Jack of Diamonds (57 page)

Then she suddenly cried, ‘Oh, how I wish your father had never given you that stupid mouth organ when you were a child!’

I was shocked. My mom had sat through endless concerts, encouraged and praised me; could she possibly mean what she’d just said? ‘Mom, I just need a little time to find myself. I was too young when I went scuffing. The army was all about obeying orders without question. I need to find out who I am.’ I looked across at Nick. ‘If it doesn’t work out for me in, say, a year or two, can I still take up the offer to study medicine?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I think so. I’ll need to confirm, but I think you’ll have at least that long to decide. I’ll have to check to make certain and get back to you,’ he said quietly.

‘Jack,
please
reconsider!’ my mother begged. ‘A doctor . . . a doctor is a
somebody
! We’ve always been nobodies . . . the dregs!’

‘Mom, you’ve never been the dregs,’ I protested.

Nick, who wasn’t a man to show his emotions, took a step towards her and folded her into his arms. ‘My darling, you
are
somebody, the best somebody I’ve ever known,’ he said quietly, kissing her on the top of her head as she sobbed against his chest. I’d never before heard him use that endearment. He turned to me and went on. ‘Jack, whatever happens, your mother is proud of you. However, I need to add that, while I know very little about music, I am certain you would make a splendid doctor.’ He waved the letter in his hand. ‘Would you mind if I read this?’

‘No, of course.’ I realised he was playing for time, allowing my mom to recover.

He gently lowered her into a chair and reached for his reading glasses, while I lowered myself onto my haunches beside my mother’s chair and put my arm around her.

Finally, Nick looked up from the single page and then down at me. ‘Jack, this fellow Lenny – what’s his background? Giancana is Italian, isn’t it?’

‘Sicilian; he was a master sergeant in the marines at the American Embassy in London. I met his cousin, Sammy Schischka, at a card game, and he suggested I contact Lenny when the Entertainment Unit arrived in London.’

‘This Lenny, you say he’s Sicilian? But his cousin, that doesn’t sound like a Sicilian name.’

‘No, Polish, it’s a relationship by marriage. Lenny’s mother’s sister, I believe. ’

Nick paused, then said, ‘He mentions Chicago . . .’

I nodded. ‘But, before the war, Lenny lived with his parents in LA, where his dad had something to do with the entertainment business; in Hollywood, I think.’ I pointed to the letter he was holding. ‘The Las Vegas thing comes as a bit of a surprise, though. I thought he’d go back to Los Angeles.’

‘Jack, this is probably a coincidence, but in 1929 I attended a conference in Chicago on reconstructive surgery. One of the case histories presented to us was that of a mobster, Mafiosi, who had severe facial burns from having been attacked with acid by a rival gang. It was shortly after Al Capone and the St Valentine’s Day massacre, so we all thought it was pretty sensational. It was a nasty facial injury, bad scars; sulphuric acid isn’t nice. I’m almost certain the victim’s name was Giancana, or something very similar.’

Nick looked down at the letter he was holding. ‘He mentions “the family” twice in this.’

‘Well, I guess that’s because he’s Italian – Sicilian – family is important.’

‘No, that’s not what I mean. He doesn’t say
my
family, the way you and I might do. In both instances it’s
the
family.’

My mom, alarmed at his tone, looked up at him. ‘Oh, Nick, whatever does that mean? Is it bad? You sound as if you have suspicions. The Mafia, why that’s terrible!’

Before Nick could speak I said, ‘I’d be very surprised, Nick. The US marines wouldn’t have let him in with a criminal record. They’re pretty firm about that sort of thing.’

‘Criminal!’ my mom gasped. ‘A criminal family?’

Nick reached out and touched me lightly on the shoulder. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Jack. But it may be worth asking him once you get to Las Vegas. Just to make sure everything’s as it should be . . . you know . . . legitimate.’ He paused. ‘If you know what I mean, son?’

‘Sure, I’ll do that,’ I said, more to reassure my mom, who looked on the point of tears, than to take my stepfather too seriously.

Nick, aware of his wife, added, ‘You can always turn them down if you’re not comfortable and come back here.’

‘Yup, of course.’ I didn’t tell them that, whatever happened, I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life in a jazz backwater like Toronto, wondering if I could have made it as a musician out in the big wide world. Unless I proved to be a complete musical disaster, I was going to try my luck in New York, if Las Vegas wasn’t for me.

‘Oh, but what if it’s true?’ my mom asked.

I gave her a quick hug. ‘Mom, Lenny Giancana is about as decent a human being as you’ll ever find.’ Then, wanting to change the subject, I said, ‘You have the best husband any woman could possibly have. And, Nick, you do know that you’re greatly loved, don’t you?’ I guess I was trying to say that they had each other and that my leaving wasn’t the end of the world.

‘Ah,
hrrrumph
 . . . yes,’ he admitted, clearing his throat, lest he be caught sounding sentimental. ‘And, Jack,’ he said, ‘it feels very good to be loved by your mother.’

‘Tell you what,’ I said brightly, ‘I’ll sleep on the Las Vegas thing and we’ll talk again in the morning. What say, eh?’

My mother was silent for a moment; then she said, haltingly, ‘No, Jack, you’ve already made up your mind.’ She looked up at me, brushed the tears from her eyes and sniffed. ‘Whatever happens, remember that I love you, dear.’

I felt a sudden childish impulse to cry. When I was growing up she had given me every ounce of everything she had to give, everything! Now, in the end, I had disappointed her. I could feel a tear running down my cheek. But, as always, she was correct. I’d made up my mind.

I booked a person-to-person phone call to Lenny in Las Vegas. When he answered, I simply said, ‘Got any sunshine to spare?’

‘Hey, Jack, how ya bin, buddy? Here the goddamn moon shines hotter than the sun in Toronto!’

I wasted no time on pleasantries. ‘Thanks for the invitation to join you, Lenny – I accept.’

‘Hey, that’s great, man!’

‘Only one condition.’

‘What, buddy . . . anything.’

I swallowed hard. ‘A baby grand . . . a Steinway.’

‘You got it, kid. What colour you want?’

I laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter; black, I suppose.’ Then, thinking of Joe’s powder-blue piano, I said, ‘Blue; pale blue, maybe? But I’ll leave it to you.’

‘Blue? That the colour of fucking ice! Cold! Freeze yer balls off!’

‘It doesn’t really matter, Lenny. I’ll leave it to you, buddy,’ I repeated. It was good to hear Lenny’s familiar voice down the telephone line.

‘Lissen, Jack, I’m gonna send ya the tickets for the train, first class all the way, nothin’ too good for my pal . . .’

‘Whoa there, Lenny; no, no, buddy, I can pay my own way.’

‘Save it for yer stake, Jack, we ain’t broke.’

‘No,
really
, I’d prefer it that way.’

‘Hey, I like that! Ya always was ya own man, Jack. Real cool. Can’t never tell what yer thinkin’ . . . What ya next move gonna be.’

It was a nice compliment coming from a very good poker player, but I wanted an out if Las Vegas didn’t suit me. I could afford the fare even if it meant dipping into my stake money. And it meant I wasn’t beholden. As Joe would say, ‘Jazzboy, when you owe nobody nothing, losing be only a small hes-i-tation on the path to winning; a mistake, just a hiccup to success.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE TRIP TOOK FOUR
days and three separate railway companies, but at last I arrived in Las Vegas on the last day of May 1946, a Friday, just before lunch.

The train station was slap-bang in the centre of Las Vegas. Lugging my old army kitbag, I’d stepped from my carriage and worked my way across the crowded platform and through the station hall packed with people; some, like myself, intent on leaving, attempting to avoid others hurrying to get onto the train, and seemingly very little love lost between the opposing forces. I finally stepped out into the blinding sunshine and momentarily glimpsed what seemed to be a parking lot across from the station entrance before being forced to close my eyes against the fierce metallic glare of the sun bouncing off the parked automobiles.

My very first impression of Las Vegas had been the streamlined modern station, but once my eyes adjusted to the glare, I realised I’d arrived in a brassy town of transients and people out to try their luck. Somewhere unseen a band played ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’, perhaps because some Texan dignitary or millionaire gambler was arriving.

I’d sent Lenny a telegram with my arrival details but he hadn’t responded and I figured I’d need to take a cab to the El Marinero. But, squinting around for a cab stand, I saw a green limousine parked directly to my right under a sign that clearly announced: No Parking. It was the biggest automobile I had ever seen, gleaming in the bright sunshine and obviously brand-new. It seemed to announce to the world that the good old USA was back in business. Standing, with one hand holding the trunk open, was Lenny. He saw me at the same moment and yelled, ‘Hiya, Jack! How ya doin’, buddy?’ I grinned and gave him a wave. ‘Come throw ya kit in the back and get the fuck in,’ he said as I approached. ‘Too goddamned hot and anyhow I ain’t supposed to be parked here!’

Nothing had changed. It wasn’t possible for Lenny Giancana to construct a sentence in male company without a liberal scattering of expletives. I hefted my kitbag into the trunk of the four-door sedan and noticed the soft purr of the engine. The car was polished to within an inch of its life and designed to make a statement about its owner, who was grinning back at me. He still had a marines-style haircut and was wearing cream slacks and a hibiscus-patterned Hawaiian shirt, a tuft of black hair showing at the open neck. His shoes were black and white patent leather. We were both big men; I was now six foot two and Lenny was perhaps an inch or so shorter but broader across the shoulders. It had been less than a year since I’d seen him and he was already beginning to thicken around the waist. He gave me a bear hug and, when we’d pulled apart, he must have been conscious of his softer gut against my own because he patted it and laughed. ‘Too much pasta.’

I had broken into a sweat just crossing the road and the first thing I noticed upon entering that light green monster of a car was the blast of cold air that smacked into me. ‘Christ, Lenny, you got a fridge in here!’ I called out.

Lenny walked around the front of the Caddie and opened the door. ‘Air-con, new invention; only Cadillac and Packard got it for now,’ he said, hopping behind the wheel. ‘Jack, I thought maybe I’d take you down Highway 91 first. I wanna show you two new construction sites, the Flamingo and the Firebird. The Firebird’s where we gonna build you the best piano bar in America, buddy.’

We pulled away from the station precinct and I indicated the air-conditioning. It was not only blasting us with cold air but making conversation at a normal level plainly impossible. ‘Thanks, Lenny, but if you don’t turn that thing down I’m going to die of pneumonia,’ I shouted.

Lenny pulled over, climbed into the back seat and fiddled with something until the roar of the air-conditioning faded. ‘Essential as pussy, buddy. Can’t go nowheres widout air-con. Summers are hunnerd degrees most days here. This is the middle of the fucking desert.’ He pointed through the windscreen to the shiny green bonnet. ‘Leave her outside . . . fry an egg on that by nine o’clock in the morning.’

‘Nice car.’

‘Yeah, chartreuse – good thing I didn’t buy a black one, eh? Heat suppose to bounce off chartreuse; that the idea, anyhow. Cadillac, they bringing out a new range next year and I got me a convertible on order. They got a waiting list long as Highway 91.’ He laughed. ‘I told the car dealer I wanted him to jump me up the list or maybe I’d have to organise a visit from one or two of my Chicago friends. He looks at me and salutes two fingers and says, ‘Right away, sir. I’ll call the head of General Motors tomorrow and tell him to watch out for suspicious characters.’

I laughed, not quite sure what he was telling me. Was it his way of saying he was Mafia? I decided to let it go for the meantime and asked instead, ‘Why a convertible? You just said it’s a hundred degrees out there.’

‘Fall, the nights cool down some.’

‘You mean you’re ordering a convertible to use at night?’

‘Jack, this Las Vegas, man! Daytime ain’t nuttin’. That’s when decent folk sleep. Nights are the day here, everything lit up.’ He grinned. ‘It’s show time for the Family business when the casino gets busy; it also pussy pick-up time, so that’s Cadillac convertible time!’

‘Lenny, sorry to interrupt, but can we stop right there. “The Family” – you’ve mentioned it a few times, on the phone to Canada and in your original letter. I stopped off in New York on the way and went to the public library and looked up the newspaper files for the
Chicago Tribune
. Your family, who are they exactly? Because various Giancanas and a guy named Tony Accardo seemed to feature in the news a fair bit.’ I was putting it mildly; the Giancana ‘Family’, according to the newspapers, were big-time Mafiosi.