Jack of Diamonds (66 page)

My two sessions at the baby grand, the second ending at 2 a.m., were usually more like fun than hard work and my Sundays off were given over to The Resurrection Brothers, all of whom were nice guys. In my breaks, I enjoyed the company of good men, such as Chef Napoleon Nelson and, when he wasn’t away working on the trains, the diminutive Booker T. Few members of The Resurrection Brothers were professional musicians, but it was a surprisingly good band, playing jazz, blues and gospel to a high standard. It was almost as if the music came naturally, part of the ecstasy and the agony of the coloured people. We also played to an appreciative and knowledgeable audience, and that always lifts the standard of the players.

After we finished playing, I’d usually chew the fat with one or the other member of the band or the audience and, often as not, be invited home for an early dinner. I took this as a huge compliment. Most of these folk had little or no money to spare, but they’d generously share their Sunday-night meal with me. I’d say my goodbyes with my belly full and move on, usually, to a private poker game, generally accompanied by Johnny Diamond, our pit boss at the El Marinero.

My life was full and happy and, apart from the excellent company I enjoyed when I played both poker and music, I was learning heaps. However, the longer I stayed in Las Vegas, the more I became aware of the undercurrents. On the surface it was, I guess, pretty much what you might expect of a largish town in a wealthier part of the US, apart from the unique location and, of course, the gambling and the Mob.

The workforce seemed to be divided by race: Negroes did the heavy lifting; Mexican men worked in the building trade, and women in domestic and hotel work; and families ran small businesses, such as convenience shops, bakeries, grocers’ shops, dry cleaners and laundries, or small local restaurants and bars. Finally, the whites more or less took the cream of the town’s work in supermarkets, gas stations, auto repairs, car dealerships, realtors and drugstores. They also did the bulk of the policing, admin, clerking, medical and municipal work.

Most of the casino employees at the tables and on the floor were white men and women; the latter, essentially cocktail waitresses in tight skirts, revealing blouses and high heels, who were referred to as hostesses and chosen for their looks. Mexican and Negro women worked as chambermaids and cleaners, and most of the kitchen staff were coloured folk.

I learned that the name Las Vegas means ‘The Meadows’ in Spanish, although there were precious few of those to be seen in the desert now. The permanent white residents of Las Vegas liked to boast that it was the cleanest and safest town in America and, in terms of thefts or muggings, crime was almost unknown. The Westside, or coloured section, was, if anything, even safer. You could walk anywhere after midnight without fear of being accosted.

Las Vegas lived and thrived, and still does, on the need humankind seems to have to gamble; to have a bet or take an outside chance. My addiction to poker was just one version of this compulsion, and it
was
a compulsion. Why else would people come to a nondescript desert town that baked in summer and sometimes froze in winter, often crossing the continent to bring their hard-earned money to a casino dealer, for the privilege of sitting for hours playing a game that is rigged to ensure that, in the long run, they will lose? If you play long enough, the casino will take all of your money; the numbers don’t lie and the establishment doesn’t even have to cheat to do it. In the end, the immutable rules of mathematics will grind you into the dust. I knew that, and yet still I gambled. It was something about the game of poker itself, or so I told myself.

Finally, the Firebird was completed and due to open in mid-January 1947, three weeks after what proved to be the premature opening of Bugsy Siegel’s Flamingo on 26th of December 1946. Siegel had allowed the budget to blow out by millions of dollars, and the schedule was a joke. Perhaps he thought a gala opening would alter his fortunes and get the Flamingo off to a brilliant start.

The town was buzzing with anticipation: all the right people from Hollywood and elsewhere had been invited, and Cuban bandleader Xavier Cugat provided the music, while comedian Jimmy Durante kept everyone happy. Some big movie stars attended, but bad weather kept away many more. Alas, the premature opening of the grand casino proved a disaster and it began to lose even more money. Local journalists had a field day:

FLAMINGO CUT OFF AT THE LEGS!
LEGLESS FLAMINGO CAN’T FLY!

The headlines were pretty corny, but we loved them, at first; then, almost as quickly, we began to grow concerned. If an extravagant, hugely expensive hotel resort casino was doomed to failure on Highway 91, then what of the Firebird? Had Tony Accardo been correct all along? Perhaps a casino seven miles out of downtown Las Vegas was never going to succeed. The Flamingo certainly seemed to confirm his prediction.

Even before the Flamingo disaster, it had been arranged that I would take a two-week vacation in Toronto in the new year before returning to take over the new GAWP Bar at the Firebird. I’d been looking forward to going home. I’d been earning good money and, on top of that, I’d been lucky at cards, so when Lenny insisted he pay my rail fare, I declined. I had more than sufficient money to play the visiting hero, stopping off in New York for a day to shop, then arriving home with an armload of nice gifts for everyone; for my mom and Nick, of course, but also Mac, the twins and especially Miss Frostbite, Joe and Mrs Hodgson at the library. I’d even decided to buy a bottle of perfume for Miss Bates – Bridgett advised Chanel No. 5. After all, without her, where would I be? But I guess, one way or another, this applied to all of them, even to Old Mrs Sopworth from the Presbyterian Clothing Depot who’d supplied most of my clothes. Maybe I’d buy her a pretty hat or a nice handbag . . . a handbag was probably safer.

When I found myself recalling all the women in my life, starting with Miss Mony, with whom I’d lost touch, but who had been one of my earliest influences, I’d often think about Juicy Fruit, and whether she’d stayed on the game or become a singer. She’d been born with a pleasing voice and I’d always believed it could develop into a really good one if she worked at it.

When I imagined my return to Canada, I’d often picture myself late at night in the Jazz Warehouse, fronting Joe’s powder-blue Steinway and casually playing a whole set of new blues numbers and a fair measure of really good gospel. It was all going to be very sweet, and my mom, who never ceased to worry about my being in the sinful gambling capital of America, and clearly still harboured hopes of a second doctor in the family, would stop worrying and see how happy and contented I was.

At the New Year’s Eve party, there were glum faces everywhere. Fortunately, Sammy and his two hoods had returned to their families in Chicago. Almost everyone at the party must have feared that, after the Flamingo fiasco, Bridgett was in a lot of trouble. That is, everyone except Bridgett. She seemed to be making a valiant attempt to be upbeat, assuring everyone that their jobs were safe. Those scheduled to go to the Firebird could rest easy, it wasn’t like the Flamingo, wasn’t behind schedule, wasn’t opening prematurely, was complete but for the smallest finishing touches, wasn’t over budget and, most important of all, wasn’t going to fail. In other words, we hadn’t suffered from the Bugsy Siegel factor, we hadn’t ‘done a Bugsy’ – the current euphemism for a complete balls-up.

At midnight we all valiantly attempted to cheer ourselves up and go through the motions with fireworks, whistles and church bells. As the old year rolled away and the new year arrived – 1947 – Bridgett had impulsively grabbed me and kissed me firmly on the mouth, and then immediately said in a flustered voice, ‘Oh dear. I think I may be a little drunk.’

I smiled down at her, still feeling the pressure of those delectable lips on mine, and wished, despite my childhood experiences with alcohol, that she would drink more often.

Lenny made an upbeat speech, then got riotously drunk. God knows how many double bourbons he’d downed, but by two in the morning he had finally collapsed on a couch in a corner of the Longhorn Room and was snoring loudly. Most of the staff had departed, no doubt speculating about what the new year would bring. Bridgett and I were settled on another couch not far from Lenny. I was acutely aware of her thigh touching mine along its length, and the soft pressure of her shoulder against my upper arm.

‘Well, Jack, you must be looking forward to your vacation,’ Bridgett began.

‘Sure, but perhaps not quite as much as I was before the Flamingo nosedived.’

Bridgett placed her hand over mine. ‘Jack, despite what’s happened with the Flamingo, they’ll recover. There’s much too much money at stake for them to fail. New York will persist in their attempts and we, down the highway, will benefit. We are not going to fail.’

‘Why? Why are you so sure, Bridgett?’

‘Jack, the vision persists. Also we’re better managers than they are and, besides, I’m personally determined to succeed.’

‘Well, yes, but is it entirely up to you?’

‘As a matter of fact, to a large extent, it is.’

I certainly hadn’t been expecting that, and wondered if she was more than a little drunk. It had been a fairly firm kiss, our lips parting and tongues almost touching . . . surely if she was sober, she wouldn’t have kissed me like that?

‘There’s something I don’t understand, Bridgett.’

‘What, Jack? What don’t you understand?’

‘Well, there’s obviously some sort of deal between you and Chicago. We all know that they were dead against opening on the highway. Lenny says Tony Accardo was adamant; more than that, he was certain such a project must fail. Yet, you persuaded him to change his mind.’

‘You mean, what precisely caused him to change his mind?’

I nodded. ‘The Mafia’s attitude to women in business is fairly well known . . .’

Bridgett laughed, nodding her head in agreement.

‘So, how come the switcheroo?’ I asked, hoping to inject a little levity.

Despite my feeble attempt, Bridgett’s demeanour grew serious. ‘Jack, are you worried about your job, is that it?’

I threw up my hands. ‘No, no, good God, not at all!’ I protested, adding, ‘You must know I get offers from other casinos almost every week.’ I hesitated, then said, ‘But I am worried, yes. Worried for you. What might happen to you if the Firebird goes the same way as the Flamingo?’

‘Why, thank you, Jack, that’s lovely.’

I ignored the fact that she might be patronising me and cut to the chase. ‘Bridgett, why do you tolerate those bastards in Chicago? I’ve only been here a short time, but people like Manny ‘Asshole’ de Costa, the frequent visits of gangsters from Chicago, the presence of that vile snot-nosed Sammy Schischka . . .’ I shrugged. ‘How do you tolerate it? Christ, you could work anywhere you liked! Bridgett, you’re a brilliant hotelier!’

‘Oh, Jack, I don’t think . . .’

‘No, please let me finish. You’re highly educated, beautiful, charming, totally professional and you ooze brains. People trust you instinctively. You know the hotel industry like the back of your hand. Staff, particularly coloured folk, adore you and trust you to take care of their interests. You’re not scared to make tough decisions – Lenny tells me you’ll stand up to Chicago if you need to. You’ve obviously got the godfather’s number. Anywhere in America, you’d earn an executive salary, be properly appreciated and have a secure and glittering future. Your contacts among the very wealthy are impeccable. Why then do you put up with these ingrates, these ignorant gangsters and murderers? You’re a
real
lady, you don’t have to work with these low-life hoodlums!’

Bridgett laughed softly. ‘Thanks, Jack, I believe that’s the nicest series of compliments I’ve ever been paid.’ She paused fractionally. ‘But, concerning my background, you’re completely off the mark. I was born in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains. My daddy was a coalminer, Luke Handleman Rooth. He and my mom were mountain folk who couldn’t read nor write, hillbillies who belonged to the Pentecostal snake-worshipping cult. I was baptised Bridgett “Baby” Rooth, not because I was the youngest of eight kids, but because my daddy was crazy about the baseball player Babe Ruth, who played for the Boston Red Sox and the New York Yankees.’

My head was swimming. It was unthinkable that this cultivated, elegant woman had ever set foot in a hillbilly hovel. ‘C’mon, Bridgett, they didn’t
really
worship snakes?’ I said, latching onto the most bizarre of her revelations.

Bridgett leaned back, half closed her eyes and began to speak in a solemn voice: ‘“And these signs shall follow them that believe: In my name shall they cast out devils: they shall speak with new tongues; They shall take up serpents: and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them: they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.” Mark 16, verses 17 and 18.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Yes,
he
had a fair bit to do with it in the Pentecostal Church where I came from.’

‘I mean, did you actually handle the snakes?’ It was a long way from Mrs Henderson and the Apostolic Church of the Pentecost in Moose Jaw.

‘Of course! It’s in the gospels, in the Book of Mark and there’s more in the Book of Luke,’ she laughed. ‘But I only handled one once, when my mom said it would cure my measles.’

‘Did it?’

‘Of course not.’ She laughed again. ‘I infected the entire school. My mom said it must have been the Lord’s will and accepted no responsibility.’