, settled into a comfortable seat, ordered a cup of coffee, and prepared for the long haul.  If Mr. X were going to bowl, it would be some time before he came out.   Much to my surprise, I hadn’t had my first sip of coffee when I saw him emerge from the Bowladrome. 

I tossed a dollar toke on the table and left the coffee cup, still steaming and still full, on the table. 

Through the casino, Mr. X headed straight this time to the front door.   I noticed he had a valet ticket in his hand.  I turned in a hurry and ran toward the Castle’s side door, and once outside, I ran to my car in the employees’ parking lot. 

Damn!  I was in bad shape.  Huffing and puffing, I got into Miss Nomer, which was as hot as blazes, having been parked in the midday sun with the window open only a crack to prevent it from exploding.   The steering wheel was hot enough to burn skin, so I handled it gingerly and pulled her around to the front of the hotel.   I was just in time to see Mr. X getting into a rather plain, gray Chevrolet Caprice sedan.   I figured I would follow him.   I had no idea what I was doing or where he would lead me.   But, I had gone this far, and the secrecy surrounding Mr. X’s visit to Zarofsky’s hotel room, the personals ad that brought him there, the fact that Zarofsky was on the Kremlin payroll, and my own curiosity, now running a mile a minute, all conspired to spur me on ...  into what, I knew not! 

The Caprice turned onto the Strip and headed north.   After a couple of more cars passed, I turned north on the Strip and followed.  I stayed two or three cars behind him. 

At Sahara, he was first in line waiting for the light to change.   I was third.   I could see him through the windshield of the car directly in front of me.   He lighted a cigarette and tossed the match out the driver's window, which he then rolled to a closed position.   His air conditioning was obviously starting to cool down his car.   Mine wasn't as efficient.   Sweat was rolling down my cheek, and my shirt was drenched.  I know, you're going to remind me that fat people sweat more than thin ones.   Thanks. 

When the green light appeared, Mr. X continued straight on Las Vegas Blvd.   I followed.   I tried to read his license plate, but I was too far away, and I didn't want to get any closer for fear he'd realize he was being followed. 

At the fork formed by Charleston and Las Vegas Boulevard, he turned left onto Charleston.   The car between us went straight, and suddenly, I found my car directly behind his, inches, in fact, off his rear bumper. 

He suddenly stopped short.   I slammed my brakes, stopping just in time.  As he started up again – he had stopped to let a dog run across the street in front of his car – I saw him looking into his rear view mirror.   I didn't know if he could see my face or my car, but it didn't matter.   He was looking my way. 

I panicked.  Without signaling, I pulled sharply over into a Burger King on the right.  The driver behind me, probably more than a bit pissed at me, first because of my sudden stop and now because of my turning without a signal, sounded his horn furiously. 

I stopped my car in the Burger King parking lot, and sat there trying to catch my breath.  I realized I was shaking with fright.  I had almost been caught.   Christ, I had almost hit his car from behind.   It must have been two or three minutes before I calmed myself enough to be rational. 

Mr. X was gone by then. 

I had done enough detective work for one day.   I was still shaking, still short of breath, and I was hungry.  Fortunately, I was at “The Home of the Whopper!”  Talk about luck!  

 

-end of Chapter 14-