What was she supposed to do now? Walk home? Her purse with everything in it—including her passport and money—was still in the penthouse.
She remembered seeing a hall porter when she’d entered the building, so as soon as she felt she could stand, she got up and made her way around to the front of the building and into the lobby.
The concierge stared at her in alarm as she marched up to the front of the reception desk.
She knew she must be a strange sight, dripping wet with an angry gleam in her eyes. “Go to the penthouse,” she commanded, “and get my purse. If the assholes in the apartment won’t give it to you, tell ’em I’m calling the police.”
“Qué?” the man said, twitching nervously.
“Penthouse. My purse,” she repeated. “You go get it.”
He still didn’t understand her.
She began shivering uncontrollably. She might be half drowned and unable to speak the language, but she was mad as hell, and if this suckface didn’t move soon, she was about to start screaming and really cause a riot.
“Do it!” she yelled. “Do it now!”
Michael—1964
Who’s that girl?” Michael asked, his gaze following the willowy blond with the knockout body high-kicking at the end of the chorus line.
Manny Spiven didn’t even bother looking. “Just another Vegas cooze,” he chortled, amused by his own choice of words.
Michael shot him a look. He didn’t like Manny, but business was business, and since he was now working full time for Vito Giovanni, he had to deal with him.
This was his third trip to Vegas in so many weeks. He was kind of getting off on being Vito’s trusted courier—because basically that was his job, hand-delivering packages. He didn’t know what was in them, although he suspected it was money, and that was okay; there was nothing wrong with shifting cash from state to state.
Things had changed considerably in the last few months. Vinny selling the shop and the house had been a big blow. “You gotta get out on your own now,” Vinny had informed him. “Your grandma spoiled you—made you soft. It’s time you toughened up.” Shortly after that charming speech he’d handed his son three hundred bucks and run off to Florida with all the money from the sales.
At first Michael couldn’t believe it. Grandma Lani would turn in her grave and then some. She’d never imagined Vinny would sell everything and leave him out in the cold with only three hundred lousy bucks. She’d wanted him to have the shop and the house, not Vinny. Fortunately, he’d stashed away some of his profits from the last couple of years—it wasn’t much, but it was sure better than nothing.
Max had come through for him, persuading his mom to let him stay at their house for a few days while he found somewhere to live. He had no clue what he would do next. Three hundred bucks plus his savings was not about to take him very far.
Then Mamie Giovanni had invited him over for dinner, mainly to inform him that Vinny was a no-good bastard—always had been—and she wasn’t surprised that he’d behaved like a selfish, greedy prick.
A week later Vito had summoned him back to the house and suggested he work for him full time.
“Doin’ what?” he’d asked suspiciously.
“Anythin’ I want,” Vito had replied with a crafty laugh.
“I ain’t gonna be one of your bodyguards,” he’d said boldly. “Not my style.”
Once more Vito had laughed. “A punk like you—forget it. I got other things in mind for you.”
When he’d told Max about his new job, his friend had recoiled in horror. “He’s a freakin’ gangster, Mike. Whaddaya wanna get involved with him for?”
“ ’Cause I need t’ make money.”
“You gotta consider the consequences.”
Screw the consequences. He’d needed a job, and Vito was the only one offering.
A week later, he was on a plane to Las Vegas—a place he’d only ever seen in movies.
Vegas blew him away. The long parade of neon lights and the huge gambling palaces—not to mention the unbelievably gorgeous showgirls and dancers, vast hotels, and lavish shows.
Manny Spiven was his contact at the Estradido Hotel, where Vito conducted business. They hated each other on sight. Manny was short and overweight, with greasy brown hair, pockmarked skin, alarmingly large ears, and a permanent limp. The limp was Manny’s claim to fame. The rumor was that he’d gotten shot in the thigh protecting Philippe Estradido, the hotel owner, from a mob hit. Manny had been a parking valet at the time. After that, his fortunes had taken a turn for the better, and now he worked full time for Mr. Estradido, doing this and that.
At twenty-two Manny was a couple of years older than Michael, and he used his seniority like a sword, claiming that he knew everything and Michael knew nothing.
“If you know so much,” Michael asked, shifting his attention from the delectable blond dancing at the end of the chorus line to Manny, “what’s in the packages we exchange?”
Manny’s small, squinty eyes darted this way and that, fearful of being overheard. “You shittin’ me?” he spluttered.
“No,” Michael said, wondering if Manny actually knew.
“That’s not the kinda question you’re supposed to ask.”
“Do you know, or not?”
“Fuck you,” Manny mumbled. “Wouldn’t tell ya if I did.”
“So you don’t know.”
“Fuck you,” Manny repeated, scowling.
They were sitting at a front table in the Starburst Lounge, watching the lackluster show, which consisted of a tired black singer, a not very funny comedian, and a chorus line of hard-faced, over-made-up women—with the exception of the blond on the end, who was something else. He might only be nineteen, but Michael had an eye for picking the best, and this one was a peach.
He’d only gotten laid once in Vegas, and that was on his first trip. It had turned out to be an unfortunate experience; the girl had given him a dose of the crabs, and the subsequent itch in his crotch had driven him crazy until he’d gotten some foul-smelling cream from the pharmacist, which he’d had to plaster all over his pubes. After that particular incident, he’d decided that all the girls in Vegas were probably crawling with sexual diseases. Too much action, too many players. Besides—who needed them? He had enough girls in New York to keep him busy for the next five years.
Although he had to admit—the blond in the chorus could make him change his mind. She was so pretty and fresh looking, totally unlike the others in the line.
Manny claimed to know every dancer, cigarette girl, and waitress in Vegas. This, of course, was a lie. If they did know him, they ran when they saw him coming—whereas Michael could strike up a conversation with any one of them. Women were always willing to talk to him—he had the knack. Plus he’d been extremely blessed in the looks department, and it didn’t hurt that he also possessed the gift of charm.
He’d seen photos of his dad before he got shot. Vinny had been handsome too. Mamie had obviously thought so.
When the show finished, he informed Manny he was tired and planning to hit the sack early.
“Ain’tcha comin’ t’ play craps?” Manny asked, not particularly caring one way or the other.
“Naw, my boss don’t want me gambling while I’m here. This trip is strictly business.”
“Aw, screw business,” Manny said, picking his nose. “Lose a few hundred, win a few—what’s the difference?”
“The difference is, he don’t want me doin’ it.”
Truth was that he suspected Vito couldn’t care less what he did as long as he made a safe delivery and collection.
Manny shrugged and muttered something about “no balls” under his breath. Then they swapped packages, and Manny signed the check and slouched off into the night. Michael circumvented the busy casino, making his way around to the stage door entrance, where he knew the dancers would eventually exit.
He hadn’t decided what he’d say to her; he only knew that something would occur to h
im when she emerged.
Lighting a cigarette, he paced around impatiently, thinking that maybe he’d go with the well-used line of “Don’t I know you? And if not, I’m sure I know your sister, ’cause you look exactly like her.” It was a dumb line that always worked.
Ten minutes later, out came the pretty blond with another girl. Her friend had long brown hair, big tits, and a pronounced overbite.
He hung back, watching her for a moment. Out of costume she was even prettier than he’d thought, and very young.
Too young?
Naw, exactly right.
The two girls stood outside chatting animatedly, then just as he decided it was time to make his move, a redheaded guy on a motorcycle zoomed up, and the blond waved to her girlfriend, climbed on the back of the bike, and took off.
“Shit!” he mumbled under his breath. How was that for bad timing?
The girl with the long brown hair and the big tits was still standing there.
Without taking a beat he approached her. “Uh . . . excuse me, miss,” he said politely. “Wasn’t that Sarah who just left on the bike?”
“Who?” she said, looking him over and liking what she saw.
“Sarah . . . she’s a girl I know from New York.”
“You must mean Dani.”
“Really?” he said, sounding surprised. “She’s the image of Sarah. Maybe they’re sisters.”
“Could be.”
“You wouldn’t have her phone number, would you?”
“Oh, c’mon,” she said, laughing. “Like I’m gonna give you her phone number.”
“Why not?”
“Some strange guy on the make. You gotta be kidding.”
He gave her the innocent stare, the one that always scored him points. “Don’t I look like I deserve it?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, long brown hair swirling around her shoulders.
“Yes, I do,” he said, turning on the charm. “You know I do.”
She couldn’t help giggling. He had her.
“So who was the guy on the bike?” he asked, making it casual.
“Dani lives with him,” the girl said. “Which means you’re outta luck.” She paused for a moment, then added, “But I’m free.”
“And very pretty too,” he said. “Problem is, I got an early flight outta here tomorrow. You know how it is.”
“Not really,” she said, batting her eyelashes.
“Havta get back to New York. Business, y’know.”
“Shame,” she said, giving him a “why don’t you stay” look.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’ll be here again soon.”
“Drop by and see me,” she said with the appropriate amount of interest. “My name’s Angela. We can hook up.”
He wondered if he should seize the opportunity with Angela, who was definitely hot to tango. Then he decided against it.
Dani. That was the name that lingered.
On his next trip, he was determined to meet her.
“How was Vegas?” Mamie asked, a cigarette dangling from her scarlet lips, a glass of vodka balanced in one hand. She was lolling on the couch in the Giovanni living room, wearing a leather skirt that was way too short, a flimsy, transparent blouse, and red slingbacks.
She must be almost fifty, for crissakes, Michael thought. Why can’t she dress her age?
“It’s a fantastic place,” he replied. “Only I gotta say—it ain’t New York.”
“What about the girlies?” Mamie inquired, blowing a stream of smoke in his direction.
“Not bad,” he answered in a noncommittal tone.
“How come you ain’t got yourself a steady?” she wanted to know. “You’re big enough an’ handsome enough.”
“Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?” he said, quoting his grandma.
His reply made her shriek with laughter. “That’s my stud,” she said with a saucy wink. “You wouldn’t want some whining little tootsie hangin’ on to your coattails, would you now?”
“No,” he agreed. “I wouldn’t want that.”
He wished Vito would put in an appearance so he could give him his package and get the hell out. Good as she’d been to him, there were times that Mamie made him uncomfortable, and this was one of them.
“So tell me, Mikey,” she asked, dragging deeply on her cigarette, “do the girlies you sleep with got any clue what they’re doin’ in the sack?”
He couldn’t believe she was asking such a personal question. “Huh?” he mumbled, hoping she’d get off the subject.
“You know what I mean,” she said, crossing her legs. “Do they give you a really good time, or are they only in it for themselves?”
“Mrs. G.—,” he began.
“Don’t ‘Mrs. G.’ me,” she interrupted. “It’s about time you called me Mamie. And you know exactly what I’m gettin’ at.” She paused for a moment, then: “Do they suck you off the way you like it? Or is it amateur night?”
“Jeez!”
“Oh for crissakes, quit the shy act,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. “It don’t suit you.”
“Thanks!”
“Do you make ’em come?” she asked, leaning forward, a gleam in her heavily mascara’d eyes. “I bet you’re a pistol between the sheets.”
He was saved by the appearance of Vito, who entered the room in a hurry—short and stout, puffing on a cigar, clad in a dark green velvet smoking jacket, green pants, and black patent leather shoes. Vito considered himself an arbiter of fashion.
“You got it, kid?” he asked, wheezing and coughing his way across the room.
“Sure have, Mr. G.”
“Good, good,” he said, waving his cigar in the air. “Gimme, gimme.”
Vito had a habit of repeating words, as if saying it once wasn’t enough.
Michael handed over the large manila envelope he was carrying and waited for his payment, which was always in cash. Vito was never without a thick stack of bills carried somewhere on his person.
Groping in his pocket, Vito produced the usual wad. “Any problems?” he asked.
“Nope,” Michael replied, thinking, How could there be problems with such a simple job?
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Hi, honey,” Mamie crooned, waving a beringed hand at her husband. “While you’re handin’ out money—how about li’l old me?”
“Whaddaya doin’ drinkin’ so early?” Vito growled, throwing her a disapproving look.
“Just bein’ social,” she replied.
“Social, my ass,” Vito muttered. “You’re turnin’ inta a lush.”
“Honey!”
Ignoring her, he turned back to Michael. “Gotta feelin’ you should start carryin’ a piece,” he said.
“Huh?”
“A piece. A gun. Bang-bang. You understand what I’m sayin’?”
Michael frowned. Carrying a gun was not on his agenda of things he thought he should do. “Well, uh . . .”
“You ever shot a gun?”
“No, Mr. G.”
“You’d better learn. I’ll set you up with someone who’ll teach ya.”
“D’you really think—”
“Ya work for me now, kid,” Vito interrupted. “These are tough times. Ya gotta be prepared for anythin’, an’ I do mean anythin’. Get it?”
He got it.
Dani—1964
When Dani was a few months shy of her seventeenth birthday, she realized that continuing to depend on Sam’s companionship was obviously not healthy for either of them. They both had to move on.
The big problem was that every time she mentioned moving out, Sam broke down in tears, which made her feel totally guilty.
Angela, her friend in the chorus line, counseled her. “Sam’s not your responsibility,” Angela said. “He expects you to do everything for him, and that’s crazy. It’s not like he’s your boyfriend or anything, is it?”
“No,” she answered hesitantly.
>
“Then you gotta dump him,” Angela said, a decisive tilt to her chin. “I need a new roommate, and you’re it.”
Angela’s motives were obviously selfish, but all the same, Dani knew she was right. Continuing to live with Sam was not a good idea, and even though they weren’t girlfriend-boyfriend, he was horribly possessive. Every day he insisted on taking her to work on his motorcycle, and every evening he was waiting outside the stage door to bring her home. She couldn’t do anything without him questioning her, and she was beginning to feel stifled. As Angela had pointed out, it wasn’t as if he was her boyfriend, and although she’d made it her business to steer clear of men, she’d decided it might be interesting to at least try going out on a date. All the other girls in the chorus talked about men constantly—it was their obsession. After a while she felt totally left out.
Most days she practiced conversations in her head about how she would inform Sam of her imminent departure.
Oh hi, Sam. I think it’s better for both of us if I move out. That way we can have a more normal relationship.
Hmm . . .
Y’know, Sam, isn’t it about time you started seeing other girls? After all, Emily’s never coming back.
No, not so good. Any mention of Emily and he’d go berserk.
Reluctantly she decided the truth was best: Sam, I’m leaving. It’s the right thing to do.
Still, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him; it was too awkward. Emily’s disappearance was exceptionally sad for both of them, and because he’d loved her so very much, even more difficult for Sam to bear.
The chorus line at the Estradido Hotel was by no means the classiest line in town. The hotel itself was hardly on the same level as the big hotels such as the Stardust, the Sands, and the Desert Inn. The Estradido was mob owned, and everyone knew it. Low-level gamblers came there and lost their money. This suited Philippe Estradido fine. All he wanted was their money; he didn’t need movie stars and moguls hanging out.
Dani was by far the most beautiful girl in the chorus. This didn’t make her particularly popular with the other women, who were mostly veterans, apart from Angela, who was young enough not to feel threatened.
“Here’s what you need,” Angela informed her one night as they sat in front of their communal dressing table mirror preparing for the evening show. “A handsome stud who’ll sweep out the cobwebs and wake you up. My God, sweetie, if you don’t do something soon, you’ll end up an old maid.”
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