Jack of Diamonds (63 page)

‘Oh?’

‘He’s here to keep an eye on Bridgett, and me also. Cleanskins like us, Chicago needs us but it don’t mean they trust us. Sammy is Chicago’s eyes and ears. Manny Asshole and he, they the same, they the spies. Manny Asshole, he do the heavy liftin’ wid the local administration – police, others, stuff that maybe ain’t strictly legit. He checks the hotel receipts to see that Bridgett and me, we not stealin’ from the casino.’

‘Stealing? You’re kidding?’

Lenny nodded, then continued. ‘On the other hand, Sammy’s the resident spy. Every night and mornin’, the gamblin’ takings are counted, then locked up in the basement safe. Sammy supervises the count and he also got the combination to the safe. Now, Manny Asshole, he didn’t only come up after the kitchen business to fix things wid the police; he’s stayin’ to count the gaming money and he got the safe combination till Sammy gets back. See, Jack, the Family need to wash a lotta money.’

Lenny went on to explain that the Mobsters were rolling in cash made during Prohibition, money they couldn’t legitimately spend or deposit in an American bank without some very nasty questions being asked by the tax man. The extra bourbons were lowering his guard, and I wondered if I should stop the conversation before I learned something I shouldn’t.

‘See, Jack, things are different now. No easy money from booze, illegal gambling . . . The money’s dried up. What they gonna do?’

Lenny explained that gambling had been legal in Nevada since 1931, and that the Mafia had moved in with none of their usual swagger or obvious strongarm tactics, being careful to hide their investments and their involvement in various casinos. The Mormon state didn’t believe in looking too closely, provided the surface was squeaky clean. The Mobsters made sure they had ultimate control, and each month skimmed ten per cent off the takings before the profits were distributed and tax paid. Furthermore, they could quietly launder the cash they’d made during Prohibition and from their other rackets.

Casino security was fanatically close. Every dealer, every player, knew they were probably being watched. There were walkways above the casino ceiling that had spy holes, so security could observe individual tables if they suspected a dealer might be cheating. All the money received was counted onto the table under the supervision of the pit bosses and chips were treated in the same way. Slot machines were unlocked and emptied under strict supervision. This produced a veritable river of cash, way too much to count. The take had to be weighed, then every few days the money would be delivered to the bank by armoured car. That was the official routine. But, unofficially, there was the skim.

Duplicity was the name of the game. At regular intervals, a Mobster – in our case, Sammy – would be let into the room where the takings were weighed by one of the three staff responsible for the count. There, he would pack a briefcase full of large-denomination notes, the case would lock automatically, and Sammy would quietly leave, shadowed by two goons with bulging suit jackets. He would fly to Chicago and hand the case over to the Family money man, who held the key. It was the best possible money: untraceable used US currency.

The bosses back in Chicago and the other Mobs knew when they were on a good thing. They resisted the temptation to loot the operation. They were sufficiently smart to leave enough to keep the taxman and the casino’s other shareholders happy and to grow the business in a more or less legitimate way. Shareholders in a Las Vegas casino, even the straight ones, never complained about their generous dividends. The Mobs, like any good businessmen, had learned to take the long view.

As I sat there listening to Lenny telling me things he shouldn’t, I realised Bridgett must have known about all this. I would have been surprised if there was anything Bridgett didn’t know. Another Joe lesson came to mind. ‘Jazzboy, ever-thing you hear be useful, information got power, but only provide you don’t tell nobody till it gonna be useful to you personal.’ Perhaps Bridgett’s power came from what she knew.

As if Lenny had read my thoughts, he returned to the subject of Bridgett and her mysterious power over the godfather. ‘Don’t know what it is, but the godfather don’t like it. He punish her every chance he gets, tryin’ to suggest she’s cheating him, that he got his eye on her. Sammy hates her, but Mrs Fuller too smart to show him she feels the same way about him. Sammy understand being hated; in fact, he depend on it. What he cain’t stand is to be ignored. But, like Manny Asshole, he cain’t do nothin’ . . . they think she laughin’ behind their back. Jesus!’

I could see Lenny was getting seriously drunk. He shouldn’t have been telling me any of this stuff. I decided to steer him onto safer ground. ‘So, Sammy will definitely be coming back?’

‘You got it in one, buddy. Ain’t nothin’ we can do.’

‘How do I handle him, Lenny? I mean, is there anything else I should know?’

‘Don’t ask him about Leavenworth. He bitter as all hell, totally unpredictable. Otherwise, don’t worry, Jack buddy, just act normal, pretend you’re old pals.’

‘Sure, Lenny. I’ll stay clear of him as much as I can.’

‘That’s a good idea. He’s pretty excitable since he came back . . . hair-trigger. But don’t worry, anything happen you tell me, eh, buddy?’

‘Sure,’ I said again.

Lenny nodded approvingly. ‘I sent him to Chicago the morning after . . .’ he cleared his throat, ‘the meat-cleaver . . . thing. They say they sending him back next month. Manny Asshole already fixed it all up wid the authorities and it ain’t no longer on police records.’ He snapped his fingers and stared at them a little too long. ‘Gone, kaput, it ain’t never happened.’

I decided that Lenny’s revelations should meet the same fate, for the sake of all of us.

Sammy returned to the El Marinero two weeks later, and a couple of days after that I ran into him quite unexpectedly. He was standing in the driveway of the El Marinero as I was returning from my lunchtime walk, getting to know the town. He looked at least twenty pounds heavier and recognised me at once. As he walked towards me, I noticed he seemed to be dragging his left leg. His face was the biggest shock. Although he was smiling at me, the whole left side of it seemed to be sagging a little, like someone who has suffered a stroke or severe facial nerve damage. His left eye was at least a quarter of an inch below the right and the bottom lid sagged, wet and red. He stopped just short of the distance it took to shake hands. ‘Jack Spayd. Hey, how ya doin’, buddy! Welcome to Las Vegas!’ His voice was an unfamiliar growl. ‘Lenny told me ya was here. Piano player. Hey that’s good.’ His gravelly voice was difficult to understand. I stepped up to him so I could hear him more clearly, but he looked up at me and immediately stepped back. ‘Whaddaya think’a the joint, eh?’

‘Great!’ I replied and extended my hand. ‘Good to see you, Sammy.’ He ignored my hand and stood, suddenly silent, his face expressionless, looking directly at me with unblinking eyes. I began to feel a little foolish and, in an attempt to cover my discomfort, I lowered my eyes and patted my stomach. ‘Lenny tells me you’re responsible for the catering contracts. I’ve got to compliment you, the grub’s first rate.’

He remained silent sufficiently long to force me to raise my head and look directly at him again; then, after what seemed like an eternity, he said, ‘Yeah, that’s right. I put on some poundage.’ His tone seemed to challenge me to take it further.

There was nowhere for me to go. ‘No . . . no, that’s not what I meant,’ I stuttered. ‘The restaurant food . . . I mean here, in the casino, it’s excellent.’

‘I know what ya fuckin’ meant, Jack Spayd, ya always bin a fuckin’ smart-ass poker player cheat,’ he growled.

I felt my temper rising and, remembering Lenny’s warning, said simply, ‘Sammy, excuse me, I’m running late for a meeting.’

‘Widda greedy bitch?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

He spat at his feet. ‘Her! The fuckin’ Noo Yoik whore!’ he hissed.

‘I don’t know who you mean, Sammy,’ I said, tight-lipped, then turned towards the entrance to the casino.

His voice, raised an octave, was still a growl but with an hysterical edge to it. ‘Hey, I mean the stoopid bitch suppose to run this fuckin’ joint! That who! Stay away from her, ya hear? Ya cosy up wid her, ya gonna have to answer to me, Jack Spayd. Keep ya prick clean!’

It was too much. I turned and covered the few paces to where he stood with his arms folded across his chest. Seeing me coming, his crazy lopsided face took on a frightened look. ‘What did you just say?’ I demanded. The fat little bastard barely came to my chin and I grabbed him by the front of his Hawaiian shirt, my right arm drawn back to bust him on the mouth. His hands came up to protect his face and I saw a look of terror in the moment before he averted his head, his eyes now tightly shut as he anticipated the punch. At the last moment, I managed to restrain myself. Instead, I jerked him momentarily off his feet, then set him down again. ‘Sammy, I don’t know what you’re on about but, whatever it is, keep me out of it, you hear?’

Suddenly, there was the sound of running feet, and Sammy opened his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, then quickly turned back to me. I released my grip on his shirtfront and felt him sag, then relax, wiping his chest to straighten his shirt. I looked over his balding head and saw two guys approaching fast. Then, pathetically, he raised his fists like a boxer. ‘Or fuckin’ what, Jack? Tell me, or fuckin’ what?’

I ignored his taunt and waited as two tall men dressed in identical brown suits and hats, the brims drawn low over their eyes, came to a halt on either side of Sammy, both of them breathing hard.

‘Move away, Mister. Ya don’t want more trouble than ya can handle!’ one of them gasped, gesturing with a flick of his hand towards the casino entrance.

‘These guys belong to you?’ I asked. They were both big but I was too angry to care about the threat.

‘Piss off!’ the second guy added, his right hand sliding inside his jacket. It was as if all this were taking place in a low-budget movie and he was the villain reaching for the pistol in his shoulder holster.

I was breathing hard. I’m not the kind of guy who loses his temper often – in fact, I do it almost never – but now I realised I was mad as hell. Sammy dropped his pathetic fighting stance and again brushed at the front of his Hawaiian shirt. ‘You’ll keep, Jack Spayd,’ he growled. ‘You’ll keep.’ The fearful look had gone and the unblinking stare was back.

‘Christ!’ I exclaimed and turned away.

‘Oh, Jack,’ Sammy said, his voice suddenly calm.

I spun around angrily. ‘What?’

‘I hear you a big success at The Princess.’ He spoke in a mincing feminine voice. ‘I reckon the bitch thought you’d be a loser, but Lenny’s got a lotta faith in you. Wouldn’t pay to let him down.’ He stabbed his fat forefinger at my chest as he continued, ‘If you ever got a mind to leave, take another offer, maybe the Flamingo, somewhere like that . . . don’t be tempted. Take my advice, it wouldn’t be a good idea to accept.’ All this was said in an even tone.

Despite my anger, I attempted to cool down and said merely, ‘Lenny’s my buddy, Sammy!’

The doorman drew up in a new Chevy sedan and hopped out, holding the door open for Sammy. Then, in the same friendly voice he’d used to greet me, Sammy said, ‘I’ve got to get going, Jack. So long, nice ta welcome ya to the El Marinero. See ya round.’ He shifted behind the wheel with some effort while his two thugs climbed into the back. The doorman closed the car door and, without thanking him, Sammy slammed the car into gear and dropped his foot down hard on the gas, to send the Chevrolet on its way, waltzing its rear tyres. It was as if he were using the car to compensate for his broken body.

I reported the incident in the driveway to Lenny, going into detail with what had been said. ‘Yeah, Jack, that’s Sammy. You got the bastard to a T. Gravel voice, lotsa different tones, that’s him. Quiet, that’s normal . . . he raise his voice, you gotta watch out ’cause he’s about to snap. Then comes the yellin’ and the threats. Just as sudden, back comes the calm. He all over the place like a mad dog’s breakfast! Glad ya didn’t bust him a good one in the mouth. The two hoods, they Chicago soldiers, they dangerous.’

‘Christ, Lenny, he’s bad enough to have around, but those two in their gangster suits . . .’

‘Contracts for food for the Firebird about to be signed, so Chicago thought Sammy might need a little help, maybe leaning on the wholesale suppliers. That’s how they explain it, anyhow. You kin bet that ain’t all of it. I’ll speak to Sammy. In some things, he gotta listen to me. I’ll tell him to lay off you, no exceptions. Messing wid you, he’s gettin’ into high-roller territory, GAWP Bar. Chicago ain’t gonna tolerate that.’

In the weeks and months that followed until the completion of the Firebird, it wasn’t too difficult to avoid Sammy most of the time. The food business seemed to take him away from the casino a fair bit and I was also to learn that he was involved in the Chicago Mob’s slot-machine business. Now, after the war, they were supplying new machines, made in a plant they owned in Detroit, to most of the casinos in town. This business was more than just a sideline but it could be tricky, one Mobster organisation dealing with another, hence the need for Sammy’s ‘protection’: his two brown suits with the permanent scowls. When they were around, it was easy to see him coming, and avoid him and his two hulks. A weak gesture maybe, but Sammy Schischka was avoided by most members of staff. I’m certain he noticed their reaction and liked being regarded as a nasty piece of work. Imparting fear was, after all, his new profession.