“Because the fighter who impresses us the most gets a full 15 round bout. We’re here to make another boxing superstar.”
I saw them all murmur and scribble in notebooks. I’d given them the gold they needed.
“We invite any and all of you to follow the tour. We’ll extend every courtesy,” I said.
“Uh, Nick . . . What are you doing here?” Jerry asked bluntly.
I smiled to the crowd. “I work with Dillian and the champ. Think of me as a consultant. See you all on the road.”
* * *
A few weeks later, we kicked off the tour in Las Vegas at a gambling joint called Fort Knox. It was the type of resort that had stories upon stories — and none of them had to do with ol’ Bugsy. It had opened ten years earlier as The Mojave Castle Inn. It had been a modest two-story motel located smack dab in the middle of the desert highway — the brainchild of an oil baron from Dallas, Niles Hetrick III, who decided he was going to use most of his estate to open a third-rate casino.
With the Pelican Casino down the road to the left, and the Oasis Desert Inn on the right, Hetrick’s Mojave Castle drew only fair returns during its first six months. What’s more, the racket boys didn’t like Hetrick much because he had a habit of bad-mouthing everyone he came in contact with. Not only did the arrogant cowboy belittle most of his staff, but the competition as well.
One day, he even had the gall to stroll right into the Pelican Casino and brazenly make an offer to buy it outright. For the record, legend also has it the offer was lower than just insulting. The gentlemen of leisure at The Pelican didn’t like the Texan upstart and politely asked him to leave. When Hetrick refused, babbling about his right to be there as an American, they didn’t hesitate to throw him out. That’s when Hetrick ran his mouth to the local weekly and spoke of his competition with words like greasy, underworld, and Sicilian. After that, it wasn’t really a shock when his small jet mysteriously crashed over the Grand Canyon.
But — even crazier — Hetrick not only survived the crash, but managed to get the hardnosed Mormons, who had settled Las Vegas and still ran much of it with iron fists, to come down hard on the bent noses and black hats. Hetrick quickly built an army of torpedo men that would have made Capone proud, and soon his competitors at the Pelican were in bankruptcy.
Never underestimate the power of the press, which for the record, painted Hetrick as the savior American cowboy.
Within months, Hetrick completely revamped his low rent Mojave motel, ripping down walls, adding two wings, installing air conditioning, and then did something about its boring name. At a huge re-opening gala, ripe with movie stars, politicians, singers, and famous writers all in attendance, the Fort Knox Casino Hotel was unveiled to immediate success.
With all its new renovations, Hetrick’s resort now boasted ten stories with several wings named after denominations of American currency. The higher the denomination of currency, the more elaborate and exquisite the suites. The building was shaped in a semi-circle around a half-moon-shaped pool. In total, Fort Knox had 300 rooms, 24 mini cottages, a showroom that seated 450, two restaurants, and one lounge.
I figured this land baron Hetrick was our man. I knew he’d be the one to bring us more press than the Lindbergh baby.
What I didn’t know was Hetrick already had an ace up his sleeve, which behooved him to accommodate our camp. He asked to meet Dillian and I in the aptly named Jefferson’s Nickel, the casino’s dark 24-hour lounge. He was an imposing man, a strong handshake in a bolo tie.
We sat down and Hetrick told the host to make sure we weren’t disturbed. The three of us chit-chatted about the history of Sin City and where Hetrick saw his place in its legacy. His dream, he admitted, was a monument of him erected on horseback in front of town hall. He laughed his big Lone Star laugh, and Dillian and I enjoyed the brief escape from boxing, public relations, and spin doctoring.
A nearby sign touted a young comic named Donald Rickles, performing nightly at 9 and 11 p.m. and late night at 1 and 3 a.m. I made a mental-note to check him out later if I was up for it. Hetrick saw me eying the sign.
“The boy is a pisser,” he said laughing. “Don’t sit too close, though, or you’ll find yourself part of the show.”
Dillian got back to business, asking Hetrick where in the hotel he thought our fight should be held.
Hetrick cleared his throat. “Your boy kills an unlucky so-and-so at the wrong place and time and now you want attention on your fight, right?” he asked bluntly.
“The right kind of attention,” Dillian chirped.
“Who’s your boy fighting?” Hetrick asked.
“We haven’t nailed that down yet, exactly,” I admitted. “Grenade, his trainer, is scouting contenders as we speak.”
“Forget all that,” Hetrick said, scoffing. “All you need is a good hook and, boy, do I have it.” He stood up and motioned toward a door, tucked in the back of the lounge. “Follow me,” he said.
Dillian, raising her eyebrows, was curious to see what he had for us. We walked up several flights to the roof. Hetrick brought us over to the edge of the building and spread his arms wide as if presenting the horizon of sand.
“There’s your hook . . .” he said.
I was starting to get tired of the guessing game. “Look, Mr. Hetrick, your hotel has the gig. There’s no need to sell us. Just tell us what the angle is.”
He smiled deviously. “Atomic energy.”
“Come again?” Dillian asked.
I didn’t respond because I was starting to follow him. I now pegged Hetrick as either a major kook or a visionary genius. Only time would tell.
About a year ago, I’d begun seeing headlines at my paper about the government’s atomic weapons testing at the Nevada Test Site. At first, local officials were worried the testing would have a negative impact on Las Vegas, but it turned out tourism boomed. Who would’ve thought?
The town went cuckoo for the cloud and, pretty soon, I started seeing tourism ads in our Sunday travel section from Vegas hotels using atomic in its copy. Lounges offered atomic cocktails. Diners offered atomic eggs in the shape of the mushroom. Dances were invented. Dopey stuff.
“Everyone wants to catch a glimpse of the cloud,” Hetrick said. “Hard to believe it killed so many of them Chinamen.”
“Japanese, actually—” I blurted.
“What does this cloud business mean for us?” Dillian asked.
“I’ll tell you what it means, lil’ lady,” Hetrick said. “We here at Fort Knox just got approval to hold court on our rooftops during test blasts and . . .”
I jumped in, seeing the vision. “And you’re proposing we hold the fight during the blast — making it a mega-atomic event.” My pulse was pounding at the thought.
Hetrick pointed at me and then looked at Dillian. “I like the way this boy thinks.”
“A fight? On a rooftop?” Dillian questioned. “I dunno. Grenade would have to approve it all.”
I concocted the scenario. “Fort Knox will make it an event for high-rollers only with an atomic theme all the way.”
Dillian still seemed trepidacious. “It just seems so intimidating. I mean a real atomic cloud?”
Hetrick tried to ease her concern. “Lil’ lady, this here event is gonna bring the boom.”
I saw Dillian’s eyes light up, proving she still was, after all, a public relations gal.
“That’s what we’re going to call this thing,” I said. “Rattlesnake McNeal: Bringing the Boom to Las Vegas.”
* * *
I met Grenade about an hour later for an informal drink in the lounge. He wanted to give me an update on some of the boxers on the docket. I was interested to see what he’d scouted up.
“I should run these by Dillian, but with what she knows about the sweet science you could fill one of those lady shoes she struts around in,” he said.
“Your secret is safe with me,” I said, lighting up. “She’s a good kid despite . . .”
“Despite
?” Grenade asked, sensing where I was going.
“Despite her all business nature,” I said, diplomatically.
I raised my glass. We clinked, sipped, and swallowed.
Grenade laid three 5x7 photos in front of me. Purely judging a book by the cover, I ripped them in half. Just where I got those cajones, I’ll never know.
The old manager showed his temper once again, slamming his large fist on the shaky cocktail table. “Boy, you trying to get me to spit nails? My team spent all day in the blazin’ sun looking at these young men.”
I raised my palms to show no objection. “Grenade, they very well may be boxing’s next champions, but let’s face some aesthetic facts. We can’t kick off this tour with Rattlesnake kicking the ever-lovin’ spit out of a white guy. Doesn’t matter how good or close the fight is.”
Grenade sighed. “The pickings were slim, son . . .” He began leafing through a small leather binder.
“May I?” I asked.
“Feel free.”
I took the binder and Grenade turned his attention to the young cutup Rickles, who had started his act to a room of no more than thirteen. He was a fireball — a little bald gorilla.
“What a great opportunity to be here,” Rickles said, working the paltry group of drinkers too small to qualify as a crowd. “It’s like I’m working a bad guinea wedding . . .”
He then turned to some unlucky housewife sitting up front with her high-roller husband. She looked puzzled by the comedy.
“These are the jokes, lady . . . If you’re lookin’ for Billy Graham to come out, forget about it! You gotta be a Jew! You’re the only one with a stole on and it’s a hundred-and-five out here!”
The room was soon in stitches.
As I leafed through the small bumper crop of pugs in Grenade’s binder, I eyeballed him laughing at Rickles from the corner of my eye.
And then I saw what I wanted.
“This is the guy,” I said, slamming my finger on a picture of an Indian — exactly what we needed.
“Him?” Grenade scoffed.
“You know as well as I do that two thirds of this business is the fight card,” I said. I explained our newfound left-field atomic gimmick. I hyped it, explaining how I saw the Indian fitting in.
Grenade could recognize a solid hook when he heard one.
He laughed. “Elan “The Angry Apache” Proudfoot?”
I agreed that his name was manure. “We’ll give him a new moniker.” I snapped my fingers. “‘The Atomic Apache’.”
Grenade laughed. “Son, the way you think, you gonna give Dillian a run for her cookies.” He paused. “And they some good-lookin’ cookies.”
I could tell that he was warming up to me.
“All in a day’s work, Pops,” I said fluffing it off and downing the last of my whiskey. It was about time I did my own kind of scouting.
“Time for some fun,” I said, standing up and throwing a few beans on the table.
“Of the female sort?” Grenade asked.
I winked. “Thinkin’ of scoping out the craps table and finding a woman who can blow on my dice.”
“Should be easy in this town.”
I knocked on the cocktail table, gave Grenade the thumb’s up, and was off to the casino floor. He raised his glass in response.
As I trotted out, Rickles spotted me leaving and asked, “S’matter? Does the little boy gotta go potty? Barkeep, no more beer for Skippy here.”
If he only knew Skippy could lay him out with one punch. I heard Grenade laugh, so decided to take one for the team. The joke, after all, had to be on somebody and I figured it was my turn.
ROUND EIGHT
The casino was tighter than a shylock on Christmas Eve and I was irked to find I couldn’t get near a dice table on the cheap. The dollar minimum tables were shoulder-to-shoulder. If I wanted to throw, I’d have to lay out a finske just to stand there. It was simply too rich for my blood.
Being that roulette was for ladies in waiting and baccarat was for oil tycoons, blackjack was my only other option. For me, however, the game was always an unfulfilling pastime. A guy could blow a Benjamin Franklin in three minutes — and that’s if the game is going slow. Where’s the fun in that?
As for slots? They were for suckers — something to do as you trotted to your suite drunk at four a.m. No thanks. And that dumb money wheel? I could get that action at the Jersey Shore any warm summer’s eve. With no other gaming options, I went back to the lounge where the bald court jester was finishing his set. I looked for Grenade, but he was gone, so I cozied up to the bar.
The barkeep’s name was “Frank from Philly”, at least that’s how he put it. Being a greaseball from the East Coast, I knew a hundred guys like Frank from Philly and they were all the same. After a while, my scotch-and-stupor conjured the rest of the Nicky Newarkers working at Fort Knox. There was “Frank from Staten Island” who worked the kitchen; “Frank from Brooklyn” was a pit boss; “Frank from Jersey City” was in charge of security and “Frank from Yonkers” ran the money cage. Yup, this place probably had more Franks than beans.
Frank asked me if I was in town for the fight.
“Indeed I am.”
“You putting your money on the spook?”
I smiled. “Yes, word on the grapevine is he’s gonna fight some tough redskin. Spread the word . . .”
Frank just nodded and dried some glasses.
“When in doubt, always go with the champ,” I said raising for a refill.
Frank obliged and said, “He’s been killing the dice table all night.”
“Come again?”
He pointed at a far table with all sorts of hollering. “Rattlesnake set up camp there about two hours ago. Having a long run. Gonna walk outta here with at least ten or twenty thousand.”
I couldn’t believe it. Sighing, I dug up a few bucks and plopped them on the bar. “Thanks, Frank . . .”
Heading over to the craps table, I saw Rattlesnake blowing on the dice as his valet Popcorn smiled on. The crowd around them was thick and most of them were obviously onlookers. Still, I couldn’t help wondering if they were gawking at several things at once — the heavyweight champ of the world, a potential killer or, if you wanted to get existential about it, the nation’s future.
And me? What did I see? I won’t lie, I saw pretty much all of the above. Truth be told, I was more concerned with what the papers would see, and I figured I had a decent guess — a Negro in a Las Vegas casino holds court, using hundred dollar bills like confetti, as if he were Frank Sinatra. That’s the image the kid was selling and who were they not to buy?
As for the reading public, they don’t take kindly to wealth being thrown in their face. As a guy who usually can’t rub his two nickels together, I’d give the same advice to Fort Knox owner Niles Hetrick, Conrad Hilton, or even crackpot Howard Hughes — don’t be a showoff because people will resent you.
Trying to count the stacks of chips in front of Rattlesnake became fruitless. It was a boatload of cash and since my future was vested in this kid’s well-being, I figured we’d have a little heart-to-heart tonight. For now, though, I decided to retreat to the opposite end of the table and just watch, placing a few bets to pass the time. Scoffing, I saw the minimum bet sign. This kid would have to pick a ten dollar minimum table.
An hour later, I was surprisingly up a few hundred so I had to at least thank the kid for being enough of a jackass to keep me betting and those free bourbons flowing. Now if I could only get propositioned by one of the slinky little cocktail girls, the evening would be complete. Still, I had to keep focused and watch the champ. Every so often, a fan would interrupt the dice throwing long enough for Rattlesnake to sign an autograph or two. It was when he stopped playing for the night and entered the lounge when I saw something I didn’t like.
Back home we called them “Mustache Petes”. They were usually bad news, connected to something to which you didn’t want to be connected. I’ve been around my share of these
guys covering the fights, so when I saw two shark-skin suits approach the champ, my radar went up along with my defense. After all, I had my own guinea temper so I grabbed my chips and circled the kid.
The pair looked like they had enough olive oil in them to open a Midwest Italian deli. They slid into the booth, sitting across from the champ and Popcorn, who quickly went off to retrieve drinks for the crew.
“Can I help you guys?” I asked almost too politely, sliding into the booth in Popcorn’s place.
The ugly one of the pair thought I was there to take their drink order and didn’t even look at me. “We’re covered. The little mook just went to the bar.”
I smiled. If you ever want to get someone off guard, smile and don’t say anything.
“Whaddya deaf?” he barked. “The mute’s at the bar for us.”
I leaned back into the plush booth upholstery. “First of all, the kid ain’t deaf and secondly, I’m not here to deliver your wimpy Sambuca or whatever aperitif sweet crap you’re gonna swig.”
“Who are you, tough guy?” Ugly asked.
I caught a look at Rattlesnake from the corner of my eye. It was the first time I’d actually seen him . . . well, rattled. Dealing with Ugly’s static was almost worth seeing the kid sweat.
The other greaseball feigned apology and showed me his palms as a sign of peace. He was older, clean shaven, and had an intelligent look on his face. Wouldn’t do to underestimate this one.
“We mean no disrespect,” he said. “I’m Paulie.”
I shook his hand. “Paulie, I feel like I know ya. I’m Nick Moretti. I work with Rattlesnake’s camp.”
”My overly cantankerous companion here is Bobby J.”
I extended for another handshake. “Hey BJ . . .” It wasn’t a shock he didn’t comply. “Anyone ever call you Fellacio for short?”
Popcorn chose that moment to come back with the drinks. I stood up and whispered in his ear, showing these bums who was in charge. First, I told Popcorn I wanted a double Jack Daniels and second, he didn’t need to be around this. He scurried off.
Front Page Palooka: A Nick Moretti Mystery Page 5
