JUST ANOTHER DAY IN THE LIFE
BY
AL LAMANDA
ONE
Anthony was nobody. So everybody thought. A forty something year old puppet who danced at the end of their very short string. He was a clown without makeup who did what he was told and was well paid for it, an errand boy for the elite.
So they thought.
They thought wrong.
He surprised them.
He surprised me, too.
Vegas is a town of modern corporations, designed to sucker the last dollar from any fool stupid enough to believe the odds will eventually swing to their favor. High rollers are comped to the finest of everything glitter town has to offer while mommy and daddy refinance the mortgage at the slots. The kids play water slides while their college education heads south at the blackjack table because my luck will turn with just one more hand.
But, what else could you expect? This was Vegas. The entertainment capital of the world. Where the fun never ends until your money runs out.
Then the misery begins.
It wasn’t always like that. There was a time, back in the old days of the fifties and sixties, before the corporations tore it all down to build the Taj Mahal and ancient Egypt , dealers knew the names of players and where they were from. Today, unless you’re a whale, your name is forgotten the moment you leave a table.
Old or new, one thing hasn’t changed. A gangster founded Vegas. Underneath the slick exterior, deep inside the bright lights and theme park hotels lives the heart and soul of the mob. If you paid attention, put the camera down and took the time to take a good look around, you could almost feel the spirit of the old days and old ways living and breathing, just waiting to separate you from your money.
What the gangsters said from the grave, don’t screw up, because if you do, there is a check to pay answerable upon demand.
I knew that. So did my bosses. Anthony forgot about that part when he decided to steal seven million dollars of corporation money.
If there were a prototype blueprint for assembling the ideal mobster and if someone were to take blueprint to reality, the result would be Michael DeSousa.
Tall, broad shouldered and slim at the hip, Michael ran a finger along the crease of his pants as he lowered himself into a leather chair opposite the desk of Viny ‘Boots.’
Viny was playing his usual waiting game, reading a print out of some kind while Michael stared at him and wondered what the hell was so important they had to meet at three in the morning? When it came to playing the game, Viny was the master magician and Michael the lowly assistant.
Michael took a sip of coffee from a hotel cup and then lit a cigarette with a custom made, gold, Zippo lighter. Viny shuffled the print out, set it aside and silently stared at Michael. At sixty-seven, Viny had the appearance of a bloated bullfrog dressed in a thousand dollar suit. His dyed black hair was slicked back fifties, gangster style. Huge jowls hung down from his chin, enhancing the bullfrog appearance. His eyes, a bright and piercing shade of brown showed no signs of ever sleeping, a direct contrast to the tired and sagging bags under Michael’s eyes.
Finally, Viny cleared his throat and spoke. “It’s three in the morning.”
Michael glanced at the heavy, gold and silver Rolex on his left wrist. “One minute after.”
“Why would I send for you at this ungodly hour?”
Michael took a puff on his cigarette and looked at his boss. “I don’t know, Viny. I’m sure you will tell me.”
Viny gently stroked his jowls as he looked across his desk at Michael. “You can be sure, I’ll tell you,” he said, pausing to continue stroking his jowls. “But, first I want to hear your speculation.”
Michael took another sip of coffee, leaned forward in the leather chair and said, “I never presuppose, Viny. A helicopter lands on my front lawn at two in the morning; I know it’s not a hit. That’s all I know.”
“And?”
Michael hesitated briefly before answering. “It can only be about money.”
Viny opened a cigar box on the corner of his desk and removed a foot long cigar. He took his time removing the band and then clipped off the end with a gold trimmer he kept in the desk. He licked the end and then lit it with a wood match, taking great care to get an even burn. There was no regard to the fact that Michael sat patiently waiting. They were on Viny’s dime and he would spend all ten cents of it, one penny at a time. Finally satisfied, Viny puffed great clouds of smoke and stared at Michael.
I would bet the soul of my mother it was about money. The almighty dollar is the only God to these old timers. Sixty-seven years old, Viny was as tough as nails and sly as a fox when it came to his finances and just about everything else. He came up the ladder the hard way, the old school way, the way of The Bronx. In his prime, the term corporation meant the phone company and made gangsters meant being in the Life. Viny’s prime had long since seen the other side of the hill, but nobody and I mean absolutely nobody fucked with his money.
About sixty years ago, as a kid on Arthur Avenue in The Bronx, Viny shined shoes outside a candy store for a nickel a shine. His cousin Joey hung the name Boots on him because his family was too poor to buy him shoes and he always wore cheap, second hand, government boots.
As the story goes, Viny was running numbers by age eight and enforcing street law by age twelve. He made his bones early and he never wore government boots ever again after that.
Viny puffed a cloud of gray smoke as he studied Michael. “You can be sure it’s about money.” He twirled the cigar in his right hand as if to accentuate his point. “You think I’m in the office at three in the morning because it’s good for my health?”
Michael said, “Even garbage men don’t like getting up at this hour, Viny. It’s good for nobody’s health. Whatever it is must be very important.”
Viny twirled the cigar again and pointed the end at Michael. “We got a problem, Michael. A very serious problem.”
Still half-asleep, my first thought was a casino had been hit, a remote possibility no matter what crap they feed you in the movies about guys in black hood sliding down wires into the safe. My next thought was somebody inside the corporation got out of line. Either way, it could only be about the almighty Benjamin’s. In a situation like that, when somebody fucked up, they need someone else to read them the rules.
That is what I do, read people the rules who fuck up.
Viny delicately flicked cigar ash into a hand blown, crystal ashtray worth more than your average mortgage payment.
“Seven million dollars has vanished like a fart in the wind,” Viny said.
“From a casino?”
Viny shook his head, wiggling his heavy jowls. “From the inside. It can only be from the inside.”
Michael was surprised to hear admittance like that pass through Viny’s lips. “The inside? Who?’
Viny stuck the cigar between his teeth. The end glowed brightly as he inhaled. He answered Michael’s question with another question. “What do you know about Joey’s end of the business?”
“Very little,” Michael said. “It isn’t my area.”
Viny exhaled a cloud of smoke so thick it was several seconds before Michael could see his face. “Why do people come to Vegas from around the world, Michael?”
“To have a good time,” Michael said. “Gamble, drink and have a good time.”
I knew that was the wrong answer. However, sometimes it’s best to let the old men have their way and not say too much. After all, someday I hoped to be an old man, too.
An overhead AC vent clicked on and gently sucked Viny’s cigar smoke from the room.
Michael took another sip of coffee and waited.
“Think of the five basic food groups as Vegas.” Again, Viny pointed the cigar end at Michael. “The gambling, sure. Then there are the shows, the food, the drinking and finally the women. Even the family man, his wife and kids are at the pool, he’s thinking about the women. In the back of his mind, he’s wondering if the professional girl will do things his wife won’t. He’ll dump quarters in the slots, make two dollar bets at the 21 table, but fork over five hundred for an hour with one of Joey’s girls.”
Michael stubbed his cigarette out in the crystal ashtray, looked at Viny and waited.
Patience is the main ingredient in a conversation with men like Viny. To them, getting to the point was a detour around the block. Men like Viny and even Joey never revealed what was on their mind or what they wanted until they knew they could get it. Even then, it’s revealed in layers and sparingly. They considered too much revealed information an enemy to be feared and a friend of their enemy.
Viny said, “Joey’s accountants assure him and me that seven million dollars has disappeared from his showgirl operation. Somebody on the inside knew the ins and outs well enough to smokescreen the books for quite a long time. It took a team of those geeks to figure out what’s what. They’re still not entirely sure of the amount.”
Michael stared at Viny. “And?”
“Joey wants his money back.”
Joey ‘Cupcakes’, sixty four years old with a heart of stone and a conscience to match. Considered the rock star of mobsters back in the day, on the streets of The Bronx he would have you killed for finding a quarter on his block and not returning it to him. He came to Vegas with Viny in seventy when the shifting tide gave birth to the real estate boom and the desert became an oasis for the mob.
As the story goes, some fifty years ago, as a kid in The Bronx, Joey’s favorite pastime was to hang out on street corners and girl watch. He referred to the particularly pretty ones as cupcakes. Viny tagged him with the nickname and it stuck. Only Viny would dare to call Joey that to his face, however. Even I wouldn’t be able to get away with it and I’ve never tried.
With Viny in control, Joey had a free rein to do as he pleased. With the sideways backing of the politicians, Joey took control of legalized prostitution for the corporation, among other things He started unions and health care for the women and added a much-needed flair of respectability to the world’s oldest profession.
Fashioning himself a connoisseur, Joey imports women from around the world to satisfy the wants and desires of the wealthy, Vegas clientele. I’ve heard it said that a girl doesn’t work without a personal audition from Joey, sixty-four years old or not.
Of course, it’s all kept nice and clean in the suburbs and countryside where it’s legal outside the Vegas city limits.
Viny looked at Michael, carefully inspecting his face. “You look tired.”
“I am.”
“You’ll have plenty of time for rest and relaxation after.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “After what?”
Viny paused to puff up another great cloud of smoke. “Do you believe in coincidence?”
“No.” Michael said.
“I Don’t either.”
“Which has what to do with the way I look?”
Viny looked over the cigar at Michael. “Nothing. Not a thing.”
Michael didn’t push, knowing that Viny’s detour would eventually come around full circle and land on his front door.
“So since we don’t believe in coincidence,” Viny said. “There must be another reason why Anthony disappeared the same time as Joey’s seven million did?”
“I’m sure there is,” Michael said. He lit another cigarette. “Anthony probably got fed up with fighting with his wife and took off for a few days with a pair of his favorite chorus girls.”
“That could be, or maybe not,” Viny said, “I’ll know for sure when you report back to me.”
The light inside my head just went neon. Even talking in riddles, Viny’s meaning was crystal clear. His detour just landed on my lap and didn’t ever ruin the crease.
Michael stared at Viny, who puffed on his cigar and calmly stared back. “You leave in one hour,” Viny said.
“Leave? Leave for where?”
“New York . The Bronx would be my guess.”
“Wait a minute,” Michael protested. “How do we know Anthony has anything to do with Joey’s seven mil? He could be banging cocktail waitresses two at a time as we speak. He’s been known to do that, you know.”
Viny shook his head and his rubbery jowls reminded Michael of those wrinkled dogs with the loose skin. “Joey got a call from Tony ‘Two Tons.’ One of his men spotted Anthony at the airport. Anthony is there and I need you to speak to him.”
“Viny, why me?” Michael said. “The corporation has an army of shooters standing by who would jump at the chance to pop one in somebody’s ass. Let one of the new guys have some of the fun once in a while.”
Viny glared at Michael. “I’m not kidding, Michael. This is no joking matter.”
Michael accepted his reprimand. “I understand that, Viny, but Joey has a dozen qualified men who…”
“Would leave a trail to my doorstep a blind man could follow,” Viny said. “The feds monitor the corporation like whores on a John as it is, Michael. This delicate matter calls for a more sensitive touch. Your touch.”
Michael puffed on his cigarette and sighed, exhaling smoke through his nose. He watched the fragile cigarette smoke twirl upwards toward the ceiling where it was sucked into an air conditioning vent.
There comes a time in every conversation with men like Viny when you must push the envelope. This was such a time.
Michael took a final puff on his cigarette and stalled for time by crushing it out in the crystal ashtray. He met Viny’s hard stare. “I can’t do this, Viny. Please don’t ask me to. Joey has...”
“I know what Joey has,” Viny snapped. “I gave him most of it, so don’t tell me what he has.” Relaxing a bit, Viny puffed up a gray cloud of cigar smoke. “Now make a decision, Michael. Be on that plane to New York or don’t be on that plane. If you chose don’t, your loyalty to the corporation will come into serious question.”
Michael stared at Viny and waited for the closer.
“You don’t want that, do you, Michael?” Viny said.
“No,” Michael said, “I don’t.”
Viny nodded his massive head. “Good. Go to New York and find Anthony. Explain to him how unhappy we are about the present set of circumstances.”
Message sent and delivered. Its text was loud and clear. I looked at Viny and he looked at me. Further argument was futile. Anthony was not the only puppet around here. My string was pretty short, too, and very thin.
Michael took a deep breath, and then slowly stood up from the chair.
“A driver is waiting for you at the bar to take you to the airport,” Viny said.
Michael nodded as he removed his silk, suit jacket to reveal a shoulder holster rig which housed a Glock .45 pistol. He removed the rig and set it on the desk. “Hold this until I get back, will you, Viny.” Remembering his solid gold, Zippo lighter, Michael left it on the desk next to the rig.
Viny looked at the rig, then picked it up and placed it into a deep, desk drawer. “I can remember a time when you could walk onto a plane with a goddamn bazooka,” Viny said and slipped the lighter into the drawer next to rig.
Michael turned away and walked to the door.
“Hey, Michael,” Viny said.
Michael turned to look at the old bull of the Vegas woods.
“Don’t forget the seven million.”
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