Jack of Diamonds (70 page)

The general feeling was that the police wanted a quiet life. As long as the Mob kept things under control and stayed invisible to the public, the police weren’t going to rock the boat. If respectable civilians or tourists didn’t get caught up in any violence, they were happy; niggers and Mexicans didn’t count. I heard rumours that the wives of judges and senior police officers had points in certain casinos, and that detectives and lower-ranking police had pockets sewn into their uniform pants that reached down to their ankles. Rocking the boat wasn’t the Las Vegas way.

With the Firebird such a success, I guess we all relaxed, but then something happened that brought Sammy sharply and disastrously back into my life.

It all began not at the Firebird but at the Flamingo, when the boss of the casino retired and a new man, Louis Springer, was appointed by New York as their representative cleanskin, to run the gaming section. The Flamingo was having trouble with bad debts – mainly from mid-level regulars – but every casino experienced such problems from time to time. These gamblers were addicts who made up the bulk of the poker, black jack and roulette players and, with a few exceptions, they could usually be relied on to pay, given sufficient time. They needed their gambling fix, and the Las Vegas casinos depended on them for the bread and butter of the business; along with the slot machines, of course.

However, Louis Springer was a new broom and unwilling to listen to the conventional wisdom about these addicts. He concluded they were being allowed too much time to get their affairs straightened out. No doubt he’d heard stories of Sammy and his methods of debt collecting and, without consulting New York, appointed Sammy as the new Flamingo debt collector.

Lenny was horrified and called Springer at the Flamingo, pointing out that the Firebird wouldn’t dream of using Sammy in this capacity. He tried to talk some sense into the ‘Loose Spring’, as Louis Springer would eventually be dubbed, but was told to butt out. Lenny then called Chicago and was told personally by the godfather to pull his head in; that Sammy was none of the Firebird’s business and if the kikes wanted to hire him, it was an excellent example of cooperation between the Mobs and no different from sharing a few points in each other’s casinos to prevent a breakdown in relationships. He’d concluded by saying, ‘Now, you listen to me and listen good, ya hear? Las Vegas neutral – it’s “golden egg” territory. We all gotta show respect, no trouble between us, not even wid the fuckin’ kikes!’

Six months went by. Once or twice, I glimpsed him out driving in his pink Caddy. He’d grown enormously fat and, because of his short legs, he couldn’t push the front seat too far back, so that the steering wheel was partly embedded in his great belly. It seemed a minor miracle that he was still able to manoeuvre the huge automobile. Several stories were beginning to circulate about Sammy, but Lenny said that they were the usual crap and that Louis Springer was singing Sammy’s praises as a debt collector. He had earned his nickname ‘Loose Spring’ from the Flamingo staff for his inconsistent decisions and irascible nature, and other casino owners soon adopted the epithet.

Then, one evening, I was heading in to work as usual through the rear entrance of the Firebird, which brought me into a corridor leading to the kitchen. To my consternation, I saw Sammy and his two goons kicking a black guy who was curled up in a ball on the tiles, trying to protect his head. ‘Hey, what the fuck . . .’ I ran up to them and shoved the nearest goon hard. He tripped over the victim, and collided with his partner so that both of them sprawled a couple of feet from the sobbing black guy. Sammy was left standing over him.

As the two goons untangled themselves, Sammy aimed another vicious kick at the black guy’s kidneys, grunting as the toe of his two-tone shoe sank into soft flesh, then stepped back and looked at me. It was eerie. His eyes were glazed, as if he were in a trance or something, and he was breathing hard through his mouth, mucus showing in both nostrils. He was like a man with a bad head cold who has just run a hundred yards and is trying to catch his breath. It was clear he hadn’t recognised me.

‘Sammy, stop it, will ya! Leave him alone!’ I bent over to help the black guy to his feet, and was shocked to recognise that the bloody, broken face looking up at me belonged to Hector, the meat chef from the porterhouse steak incident, whom I now counted as a good friend.

Sammy shook his head and his eyes seemed to come back into focus. For a moment, he seemed surprised to see me; then he gave a grunt of recognition. ‘Fuck off outa here, Jack. This ain’t none of your business!’

‘Hey, Sammy, take it easy, man. This is Hector from the kitchen, the meat chef.’

Something flared in his eyes and he shouted, ‘This fucking nigger, he gimme a raw steak on purpose! Motherfucker don’t learn the lesson I give him when he done the same. Man, that’s years ago!’ He kneaded his knuckles. ‘But I ain’t forgot! Sammy Schischka don’t forget stuff.’

The two goons were now back on their feet and moving towards me. ‘Call your dogs off, Sammy, or I’ll call the police. You have no right to be here in this hotel.’

‘Who says? The Firebird belong to us, to the Chicago organisation.’

I ignored this comment and stood over Hector, to protect him. ‘I’m not going to let you kick a friend of mine to death, so back off, all of you.’

To my surprise, Sammy grinned. ‘Yeah, I heard about yer nigger lovin’. Fuckin’ aroun’ wid nigger women. A nigger woman fuck is worse than goin’ wid a whore.’ The mucus from his battered nose was now collecting on his top lip. He sniffed, then demanded, ‘Get the fuck outa here, Jack. I ain’t finished with this son of a bitch!’

The coloured kitchen staff, attracted by the noise, had begun to spill out of the door at the far end of the corridor and stood watching silently, afraid to interfere. Mr Joel, the second chef, pushed his way to the front.

Sammy looked up at the silent group behind me. ‘Hey, fuck off, you lot. Go on, vamoose. This none your fuckin’ business!’

Nobody moved and I stood my ground, my leg protecting Hector’s body.

‘Ah, the hell wid it, let him go,’ Sammy snarled to his two minders, jerking his head in the direction of the passage that led to the parking lot. But then he suddenly stopped and, turning to me, said in his low, gravelly voice, ‘You’ll keep, piano boy, you’ll keep. And don’t think Lenny or the greedy bitch can help ya. This between you and me now, nigger lover!’

‘That so?’ I tapped his chest with my forefinger and grinned. ‘Just you and me, eh. Happy to oblige, Sammy. How about we go into the parking lot right now?’ I nodded at his two offsiders. ‘Let’s sort it out man to man, without these two bums.’ I was too angry to care if I damaged a piano hand smacking the bastard’s ugly lopsided mug.

‘Fuck you!’ Sammy spat, backing away from me with his two gorillas jumping in between us in case I made a grab at him. They started down the corridor walking backwards, just in case; then Sammy halted at the door and shouted, ‘Hey, nigger, I ain’t forgot about that porterhouse. I’ll be back. Take my advice and get the fuck outa Nevada! Take that whore of a daughter, too, ya hear? I ain’t forgot. Sammy Schischka don’t forget!’

Mr Joel waited for the door at the end of the passage to shut, then ordered two staff members to help Hector into the kitchen. Then, with a sweep of his right hand, he asked the staff to return to their workstations.

We sat Hector on a chair, so I could have a good look at him. He was a real mess, nose bleeding profusely and clearly broken, both eyes rapidly closing and his jaw jutting to the left – almost certainly broken. I knew it might be a while before he could speak. He was pressing his right side with both hands, sobbing, obviously in real pain from the kicks to his kidneys. I guess Sammy had learned to do this stuff from experts while in Fort Leavenworth – he’d given Hector a thorough going-over. God only knows what would have happened had I not arrived. The beating was not only vicious but systematic. Sammy and his henchmen knew what they were doing.

Mr Joel was fussing around, digging into the first-aid box.

‘Here, let me,’ I offered, ‘you’ve got a kitchen to run, food to prepare for tonight, early customers already coming in.’ I smiled, trying to settle the staff.

‘You done this before, Mr Sarsaparilla?’

‘I was a medical orderly during the war.’ I turned to one of the guys who had helped him in. ‘Get his shirt off, Casper, I want to see if his ribs are okay.’ I called over to a scullery maid, ‘Georgina, bring me damp towels and ice.’

Hector didn’t appear to have any broken ribs – Sammy obviously hadn’t reached them yet – but he had been kicked savagely and the skin in the lumbar region had turned a deep purple. I was worried about his kidneys; from the look of his lower back, he’d be pissing blood for a week.

I turned to Mr Joel. ‘He needs to see a doctor, to check out his internal injuries, set his nose and jaw. Ring emergency and get an ambulance. From the appearance of the bruising on his lower back and side, he’ll have kidney damage.’

Mr Joel shook his head. ‘I don’t think Mr Lenny, he gonna like we call no ambulance. Maybe you be better just walkin’ on by? We kin take care of Hector ourself.’

‘I’m the medic here and I decide. Please get someone to call the ambulance!’ Hector needed urgent attention and I’d suddenly lost patience. Sammy had so blatantly abused the hotel rules that I didn’t even concern myself with checking first with Bridgett or Lenny. ‘It’s my call, Mr Joel,’ I said, ‘I’ll take care of the consequences with management.’

I turned to a busboy. ‘Hey, kid, go and tell Miss Bridgett I’ve been delayed. Tell her to cover for me in the GAWP Bar. I’ll start half an hour late.’ I turned to several of the helpers. ‘Okay, let’s go. We’ll get Hector out the front for the ambulance.’

A look of sheer panic appeared on Mr Joel’s big, round face. ‘No, Mr Sarsaparilla. I call the ambulance, but better we take him out the back way. They don’t want to upset the customers, they see somebody beat up around the hotel.’ He paused. ‘That number-one rule for ab-so-loot certain.’

‘You know something, Mr Joel? I don’t care.’ We began to get Hector, who was obviously in a lot of pain, ready to move.

‘Nossir, we cain’t do no ambulance.’

‘Where’s the phone?’ I demanded.

‘Chef Napoleon Nelson’s office,’ Georgina-May said, holding the wet towels and a bowl of ice cubes.

‘Clean him up as much as you can,’ I instructed her. ‘Go easy, his nose and jaw are probably broken.’ I reached out and took a wet dishcloth, then, grabbing a handful of ice cubes, quickly made an ice pack. Hector, unable to talk because of his suspected broken jaw, was moaning and clutching at his kidneys. I lifted his hands and placed the ice pack against his side. ‘Hold it there as long as you can, Hector. I’m calling for an ambulance.’

Like in every major kitchen anywhere in the world, pinned to the corkboard in Chef Napoleon Nelson’s tiny cubicle was an emergency number. I lifted the receiver and dialled it and waited for a response but, before anyone could answer, it was snatched from my hand. ‘Here, let me, Jack,’ Bridgett said, slightly out of breath. Then she added, ‘Thank you, but I’ll take over from here. You have a near-full room waiting, lots of newcomers, it’s a big night.’ Emergency must have responded because I heard her instruct them to send an ambulance, giving the address and adding, ‘It’s to come into the parking lot at the back, there will be someone waiting.’ Her voice, while crisp, showed no sign of anxiety. I wondered what it might take to cause this remarkable woman to panic.

‘Don’t you want to know what happened?’ I asked.

‘Later, Jack. I already know enough for now. Please hurry, you’re late.’

The following morning I arrived at the Westside Hospital, the shabby institution that took care of the coloured folk who lived on the wrong side of the tracks. As I entered the ward, I saw that Hector was in a bed four from the door on the left, Chef Napoleon Nelson at his bedside. Also there was Booker T., the railway porter I’d met on that first day seemingly so long ago when I’d wandered into the bar for a hamburger and ended up in a jam session that led to my joining The Resurrection Brothers.

Hector looked a mess, both eyes closed, nose broken and, as I’d suspected, his jaw fractured. But I felt certain the worst damage lay under the sheet, with his kidneys and the internal bleeding.

After I’d said my greetings, I took my place beside Hector’s bed and touched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Buddy, I feel ashamed. I’ve hardly slept all night. I should have insisted they call the police. They would have been forced to take note of me, together with Miss Bridgett and Mr Lenny.’

Chef Napoleon Nelson looked horrified. ‘No, no, Mr Jack, don’tcha do that thing. They already bin to see Hector, take ev-ee-dence, the case already closed tight shut.’

‘But Hector can’t even speak!’

‘I done talk for him,’ Chef Napoleon Nelson replied.

‘That’s ridiculous, Chef Napoleon Nelson! You weren’t there! It was your night off, Mr Joel was on duty.’

‘Sure, Mr Joel come see me early this mornin’. We done decidin’ together.’

‘So, what is it Hector’s supposed to have said?’ I asked, my frustration beginning to make me very angry.

Chef Napoleon Nelson looked at me, his eyes sad, tired; the look you see on people’s faces when they have no real power, no real say in how their lives are to be conducted. ‘He say he ain’t seen nothing.’

I jerked my head back in exasperation. ‘Oh, I see, as usual some bullshit story, a bolt of lightning struck him several times while he was walking down the corridor towards the kitchen.’