On Burke’s right stood his Executive Officer, Captain Randy “Gramps” Benson, and on his left Master Sergeant Harold “Ace” Randall. The others were Sergeant First Class Vincent “Vinnie” Pastorini, the currently out-of-luck gambler, destroyer of New Jersey casinos, and best shot in the Unit other than Ace or Bob Burke. In the background were Staff Sergeant Frederick “Chester” Blackledge, Sergeants Rudy “Koz” Kozlowski, Joseph “The Batman” Hendrix, and Freddie “Bulldog” Peterson.
Burke was a West Point graduate, a major, and their commanding officer, but none of that mattered in the field, where everyone was addressed by their radio handle. His was “the Ghost,” because he could seemingly disappear any time he wanted. To a man, though, the others would readily admit that with a gun, a knife, or his bare hands, it was that little runt in the middle whom you wouldn’t want to run into in a dark alley.
Since he got out, Bob had stayed in touch with all the others, except Gramps Benson. In the Unit, assignments were always top secret, but the jungle drums told him Benson got out sometime after he had. Perhaps Gramps went into some deep cover assignment with the Army or the CIA, as often happened; but by all accounts, he simply disappeared. He had always been somewhat cold and distant around the others, especially after Burke arrived, so nothing he did would have come as a surprise, Bob thought.
However, Benson was a fellow officer. Losing track of him should have bothered Burke, but it didn’t. Benson was older, more experienced, and with a higher date of rank, but he got his commission through ROTC. He wasn’t part of the West Point “ring knocker” fraternity. In the Army, that mattered; and no doubt, it rankled. They fast-tracked Bob to major and appointed him as commanding officer, not Benson. Rank or not, the enlisted men understood leadership and knew who the leader was. They also knew Benson was older, which was why they tagged him “Gramps.” As his Exec, Benson was a quiet and effective #2 man, but Bob felt Benson was always hanging back, biding his time, and working all the angles. Being passed over twice for major and command time was the kiss of death for a career, not that it was any of Bob’s doing. After Bob got out of the Army, he was too busy learning his new job to give much thought to Randy Benson. Later, when Bob needed help in Chicago, it was Ace, Vinnie, and his other sergeants who came running. If he had known where Benson was, he would have called him too; but as they said, the man had vanished.
With a fresh mug of hot, strong coffee in hand, Bob turned away from the photographs and back to his computer. Time to conduct a little “cyber research,” as his former Vice President of Finance, Charlie Newcomb used to call it. An experienced combat commander like Bob Burke would call it recon with a monitor and mouse, but the target today was the Bimini Bay Casino and Atlantic City, and it was time to see what he was up against.
Bob graduated number three in his class at West Point, with what was essentially an engineering degree. Despite all that technical education, none of it prepared him for business analysis, online snooping, or dirty tricks. He received that training by looking over the shoulder of his former CFO Charlie Newcomb. While Bob was studying Army 101 and advanced infantry tactics, Charlie was at the University of Chicago and Northwestern’s Kellogg School of Business, where “Legal and Illegal Techno-Wizardry” must have been as much a part of the curriculum as the M4 automatic rifle and the M67 hand grenade were to Bob’s.
Charlie had the forensic nose of a bloodhound. Watching his fingers flash on the keyboard, Bob would shake his head, knowing he could never hope to reach that level of competence. It was a gift. But after six months of his tutelage, Bob could drill down into corporate or government databases with the best of them — dissecting an annual report, sifting through online public records, checking local business license applications, and deciphering real estate records. Charlie also taught him how to track newspaper stories, hack into classified tax and bank records, and peel back the layers of corporate ownership to learn who owned what and who was really giving the orders to whom. Coupling that with what the Army taught him about planning, evaluating the opposition, finding their vulnerabilities, and learning where and how to attack, made him an expert tactician in both the business and military arenas.
Technology and Charlie aside, the simplest solution is usually the best. He typed “Atlantic City” into Google and got a quick-and-dirty, twenty-minute overview of the city’s history in Wikipedia and Trip Advisor. The beach and the world-renowned hotels along the Boardwalk had been the foundation of the city’s economy for fifty years, anchored by the Ambassador, the Breakers, the Mayflower, and the Ritz Carlton. However, gambling, prostitution, the mob, bootlegging, and smuggling were always there, just below the surface and at the heart of what Atlantic City was all about. In the early years, the mob dominance was so blatant that in 1929, “Lucky” Luciano convened the first summit of mob bosses at The Breakers, drawing characters such as Vito Genovese, Albert Anastasia, “Bugsy” Siegel, Dutch Schultz, Al Capone, Luigi DiGrigoria, and Santos Trafficante, to name but a few.
After gambling was legalized in 1976, the city exploded. A line of new casinos quickly went up along the Boardwalk in an attempt to compete with Las Vegas. The 1980s and 1990s were the city’s high-water mark, drawing legions of tourists from New York and the other East Coast cities as fourteen big casinos were opened. Inevitably, however, cheap airfares to Las Vegas, the rise of Indian reservation casinos, and the recession led to an equally fast decline. Only half of the casinos were still open, and four of the fourteen closed in 2014 alone.
The Bimini Bay Hotel and Casino, where Vinnie lost most of his money, was owned by Boardwalk Investments, along with the Siesta Cove Hotel and Casino and the Tuscany Towers Casino and Shopping Mall, making them the largest single casino owner and developer in Atlantic City. The three properties were located in the northeast quadrant away from the Boardwalk, and the Bimini Bay was by far the largest single complex in the city. It had twenty-five hundred rooms, a 100,000 square-foot casino, ballrooms, and a conference center. Its buildings were stunning, featuring gleaming aquamarine glass and stainless steel. Ranging from two stories to six, they formed a horseshoe along the water, wrapping around its own large boat marina. To everyone’s surprise, even the current slowdown did not appear to have a major effect upon Boardwalk Investments.
According to the Philadelphia Inquirer, if one patiently peeled away the many layers of corporate ownership, all you’d find inside were lawyers, more corporations, and still more lawyers. However, deed or not, everyone in Philadelphia knew that Atlantic City’s Carbonari crime family owned Boardwalk Investments. The money to build their hotels and casinos came from the Genoveses and Luccheses in New York, from Angelo Bruno, the mob boss of Philadelphia, and from loans from the Teamsters and other Metro-New York union pension funds. It was a long-standing “front” to launder mob money from the big cities, which may be why Boardwalk Investments remained healthy regardless of the economy.
“Goddammit,” Bob Burke pounded his head on the front edge of his desk, which is about as demonstrative as he ever got. “More Gumbahs!”
Having recently been forced to deal with Chicago’s infamous DiGrigoria mob, the last thing he wanted was to butt heads with their New York and Philadelphia cousins. Last time, they gave him no choice, and it didn’t look like he would have much choice this time either, not if he wanted to get Vinnie out of his current fix.
Maryanne tapped on his door, interrupting his research, and said, “George has some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?”
Bob rolled his eyes. “Okay, let’s start with the bad,” he answered. “It’s been that kind of morning, anyway.”
“He said he beat on the bank, but that kind of cash withdrawal has to be approved downtown. He went on and on about Treasury Department money laundering rules on anything over $10,000, how you would need a notarized and sealed Board Resolution, how the Feds require every such transaction to be reported, and… well, frankly, my eyes glazed over before he was half finished. B
ut even if it was approved, it would take twenty-four hours to clear.”
Bob grimaced and began to say something, but Maryanne held up her hand. “What they can do, since our deposits are fairly hefty, is to get you another $50,000 in cash, plus a certified Citibank cashier’s check for the remaining $175,000. That should be almost as good, and you can pick it up at the Mannheim Road branch in an hour. That’ll give you $225,000 plus our $75,000 for the $300,000 you wanted.”
He shrugged. “Okay, that will have to do. Tell them I’ll be right over.”
“I’ll let them know.”
“And close the door. There might be some swearing going on in here.”
Bob stared at the telephone for a few minutes, debating how to handle the call. However, not knowing what kind of reception he would receive, he realized he was only wasting time, so he picked up the receiver and began punching numbers.
“Bimini Bay Casino, the crown jewel of the Atlantic City Boardwalk, to whom may I direct you?” he heard an overly friendly female voice ask.
“Mr. Van Gries’ office, please.”
“That would be the Business Office. I’ll connect you.”
After a half-dozen rings, a softer, sexier female voice answered. “Business Office, Eva Pender speaking.”
“Who else would it be, darlin’ ” Burke asked with a smile and his best dumbass rural North Carolina accent. “Tell me, is old Marty in?”
There was a momentary pause before she corrected him, “Well, if you’re referring to Mr. Martijn Van Gries — that’s Martijn with a 'J' — our Executive Vice President, I doubt he’ll respond very well if you call him Marty… darlin’ ”
“My apologies, Evie. I do stand corrected. Is that pompous ass Martijn with a 'J' in?”
After a longer pause, she replied, “I’ll have to see. Who may I say is calling?”
“Tell him it’s Bobbie Burke, and I’m calling about my old pal Vinnie Pastorini.”
“Ah! A ‘pal’ of Mr. Pastorini. Well, shut my mouth, why am I not surprised?”
“I wouldn’t possibly know, Evie.”
“It’s Eva, and I’ll put you right through… darlin’! ”
A few long minutes later, a man’s voice with a cultured Dutch accent came on the line. “Mr. Burke? This is Martijn Van Gries. To prevent any further aggravating of our staff, may I be of assistance? I understand you are calling about our special guest, Mr. Pastorini.”
“I am indeed. Look, I hear my old pal Vinnie has been a bad boy. You know how hot headed these I-talians can get sometimes.”
“Indeed, Mr. Burke, I work for one.”
“So I understand, Marty, and I hear Vinnie owes you boys some money.”
“He owes us a lot of money, Mr. Burke.”
“$275,000? I’d think that was ‘chump change’ to a large operation like Boardwalk Investments.”
“Chump change? I must admit, you have a vivid imagination, Mr. Burke. Unfortunately, if you add in today’s ‘vig,’ that $275,000 totals $285,000… and counting.”
“And counting? Gee, why am I not surprised?”
“I do not have the slightest.” Van Gries added, “Now tell me what you want, Mr. Burke; I am a busy man.”
“Too busy to take my $285,000?”
There was a brief pause before Van Gries said, “To be perfectly clear, you intend to pay off his markers? All $285,000? He must be quite a ‘pal,’ as you put it, Mr. Burke.”
“I’ll be in your office at 4:00 this afternoon with the money. If you would kindly have Vinnie and Patsy packed, smiling, and ready to go, there should be no problem.”
“Not if you have the money, Mr. Burke. We shall see you at 4:00 p.m., then.”
Since he had thirty minutes before he had to leave for the bank and the airport, Bob returned to his computer screen and read the rest of the article. Stefano “Stevie Boy” Carbonari was the patriarch of the family, passing through Ellis Island at the turn of the century. His youngest son, Giuseppe “Little Joey” Carbonari, abandoned the crowded New York City rackets for the wide-open turf of Philadelphia. He was a giant, tall and barrel-chested with big fists. They proved useful for a union enforcer on the Philly docks, a loan shark leg breaker, and a bootlegger during Prohibition. He enjoyed hurting people with a cut-down pool cue or his fists, especially anyone who didn’t pay up. As his success grew, he loved to cruise down Market Street in his white, chauffeur-driven, Packard Phaeton wearing a dark-blue pinstripe suit with a bright red handkerchief in the breast pocket and a dapper bowler hat. Accompanying him were two beefy bodyguards, one in the front seat next to the driver and the other on the jump seat in back, each holding a Thomson submachine-gun across his knees.
His son, "Crazy Eddie," made "his bones” back in Brooklyn, but he saw the opportunity in Atlantic City, and grabbed it. One summer day in 1944, he and his “boys” left the Marine Basin marina in Brooklyn in Crazy Eddie’s new boat for some deep-sea fishing in the Gulf Stream. They had rods, reels, and a full bucket of bait; but if there was no action and they got bored, Eddie would liven things up with hand grenades, his .45-caliber pistol, or the big Browning automatic rifle he kept below deck. As he later explained, “We wuz just doin’ our patriotic duty, keepin’ da freakin’ Kraut U-boats out ‘a da Delaware River.”
On the return trip that day, the captain put in at Atlantic City for gas. Eddie liked what he saw and decided he wanted the territory. That put him on a collision course with Morrie “the Stump” Levine, who ran the city for the Genoveses in New York. It didn’t take Crazy Eddie very long to convince Angelo Bruno and Vito Genovese that blood mattered, and they could do a lot better with a loyal Sicilian boy like him than an immigrant Jew from Poland, who everyone knew was really Meyer Lansky’s stooge to begin with. Two weeks later, Levine vanished. While the police never closed the case, the smart money said The Stump became the first of many Carbonari rivals to end up in a 55-gallon drum a few miles off the picturesque town of Brigantine, just north of Atlantic City.
“Oh, cute,” Bob mumbled, another ‘piece of cake.’ ”
CHAPTER FOUR
Atlantic City, New Jersey
With only a carry-on brown leather briefcase for luggage and that morning’s Chicago Tribune tucked under his arm, Bob Burke took his window seat in the third row of First Class on the 11:35 United flight from O’Hare to Philadelphia. He always had an aversion to flying up in First, but on such short notice you took what you could get. Despite what was inside the briefcase, he tried to look nonchalant as he slid it under the seat in front of him. With $125,000 in neat stacks of one hundred dollar bills and a Citibank cashier’s check for $175,000 in an embossed bank envelope inside, the briefcase would make anyone nervous, even him. It also contained a Board Resolution and a letter on Toler TeleCom stationery, both signed by himself as President and Maryanne Simpson as Corporate Secretary saying it was all perfectly legal in the event TSA stopped him. Everyone knew that they never hassled the big spenders in First Class, but you never could tell.
While he waited for the other passengers to finish boarding, he opened the Tribune to the sports section and leaned back. He was in the middle of a story about the Cubs new trades, when some smart-ass flicked the corner of his newspaper, “Hey sailor, is this seat taken?”
He shook his head, immediately recognizing Linda’s voice. “No, and you aren’t here.”
“Guess again.”
He lowered the paper a few inches and looked over the top at her. “I was serious when I told you I didn’t want you involved in this.”
“I’m sure you were, but I owe Patsy even more than you owe Vinnie,” Linda answered as she plopped down in the seat next to him. “You may not remember, but I do.”
One look into her eyes told him he wasn’t going to win this one. “Speaking of which, where exactly did you ditch our darling daughter?” he asked.
“I didn’t ‘ditch her.’ I left her in the loving care of my sister up in Prospect Heights.”
“And I suppose
it was Maryanne who told you where I was going?” He glowered at her, none too happy.
“My sources shall remain anonymous.”
“You’re not a reporter, a lawyer, and certainly not a priest…”
“You noticed?” Linda looked up at him with an angelic expression.
“Several times last night, but who’s counting?”
“Maybe you’re getting too old for a young, extremely affectionate wife?”
“No, no, but I’m going to wring Maryanne’s neck when I get back.”
“No you won’t. Without her, that place would collapse. Besides, you and I are a team. I distract ’em with my rampant sexuality, while you… do whatever it is you do.”
He looked over and thought she wasn’t far from wrong. She wore just the right amount of makeup, and the stunning, very expensive casual dress he’d bought her on their honeymoon in Paris. “Yeah, well, I guess you have a point, but I’m still not very happy about it.”
“Well, get used to it,” she said as she wrapped herself around his arm and snuggled in close. “I guess I’ll just have to think of some new ways to make you all happy again.” She looked over and fluttered her long eyelashes at him.
Linda had been curled around his right arm since they took off, like a sweet-smelling boa constrictor taking a long nap. The quiet time gave him the opportunity to study the Atlantic City map and some online articles and photos he had printed before he left the office. Ever since the Army, maps were something he could never get enough of. How did that old line go? ‘There is nothing more dangerous than a general with a radio or a second lieutenant with a map.’ He had been to Atlantic City once before, but that was for a long, drunken weekend almost ten years ago, and those memories were little more than a blur now.
Burke's Gamble Page 3
