Gangsterland: A Novel (45 page)

He hit several of the big old-school hotels—Circus Circus, the Sahara—some that probably had contracts with Kochel Farms dating back twenty years and which historically had strong ties to the old Culinary Union, places that might still stand up and take notice if Ronnie Cupertine needed something. But the people he met in food service there were in their twenties and early thirties and were mostly Mexican; the managers were fresh-faced corporate types, guys who’d shit themselves if someone stuck a gun in their face or would just call the cops if someone tried to shake them down. If someone higher up came down to the loading dock to pick up some gangster out of the back of a truck, there’d be fifty witnesses, none of whom would likely be willing to put their own life on the line for fifteen bucks an hour. Plus, the level
of security was astounding: Cameras and armed private security guards were everywhere. The casinos were, after all, just giant banks when it came right down to it.

The newer luxury hotels that had contracts with Kochel Farms—the Monte Carlo, the MGM, the Bellagio, even the revamped Caesars—barely even let Jeff in the door, which didn’t make it likely that they off-loaded a hit man, either, and the restaurants inside them were all corporate jobs for the most part, none of them connected to any known crime figures.

He hit up the bars and the dives and the mom-n-pop joints on the list, and the reaction he got was the same each time, usually some variation on, “Why the fuck would we be hiding that guy? Get the fuck out of my business.” He event went off the map a few times, rolling into venerable (and reputed Mafia) businesses like the Venetian, the twenty-four-hour pasta spot over on Sahara, and Piero’s over by the Convention Center, just to get the feel for the city again, listen in on conversations, that sort of thing, but all he heard were tourists quoting
The Godfather
while they ordered dessert.

And now Summerlin, Howard Hughes’s landgrab that had turned twenty-five thousand acres of scrub desert into high-end suburbia, replete with private golf courses, McMansions, man-made lakes, and millions of dollars’ worth of plastic surgery patients. Hughes wanted to rid Las Vegas of organized crime, and he did a pretty good job of it. But he’d replaced one kind of criminal with elements just as immoral and ruthless: real estate developers and elective surgery outlets.

Jeff exited on Buffalo, then headed west on Vegas Drive and then up Hillpointe, past gated developments with names like Adagio, Cielo Vista, and Painted Shadow Canyon, signs for the TPC golf course and vacant lots that promised “unique,
timeless homes at exclusive members’ pricing!” Jeff couldn’t help but think of Paul Bruno.

There were six places in and around Summerlin Jeff needed to visit today, and he figured he’d knock the easiest one out first—the cafeteria at the Tikvah Preschool and Dorothy Copeland Children’s Center at Temple Beth Israel—before going to a bar called Bananaz, a couple delis, a new resort in Summerlin, and then two different country clubs.

The idea that a private preschool might need its own meat distributer seemed absurd on the face of things, until Jeff saw the sprawling campus of Temple Beth Israel unfold in front of him. On one side of the street was the temple, with a lattice-work of adjoining buildings and green spaces forming a crescent against the road. Aside the crescent of completed buildings was another series of buildings—the signs said it was a private K–12 school called the Barer Academy—which looked to be about 80 percent finished and which at the moment was filled with construction workers.

On the other side of the street was a funeral home, a cemetery, and even more construction—a learning center and another park that promised tennis courts and an aquatic center by 2001. Jeff thought of Paul Bruno again—a guy like him could have made a billion dollars selling real estate in Las Vegas.

Jeff parked in the temple’s lot and gathered up his materials—a notepad, a pen, a stack of photos of Sal Cupertine, his cell phone, and his gun, but then thought better of it and stuffed the gun in the glove box of his rented Pontiac, figuring that bringing a gun into a house of worship that was also filled with kids was a bad idea. No need to court anxiety and trouble where it wasn’t needed, particularly not for an exercise that would probably be over in ten minutes or less. The bars and
delis, well, those he’d come strapped in. You never knew who was hiding in the back of those places.

He walked through the temple, poked his head into their little Judaica shop, which was well stocked but didn’t seem to have anyone actually working in it, and then made his way down a long hall to the temple’s administrative office . . . where he sat for fifteen uncomfortable minutes, waiting for someone with a little authority to come and speak with him, since the receptionist was no help whatsoever. It was nine thirty in the morning. If he wanted to get everything done that he planned for the day, he’d need to bounce in another fifteen minutes, come back the next day, or just cross it off the list as cleared.

He’d shown the receptionist, a woman in her late fifties named Esther, several photos of Sal Cupertine, and she hadn’t recognized him, and she said she’d been there every weekday for the last three years, except for holidays and when she went on vacation to the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego.

“Rabbi Cohen should be here any minute now,” Esther said.

“Is Rabbi Cohen the only person who can take me over to the cafeteria?”

“Oh, yes,” Esther said. “We have very strict rules about strangers coming onto the campus during school hours. Rabbi Cohen or Rabbi Kales must be with you at all times, for safety purposes. We can’t very well have strangers with the children, you understand.”

“Is Rabbi Kales in?”

“Oh, no, he’s out ill. Rabbi Cohen should be here any moment now,” she said, a touch too sternly for Jeff’s taste. “A cup of coffee would probably make the time pass faster, that’s what I’ve always found.”

“Okay, thank you,” Jeff said. Esther stepped away then, so
Jeff got up and looked out the window to the construction going on across the street. What a strange combination of facilities: a funeral home and a Jewish cemetery surrounded by an aquatic center, tennis courts, and, at least according to the signs, a performing arts center. The entire circle of life on one street.

“Can I help you?”

Jeff turned around. Standing in the doorway was a man in an expensive black suit, a thick salt-and-pepper beard, glasses, close-cropped black hair that showed just a hint of gray at the temples, a black yarmulke on the back of his head. He was maybe six foot, lean in the body but had some weight in his face, like maybe he ate a few too many cookies. Jeff guessed he was in his forties.

“I’m waiting for Rabbi Cohen,” Jeff said.

The man cocked his head, like he hadn’t quite heard him. “Did you have an appointment?”

“No,” Jeff said. “I’m actually here on some sensitive business that I hoped to discuss with him.” He stepped back over to the uncomfortable chair and gathered up his materials. “I’m actually wondering if anyone here has seen this man.” He handed the man a photo of Sal Cupertine. He stared at it for just a moment, then handed it back.

“I didn’t get your name,” the man said.

“Jeff Hopper,” he said, and he extended his hand.

“Rabbi David Cohen,” the man replied, though instead of shaking Jeff’s hand, he clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m afraid I’ve just come back from a funeral, so my hands are covered in dirt.”

“Oh, of course, right,” Jeff said. It was one of the few things Jeff knew about Jewish funerals: Everyone threw dirt on the casket. It was both touching and a little creepy, though of
course
someone
had to bury the dead. What must it be like for this man, Jeff wondered, who had to throw dirt on the graves of people every day? What must it be like to be so intimate with death? Jeff wasn’t a religious man, so he never gave much thought to people like priests and rabbis, never considered that when it all came down to the end of things, they were always there to handle the worst of it. How do you not take that home with you at night? Four people had died because of Jeff’s actions—or his inactions, anyway—and he wore their memories like chain mail. And then there was Paul Bruno . . . and Fat Monte . . . and who knew what the hell would happen to Fat Monte’s wife, a still-living vegetable?

“I can come back,” Jeff said, because suddenly he realized just how fruitless it was to be at Temple Beth Israel, of all places, bothering this rabbi.

“No, it’s fine,” Rabbi Cohen said. He smiled then, but only half of his mouth seemed to work just right. Like maybe he’d had a minor stroke at some point.

Esther returned with a cup of coffee and the morning’s
Review-Journal
under one arm. “Rabbi Cohen, this nice man has been waiting to speak with you,” she said.

“Of course,” Rabbi Cohen said. He gave Esther that same crooked smile. No, it wasn’t a stroke, Jeff decided. The guy just didn’t seem comfortable smiling. “Why don’t you take Mr. Hooper to my office while I wash up. Is that fine with you, Mr. Hooper?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Jeff said. “And it’s Hopper, not Hooper.”

“Of course,” Rabbi Cohen said. There was that smile again. There was something funky about his teeth, too, Jeff thought, like maybe his bite was off, his teeth not quite matching up. “And Esther, if you could do me a small favor,” Rabbi Cohen
continued, “if you could run down to the Bagel Café and pick up an order of lox for Rabbi Kales and take it to his house, I would appreciate it. I was to bring him lunch this afternoon, but this morning has been a trying one, as you can imagine, with Mrs. Goldfarb, and I thought we’d close the offices until this afternoon’s funeral.”

“Oh, yes, Rabbi Cohen,” she said. “I’ll do that right away.” She nodded solemnly, like the rabbi had just asked her to put down his dog. This was not a world Jeff understood, clearly.

The rabbi excused himself then, so Jeff followed Esther down the hall to a small, neat office. It had chest-high bookcases lining one wall, the books all spine out and at the front edge of the shelf, not a single one out of place. There was a wide oak desk that faced the door, a high-backed black leather chair behind it, two less-comfortable-looking chairs in front of it. There was a window behind the desk, too, and it was open just a crack, and Jeff could hear the sound of children playing nearby. Recess, probably.

On the other side of the office, there was a large dry-erase calendar filled with events affixed to the wall—Jeff could only guess what the
Valentine’s Day Kugel Off!
might possibly entail, never mind the
Y2K&U
talk that was scheduled for the end of the month—and beneath it was a wooden cabinet topped with a few knickknacks: a teacup and saucer, a framed diploma from a rabbinical school on a metal stand, a menorah. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere.

Esther set Jeff’s cup and newspaper on the edge of the desk.

She kneaded her hands together in what appeared to be honest worry.

“Esther, are you okay?” Jeff asked.

“Rabbi Cohen has never entrusted me with an errand before. It’s a big step. He didn’t specify if he wanted bagels as well and I certainly don’t want to assume, since you know what that does!”

“I say go ahead and get the bagels,” Jeff said. “Who was ever upset to get a bagel, even if they didn’t ask for one?”

This brightened Esther considerably. “That’s an excellent point.” She patted Jeff on the knee. “Thank you. That’s such a wonderful way of looking at the world.”

After Esther left him in the rabbi’s office, Jeff tried to imagine what it would feel like to have bagels be the weight of your world.

He’d give the rabbi ten minutes, and then he’d head off to Michelangelo’s Deli, one of the more promising locations on his list for the day, since Jeff had never known an Italian deli that wasn’t hiding something. The joint was an old Las Vegas establishment dating from the 1960s that had just opened a new storefront in a strip mall on Lake Mead and Rock Springs. Their old location, across from the Commercial Center on Sahara, was one of those places Jeff used to like to visit when he came to gamble, since they weren’t exactly hiding the fact that there was something other than meats being served, at least not with the number of guys in sweat suits who kept walking in and out of the kitchen counting cash.

Jeff picked up the newspaper and examined the articles. Russian astronauts were going to point giant mirrors at the sun, which would then bounce light onto parts of the Earth for a few minutes. Questions were being raised by a recent spate of U.S. bombings of Iraq. The president of Chechnya announced his country would now be ruled under sharia law. Jeff flipped to the local news section. Construction on the spaghetti bowl to snarl traffic for weeks. $75 million wagered on super bowl,
casinos rake in $2.9 million in profits. Local plastic surgeon presumed dead. And then there was a photo of that Bennie Savone character again, this time next to a column by Harvey B. Curran, the mob’s own town gossip:

            
The street is still buzzing about jiggle-joint operator
Bennie Savone
getting nicked on conspiracy charges related to the beatdown two of his bouncers gave
Lewis McDonald
, 42, a dentist from Nebraska, that left the tooth-man paralyzed and missing an eye. The indictment is sealed, but word is that Savone ordered video from the club’s security system destroyed, then sent a friend over to Ace’s Pawn to see about acquiring their tapes. All this after offering the family of McDonald serious seven-figure cash in hopes of keeping them quiet on the criminal front and forestalling what would likely be a crippling civil suit against his gentleman’s club,
The Wild Horse
. The feds are also closing in on Savone for what one source says are “credit card irregularities,” which might be anything these days, but if you’ve ever been to the Wild Horse, you know that a glass of water costs $10, $100 if you want ice. Savone’s got pit bull legal eagle
Vincent Zangari
on the case, so he’s surely been told to “keep his mouth closed” and that “he’s got rights,” but that might not keep the feds from taking a closer look at some of the sweetheart construction contracts Savone has made on both sides of the Strip. Savone hasn’t found any trouble over the course of last decade, so it’s a good chance he’ll be back in no time for his weekly brunch at the
Bagel Café
with his father-in-law,
Rabbi Cy Kales
, to talk about the expansion of
Temple Beth Israel
,
Savone
Construction Partners
’ ambitious project in Summerlin. For wiseguys like Bennie Savone, “no time” to the feds usually means
60 days until they’ll get around to setting a bond
.