Max Collins - Neon Mirage

“So what? You saw those crowds in there. The casino’s open. The restaurant. The showroom.”

“He’s not going to make any money on the restaurant; like he says, it’s strictly a come-on. Nor the showroom-he’s spending thirty-five grand a week on Cugat and Durante and the rest. Top-name talent don’t come cheap. So it’s all riding on the casino-and these opening-night type crowds aren’t going to hold up. Not even on opening night.”

“And why not?”

“Aren’t you listening? Aren’t you paying attention? He didn’t get the hotel open in time-the Flamingo drew people in, but those people are staying at other hotels, most of them at the Last Frontier and the El Rancho Vegas, which have their own casinos. The other hotels are close to all those open-door casinos downtown. People gamble where they’re staying, Peg. They may come to the Flamingo for an hour or two every day while they’re in town, but they’re going to do most of their gambling where they’re staying. That’s basic.”

She was shaking her head no. “He’ll make a go of it. You wait and see.”

“I don’t know. You notice that little guy he’s been talking to?”

“Mr. Lieberman?”

“That’s right, only it’s Lansky. Meyer Lansky.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Isn’t he…a gangster?”

“Isn’t Rita Hayworth a woman? I don’t think his being here is a good sign.”

“Maybe it’s a show of support.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think Ben has much time left to make a go of this place. He’s sunk six million bucks of mostly mob money into the Flamingo, and I have a hunch the boys want some results, fast. They want to see that Ben’s running this place to their satisfaction.”

“You think that’s why this…what is his name?”

“Lansky.”

“You think that’s why this Lansky is here. Checking up on Ben.”

“Possibly. Possibly warning him. They’re partners. They go way back.”

“You almost seem…worried about Ben.”

“I like the guy. Don’t ask me why. By all accounts, he’s a murderer and a narcotics trafficker, among other niceties, including he’s in my ex-fiancee’s pants. I oughta hate him.”

She winced at my remark about her pants, but was expressionless when she said, “But you don’t.”

“No. I kind of admire his chutzpah. And maybe he’ll pull this stunt off. Maybe. But I’m not waiting around to see. I’ll be in Chicago before you know it.”

“I love him, Nate.”

“You fall in love a lot, don’t you, kid? Me, it doesn’t come quite so easy.”

“I’m not going back to Chicago with you.”

“Well, here’s my advice, then. Stay out of Siegel’s bed. Tell him you’ll get back in, when Virginia Hill’s out of his life. Tell him you aren’t prepared to play side dish to her main course.”

“You’re cruel.”

“Not as cruel as you, and you aren’t even trying. Do what I said, and maybe you can hang on to your job here. Siegel does seem to respect you for your mind as well as your body. Be a career girl, if you want. You just might be in on the ground floor of something.”

“Why do you…why do you still care about me?”

“I haven’t the faintest fucking idea,” I said, and I went back into the casino.

Where Ben was in his element. He was shaking hands with guests (those who weren’t in plaid jackets, anyway), and on his arm was Virginia Hill, looking resplendent in her thirty-five-hundred dollar flaming orange-red gown; a diamond necklace caressed her bosom, and who could blame the lucky rocks? She seemed in her element, too, tapping back into her days as the belle of the social ball, when she was posing as an Arkansas heiress. Gone, for the moment, was her disdain for Siegel’s pastel dream castle. Here was a beautiful woman, charming, funny, and so very desirable. The psychopath was hiding.

I stayed away from her. I saw Lansky two more times that evening; in both instances he was speaking, off to one side, with Moe Sedway.

My pickpocket school graduates did all right. They stopped one whiz team, and two single-handers. They followed my suggested procedure and did not confront the dips till they had left the premises; that prevented any nasty embarrassing scene within the facility itself.

As I suspected, the crowd thinned out early, for a joint that never closed. People headed back to their own hotels, where they’d probably gamble some more before retiring.

A little after 3 a.m., I found Siegel in the small main counting room off the casino. Boxes of money were on the table before him. He and the top pit boss were counting the take. But I could see from Siegel’s fallen face that something was wrong.

“This is impossible,” he said, ashen.

The pit boss shrugged.

“I’ll, uh, report in later,” I said.

Siegel looked at me with the expression of a man who has been struck in the back of the head with a plank.

“We’re down almost thirty thousand,” he said.

“What?” I said.

“We lost tonight. How the fuck does the house lose?” I didn’t know.

But the way Siegel’s luck had been running, I wasn’t surprised he’d found a way.

“The place ain’t exactly hoppin’,” George Raft said, lighting up a cigarette as he viewed the moderately attended casino floor from the slightly raised perspective of the lobby. It was early Friday afternoon, and Raft had just arrived from Hollywood; he’d driven over in his shiny cobalt-blue Cadillac, only it wasn’t so shiny after the desert had been at it for seven hours. He was wearing a dark blue sportshirt and a lighter blue jacket and seemed tired; his hair was slicked immaculately back, but the rest of him looked slightly out of focus.

“Come evening it’ll be jammed again,” I said. “Without the hotel open, days are bound to be slow.”

He nodded. “How’s Benny holding up?”

“He’s a little frazzled. This morning he chewed out some poor customer who had the bad judgment to go up and call him ‘Bugsy.’”

“Ouch,” Raft said.

“And, too, he was down thirty grand last night.”

Raft gave me a disbelieving look. “Down?”

“Yeah. Partly it’s the pros from downtown coming in and playing smart. That includes his supposed pal Gus Greenbaum.”

The gregarious, fleshy Greeenbaum ran the Arizona branch of Trans-American for Siegel.

“Even the savviest gamblers are still up against house odds,” Raft said. “What’s really going on?”

“I think I know,” I said. “I’m just not ready to spring it on Siegel yet.”

Raft nodded again. “Where is he? I got more bad news for him.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I’m going to make myself scarce…”

“Too late. Here he is.”

Siegel was striding through the casino, wearing a tux with a red carnation; he was beaming, gladhanding, putting on a good front, but just the way he walked was a tip-off. This guy was teetering.

But he grinned widely at seeing Raft and said, “Georgie! Georgie, how are ya? Thanks for coming,” pumping his old friend’s hand. He didn’t seem to notice how forced Raft’s smile was.

“Let’s talk,” Raft said.

“Fine!”

“Private, someplace.”

Siegel shrugged. “Sure.”

“I’ll see you guys later,” I said.

“Naw,” Siegel said, “Georgie and me got no secrets from you, Nate.” And, Raft staying dutifully at his side, Siegel eased his arm around my shoulder and walked me to his small office behind the hotel check-in counter.

Siegel’s desk was cluttered with notepad notes to himself; there were four phones, making it look more like a hole-in-the-wall bookie joint than some big shot’s office. The pink plaster walls were decorated with framed photos of Ben and his Hollywood pals, chief among them Raft, including a portrait of the two of them smiling at each other after Raft stood up for his childhood chum in court.