by Kelly Wood
“Good observation.”
Recently, Gray’s and my relationship went through a rough patch. He proposed and I ran away. Someone was murdered. Fast forward, and here we are. Through it all, I learned that I really did want to marry Gray and that Gray’s life wasn’t as simple as I had first thought.
I found the information Gray was imparting to be very useful, but I hadn’t decided yet to believe his story about being in a mafia family. So far, he hadn’t told me anything that couldn’t be learned in a book.
“So, what do I win for guessing correctly?” I asked.
“A life lesson in mob practices.”
“Boring,” I said. I smiled at Gray as the waitress brought our appetizer. I picked up a mozzarella stick and dunked it in the marinara sauce. I twisted the cheese to coat the stick before lifting it to my mouth. The hot cheese burst through the breading and burned my tongue. I sucked in air to cool it, but continued to eat. Gray lifted his portion onto a small plate and poured a dollop of sauce next the cheese sticks. He delicately used his fork and knife to cut bite-sized pieces before eating.
“If you get bored dealing with the mob, then you will end up in a body bag or prison. You have to stay on your toes,” Gray said after chewing his first bite.
“Okay, so tell me. What is he doing?”
“He is an online cyber-bookie. He runs his business on his computer while tracking the betting lines and race outcomes here. Now, watch.”
One of the businessmen from the corner table got up and approached the bookie. He didn’t look like a bookie to me. He looked like a computer geek. I bet I could take him in a fight. I pictured him visiting Comic-con each year over breaking someone’s legs for an unpaid debt.
The two men talked for a moment, and then the suit walked back to his table. It was over quicker than the deal between the prostitute and the pervert.
“Nothing happened,” I said.
“It did. The bookie just took a bet from him.”
“I didn’t see any money. And why wouldn’t he just put the bet in through the hotel? Won’t his friends wonder what he’s doing? How much do you think the bet was for?” I had more questions floating through my head than my mouth could even keep up with.
“The big-time gamblers use bookies because they can run an account. If he had placed the bet with the casino, then he would’ve had to front the money right away. With a bookie, you don’t.”
“What if he loses a lot and then the bookie breaks his legs?”
“Bookies usually aren’t violent, Regan. If a bookie broke the legs of everyone who was past due owing him money, then how could they work and repay their loan?”
“Huh. So... Working girls are okay to beat up, but gamblers are not. Got it. Makes sense.” I shook my head at him. This mob logic seemed silly. I ate another cheese stick. Fried, fattening foods were my kryptonite. I couldn’t stay away from them.
“Do you know him? Is he in the mob?” I asked with a mouthful of food.
“I don’t know him. It’s not like a club, Regan.”
“So, how does the bookie connect to your Uncle Frank?”
“He is either bankrolled by Frank to cover all of the bets made, or he pays Uncle Frank a percentage of all bets taken. My guess would be Frank bankrolls him.”
“Back to the guy who made the bet, if he doesn’t get his legs broken, then what does happen to him if he gets in a hole financially?” I asked.
“This is the way it works. Frank spots all of the money for the bookie, let’s call him...
“Earl,” I suggested.
“Sure, Earl. Earl runs the show. This is his ‘hustle’, so to speak, but Frank is still the boss. Let’s say the odds show Chicago to win the Sunday game against Cleveland. People place their bets with Earl. But,” Gray held up his finger, “Cleveland has a huge upset over Chicago, Earl could end up owing a lot of money to the people that bet on Cleveland.”
“Because it was an upset?” I asked.
“Exactly. The smaller the odds are of something happening means a bigger payout if it does. Earl wouldn’t have the funds to cover his losses so Frank would step in to pay the winners. Earl would pay back any money that Frank covered.”
“I think I get it. How does Frank make money off this?”
“There rarely would be any losses. Uncle Frank probably gets around twenty-five percent off the top. That’s a hefty percentage. Earl would pay any expenses out of his share. Even so, Earl could be averaging thirty thousand dollars per week, if he runs his lines correctly.” Gray used his fork to pick up another piece of fried cheese before eating it.
“What are lines?” I asked.
“Let’s use football again. Say the line for Chicago over Cleveland is six points and you are betting on Chicago to win. It means Chicago has to win the game by more than six points. For instance, if Chicago would win by a field goal, or three points, then you’d lose your bet even though Chicago won.”
Cheers went up around the bar at something that happened on the television. I waited for them to calm down before continuing.
“That sounds like a lot of pressure, to me. What if Earl messed up his ‘line’ and all the games missed the mark?”
“That’s where a big loss would come into play. If Earl messed up that badly then it would probably be his last day on the job.”
“Good point. Does he work alone?” I asked.
“No, Earl would use bouncers or muscle to collect from any slow pays.”
“You said they don’t break legs. Why would they need muscle?”
“Intimidation goes a long way,” Gray smirked while he said it. I think he was enjoying giving me his lesson.
“What about if someone has the money to bet directly through the casino?”
“They may, but when you are a gambling addict, you go with the best odds. Earl will pay out better than the OTBs. Fewer fees are taken out. Plus, if you get into trouble owing money, Earl will still let you place cash bets. Good bookies know that bad streaks eventually turn around into winning streaks.”
“OTBs?” I asked.
“Off-Track Betting. I’m sure you’ve seen them around. It’s like a bar with multiple screens all on different horse races across the country. You can place your bet there legally. The government stole the concept from the mob.”
“Really? Come on.”
“It’s true. The mob used to run gambling and horse betting rooms. The government saw how much money was to be made and followed suit legally with OTBs. They also stole another idea from the mob’s random number game.”
“What do you mean?” I was intrigued with Gray’s story. I loved hearing the history behind... anything, really.
“It started in the poorer areas of New York because it was a cheap bet. You could bet any amount you liked, as low as a dollar, on any three numbers. Every day the three random numbers were selected following a set formula. The person who bet would call a specific phone number to hear if he had won. If he had, he went to his bookie and collected. Sound familiar?”
“Like the lottery?” I asked.
“Not just a pretty face, are you?” Gray grinned at me and winked.
Chapter Four
Gray and I spent a couple of hours at the library. I loved the library. I loved the smell of the old books. I loved taking notes and learning about a subject. Any subject. I could get lost for hours here. I felt most at home sitting at tables with books and papers spread out before me. If research didn’t require so much sitting, I would dedicate my life to it.
Gray picked a book and found a comfortable chair to read in while I started with the basics of the hotel. I waited in line for a librarian with a free moment to lead and guide me. The woman behind the desk was around my mother’s age, but with a grandmotherly quality to her. Her name tag read Vivian. I watched as she pointed a mother and child in the direction of the children’s section. She spoke directly to the small boy. I’d always liked adults who didn’t ignore children. The two stepped aside, but
before I could speak, Vivian raised one finger toward me indicating she needed a minute. She sent eye daggers toward two teenage girls who chatted rather loudly. The girls must have felt the stare because they turned and caught Vivian’s eye before quieting down for their work. She reminded me of my great-grandmother. The one I missed terribly to this day. I just wanted to cuddle up next to Vivian and put my head on her shoulder, but I thought she might frown on it.
Vivian helped me to find multiple books on the history of Las Vegas itself and on the history of the hotels and casinos. I also asked for any reference materials regarding the average temperatures each month and the average flow of monthly tourists. This article was for a travel magazine, so any extra information about peak times and when to get the best deals was always appreciated by the readers.
I started in on the first books while Vivian loaded me up with the others. I made notes while I read. I learned about the first hotel back in 1931 and the El Rancho Vegas opening on what would become the Strip in 1941. I read about Howard Hughes refusing to vacate his hotel room, so he bought the whole hotel. My hand cramped from all of the notes I took on any fun local history I came across.
I was pleasantly surprised to find out that the average temperature for late May/early June was ninety to one hundred degrees. I was sweltering with the eighty-two degrees it currently was, but now understood why I overheard locals complain about the cold front. I was from Indiana, a cold front there was twenty below zero. Eighty-two degrees, to me, was the perfect outdoor weather.
After I exhausted all of the books, I headed to the computers to look up the current owner of the Magari. I stretched the kinks out of my back before sitting down to start again. I visited the hotel’s website, which was a bust unless I needed to make a reservation. It could definitely be beefed up with an About page. I preferred to stay in places with some history and character to them instead of just picking a convenient location. I shook my head at my amateur-ness and went to Google.
Multiple pictures and articles popped up. Frank Donato was an attractive man as I learned earlier. I was still trying to wrap my head around Gray calling him uncle. I guessed Frank to be around fifty years old. In most of the photos, he wore a tuxedo or suit. Even in the two-dimensional pictures, I could tell his suits were expensive. Definitely handmade. His hair was a sandy blonde with silver coursing through. Very Robert Redford like. He was regularly photographed at charity events in Las Vegas and Los Angeles, always with a different beautiful woman on his arm. A much younger beautiful woman. I wondered if he used call girls, but that could be my mind still stuck back in Chicago and on the information Gray gave me today.
I scrolled through the first two pages of links without clicking on anything while using the pencil in my hand to scratch my leg. I slipped my injured foot out of my sandal under the table. It was starting to swell, and the leather was cutting into my skin. I propped it up on the support bar under the desk to elevate it.
The titles of the links suggested they were all fluff pieces. Page-six stuff. I wanted the down and dirty. Nasty divorce, unpaid child support, and bankruptcy-type dirt. I tried searching Frank Donato with a combination of other words: divorce, marriage, affair, donkeys. You never knew what may come up. I even combined Frank’s name with criminal record and came up empty. Something tingled at the back of my brain, but I couldn’t pull it to the forefront.
I gave up after thirty minutes and multiple boring stories. Frank seemed to give away more money each year than I would make in a lifetime. The causes ranged from feeding the homeless to orphans to saving the whales. I was always leery of people in the limelight giving away money. I found the true unsung heroes were the ones behind the scenes. The women and men volunteering their time to the shelters and preparing the meals that actually feed the homeless. Of course, the money for those meals had to come from someone.
I packed up my notebooks and picked up some articles I printed from the front desk. I said “goodbye” and “thank you” to Vivian, rounded up Gray and headed out. So far, the information I could scrape up didn’t match with the story Gray was telling me about Frank. I was finding it hard to marry the two together. On one hand, he was this major philanthropist, donating millions of dollars, but on the other hand, Gray swore he was the head of a mob family.
Our next stop, according to Gray’s idea of knowing the history of Vegas, was the Mob Museum. I only pretended to be annoyed because the truth was I loved museums almost as much as libraries. I could’ve spent the whole day there, but we only had a few hours left before closing time and the dreaded dinner with Gray’s parents.
“So, what’s so special about this place?” I asked as we strolled through the displays.
“You can’t write an article on a Vegas casino without knowing the real history first.”
“The real history?” I asked.
“Yes, the gangsters, the money skimming, the cheating. It’s all part of the history. Even at the Magari,” Gray said.
“Your family history?” I asked, emphasizing my point.
“You mock.”
“I do.” I stopped walking and turned to face him. “Why am I only hearing about this now?”
“We’ll discuss it. I promise. But, not here.” Gray brushed my hair behind my ear. I’d left my long, dark hair loose today, falling in waves down my back. The gesture sent tingles down my spine. I let it drop. For now.
“What did you mean ‘at the Magari’?” I asked. Gray pointed to a picture in response.
“Look at this picture. What do you see?”
The back wall was covered in enlarged photographs, some black-and-white and some in color. There were mugshots of famous Las Vegas gangsters while others were of men and women, dressed to the nines, standing around. I looked at the wall closely, but none of the people looked familiar to me except for one of the Rat Pack. Even a blind man could pick out Sinatra with those eyes. Sinatra was sitting at a blackjack table, the female dealer smiling behind him. Even with her big, teased hair and eighties-era uniform, she was a knockout. Jax, my best friend, would love this place. She’d find it romantic while her boyfriend Liam would focus on the danger and death that surrounded the mob.
Grey stood in the corner with his hand leaning against one of the smaller pictures. His pointer finger slowly tapped against the photo.
“Is that a clue?” I pointed to his finger.
“Well, we can’t stay here all day. A man’s gotta eat sometime.”
I stuck my tongue out at him and swatted his hand away so I could take a closer look. Four men, all wearing tuxedos, were standing in front of a large, black car. The tuxes had the look of the late 80s. Wide collars and lapels adorned the jackets. Three of the men were about the same age. I’d guess, early twenties or late teens. The other gentleman was a bit older. There was a similarity between them with their dark hair and height. None of them were looking directly at the camera, but all were facing the general direction, like the photographer had caught them unaware. I bet there was another picture somewhere with the four of them posing for a better picture taken just moments after this one. All of them looked quite dashing, in my opinion. Who could resist a good-looking man in a tux?
The caption underneath said the older man was Antonio Bianchi out for a show with his three sons. Bianchi had been the head of a local mob family until his death in 1990 when the final mob holdings in Las Vegas were broken, according to one of the books I’d glanced through earlier. I still couldn’t figure out why Grey found this picture important, so I just kept staring at it, hoping for inspiration.
The background was bright with neon lights. ‘INGO’ was clearly visible above their heads. I took a stab in the dark and guessed the event the men were attending was featured at the Flamingo Hotel. A large, black car could be seen on the right, one door still open. Another man stood in the background by the open door. His right hand was on the door as if he were in the process of closing it. He was rather good-looking in a bad boy kind of way. Maybe it wa
s just me. I tended to go for the rebels-without-a-cause. The quality and the lack of color in the photograph made his features harder to distinguish. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved, button-up shirt. The sleeves of the shirt strained against the man’s muscles. Either the shirt was a hand-me-down, or a recent growth spurt had it straining. I squinted and leaned in closer to get a better look. His hair seemed lighter than the four men standing near him, shaggier, too. He seemed familiar to me, but I couldn’t place him.
“Add about thirty years,” Grey said.
“What?”
“To the guy you are staring at. Add thirty years to his face.”
I leaned in even closer and squinted until my eyes crossed. The kid was handsome, but there was toughness to his face. The chip on this guy’s shoulder was a big one. Even with the scowl on his face, he reminded me of Robert R... Get out! I practically pressed my face against the wall trying to see him more clearly. Sure enough, if you took off the cheap clothes, added a suit and a better haircut, you had Frank Donato!
“He was Frank Jones back then,” Grey said.
“That’s not very Italian.”
“I told you earlier he changed his name to sound more Italian, remember?” The tingle in my brain snapped into focus. I had searched the internet using Frank’s current name. I made a mental note to search again under Frank Jones. Maybe I’d get lucky and could learn about his background.
“Are there any more pictures of him here?” I asked, looking around.
“I don’t think so. From what I’ve heard, Frank had a keen sense to stay out of the way back then.”
“He doesn’t seem to have that now. Frank’s got pages of hits if you Google him,” I said.
“That’s his public persona. You won’t find anything negative about him.”
“Challenge accepted,” I said with a grin. Grey put his arm around me and squeezed.
“You know one of the first things I loved about you?”
