Dorothy had already mentioned her displeasure over her sister’s romance with the older widower in casual conversation. Repeatedly. Parnell knew that they were on the same page when it came to the ultimate end goal. If Dorothy had the sort of influence with Phyllis that she now had with him, maybe he could do a good deed.
He decided to fill Dorothy in on the real reason he was in Las Vegas and his real line of work, even though it was dangerous for him to do so.
It was late on the night of their fourth or fifth date, all of them after-show dates that often ended up becoming all-nighters, that Parnell chose to tell Dorothy about the Fidel Castro assassination attempt offer made to Sam Giancana. He didn’t make the decision to share this sensitive information lightly. He knew he might be blowing up his own career in the process.
“Sam said he’d kill Castro. Probably using poison pills. But he had another condition,” Parnell said.
“What condition?” Dorothy asked.
Parnell gave Dorothy an intent look. “Sam said he wanted your sister Phyllis’ dressing room bugged. It has, in fact, been bugged for the past week.”
Dorothy was dumbstruck upon learning that her sister’s words and actions in her private dressing room were being monitored. She had no illusions about Sam’s harmlessness (delusions which Phyllis seemed to entertain). When Sam found out everything that went on in Phyllis’ dressing room, no one was safe.
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed when Parnell broke the news to her. “Dan Rowan is in there with Phyllis almost every night. There’s no telling what he and Phyllis are talking about. Or doing. If Sam hears those tapes, Rowan is a dead man.” The terrified look on Dorothy’s face spoke volumes.
Parnell continued, “This is Top Secret in the agency, Dorothy. I could lose my job if they knew I’d shared this information with you or with anybody else. Right now, it’s strictly speculative. Sam has agreed to kill Castro using poison. There have actually been eight different plots against Castro that have been proposed. One, Operation Mongoose, went right to the top. Bobby Kennedy was going to cooperate. He’d allow justice to collaborate with the Mob to kill Castro. But Sam Giancana hasn’t bought into an even worse plot suggested to him yet. Something we know about from wiretaps in Chicago.
There’s a move by organized crime to rid itself of the Kennedys. You know that Bobby has been sending more mobsters to jail than any Attorney General in history. Old Joe made a deal with the Mafia. He said he’d call off his son's if the Mob helped Kennedy win West Virginia, which the Outfit did. If, for any reason, JFK and RFK don’t honor their father’s pledge, there’s going to be a concerted Mob effort to get rid of the Kennedys.
The CIA has Sam on tape telling one of JFK’s girlfriends, Judith Exner, ‘Your boyfriend wouldn’t be in the White House if it weren’t for me.’ Sam expressed how upset he was at the way Bobby Kennedy was going after the Mob. Sam said, “We broke our balls for him and gave him the election, and he gets his brother to hound us to death.’ Sam sounded really, really angry.”
Parnell directed a searching look at Dorothy, to see how she was handling all this sensitive information.
Dorothy’s mouth opened wide in horror. “You don’t mean killing Jack or Bobby, do you?”
“I didn’t say that, Dorothy, but the Mob got rid of Anton Cermak, the Mayor of Chicago, back in the thirties. They’re certainly more powerful right now. But they won’t continue to be if Bobby Kennedy keeps the pressure on. All I know is that your sister is mixed up with a guy who is capable of anything. If you have any influence with her, get her to stay away from Giancana, especially now.”
With those parting words, Parnell McIntire left Dorothy at the door to her suite within the Excelsior.
Dorothy was up almost all night, thinking about the implications of what Parnell had confided. She could think of only one way to save Dan Rowan’s life and, perhaps, her little sister’s as well. She must set up a private meeting with Sam. Tell him what she knew about his intentions confidentially. Threaten to expose him to the authorities if he moved against Dan or anyone else.
She knew she’d be putting her own life in danger, but, if she didn’t do something, once Sam Giancana heard the tapes made in Phyllis’ dressing room, Dan Rowan would be like a clay pigeon in a shooting gallery. Who knew? Even Phyllis might not be safe. And more important figures might be next. Phyllis had fallen for Dan Rowan hard. She had asked Dorothy if she could accompany Rowan to Paris on his July birthday trip.
Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone, thought Dorothy. If I reveal what I know about Sam’s intentions to Sam, yes, it will put me at risk, but Sam loves Phyllis and Phyllis wouldn’t take kindly to Sam murdering me. I have to do it, for Phyllis’ sake, for Dan Rowan’s sake, for the sake of even more prominent targets.
Dorothy made a vow to set up a private meeting with Sam as soon as possible. Since all three of the sisters were to dine with Sam tomorrow night before their latest show at 9 p.m., she would get Sam alone and ask him then.
Maybe set up a meeting with Sam just before Phyllis and Christine arrive, Dorothy thought.
*
The first week’s run of the new Carson show had set box office records for the Excelsior. Johnny had done well, with the help of Phyllis, Dorothy and Christine McGuire. He tied with Liberace’s attendance, a benchmark. Liberace made $50,000 a week appearing at the Riviera at the opposite end of the Strip.
It was to celebrate the success of new-comer Carson’s opening that all three of the McGuire Sisters met with Sam Giancana for dinner in the elegant dining room of the Excelsior, the Empire Room.
Dorothy contacted Sam privately by phone prior to their 7:30 p.m. dinner reservations.
“Sam, could you meet me for a drink in the Empire Room about 6:30?”
“Sure, Dorothy. What’s up?” Sam asked affably.
“I just wanted to have a chance to talk with you privately before Phyllis and Christine join us. You know how chatty those two are.” Dorothy chuckled, as though she had nothing serious to discuss.
“No problem, Dorothy. Anything you girls want or need, you just let me know.”
Sam had no idea that Dorothy knew what he was up to regarding bugging Phyllis’ dressing room or anything else.
One hour before the trio’s dinner reservations, Dorothy entered the Empire Room alone. She saw Sam seated in a corner booth capable of seating at least eight people. Large, overstuffed booths were used down front for important guests at many of the Strip’s venues, and, as often as not, the booths were filled with one or two Mob figures invested in the Sands or the Sahara or the Dunes or the Flamingo or any of a number of smaller casinos on the Strip, downtown, or in neighboring Henderson.
Dorothy was dressed in a slinky black cocktail dress with a short skirt and three-inch high stiletto heels. She carried a black clutch purse, wore dangly diamond earrings and a diamond necklace, and carried a light black glittery shawl to compensate for the air conditioning. It was May. Had it been January, when the Excelsior first opened, Dorothy would have been draped in her mink stole, but the temperatures outside were soaring and she only needed the shawl to offset the air conditioning draft.
“What’s up, Dorothy? What’s on your mind?” Sam asked. Never one to beat around the bush or waste words, he was curious.
Dorothy, too, believed in being direct. “Sam, I know you’re bugging Phyllis’ dressing room.” She waited to see if Sam denied the charge. He did not. “No matter what you hear or think you hear, no matter how happy or angry her words make you, you have to let Phyllis live her life the way she wants to live her life. If she leaves you, she was never yours to begin with. If you set her free to make her own choices and she genuinely loves you, she’ll come back to you.” Dorothy knew she was not the original author of those sentiments, but they were the right ones for the situation.
Sam looked weary and old beyond his years. He was fifty-two years old to Phyllis’ twenty-nine. It wasn’t uncommon for rich older men to squire younger star
let arm candy in Vegas, but a twenty-three year age gap was a big gap. Dan Rowan was thirty-eight, nine years older than Phyllis. It was true that Sam was old enough to be Phyllis’ father. Sam’s daughter, Antoinette, was twenty-five, four years younger than Phyllis.
Sam didn’t flinch. He listened thoughtfully and removed a cigar from his inner jacket pocket. “Does Phyllis know you’re here talking to me about this?” Sam asked Dorothy. He had a world-weary look in his eyes, but he did not appear angry.
“Not only does she not know I’m talking to you about the recordings, she doesn’t even know she’s being bugged. And I haven’t told her. Whatever you hear on those tapes when they’re delivered to you (Dorothy knew from Parnell that Sam had not yet heard them) is the private life of a twenty-nine-year-old single woman who has every right to live her life the way she sees fit. Phyllis cares about you, Sam. I know she does. But she’s young. She wants to take a trip to France with a friend who has invited her. She wants to sow some wild oats. She wants to do all sorts of things that we all want to do when we’re young. She should have that opportunity.” As she rushed through this impromptu speech, Dorothy was as nervous as she had been ten minutes before show time on opening night.
“Why haven’t you told her about the bugging?” asked Sam.
“Why should I? She can say and do anything she wants, within reason. She’s not doing anything illegal.” Dorothy regretted that last remark as soon as it left her lips, but it was too late to recall it.
“You’re implying that I am doing something illegal?” Sam said, calmly, as he cut the tip off the cigar he was preparing to light up.
“Let’s not go there, Sam. I don’t know anything about your business dealings, and that’s the way I want to keep it. But I do know about one important deal that you’ve been asked to potentially set up in Texas. So help me, if you meddle in Phyllis’ private life, if you tell her she isn’t allowed to travel wherever she wants to go, with whomever she wants, whenever she wants, I’ll tell the intended target of that Texas attack. I’ll tell him personally, to his face. I just hope to God that what I heard about Texas was just hearsay.”
“Where did you get this information, Dorothy? It seems as though there’s a rat in the woodwork somewhere.” Sam did not appear angry, but the wheels were definitely turning in his head. “Of course it’s all hearsay. Who did you hear it from?”
“You know I’ll never tell you that, Sam. Let’s just say that a little bird told me. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go upstairs to rendezvous with the girls for our 7:30 dinner date with a very nice man from Chicago.” Dorothy rose, preparing to leave. Her legs were actually wobbly as she prepared to totter toward the elevators.
Sam smiled, lit up his cigar, and said, “You always were the smart one, Dorothy. You’re just like a mother to your sisters. Phyllis has told me that more than once. Don’t worry. I’ll keep cool no matter what I hear on those tapes. And I don’t know from nothing about Texas. There is no Texas on my to-do list. Capisce?” Sam smiled through clouds of cigar smoke at Dorothy, who was now trembling at the very idea that she had faced down one of the world’s most dangerous men and come away unscathed.
She was too frightened to look back at the small man in the big booth as she approached the elevators to her penthouse suite on rubbery legs.
*
Carson’s run at the Excelsior was over. A radiant Phyllis McGuire was heading for McCarran International Airport with Dan Rowan, en route to Paris, France. It was July 10, 1960. The McGuire Sisters had a hiatus from the Excelsior until August.
Phyllis snuggled up next to the handsome Rowan in the cab. She said, “I’m really looking forward to this trip, Dan. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to visit Paris. I’m surprised that Dorothy said I could go for two weeks, but I’m not going to second-guess the boss.” She smiled in happy contentment.
“Everyone should visit Paris at least once, Phyllis. I’m just glad that you’ll be seeing it for the first time with me, honeybunch. It will be as though I’m seeing everything for the first time all over again. I love Paris. I do plan to retire at least part of the time there, God willing and the river don’t rise.”
Phyllis laughed. “Where did you get that expression, Dan?”
“Who knows, honey? You bring out my poetic side. Or my Oklahoma side. Definitely my romantic side. I can hardly wait to get you alone on the Eiffel Tower. It’s a fantastic view of the city of love. We’ll celebrate my thirty-eighth birthday in style. It might be a very long night. Are you ready for that?” He smiled at her and added, “And I hope we celebrate many more birthdays together.”
His left hand touched her back. They were now seated next to one another on the TWA airliner in close proximity in first class, awaiting champagne. His hand moved upward. Under her lightweight top. Over bare skin. Skimming the back of her bra. They sat together, temporarily alone, waiting for Dom Perignon to be served them by a TWA uniformed flight attendant. Phyllis felt the heat rising in her body. It wasn’t from the champagne bubbling in elegant flute glasses.
“I’m ready, willing and able,” replied the smitten singer. She touched the top of Dan’s left thigh as he sat comfortably in the airplane seat next to her. It was hard for either of them to keep their hands off each other. The mutual impulse was to passionately embrace, but they were in public.
Momentarily alone, the two indulged in a quick passionate kiss that left no doubt about how Dorothy McGuire and Dan Rowan would spend Rowan’s thirty-eighth birthday in Paris.
6
there will always be vegas
Mathew Kaufman
Arthur Westbrooke
“Welcome to the Excelsior, Mr. Westbrooke. How was your flight in?” Jackson inquired, stepping out of the limo.
“Fine. Fine. How’s the casino host business?” Westbrooke asked.
Polite conversation… At times, it feels like the whole god-damned world is fake. Being a wealthy businessman had taught Arthur Westbrooke how to converse with almost anyone in, well, almost any situation. It was how he first met Jackson.
Late one evening in 1999, Arthur had gotten far too intoxicated and began gambling obnoxious amounts of money at the blackjack tables. Twenty-five-dollar hands quickly progressed to one-hundred-, two-hundred-, three-hundred-dollar hands. Jackson was assigned as his host after the money began raining in.
Arthur was merely a lonely, traveling pharmaceutical salesman at the time. Albeit, one of the best in the world. But being good at your job surely does not mean you are good at your life. The attention Jackson had given him made Arthur feel welcome and less lonely. That was a nice change.
Arthur’s income was well into the high six figures by that time in his life, and after years of unbridled saving and good investments, he was a millionaire. None of that mattered to him though. He just wanted to not be lonely, so he returned to Las Vegas and the Excelsior Resort roughly once or twice a quarter, depending on business.
Dating was meaningless and almost a bothersome, hopeless formality. It seemed that every relationship derailed at nearly the same point—the beginning. He wanted to date, but men were busy. Society in the eighties demanded that men be men. There was no room for a high-level corporate queer. So he quit trying to date and poured all of himself into his work. Arthur had been promoted almost yearly until he reached Chairman and CEO of Diamond Pharmaceuticals. His heart grew colder as his wallet grew thicker.
Men would gladly sleep with Arthur, and the comfort of a male prostitute filled the hole in his heart for short periods of time. There were even a few working men who he stayed in contact with when he left town. Until they stopped answering his calls.
In the early nineties, an asshole escort reminded him that they were not, in fact, friends or lovers. The arrogant tight-bodied thirty-something little shit had the audacity to tell Arthur, “Listen, gramps, I don’t date saggy old men.” Saggy old men… That was that. The quest for love was over. Arthur knew he would die alone, as a saggy old man,
rather than endure the heart-wrenching feelings of insults like that ever again.
After all, there would always be Vegas.
Hunter Grady
Hunter grabbed a bell cart and wheeled it to the back of the long black limousine. The driver fumbled in his pocket as he moved toward the back and removed the keys from his pocket. With an audible click, the trunk sprang open.
“Mr. Westbrooke is in suite 50-113. He is a good tipper so I would hurry straight to his room if you want something like this,” the driver said, flashing two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills to Hunter.
“Jesus. That’s awesome!” Hunter said.
The driver nodded as Hunter loaded the bags onto the cart: two large suitcases and a thick garment bag, Armani displayed vividly across the front of it. He really does have money!
Once secure, Hunter pushed the bell cart across the drive and into the Excelsior. The cart slid gracefully across the polished marble flooring. Hunter pushed it past the front desk and through the casino. Brilliant LED and neon lights lit up the slots as he passed.
It was only seven-thirty p.m. and the casino guests were already filling the casino floor. Sounds of bells and excited laughter filled the air. The smell of booze and cheap cigars drifted past him. Hunter dodged the groups of patrons until he arrived at the door leading to the service elevators in the back of house. He pushed the button for the fiftieth floor. The doors closed and the elevator car began to ascend swiftly.
Hunter had always loved riding in elevators. Each time he did, his face lit up. He could still remember his first elevator ride as a kid. It was in Maxfield Mall, and it he thought it was so much fun that he begged his mom and dad to take him on it three more times that day.
Romantic Times Page 10
