by Paul W Papa
Maximum Rossi
A Las Vegas Crime Noir
Paul W. Papa
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Desert Dust
Sign Up Page
About the Author
MAXIMUM ROSSI
Published by HPD Publishing
Las Vegas, NV 89105
Maximum Rossi is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Paul W. Papa
All rights reserved. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. For permission to use material from the book—other than for review purposes—please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the authors’ rights.
Published in the United States by:
HPD Publishing (A division of STACGroup llc)
PO Box 230093
Las Vegas, NV 89123
ISBN (pbk): 978-1-7344057-4-3 (10 digit: 1734405740)
ISBN (ebk): 978-1-7344057-5-0 (10 digit: 1734405759)
Cover design by Matthew Kadish
Model: Jenny Mostly courtesy of Twisted Image Studios
Keep up with Paul W. Papa’s books at https://mailchi.mp/8be9ac154607/paulwpapa
One
I WAS TWO eggs into a three-egg omelet when my breakfast was interrupted by a man who slid into my booth across the table from me. He wore a gray broadcloth sack suit, loose at the waist with narrow shoulders. His shirt was white and his collars button down. He sported a striped, straight-point tie and the wisp of a white handkerchief tucked into his top pocket. The man brought two goons with him. One was just shy of a mountain, the other a molehill.
His name was Salvatore Manella. His friends called him Sal. I didn’t let that stop me. “Nice to see you again Sal,” I said. “Please, join me.” Sal was a New York mobster sent to Las Vegas to get a hold on things after the Siegel debacle of the 40s. He was a lemon of a man, sour as they came.
While the Molehill stood by his boss, the Mountain moved over to my side of the booth, blocking my exit, and, had we been outside, the sun as well. He wore a long suit that a family of three could fit under in a rainstorm. A Stetson hat, its brim curled in the back, sat precariously atop his voluminous head. He had a buzz cut high above his ears, a crooked nose, and a mouth to match. I took another bite of omelet.
“You’re still here,” Sal said, his puss fitting his demeanor.
I gave him a toothy grin. “Why yes I am,” I said. “Thank you for noticing.”
He leaned forward. “I thought we discussed you leaving?”
“No, you discussed my leaving. I don’t recall being involved in the conversation.”
I had come to Las Vegas several months ago from Boston for a friend’s bachelor party and wedding. When it was all over and done, they left, I stayed behind. What can I say? The fat city enamored me. Blinking lights, free cocktails, great entertainment, oh yeah, and showgirls, lots of showgirls. I was hooked. There was nothing for me in Boston anyway, except, of course, the family business.
A waitress came and offered coffee. I moved my cup for her to top it off, but the Mountain sent her away.
“I’ll ask you again,” Sal said. “Why are you here?”
“I like the food.”
It wasn’t the answer Sal was looking for. It wasn’t the answer the Mountain was looking for either. He reached in and placed a firm hand on my shoulder. “Mr. Manella asked you a question,” he said. His New York-tainted speak was slow and steady. He squeezed just enough to get his point across. Had I been a watermelon, I would have burst.
I met his gaze. He did not look away.
“Tell Mr. Manella,” I said to the Mountain, “it’s a free country and, more to the point, an open town.”
“Then you plan on starting business?” Sal asked. “Family business?”
I turned my attention back to my uninvited guest. “I don’t have any plans,” I admitted. “But if I did, you’d be the last to know.”
The Mountain squeezed harder. I tried not to flinch.
“Want to call off your dog?” I asked.
Sal looked to the Mountain and nodded. I smiled. The Mountain released me but kept his hand close just in case.
“I’m sitting here out of respect to your father,” Sal said. “But my respect goes only so far. Las Vegas might be an open town, but you know who owns it and it ain’t Boston.”
“From what I hear, it ain’t New York either.”
Sal smiled. “That what you hear? Maybe you should ask Lanski or Luciano.”
“I’ll get right on that, seeing how it went so well with Seigel.” It was an unnecessary jab, but I took it anyway.
Sal grew solemn. “There’s no room for you here Rossi,” he said. “Why don’t you just leave?”
“What and miss the free buffet?”
“Always the wise guy,” Sal said. “Maybe you should hit the clubs.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” I said. “We done here? I’d like to finish my breakfast in peace.”
That made the Mountain tense up. I could feel his hand only inches from my face. If he could, he would’ve socked me one right in the jaw.
Sal dead-eyed me for quite some time, contemplating his options. I kept his gaze. Finally, I spoke. “If you’re not going to leave, then make yourself useful and pass the sand.”
Sal smiled. He took the sugar and emptied it into my cup until it spilled over the sides.
“Shit,” I exclaimed, throwing up my napkin to create a dam for the liquid. Luckily the sugar was absorbing most of it.
Sal put the canister back down and slid out of the booth. He stood at the end of the table for a moment straightening his tie before he shot his cuffs, revealing links engraved with an “S” and an “M.”
“If we have to have this conversation a third time,” Sal said. “I may not be so pleasant. In fact, I might just send Vito here to do my talking for me.”
I looked up at the Mountain. He grinned.
“Get out of town Rossi, before you get hurt.” Sal said and walked away.
I looked at the mess in front of me and pushed the plate with what was left of my eggs across the table. My appetite had left with Sal.
Two
THE VISIT FROM Sal cast a dark cloud over what had promised to be a very good day. He did have a point though; one I didn’t like to admit. What was I doing in Las Vegas? Or more to the point, why was I so unwilling to leave? And why, if I intended to leave, was I looking at houses with a real estate agent?
Her name was Kathleen Sithwell, Kathy to her friend
s, and she worked for Campbell Realty Company. She stepped out of her ‘51 red flip-top Muntz in a white tea-length polka dot dress and a matching Peten pan collar blouse. Her high, narrow waist was guarded by a wide black belt, decorated with a large red rose just off to the side. Kathy had been driving with the top down and had protected her dusky blonde hair with a scarf she removed as she came toward me, hand extended.
“Max, thanks so much for meeting me here.”
“The thanks are mine,” I said and took hold of her hand. It was soft and firm at the same time. I liked that. Kathy had asked me to meet her downtown, just off Fremont Street on seventh near Bridger. It was a cozy little area, filled with single-family cottages just a block from the only high school.
“I have several great properties to show you, starting with this one.”
She led me up the walkway to a compact white stucco home with a tiled roof. We walked through the curved entryway up to the front door. Kathy was prepared with a key that got us right in. I removed my hat and followed her inside. The front door led to a small, well-furnished living room. A sharp-looking sofa sat across from two high-back chairs separated by a small round table with a lamp on top.
“It comes furnished,” Kathy offered.
“It’s nice,” I said and walked across the room toward the kitchen.
“Do you cook?” she asked.
“Only when I have to,” I said with a grin.
The kitchen was well-equipped with a light blue stand-alone range and a matching Frigidaire. A blender, a toaster, and several other small appliances I didn’t recognize occupied the counter.
“It has all the modern conveniences,” Kathy added. “Too bad you don’t cook.”
I checked out the rest of the house, three bedrooms, one bathroom, a tiny backyard, and a covered carport just to one side. As we made our way back to the living room, Kathy walked over to the window and pointed to the unit resting on the sill.
“Air conditioning,” she said.
“Very impressive,” I assured her.
“Trust me, you’ll be grateful when summer comes.”
“Isn’t it always summer here?” I asked.
Kathy chuckled. “I suppose it is,” she said, then pulled the collar of her blouse open just a bit, inviting my eyes to a place they shouldn’t go. “So, what do you think?” she asked. It’s not that she wasn’t a nice bit of eye candy, it’s just that I had an aversion to sweets when they got in the way of business.
“The place suits me fine,” I admitted, forcing down a smile. “How much lettuce?”
“One fifty,” she said. “Utilities included. Tell me again what you do.”
“I’m keeping my prospects open.”
Kathy closed her blouse with much less subtleness than she had previously opened it. Her expression had soured. “Mr. Rossi,” she started.
“How about one twenty-five?” I interrupted. “And I’ll pay six months up front.”
Her face softened.
“It’s in a very nice area,” she said with a smile. “Walking distance to downtown. Do you have children?”
“Not as of yet.” I returned her smile. “Maybe someday.”
“So, what brings you to Las Vegas from the east coast?”
“My accent betray me?” I asked.
“I spent a little time in Boston,” she said. “A couple of summers ago.”
I was beginning to like Kathy. “I came for a friend’s bachelor party and decided to stay,” I said.
“Well, that sounds risky.”
“That’s the name of the game here, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” she said with raised eyebrow. “And there’s no young lady at home waiting for you?”
“The only lady in my life right now is my mother.”
Kathy laughed. “Oh, so you are Italian then.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to take that, but the accompanying smile cooled me some.
“What did you do in Boston?”
“Family business,” I said.
“Oh? What kind of business is that?”
“My father’s a repairman,” I said with a bit of hesitation. It wasn’t a complete lie. I mean my father did fix things. In fact, that was what they called him: a fixer. It was his job to make things go away. Unpleasant things. You shot the wrong guy or the right guy but in the wrong place, my father stepped in and made the whole thing disappear. All sides respected him. In fact, he was so good at what he did that he often crossed family lines. He kept secrets, and he was untouchable.
Early in his career some germ had gotten himself worried about my father’s ability to hold his tongue. It wasn’t something he ought to have concerned himself with. When word got out that a hit had been ordered on my father, the other families bonded together and stopped it from happening. They got their point across pretty good. A stiff’ll do that.
I fell into the family business when I was old enough to do my part, but the lifestyle didn’t suit me. The only problem is once you’re in, it ain’t so easy to get out, as Sal had reminded me this very morning. I guess I had been looking for a break and I suppose Vegas was it.
“So Max, shall we sign papers?”
We were back to Max, but I didn’t mind. I had already scoped the place out the day before and was happy enough with the location. Easy in, easy out, no prying eyes. I guess old habits die hard.
“I think we should,” I said and suggested I follow her back to her office.
Three
WITH HOUSING SECURED I was off to the races, or, more specifically, the tables. I liked poker. It was an honest man’s game. At least that’s the lie I said to convince myself. Truth is that poker was the only game where the odds weren’t stacked with the house. The casinos countered that risk by taking a percentage of every pot. That way, win or lose, the house got its pound of flesh. Genius.
I pulled my bright red, convertible Roadmaster up to the porte-cochere of my favorite casino, the Sands. It was a place in the sun, according to the fifty-six-foot marquee. I never understood what that meant, but I liked the joint, anyway. I handed my keys to the attendant at the front door, along with a couple of nuggets I had in my front pocket. He handed me a slip of paper that he had torn in two, sliding the other half under the wiper.
Even at this time of day, the casino was full. The distinct sound of coins dropping into metal trays. Men and women feeding machines, squeaking with excitement every time the spinning reels stopped on cherries or sevens. Others throwing their hard-earned dough on tables, only to have it transformed into unrecognizable currency. Chips, they were called. It was the casino’s little mind game. Turn the money into something unrelatable, that way people don’t realize just how much moola they are actually spending—or losing. It’s easy to throw down a couple chips on a table, much harder to toss down a couple fins. No wonder the mob was in heaven here. It was as if they invented the place.
The Sands was the property of Jake Freedman, an oil tycoon from the great state of Texas, at least that’s how he put it. Truth was, he was a Texas gambler and while his name might have been on the deed, it was Meyer Lansky and Frank Costello who really owned the place. Lansky was a friend of Seigel’s back in New York. In fact, it was Lansky who gave Seigel the name Bugsy on account of his temper. Seigel and Lansky ran a floating crap game, moving the action to a different place every night to hide it from the bluebottles.
As it’s told, one night a sergeant found the game. When he tried to shut it down, Lansky handed him the dice. The sergeant walked away with two Lincolns, but not before he shut the game down. Seigel got himself bent out of shape. He followed the sergeant outside, cracking the back of his head open with a pipe. Seigel took his money and left the copper there as a sign. When Lansky heard what he’d done, he told his friend “You’re as crazy as a bedbug.” The name stuck.
When Seigel came to Las Vegas and opened the Flamingo, his action was bankrolled by Lansky and Luciano. The two had made quite a name for themselves in the New
York crime syndicate. Luciano rose in the ranks, especially after killing Joe “the Boss” Masseria during the Castellammarese War. Masseria had previously made an unsuccessful attempt on Luciano’s life, having him beaten, stabbed, and left for dead on a beach in Staten Island. Luciano didn’t take well to an attempt on his life and after he recovered, he paid Masseria back with his own, much more successful attack. When Salvatore Maranzano tried the same thing, it met with similar results, earning Luciano the nickname “Lucky.” Luciano went by Charles, but his real name was Salvatore. I was pretty sure every mobster’s name was really Salvatore.
Except for Lanski. His name was Meyer and he, like Seigel, was Jewish, not Italian. Seigel, Lansky, and Luciano had formed a friendship early in their careers, one that lasted until they suspected Seigel of stealing from them. Money always wins out over loyalty. Luciano got his money, Lansky got the Flamingo, and Seigel got lead. Now Lansky had the Sands as well.
“Mr. Rossi, how good it is to see you again.”
“Hi Bobby,” I said, and took a seat at the table.
Bobby Hill was the pit boss at the Sands. The man in charge of all the table games in the pit, which was simply a group of gaming tables huddled together to form an oval. Craps at the ends, table games in between. All the tables faced outward, with all the employees on the inside in the area known as the pit. It was Bobby’s job to keep an eye on all the tables and to make sure no one was cheating—players or employees. It was also his job to schmooze the important players.
