by Sam Millar
“Not as bad as you thought?” Victor said, as he lit a foulsmelling cigar.
“No. To be honest, I was enjoying myself. I hated seeing them quit.”
“Card adrenaline. Ha! Enjoy it while you can. Cards are as fickle as women and cats. No loyalty, Sam. They’ll bite the first chance they get.”
As I left the table for refreshment, Doc the pit-boss followed me.
“I’ve been watching you, Sam,” said Doc. With the equanimity of an undertaker, he was perpetually attired in dark, three-piece suits that perfectly reflected his sombre mood. We stood at the bar, Doc towering over me like a vulture studying carrion.
“Watching me? Why?”
“You’re becoming involved with the clientele. Feeling for them. In any other profession, that would be admirable. Here, it could mean the kiss of death. Don’t think for one minute that they feel sorry for us when they win – they don’t. That’s the mutual understanding we have. Understand?”
Before I could answer, or explain that I hardly knew any customer, Maria, tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “Can I get you somethin’, honey, from the bar?”
“Let me have a Coke, please, Maria,” I answered.
“Bottle or powder?” she laughed, opening the fridge.
Maria was a beautiful, sybaritic woman, whose addiction to gold was clearly displayed across a good portion of her exposed skin. People she liked, she called “honey”. Those she didn’t, she said: You. What can I get you? Which is exactly what she said to Doc as she poured my Coke.
“Water,” Doc replied, not hiding his xenophobic disdain. He was suspicious of all foreigners – including Maria and myself – and was fluent in racist epithets. Everyone was a “chink”, a “nigger” or a “spic”. Behind my back, he called me a “mick” or a “donkey”, which didn’t bother me in the least. I’d been called worse in Belfast.
Doc had once seen Maria reading a copy of Jorge Castaneda’s Companero, the classic on the life and death of Che Guevara, and had gone ballistic, calling her a “commie bitch”. The beautiful woman only smiled, incensing him further.
Maria poured the water for Doc into a tiny whiskey glass – minus ice – and left it perched perilously at the edge of the counter, asking, “Porque no se va a lavar el culo?” (Why don’t you go wash your ass hole?)
“Huh?” Doc said.
“I said, enjoy your drink,” Maria replied, never missing a beat, while smiling broadly. “Me cago en su madre.” (I take a shit on your mother.)
“As I was saying, Sam. Feelings in this business can kill you quicker than a card shark with a photographic memory.” He glanced dubiously at the water, as if suspecting Maria of spiking it. “Physiognomy. Know what that means?”
Haven’t a clue, I thought, but was no doubt about to find out, as he gave me what resembled a smile, hurting his face in the process.
“It means ‘facial appearance as a reflection of inner character’.” He paused for effect, but received only a loud fart from a drunken customer on his way to the toilet. It didn’t help that the customer was a Russian immigrant.
Doc glared, shaking his head.
“One look at your face and I can read it like a book. So can they.” He gestured towards the tables. “Especially the chinks, who’ll prey on any sympathy you show towards them. They perceive it as weakness.” He stopped grinning. “As do I.”
“Some more Coke, honey?” Maria said.
“No thanks, Maria,” I replied, and away she went, back to Days of Our Lives, ignoring Doc, who was becoming agitated at the interruptions.
“I wish Mac would get rid of her. All she does is watch soaps, all day long. A waste of the House’s money,” grumbled Doc, pushing the untouched glass away. “Yes, the chinks and the rest of the scum can lose the business that took their parents twenty years to build. So what? That’s not our problem. We don’t put a gun to their heads. Do we? No. We don’t. So remember that when you go home tonight.”
I nodded. He walked away.
“Don’t let him bother you, honey,” advised Maria. “He thinks he’s better than the rest of us, that his shit don’t stink, that his mother – if he ever had one – didn’t fuck to have him. Huh!” She leaned on the counter and whispered. “C’mere. Let me tell you somethin’ ’bout him.”
I leaned closer. Brandy and chocolate, mixed with expensive Chanel perfume, rose from her beautiful cleavage.
“All the time I bin here, he niver make a pass at me. Know why, honey?”
“No, Maria. Why?”
“He’s a mama pingas,” she hissed through white and gold teeth, her gleaming eyes filling with mischief.
“A what?”
“A cock sucker, honey. A guineo. A fuckin’ faggot. Know? A first class cock-sucking queen, honey. Know?”
“No.”
“Yes, honey! With George the wrestler.”
“George…? The bouncer who works the midnight? That’s a strange combination, Maria. Are you sure?”
“Am I sure, he asks! Sure I’m sure, honey. You think all I watch are soaps all day? I know. Just don’t drop any chips in front of him, honey!” she laughed, all the way back to Days of Our Lives.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
A Meeting of Minds and Minders
SEPTEMBER 1984
There’s no such thing as a free lunch.
Anonymous
This is adding insult to injuries.
Edward Moore, The Foundling
I had now been full-time with the casino for about two months. The pay was great, and I looked forward to each day, to meeting all the different characters. This particular day was chilly, even with the sun creating long shadows, as I approached the casino down 18th Street. I couldn’t help but notice the large limo parked outside, chauffeured by a very beautiful black woman.
As I walked on, one of the windows slowly opened.
“Ello, mate. Jump in.” Ronnie was grinning.
“Where’d you steal this from?” I asked.
“Don’t be a twat. I bought it, yesterday, from an up-and-comin’ young black singer in New Jersey, called Whitney Houston. She’s goin’ to be very big in the music world,” he assured me. “Listen, I’ve some serious business I need to discuss with you and the other Irish lads. I’m takin’ you all out for some grub tonight, over to Milano’s. Tell the rest of ’em I’ll pick ’em up ’bout eight tonight.”
“What’s it about?”
“Next month we’ll be openin’ another casino, and I want you to be a manager.”
There had been talk of Mac opening another casino, this time on the West Side.
“What kind of nonsense are you talking?” I asked. “I’m just about able to deal. How the hell could I become a manager?”
“Well, if things work out the way I believe they will, you’ll be one of the main people in charge of ’em. But don’t say a fuckin’ word yet. Understand?”
I thought he was full of shit, but nodded. “No problem. See you tonight, then.”
That night, we arrived at the restaurant, well known for its outrageous prices and celebrity customers.
“Don’t be put off by those prices,” insisted Ronnie, as if reading all our minds. “The House is footin’ the bill, so just get tucked in.”
We did, knowing we’d never be in a place like this again.
Afterwards, waiting for dessert, he said, “Right. Down to brass tacks.” He was pulling out a notepad and pen. “You’re all as ambitious as me, and in about four weeks you’ll all be given the opportunity to realise those ambitions. Everyone here will be given managerial positions as soon as the new casino opens. I want you all to get stuck in, be assertive in everything you do.”
We were all smiling. This was music to our ears.
“The casino at 18th is not doin’ half as well as it should and could. Too many old-timers as managers, and all bloody foreigners and illegal immigrants.”
We laughed at that one, being all bloody foreigners and illegal immigrants ourselves.
“But that’s all goin’ to change,” continued Ronnie. “Everyone here will help implement the new policy. I want to open a chain of casinos, just like MacDonald’s.”
“Will we be selling Happy Meals as well?” I asked.
“If that’s what it takes to fill the casino, we’ll do it. I’ve carte blanche from Mac, but we’ve got to be careful how we handle the wops. Personally, I don’t give a toss ’bout ’em, but Mac’s the boss, and he doesn’t want to step on too many toes at once.”
“But what about the present managers? Aren’t they gonna be pissed off about all this, us takin’ their jobs?” asked one of the men.
“That’s where you lot come in, isn’t it? Let them know who the boss is. If they don’t comply, break a leg.”
One or two laughed, thinking he was joking. They didn’t know him well enough yet.
It was obvious he was using us for his own ends. I wondered if he thought we were just dumb micks who could be climbed on as he built his empire, his Napoleonic dreams?
As the evening progressed, the sombre talk of business lightened. Everyone was filled with thoughts of “running the show”, how they would be the best managers Mac had ever seen. I wondered how long it would last – how many bridges we had left, not to cross, but to burn before it all came tumbling down.
“Right. Be back in a sec,” said Ronnie, leaving the table to make a phone call. “Order some more of that expensive dessert, then we’ll be on our way.”
It was five minutes later when we all heard the tapping at the outside window. There, his pugilist nose squeezed tight against the windowpane, was Ronnie. His half-moon grin and joker eyes told us the worst: he had done a bunk, blew without paying the bill, leaving us in the lurch. A miniature stampede quickly ensued as we fled for the door, leaving the bill fluttering in the waiter’s hand.
By the time we caught up to him in the limo, tears of laughter were rolling down his face. He thought it all great stuff, getting one over on the restaurant and on us.
“The looks on your gobs!” he repeated, over and over again.
And this was the man who was planning on building an empire?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Brothers and Sisters, Thicker than …
JANUARY 1985
The only thing that can destroy a family business is the family.
Bronx Tommy
While lasting joys the man attend Who has a faithful female friend.
Cornelius Whur, The Female Friend
The clouds, in dark battleship grey, began to disperse, revealing a curtain of gorgeous indigo sky. Overhead, the Roosevelt Island cable car moved effortlessly, following me back to Manhattan. Inside the cable car, a little girl waved. I waved back and she slapped the window with her mittens, laughing.
A year had now gone by, and things were going fairly well. Ronnie’s plan to ease out all the old-timers had almost been completed. Most of the Irish dealers were now managers or pit bosses and Mac had faded into the background, spending more time away from the casinos.
Ronnie had asked me to meet him outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art, on the Upper East Side. We would take a taxi down to the proposed location of the new casino, appropriately enough, behind the Empire State Building. It would be opened with a bit more flair than usual. I felt that such a high-profile location was obviously going to cause problems, but Ronnie believed otherwise.
“This is how it should be,” he said. “Bang-smack in the middle of Midtown, with all those Jap tourists with big bucks and big buck teeth.”
He was now wearing Brooks Brothers clothing, but he was still the Ragged Trousered Philanthropist. He handed a homeless man a couple of dollars, but not before “enlightening” him with a few quotes from Marcus Aurelius. I could see that the unfortunate man was wondering if it was worth listening to all this ranting and raving for two bucks.
Soon we were standing outside what we hoped would be our next casino, a large house whose large floors could easily be converted. Out of nowhere, a young woman joined us.
“Sam. This is my little sister Rita. She’s goin’ to get stuck in with the rest of us.”
Ronnie had recently started to introduce his own family members to the trade. It made little difference if they knew nothing about the casinos or the meaning of blackjack. To Ronnie, blood was thicker than water, and they now had a job, irrespective of what the consequences might be.
“Hello, Sam. Heard a lot of good things ’bout you,” Rita said. She had a pixie face, short hair and tomboy demeanour. Her eyes were sharp, weighing you up as soon as they tasted you.
“Hello, Rita. Didn’t even know Ronnie had a sister.”
“You know Ronnie by now, Sam. Business first; family last.”
If only that had been true, perhaps things would have been different, later on …
“Chit-chat over. Let’s head in,” Ronnie said, opening the door of the large brownstone. “Think about it. Three floors of blackjack. It’ll be the biggest in the city, mate.”
It was impressive, I had to admit. Each floor was the size of a miniature ballroom. I already had it peopled in my head.
“How long before it’ll be ready?” Rita asked, trying to give the impression that she didn’t know, as if Ronnie wouldn’t confide in her.
She’s well worth the watching, I thought.
“Soon. I’m negotiating with the landlord to get the price down.” Ronnie slapped the paint dust from his hands. He hated getting his hands dirty. Something I should have remembered later, but didn’t, until it was too late. “Anyway, I’ve a new position for you, Sam.”
“Oh? And what’s that?” And what’s that smell? Fish? A rat?
“Box manager.” He watched to see my reaction.
“You’re busting my balls, right?”
“No. It’s yours if you want it.”
“But what about Mac’s father? That’s his job. You can’t fire him. That’s crazy.”
“I can fire anyone. But I’m not goin’ to fire ’im. Just give ’im a job where he can’t be tempted by money.”
Money had been going missing from the House. It could only have been one of three people – Mac, his father or Ronnie. Obviously, is wasn’t Mac. I doubted very much whether it was the father either.
Being the box manager meant I would have access to all of the money coming in and out of the casinos. Only Ronnie and Mac would have the same access. But with Mac taking a back seat, it actually meant only Ronnie and myself.
That’s when the thought came into my mind: What if it isn’t Mac’s father stealing the money? What if it’s Ronnie? What if he’s setting me up for a fall?
“I’ll have to think about it,” was all I said, surprising him.
“Okay. But I need to know soon. This’ll be lucrative for you, so don’t let it slip through your hands.”
We went back outside, to the chill emerging from the East River.
“I’m famished,” Ronnie said. “Let’s get somethin’ to eat.”
“No thanks. I haven’t forgotten the last time we went for a meal.”
He laughed. “Okay. See you in the mornin’.”
“Goodbye, Sam. See you soon,” Rita said, a crocodile in preparation.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Have You Ever Ridden a Harley D? Me Neither!
JUNE 1985
Millar’s sense of humour was darkened by eight years in the notorious H-Blocks, and he had the air of one who felt he had given all that the Cause could require.
New York Daily News
When angry, count four; when very angry, swear.
Mark Twain, Pudd’nhead Wilson
“Can you ride a motorbike?” Ronnie asked, a grin on his face.
“Yes. Why?” I said.
“I’ve got one for you.”
I didn’t believe him, and he knew it.
“No, seriously. I’ve got it outside. All the money we’ll save on cab fares, getting you to and from the clubs, will pay for it in no t
ime.” His beeper sounded. “C’mon. Let’s go outside, see if you can handle it.”
A motorbike! I tried to remain calm, but the thought of riding up and down Manhattan on a big Harley D was just too much. I was almost pissing myself with kid-like excitement. I was going to be the next Peter Fonda, straddled on all that silver chrome and hot leather. My own hog. My own –
“What the fuck is that?” Reality kicked me firmly in the balls as I saw what awaited me.
“Your ’bike, mate. Like it?”
It was a scooter. A moped. One of those little things ridden by dwarfs in the circus. It was depressing just to look at.
“Is this a fucking joke, or what?” I asked.
“This’ll be marvellous for zippin’ in and out of the traffic, mate. You’ll be the envy of all who spot you,” Ronnie enthused.
“Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious. No more hassle about parking meters. You’ll be able to bring it right into the club, for safe keeping.”
“No! N fucking O! You can stick that midget bike right up your Liverpool arse. I don’t care if you give me more money, the answer is still the same. No. No. No.” I had my principles …
* * *
It was terrifying, riding in and out of traffic on the ’bike, especially near maniacal cabs. The cabs were yellow sharks, missing me by inches, laughing. Still, I had to admit, it saved searching for a cab when I needed to pick up money from one of the casinos, plus I was able to zip in and out of traffic with ease. The extra dollars in my daily wage helped as well.
No sooner had I arrived at 32nd, than a call from 80th came in, telling me they had too much money in the place. The Iranian was losing everything but the oil rigs.
“I can’t believe he’s still here,” I said to Chris, the day manager, as I emptied two cash boxes.
“Four days non-stop. Doesn’t even go to the bathroom. One minute he’s down sixty G, the next he’s Lazarus. Go figure,” she replied.
