Max Collins - Neon Mirage

Later a big truckload of linen, for the hotel, arrived, and Siegel signed for that as well. He did the same for a load of lumber, around by the hotel building.

At lunchtime, Siegel drove me down to the El Rancho Vegas, the other rambling rustic resort on the Strip, which had in fact preceded the Last Frontier; its chuck wagon buffet, however, was similarly not very frontier-like.

“What do you think of my baby?” he asked, pouring himself some tonic water. He had a meager plate of cold cuts before him.

“The Flamingo? I think it’s pretty amazing. I think you’re going to make some dough.”

“So do I.”

I was working on a heavy plate with something of everything from the considerable buffet; the ham was very good (I’m only technically a Jew). “Do you really think your hotel’s going to be ready in time? It’s clear you can open the casino and restaurant, but…”

“Once the landscaping’s done,” Siegel said, impatiently, “rest’ll be a piece of cake. So what do you think, have I got a pilferage problem?”

Piece of cake; that was a good idea-I’d have to get one. “I think you’re spreading yourself too thin; you shouldn’t be the guy who signs for fucking linen, for Christ’s sake.”

“Never mind that. Do you think they’re robbing me?”

“The chief of your security force is so crooked he can kiss his own ass without turning around.”

“You think I don’t know that? But those boys are used to working for Quinn…”

“I don’t mean to be critical. Anyway, I got it covered. Put it out of your mind.”

Siegel smiled; sipped his tonic water. “I knew my instincts about you were right.”

“Where was Sedway, today? And I didn’t see Peggy Hogan around, either.”

“Peggy’s doing some business over the phone for me, out of her suite. Moe’s tending my Trans-American interests.”

“I see.”

“It’s going to be a little dusty and crazy around the Flamingo today, anyway. I didn’t figure Peggy would appreciate that. Though I don’t think it will interfere with your pickpocket school.”

“What will?”

“I told you, didn’t I? We’re doing the landscaping today.” He checked his watch. “The trucks left L.A. early this morning-they should start showing anytime.”

We pulled into the Flamingo just as the fleet of trucks began arriving, thundering down highway 91 like the invading force they were, grain trucks filled with topsoil, gravel trucks hauling sod, tank trucks of water, flatbed trucks bearing imported trees (Oriental date palms, cork trees from Spain, among fifteen other varieties of fully-grown trees). Scores of trucks began roaring into the Flamingo parking lot and up onto the grounds, as dungaree-clad workers in tin hats hopped out of the vehicles and began getting to work.

And soon Siegel was leading them, Patton in a suit, his thinning hair blowing in the dry breeze, as he mingled with the foremen, pointing here and there, sculpting in the air, shaping his dream, an architect seeing to it his exact bidding was done.

I shook my head and went into the casino, where I found that Quinn-now dressed in a baggy brown business suit and an appropriately ugly tie-had gathered his staff of twenty, most of whom were casually dressed. They were sitting at a cluster of 21 tables.

I introduced myself and got quickly into it. I gave them the basic lecture on the whiz mob and solicited a trio of volunteers to stick around after, so we could work up for tomorrow some examples of typical two-handed, three-handed and four-handed stall and tool routines. (The stall sets up the mark for the tool, who works the mark.) By the time my session with the whole group was over, and training the volunteers was accomplished, it was early evening.

I thanked the three men, who faded away, and went over to Quinn, who’d been watching me work with them.

“You know your stuff, boy,” he said, pretending to be impressed, a stogie in the corner of his mouth.

“Yes I do,” I said, “but I could use some advice.”

“Glad to be of help.”

“This pilferage problem you mentioned…”

He shrugged expansively. “Well, I suppose a little of that’s natural in a undertaking this size.”

“I suppose so. But Mr. Siegel has asked me to help him curtail that little problem. Now, there’s several ways I could go about that. I could stick around at night and wait and see if trucks come back and pick up things they’ve already delivered one day, to deliver again another. I could treat some of the delivered goods with a slow-drying dye, or a dry dye, to stain the hands of thieves. Or I might use your so-called non-apparent dye, the kind that doesn’t show up to the naked eye, where you need ultraviolet light? That technique works even after the hands are washed.”

Quinn’s eyes were narrowed to slits. His stogie hung like a limp dick.

“It’s possible I’ve even already marked some of the goods delivered today,” I said. “By one of those methods, or some other one.”

His mouth twitched a humorless smile. “Your point being?”

“My point is this. Going to all that trouble-surveillance, dyes, ultraviolet light-it’s such a bother. We’re here in the sun. This beautiful weather. Swimming pools, pretty girls. We should enjoy life.”

Quinn was smiling knowingly, cheeks fat and taut. “You mean, you figure there’s enough gravy to go around.”

“No. I tell you what I figure. I figure if anymore pilferage goes on, any at all, I figure to tell Siegel you’re responsible.”

His mouth dropped open and he lost his stogie. “What proof do you have…”

“None. But I know that this couldn’t be going on without your benign neglect, which is a commodity you’ll gladly sell for a price. It’s on the same shelf as your integrity, right above your self-respect. So, anyway-I’m putting you in charge of putting a stop to the theft.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll turn you in to Siegel. I don’t need any proof, though I’m sure I’ll have some. But I got a hunch he’ll take my word for it. And then you’ll be fertilizing some rose garden out by that pool you love so dearly.”

“Listen to me, you little son of a bitch…”

“No. You listen to me. I’m going to check up on these various shipments of materials and supplies. At random. If I come across one missing towel, one missing dish, one missing spoon, you’re history, asshole. You’ll take the rap for all the stealing that’s been going on. And you’ll answer to Siegel.”

He looked hurt. “What have you got against me, anyway?”

“Fred Rubinski thinks you killed his partner.”

And now he laughed. A snort of a laugh. “Maybe I did. They say it was hit-and-run, but maybe I was drivin’. Maybe you shouldn’t oughta fuck with the likes of me.”

I poked him in his fat chest. “Maybe you shouldn’t oughta fuck with the likes of Bugsy Siegel.”

He swallowed thickly and finally nodded.

“I’ll take care of the situation,” he said.

“I know you will.”

And I walked outside, through the front doors of the Flamingo, out into a night lit up by blinding floodlights. The landscaping crew was still at it-they would work through the cool night, under the hot lights, dumping the truckloads of rich soil, terracing it, laying acres of lawn, planting entire gardens of exotic flowers and shrubs. Caterpillar tractors were pushing earth around; gravel trucks were spreading topsoil; trees, their roots bagged in burlap, were being eased down planks from the backs of flatbeds. Just before me, a small palm tree in a wheelbarrow was being guided past me by a young man in dungarees.

Ben Siegel showed him where to plant it.

I shook my head and smiled and, stepping over a tangle of electrical wiring, found my way to my Buick in the parking lot.