Maximum Rossi

by Paul W Papa

  Not surprisingly, I found Sal sitting at a table in the back, near the rear door. He had on another broadcloth sack suit. He seemed to be partial to the style or perhaps there was a fire sale. It was hard to tell. This particular suit was pin-striped, navy blue. He had on the same button-down white shirt as the other day. I guess it could have been a different one, who was I to tell? He sported a dark blue, straight-point tie and the wisp of a white handkerchief was tucked into his top pocket

  He was accompanied by the Mountain. The Molehill must have been off causing his own trouble. I made my way toward the table, but the Mountain stepped in front of me before I could get all the way there.

  I looked up and flashed him a toothy grin. He looked down.

  “Max, so nice to see you,” Sal said. “Nice shiner. Did you stop for lunch on your way out of town?”

  I leaned to the side so I could see around the column of darkness in front of me. “We need to talk,” I said to Sal.

  “See, there you’re confused,” Sal said. “We don’t need to talk at all. You just need to leave.”

  I tried to move to the side, but the Mountain stopped me. “You heard Mr. Manella,” it said. “You just need to leave.”

  I wasn’t sitting this time, so the big man didn’t have the advantage. I didn’t wait for him to make a move. I scraped my shoe along his shin. He let out a yell and reached for my shoulder. Before he could grab it, I looped my arm around his and gave him two solid blows right above the breadbasket. It knocked the wind out of his sails. I stomped hard on the toes of his right foot and hooked my own right just under his chin. He dropped like a sack of onions.

  “See the problem with Brunos like him is all they have to do is show up,” I said as I stepped over the Mountain. “They’re scary enough so people don’t usually mess with them. They’ve never really had to fight, so they’re no good at taking a punch. Give me a scrappy guy any day. I guy who can take a whack on the noggin and come back for seconds.”

  Sal pulled a gun. It was a nice gun. Though it was blued, it shined like a beacon in the dark. “Stay where you’re at,” he said.

  “You gonna shoot me right here in the restaurant?” I asked.

  “If I have too,” Sal said.

  I thought of my own piece, snuggled just under my arm and wondered, just for a second, if I could get it out fast enough to make a difference. I doubted I could, but I was tempted to take the chance. Instead, I opted for a different route.

  “How about we talk,” I said. “Maybe you’ll find a reason not to pull the trigger.”

  Sal nodded.

  I decided not to sit. “You tryin’ to start a war?” I asked him.

  “Keep flappin’ your gums,” Sal said. “I’m not the one who put Bilotti on ice.”

  “And you think I did?”

  Sal smiled. He kept the gun pointed at my midsection. “It don’t matter what I think,” he said. “It only matters what Chicago thinks, and if they have an overcoat ready for you.”

  “Unless someone gets the idea to help them with those thoughts.”

  “They won’t need much help. They’re pretty sharp those guys.”

  “So it wasn’t you who sent those goons?” I asked.

  “That who gave you the shiner?”

  “They offered a makeover, but I decided against it.” I looked over my shoulder. The big guy was still out for the count. I turned back to Manella. “What’re you expecting to get out of this?” I asked.

  Sal grinned just like O’Malley had this morning. I’d of slapped the grin off his mug, but there were six good reasons not to.

  “I already told you,” he said. “I want you gone, Rossi. And I don’t care one bit how that happens. If you killed Bilotti, good for you. One less blowhard to worry about. If Chicago makes you for the kill, good for them. If the cops arrest you, even better. The wise move would be for you to get out of town. But you don’t seem like a wise guy to me. You seem like a guy lookin’ for trouble. Maybe someone ought to help you find it.”

  “Maybe someone already did,” I said.

  “Go back home, Rossi. Go back to your daddy, where he can protect you. We already got a fixer here; we don’t need you.”

  I looked at Manella, then at the gun. I wanted to say something clever, but nothing came. I turned to leave.

  Sal laughed. Now I really wanted to hit him.

  I turned back. He held the gun higher. The gun wanted me to leave too. Who was I to argue?

  I stepped over the Mountain. He seemed to be coming out of it. Right before I hit the door, a thought struck me. I turned. “Where’s Jeanie?” I asked.

  “Jeanie who?” Sal said.

  “Bilotti’s girl Jeanie. Where are you hiding her?”

  Sal laughed again. “What makes you think I’m hiding her?” he said.

  The Mountain got to his knees.

  I slipped out the door.

  Seventeen

  I WAS PRETTY sure the Mountain was standing at the door when I left. Not that it mattered. I could have simply gotten the drop on him, a lucky punch, but I would’ve put money on that not being the case. My stomach had settled from the morning activities and I decided lunch was in order. I would have gone to my usual haunt, but I wasn’t in the mood for unwanted guests, so I headed to the Sands. Besides, the meals there were comped and I wasn’t a man too good for free grub.

  I gave my Roadmaster to valet and walked in the front doors. I had made it about two steps in when a bellman stopped me. He was an older fellow in a tight uniform, red fitted jacket with two rows of gold buttons up the front and a small, round, flat-topped hat that he wore off to the side. His pants were black with red and gold, military-style stripes that provided a roadmap to help him find his pockets.

  “Mr. Rossi,” he said. “Mr. Hill asked me to find you.”

  “You have done your duty admirably,” I said. “Now what can I do for you?” I was tempted to salute, but figured it wasn’t appropriate.

  “I am to take your belongings and escort you to your new room. Mr. Hill has arranged a suite for you out in the courtyard.”

  “Right now?” I asked.

  “At your convenience, Mr. Rossi.”

  I wanted to wait, but what good would it have done? Bobby seemed intent on getting me into that suite, whether I wanted it or not. “There’s no time like the present,” I said.

  “Very good,” The bellman answered. He seemed relieved to get to the task.

  We walked to my hotel room. The bellman waited outside while I packed my belongings. The maid had already attended to the room and, I must say, did a splendid job with the bathroom. My father would have been pleased.

  All my earthly belongings at the moment fit nicely into two suitcases, which I handed to the bellman once I opened the door. I had intended to take one of them myself, but the bellman wouldn’t hear of it. I wasn’t used to this kind of treatment.

  My new digs were in the last cabana on the right. The Belmont, the Citation suite. This cabana, like all the cabanas at the Sands was named after a racetrack; the Belmont Park in New York. This, I was told, came about because Jake Freeman made all his money in horses and oil. I’m betting the idea to name the buildings after famous oil fields was nixed somewhere along the way, replaced with the racetrack idea.

  The bellman rested my luggage on the carpet, then opened the door with a key he removed from a small pocket in this suit jacket. It was a handy pocket for just such an occasion. The door opened to what looked more like a large apartment than a hotel room.

  “This all for me?” I asked.

  The bellmen grinned, then stepped inside like he owned the place. He marched into a room I assumed was the bedroom. I stayed in what passed for a sitting room. It had two couches, four chairs, a television cabinet, a small gin mill, and enough room for Barnum and Baily to set up house. A flophouse it wasn’t.

  The bellman returned empty-handed. He would have walked over and politely lifted my chin to close my gaping pie hole, but he was t
oo kind a man for that. Instead, he gave me a tour of the place. Why not? I had a spare half hour. My new suite came equipped with a kitchen, a dining room, the sitting room, and a bedroom, with a tub Dumbo could have swam laps in. It also had a backyard, complete with a sliding glass door. I knew if I stayed too long, my real apartment would get jealous.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Rossi?”

  “I think you got it pegged,” I said and slipped him a five. It was a lot of money, but it was a lot of suite too. He handed me the key.

  The bellman left with a smile matching the size of my digs. Bobby had certainly pulled some strings this time. Good ‘ol Bobby. I headed over to the hooch to see what other surprises awaited me. Everything was in crystal, so I had to guess at its contents by color. Of course, there was also the option of taste-testing. That seemed more appropriate.

  I slipped the top off of one of the canisters containing a dark brown liquid, which I hoped to be scotch. I lifted it to my nose and inhaled deeply. I was not disappointed. The smooth aroma of aged scotch filled my nose and lungs, warming me from the inside out. I poured a couple fingers into a crystal glass without adding the rocks. I liked mine naked, just like Mother Nature intended it to be. I took a sip. If heaven had a bar, this is what they would serve. I took my new drink and sat on my new couch. This was a life I could get used to, all I needed now was a dame with great gams.

  Just then the phone rang. That was one thing the bellman hadn’t shown me, so I followed the sound until I hit the jackpot. I answered in a manner appropriate to my surroundings. It was Bobby on the other end.

  “Mr. Rossi,” he said. “I hope you are settling in nicely.”

  “Indeed, I am,” I admitted. “But this was completely…”

  “I took the liberty of stocking the bar,” Bobby said, cutting me off. “Macallan out of Scotland.”

  “Where all good scotch should come from,” I said.

  “Twelve-years-old single malt. I know you’re a manhattan man, but I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “Smooth,” I said. “Definitely hitting on all eight.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” he said. “Do not hesitate to let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.”

  “You’ve done enough, Bobby,” I assured him. I would have asked him to share a snort, but I knew it was against the rules and I liked Bobby too much to push it.

  “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Rossi. Will we see you later at the tables?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said and hung up. The truth was, I needed some cabbage to play with and the tables were the best way to get it. Bobby and the suite had definitely changed my mood and my stomach was reminding me I hadn’t yet eaten. It was time for lunch and I knew just what I wanted and where to get it.

  Eighteen

  EVERY CASINO HAS a twenty-four-hour restaurant and at the Sands that was the Garden Room Café, so named because it generated the feeling of being in a garden. I got a seat near the back of the place under the painting of Marlene Dietrich, near the copper boiler, right in front of a row of exotic-looking plants. From here I could get a good look at the place.

  The Garden Room had a nice à la carte menu, complete with shrimp cocktails, smoked Nova Scotia salmon, and lobster Thermidor. I was looking for something a little homier so I scanned the sandwiches. Along with York ham, ox tongue, and imported sardines were more familiar choices like roast beef, chicken, and hot turkey.

  I ordered my favorite sandwich and took my time getting to know it. I’d missed my morning coffee, so I invited it to join us as well. It was nice having an uninterrupted meal for once. It was even nicer not having to pay for it. But I knew how these things worked. I would pay for it eventually, one way or another. As I ate, I contemplated my next move. I had no leads what-so-ever. I had no idea where Jeanie was hiding out. Queeney was dogging me, Chicago hadn’t made up its mind what to do with me, and Manella was becoming a serious pain. I decided Virginia James was my best option. I’d follow her tonight and see what came of it. Until then, my plan was to ponder my situation over a manhattan and a deck of cards. I finished my meal, left a tip for the waitress, and headed for the tables.

  I found a table where the scenery was the most pleasant. The dealer was a little blonde number with a pageboy cut that made her look a little like Joi Lansing. She invited me to sit with her eyes. Who was I to argue? She was holding the deck tight against her chest. Lucky cards. I took the fourth spot.

  A couple were in spot one and two. The woman wore a white dress with black dots that buttoned up the front to a collar. A thin black belt wrapped around her waist. Her shoulders were bare and her hair brown, cut short and curled around her face. She had a bright smile and eyes that could make a man do things he’d regret in the morning. Her companion sported a grey houndstooth, single-breasted blazer, with black sleeves and a white button-down collar. His top two-buttons were open and he had no tie. He also had no lid covering his brown quaff of hair. A poor man’s James Dean. I was embarrassed for him.

  I smiled politely and laid two fins on the table. The dealer turned them into chips, slid them back to me, and shuffled the deck. I was amazed how well she handled the cards in her delicate hands. I was also wondering how those hands would feel against my face. When she finished the shuffle, she laid down the pocket cards. I had two threes, so I bet low. I didn’t want to scare the couple off. Well, not before they left me their money, anyway.

  James Dean showed his hand to the girl; he was the only one playing. He bet high.

  The dealer burned a card and dealt the flop. There was another three, a five and a Queen, no relation. Now I had three of a kind. I was beginning to like my hand. I threw a couple more chips on the table, but not too many.

  James Dean smiled and doubled his bet. He probably had a pair of Jacks or something that he thought was a good hand. I called.

  The turn was another three. Now I really liked my hand. I waited, giving a look like I was considering folding. I put my cards down, shook my head, then picked them back up. Finally I said, “What the heck,” and threw three more chips on the table.

  As I’d hoped, the guy called immediately.

  The river was an ace. Nice card, but I didn’t need it.

  I bet the same bet, hesitating the same way. James Dean called.

  “Your cards?” the dealer said to the James Dean. Her voice soft and sweet.

  James Dean smiled and laid down two Queens. “I’ve got two pair,” he said. “Nice and high.”

  “That you do,” I said. “Funny thing is, I do too.” I laid down my pair of threes. “I’ve got these two threes and those two threes over there.”

  “Damn!” James Dean exclaimed.

  “Did he win?” his girl asked. “But you had Queens. All he had was threes.”

  “But I had four of them,” I said. “And four threes, no matter how small, beats Queens any day.”

  It took me close to another hour to empty their pockets. By that time the brunette’s smile was not so bright. I should have felt bad, but I didn’t. People who don’t know what they’re doing shouldn’t ought to bet at high stakes tables.

  They were just getting up to leave, when Bobby came to visit.

  “Hello, Mr. Rossi,” he said. “So good to see you. How is your evening going?”

  “Much better than this couple’s,” I said.

  James Dean flashed me a look, and not a pleasant one at that. He was about to say something, when I continued.

  “Perhaps you could comp them a meal,” I said.

  James Dean closed his mouth.

  “It would certainly be my pleasure,” Bobby said. He turned to the couple. “If you would please follow me.”

  The brunette’s smile returned, at least for a moment. James Dean shook my hand. “Thank you,” he said, but he didn’t mean it. I couldn’t blame him.

  “Don’t mention it,” I said. It was no skin off of my teeth. I didn’t pay for it.

 
; I didn’t like playing against the house, so I pulled my chips from the table and nursed the drink the cocktail waitress had brought me earlier. A new dealer came to the table. He smiled and reshuffled his deck. He was a tall man with movie star looks and a short pompadour to match. I missed Joi. Dealers rotate every so often. The hazards of a job that requires you to stand in one spot all day long. It also cuts down on potential cheating, both on the part of the player and the dealer.

  I had been sitting there for about fifteen minutes when someone called out my name.

  “Max,” the male voice yelled. “Max Rossi!”

  I turned just in time to see a young couple rushing toward me. I didn’t recognize them at first, but as they got closer, the sight of them brought a smile to my face. It was Tony Cremonesi, Vic Cremonesi’s younger brother and his new bride Tina. His older brother Vic and I go way back, almost to knickers.

  “Max,” Tony said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “And now you have found me,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Tina and I came for our honeymoon. It was a last-minute trip.”

  Tony wore a white cocktail coat with black lapels. He had his mother’s eyes and his father’s nose. Tina was a vision in a powder blue Dorothy dress and red heels. Her jet black hair done up bouffant style. I had attended their wedding six months ago back in Hanover. I guess it took them a while to get to the honeymoon.

  “How are you Tina,” I said. “I see you’re still with this slug.”

  She gave me a hug.

  “It’s good to see you, Max,” she said.

  “Vic told me to look you up,” Tony interjected. “He said you never left after the party.”

  “The place grew on me,” I admitted. “So, what have you got planned?”

  “Not a thing,” Tony said. “Like I said, it was a last-minute decision. Vic bought us a plane ticket, stuffed our pockets with some cash and sent us along our way.”

  Vic had gotten into insurance and was doing well for himself. Apparently, very well.