by Paul W Papa
“Follow me,” Fingers said.
“Wait!” Bilotti called out. “I’m into you for close to two c’s. You gotta let me get that back.”
Fingers weighed the request. “Think you can behave yourself?” he finally said.
“Damn straight,” Bilotti promised.
Fingers turned to Bobby. “Have his chips brought up as well,” he said and the three of us headed upstairs.
Five
THE EMERALD ROOM was aptly named. The carpet and the walls were both a deep shade of, you guessed it, emerald green. The drapes were a lighter shade of the same color. The room itself was round. Padded couches and high-back chairs rested just under an elaborate light fixture on the wall, between two sets of drapes that were simply for show—the room had no windows. Its only access was through a secluded stairway, hidden behind a non-assuming door. Fingers was out of breath by the time we got there.
The room smelled like Coq au Vin, the source of the aroma coming from the large spread of food positioned against another section of rounded wall, plates and dining utensils at the ready. The spread was adjacent to a private bar. Across from the array of furniture sat a single gaming table. A female dealer already seated at the table, had cards in hands. Our positions were set up as well, just as they were downstairs, Fingers’ and Bilotti’s chips in place. A fresh manhattan sat in my spot waiting for me. A new stogie awaited Fingers.
Bilotti let out a whistle and stepped farther inside the room. He tossed his hat onto a chair and made his way to the bar.
Fingers headed for the gaming table. He discarded the mush he had in his mouth and began preparing his new Cuban for flame. He ran it under his nose, taking in the scent, then slid it, almost reverently, in between his fat gums.
I went to my seat as well and rested my hat on the table to my left. A waitress seemed to appear out of nowhere. She was cute, blonde, and wore much less clothing than her counterparts in the restaurants downstairs. I took in the view.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked with a toothy smile.
I flashed a forty-watter of my own. “Is that Coq au Vin I smell?” I asked.
“It certainly is, Mr. Rossi. Would you like a plate?”
She knew our names. I was impressed. “It’s Max,” I said, “and yes I would, very much.”
My waitress turned to leave and was met by Bilotti, drink in hand. “I’ll take one of those too, sweetie,” he said, molesting her with his eyes.
The waitress nodded and moved to the table of food.
“Quite the spread,” Bilotti said as he took his seat.
“It is at that,” I agreed.
As the waitress brought us food, the dealer shuffled the single deck of cards. An armed security officer entered the room and positioned himself at the door. I wasn’t quite sure if he was there to keep people out or to keep the peace within. He was wearing a uniform that closely resembled that of the local police. The design was purposeful. It gave the illusion that security was actually police even though they weren’t. That cut down on trouble. It also gave the security force a sense of authority. That cut down on trouble too. Of course, the mob had its own way of dealing with troublemakers.
The dealer dealt the first round of cards before the waitress came back with our plates. She set one in front of Bilotti and the second in front of me, flashing me the smile that caught my attention the first time.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked.
“I’ll take another of these,” Bilotti said holding up his glass. The way he held it forced the waitress to get close to him. As she took the glass, Bilotti slipped his hand under her skirt and squeezed her behind.
She squealed.
“Is that really necessary?” I asked.
“Why don’t you just mind your own cards?” Bilotti said. “Why do you think she’s in here, dressed like that?”
“Not for you to get handsy,” I said.
“Well, how about I get handsy with you?”
“How about you both shut your traps and concentrate on the cards,” Fingers said.
I turned to the waitress, but she had already left for the bar.
Bilotti and I threw the required two red chips on the table and the playing began. About the time the dealer dealt the turn, the waitress returned with Bilotti’s drink. She slid it onto the table next to him and tried her best to produce a smile. Bilotti took two green chips and slid them deep into her cleavage.
“That’s for your trouble,” he said, then turned to me. “See, all better.”
“And just how does you pushing your fingers down her front make it all better?” I asked.
“Cool it kid,” Bilotti said. “You’re just as tightly wound as your old man.”
“Your bet,” Fingers said to me and puffed out a fine Cuban cloud.
He meant to pull me back to the game. It didn’t work. My attention was on Bilotti. I watched as he pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his jacket pocket and lit one. He took a stiff drag, let the smoke fill his lungs, then blew it out his nose. He turned to me. “You gonna bet? Or did you just come here to defend some cocktail waitresses’ honor?”
“You two are worse than a couple of old ladies,” Fingers added. “You gonna bet, Rossi, or what?”
What I wanted to do was shove my fist into Bilotti’s smug kisser, but it wasn’t the time. I was nursing a pair, so I threw two chips onto the table. Fingers and Bilotti called and when it was all said and done, I lost the hand on a bluff. I needed to pay more attention to the cards.
After about three hours in, I was up a C-Note, Fingers was about even, but Bilotti’s stack was fading fast. The more he lost, the more he drank, and the more he drank, the more he smoked. The waitress had to leave twice to get his smokes. Finger’s own Cuban was down to a nub, but he refused a second.
I was about to call it a night when a vision was let into the room. The kind of dame that’d make a man rethink his choices in life. She had long, brown hair, a tight nose, long lashes, and mile-long legs. To my surprise, she walked right over to Bilotti.
“There she is,” Bilotti said. “There’s my Jeanie.” He pulled the girl close, then cupped her behind, his Lucky Strike between his first two fingers, and squeezed. It was clear the move made her uncomfortable.
“Hi Jeanie,” Fingers said.
“Hi Frank,” she replied.
“Don’t be nice to him,” Bilotti said, his words beginning to slur. “He’s taking all my money. Along with this punk over here,” he said, pointing his cigaretted fingers in my direction.
“Maybe we should go home, Joe,” Jeanie said.
“What do you mean go home?” Bilotti bellowed. I was sure I saw the girl wince. “I’m not leaving until I get my money back. Go get me a drink.”
I watched Jeanie glide to the bar. When I turned Bilotti was staring directly at me.
“She’s a doll, ain’t she?” he said. “She’s a Copa Girl, a dancer. Got legs to spare.”
I knew what a Copa Girl was. I had seen the show in the Copa Room several times on this trip and before. Dance and variety shows were king in Las Vegas and the Copa Girls were the queens of the ball. They were the best in the business, all legs and production. They opened the show and performed in between each act. Their dance routines were just as elaborate as their costumes. They were a pleasure to watch. The Copa Room was also making a name for itself with the entertainment it booked. The likes of Desi Arnez, Bing Crosby, Louis Armstrong, Vic Damone, Ella Fitzgerald, George Burns, and Slappy White.
I kept to my cards.
The dancer came back and offered Bilotti a drink. He took a sip, then spat it out. “What the hell is this?” he demanded.
“It’s a tom collins.”
“What the hell kind of sissy drink is that?”
“You like gin,” the dancer said.
“Sure, Gin with tonic or a Rickey, not this shit.”
Jeanie went to the take the drink. Bilotti slapped it out of her hand. It landed
hard on the carpeted floor; the glass bounced as it hit. Jeanie pulled her hands up to her face and froze. The waitress moved in to clean up the mess.
“Let her get it,” Bilotti ordered.
The waitress looked first at Bilotti, then at Fingers. He nodded.
Jeanie lowered herself to the ground as only a dancer could and produced the glass.
“Now fill it with something a man drinks,” he said.
When Jeanie turned to leave, Bilotti slapped her hard on the behind. I could feel the sting from my seat.
“Maybe you oughta calm down,” Fingers said.
“Maybe you oughta mind your own business,” Bilotti countered.
“It’s your bet,” I said.
Bilotti turned to me with a look that would have eaten through iron. I didn’t flinch.
After a moment Jeanie returned with his drink. “Here you go Joe,” she said. “Gin and tonic.”
Bilotti turned to her, took the glass, and brought it to his mouth. He took a long swig. “Now that’s a drink,” he said. He put four more chips into the pile. I called, but Fingers had a straight and took the pot.
“What’s that? Four in a row?” he said to Fingers.
“What are you implying?” Fingers asked.
“Your house, your cards, your damn dealer. You don’t have to be an Einstein to know what’s going on around here.”
“You accusin’ me of cheating?” Fingers asked forcefully.
“I’m just pointing out what don’t look good to me,” Bilotti said.
“Maybe we should go, Joe,” the dancer said, slipping her hands around his arm. “C’mon, I’ll take you home.”
Bilotti yanked his arm away. “Mind your own business, woman,” he said and slammed the back of his hand across the dancer’s face. She dropped to the ground.
I’d had enough. I leapt from my seat and grabbed Bilotti by his lapels. Before he could react, I pulled him from his seat, cocked my right arm back, and planted one square across his jaw. The force sent him to the ground.
After a moment, Bilotti sat up and rubbed his chin. The dancer quickly scooted over to him. “Let’s go home, Joe.”
Bilotti pressed his huge hand on her face and pushed her across the floor. “I said, mind your own damn business!”
“Get up,” I told Bilotti, “so I can knock you down again.”
Security took a step toward me. “You stay out of this,” I said. “He’s got this coming.”
The security officer looked at Fingers. He nodded and waved the officer back.
Bilotti stood and straightened his jacket. “Let’s see what you got, kid.”
I rushed him, but drunk as he was, he still managed to step aside, catching me in the breadbasket with his large fist. The air rushed from my lungs all at once and I gasped.
Bilotti laughed. “You’re gonna have to do better than that,” he said.
After a moment I was able to stand erect. That’s when Bilotti made his move. He caught my jaw with his right hand; it felt like a jackhammer hit me. The air around my head seemed to sparkle. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his left coming in for an uppercut that would have taken my head off had I not been able to turn just at the right time.
Bilotti had put all he had into the upper cut and was now off balance. I took a deep breath and slammed my right into his gut with all my might. It was like hitting a brick wall, but it was enough to force him further off balance. As he tried to gain his footing, I slammed the back of my fist against the side of his face, then countered with an uppercut of my own to his chin. His bottom jaw crashed hard into his upper; teeth clanking at the force of the blow.
His eyes were spinning, but he was still standing, so I pulled back and hit him three successive times in the face with the jabs I learned in the gym as a kid. Each blow sent his head backward. His nose bloodied, as did his lip. After the third blow he was done. His hands dropped to his sides and his body hit the ground.
I looked over at Fingers. He lifted his glass to me.
I picked up my hat and turned my attention to the dancer. She looked at Bilotti, then up at me. Her eyes were big and round and her mouth agape. I took her hand, lifted her from the floor, and marched her out of the room.
Six
I’M PRETTY SURE the dancer was in shock and I’m not entirely sure I wasn’t right there with her. I didn’t think it wise to head to my room at the Sands, so I took her instead to my new digs over on seventh street. I was sure that after he recovered, Bilotti would look for her. I would hope Bobby wouldn’t spill the beans about my room at the Sands, but I didn’t think it wise to take the chance.
After I parked my Roadmaster, I took the dancer inside and sat her down in the living room, as I headed into the kitchen. Kathy had left a care package as a thank you on the counter; I was pleased to find part of it was tea. I switched on a lamp, got the dancer a glass of water, and made some hot tea. She stayed silent the entire time. When I returned to the living room from the kitchen, she was curled up on the sofa, wrapped in the blanket that was draped over the back. I placed the tea on the small coffee table that separated the large piece from the two high-back chairs in the room, then took one of the chairs.
“Are you okay?” I asked her. She nodded. I wasn’t convinced. The mark on her face was beginning to bruise just above her high cheekbone. It all happened so fast in the Emerald Room, that I didn’t really get a good look at the dancer. She didn’t look like the kind of girl used to getting slapped around. I wondered how she got herself wrapped up in this whole thing.
After a moment she glanced over to me. “What have you done?” she whispered. I had to strain to hear her.
“I did what needed to be done,” I said, a little more smugly than I intended. “He had no right to do that to you.”
“What’s going to happen now?” she asked. Though the question was posed in my direction, she looked down at the floor and wrapped herself tighter in the blanket.
I wasn’t sure what the right move was. Should I hug her? Stay in my chair? Who knows at times like these? I didn’t do any of that. Instead I said: “You don’t have to worry about Bilotti. He won’t be hurting you anymore.” I don’t know why I said it to her. I had no business promising that, but I did anyway. It just came out.
She looked up at me with inquisitive eyes. “How did you do that?” she asked quietly.
“Do what?”
“Beat him like that. No one has ever beat him.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” I said with a smirk. “He’s probably only told you about the fights he’s won.”
“No,” she protested, sitting up a bit straighter. “I’ve seen him hit people. It usually doesn’t take more than one or two punches for the fight to be over. Joe always wins.”
I smiled. “My father made me take boxing classes when I was young,” I told her. “I was pretty good.”
“I’ll say!” she said. She scooted to the end of the sofa and peeked inside the teacup.
“Chamomile,” I assured her. “It’ll help you sleep.”
“So this is a sleepover?” she asked and pulled the cup to her lips. They were fine lips. Full and pink. The kind of lips that made you wonder what story they had to tell.
“Well, in so many words, yes,” I said. “I don’t think it’s wise for you to go home just yet. It’s the first place Bilotti will look.”
The dancer took a tentative sip. She puckered her perfect pink lips, blew over the top of the cup, then took a larger drink. “It’s nice, thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Her hands gripped the cup tightly. “He’s a dangerous man,” she said. “Are you sure you know what you’ve gotten yourself into?”
“I’ve dealt with palookas like him before,” I assured her. “I’ll be all right.”
“Yes, but the question is, will I?”
“I told you, you don’t have to worry about him anymore.” There I went again; promising something I had no business promising.
“So you say, but I don’t know you from Adam. And here I am on your sofa drinking tea. What would the nuns say?”
“Nuns?” I asked.
The dancer smiled. It was the first time I had seen it. She should bring it out more often.
“I was raised a good Catholic girl,” she said. “The nuns are always in my head.”
“That could get awkward,” I countered.
“You have no idea.”
I had a bit of one. I was Italian after all. I took a pledge to love the church, my mother, and a good meatball; I was a sucker for a good meatball.
“How long have you been a showgirl?” I asked.
“Bite your tongue!” she said. “I’m a dancer, not a showgirl.”
“I wasn’t aware there was a difference.”
“There’s a big difference,” she said. “First of all, I’m not tall enough to be a showgirl. Second, being a showgirl requires no talent whatsoever. All you have to do is walk around with a fancy headdress, don’t fall down, and show your tits. I dance.”
I was sensing a bit of animosity, so I apologized. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Oh, it’s okay. It’s just that most people don’t understand the work a dancer has to do. Showgirls get all the attention.”
“Well, then let me rephrase the question. How long have you been a dancer?”
That brought the smile back out. “All my life really. My mother made me take dance lessons when I was young. I guess the lessons stuck.”
“I guess they did.”
She rested the cup on the coffee table. “You know, I just realized I don’t even know your name and you don’t know mine.”
“Massimo, Massimo Rossi,” I said, “But most people just call me Max.”
“Jeanie, Jeanie Gardner,” she said and extended her hand.
I took it. It was soft and warm. “Pleasure to meet you,” I said.
“Well Max, what do you do for a living?”
“Oh, a little of this and a little of that.”
Jeanie pulled back her hand and frowned. “That’s what Joe says. So, you’re a mobster too?”
