Maximum Rossi

by Paul W Papa

  “She’s still with us,” Vic said. “She’s upstairs in the ICU. She’s gonna be there a while.”

  Tony whispered something again.

  “It’s too soon to tell,” Vic said to his brother. “But all signs look good.”

  Tears were welling up in Tony’s eyes. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Vic bent over again.

  “You’re not going to lose her,” Vic said. “She’s gonna pull through. You just worry about getting yourself better.”

  Tony began to sob.

  Vic sat on the bed next to his kid brother, holding his hand. I didn’t have a brother and didn’t really know what it was like to share that common bond. Vic was probably the closest thing I had to a sibling. My parents never really took to children. I cared for Vic, but suspected it wasn’t the same as sharing blood. I could see the two had a closeness I would never know, and possibly never understand.

  I wanted to let Tony know I was there; to tell him I was sorry for what happened—for putting him and his bride in harm’s way—but it wasn’t the time. I watched him lying in that bed, crying for his wife, and I realized what I wanted was forgiveness. I punched a man out of anger and it had changed four people’s lives. Jeannie was headed to jail and Bobby to the stone garden. Tony and Tina were riddled with bullets and I with guilt. It was selfish of me to want forgiveness. Why would they give it to me? I really didn’t deserve it. I wouldn’t have forgiven me.

  I slipped out of the room and headed to the elevator. I wasn’t needed here and likely wasn’t welcome. Let the family have their time. I climbed into my Roadmaster and drove back to the Sands. All I wanted to do was pick up my clothes and head to my actual apartment. That was all I wanted, but it wasn’t all I got.

  Thirty-Eight

  I CHOSE VALET this time, tossed the attendant a nugget, and went inside. I hadn’t actually picked up the key to my room, so I headed to the front desk.

  “Checking in or out?” the clerk asked.

  “Both,” I said, for which I received a puzzled look. “I have some clothing in my room I just want to get out is all. I haven’t actually checked in, but once I get the clothing, I’ll be gone.”

  The clerk cocked her head and gave me a sideways glance. “Name,” she said more than asked.

  “Rossi, Massimo Rossi. But I may be in there under Max,” I said.

  The clerk turned away and shuffled some papers. When she came back to the desk, she was all smiles. “Yes, Mr. Rossi,” she said. “I have your key right here. Shall I send the bellman to your room?”

  Still a high roller I guess.

  “There is also a note for you,” she said and handed me a folded piece of paper.

  I opened it. “Find me at the tables,” it said. It was signed with an A.

  I looked at the clerk, her smile was holding. “I won’t need a bellman just yet,” I said.

  “As you wish, Mr. Rossi. Just call the front desk when you do and we’ll be happy to send one,” she said.

  I thanked her and headed for the casino. The “A” on the paper and a meeting at the tables meant only one person: Frank “Fingers” Abbandandolo. I had found that news traveled fast in this town and I guess Fingers wanted to speak to me about Bobby. So be it.

  Before I met Fingers, I had one last stop to make. I slipped inside the Copa Room; I wasn’t sure Virginia would be there, but I had to check. She was. Virginia and all the other dancers were on stage, practicing a number. Virginia was dressed in black tights, white shorts, and a tight black top that showed every one of her majestic curves. I took a seat and watched.

  About halfway through the dance, Virginia spotted me and when it was time for a break, she came over. I wasn’t sure what to expect. She pulled the chair out and sat down slowly. It looked like she hadn’t slept.

  “How are you holding up?” I asked.

  “I’ve been better,” she said. “The cops came over early this morning with a search warrant. They went through all Jeannie’s things and took a bunch with them.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “About everything.”

  Virginia looked up and gave me a weak smile. “I don’t know what to think,” she said. “You live with someone long enough you think you know them. I guess you don’t really ever know anyone.”

  I didn’t know what to say, mainly because she was right. You don’t really ever know people, but that wasn’t the right thing to say, so I reached over and took hold of her hand. She squeezed mine hard. Tears were forming in her eyes, every man’s weakness. Even more so when you know you’re the one who put the tears there.

  “Now what do we do?” Virginia asked.

  I didn’t know that answer either.

  “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to come to the late show tonight,” Virginia said. “Maybe we could do something afterward.” She paused and squeezed my hand again. “I don’t really want to be alone.”

  I understood that. “I’ll be here,” I said.

  Virginia stood. She kissed me on the cheek and went back to practice. I watched her for a moment, then headed to the casino. I found Fingers where I expected him to be, on a poker table, stogie in hand. I walked over to him and took a seat in the third position.

  Fingers glanced up from his cards. “You look like someone ran over you with a cement truck,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I didn’t realize I looked that good.”

  “We need to talk,” he said. “But not here.”

  “You have a place in mind?” I asked.

  Fingers motioned for the pit boss. He looked nothing like Bobby. He wore a white shirt with a button-down collar that narrowed to a point. His dark blue suit jacket had broad, padded shoulders, wide lapels, and a nipped-in waist. His patterned tie matched his pocket handkerchief to a tee. He had salt and pepper hair and sported the house smile. There was nothing wrong with him, except he wasn’t Bobby. Then again, Bobby did try to kill me.

  “Open the Emerald Room,” Fingers told him. “No game. No bartender.” Fingers turned to me. “Shall we?”

  “Why not?” I said.

  Fingers got to the top of the stairs without having to call a paramedic. He waddled over to the sofa at the back of the room. I moved over to the bar, went around the back and found a glass. “You want something?” I asked.

  “You good at mixing drinks?”

  “I’m good at pouring alcohol into a glass,” I said.

  “Scotch,” he said. “On the rocks.”

  I filled the glass with ice and poured Fingers a good helping of the single grain scotch I found on the shelf, then I poured myself a glass of Rye. I took both drinks over to the coffee table and sat in the high-back chair across from Fingers.

  “Quite a night,” he said.

  I had to agree.

  “So it was Bobby all along?”

  “It looks that way,” I said. “With a little help from his sister the dancer.” Fingers wouldn’t have called me to the Emerald Room for a chat. Something was up. “Where does that leave me?” I asked.

  Fingers took a sip of the scotch and a puff of his cigar. I downed the Rye, then got up and poured myself another. This time I took the bottle with me.

  “You might want to slow down on that,” Fingers said.

  “After the night I’ve had, I doubt this one bottle’ll be enough.” I took another drink, then said: “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You did us a favor, Max.”

  So now it was Max.

  “You may have stopped a war. Saved us from going to the mattresses.” He took another puff. “That isn’t a small thing.”

  I inhaled deeply. “So Chicago isn’t upset then?”

  Fingers shook his head. “Neither is New York. In fact, I’ve been authorized to make you an offer.”

  “Authorized?” I repeated. “By who?”

  “Lanski. In fact, he almost came down here himself to offer it to you.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not in the life,” I said. “I only dippe
d my toe in it once. It wasn’t for me.” I stood. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll pass.”

  Fingers pulled the cigar from his mouth. “It isn’t that kind of offer,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  He motioned to the seat with his cigar. I sat down.

  “We need a house dick and Lanski thinks you’d be perfect for the job.”

  “He wants me to come work at the Sands?” I questioned.

  Fingers nodded. “That’s right. In-house investigations.”

  “What’s the offer,” I asked.

  “We’ll pay for your apartment, plus give you food and drink here at the Sands. We’ll even set up a room for you. Plus two bills a month.”

  I thought about it for a moment. Despite all that had happened, I still liked Vegas. I had an apartment and no means of gainful employment. I never thought of being a dick, but why not? I had the disposition for it. “I don’t want to be tied down to the Sands every day and I won’t do anything illegal. Plus, I’ll need three bills.”

  Fingers looked at me hard. “I think we can live with that,” he said and took a long, slow drag. “You suddenly get a conscience?” he asked.”

  “Nope,” I said. “Had one all along. It just took a while to surface. When do I start?”

  “Take a couple of days and get yourself together,” Fingers said. “Then come find me. I’m sure we’ll have something for you to do by then.”

  I stood and shook Finger’s hand, then downed another Rye just for good measure, before heading for the door.

  “You did good, Max,” Fingers said.

  “Funny,” I said. “It doesn’t feel that way.”

  Desert Dust

  A wild palomino stallion captured in Wyoming’s Red Desert in 1945 proved to be more than just another horse. His photograph would win a national contest and land in the Wyoming State Capital, the United States Senate chambers, the House of Commons in London, and the Canadian Parliament in Toronto.

  Along the way the horse was the subject of a Hollywood short (nominated for an Academy Award), an international travelogue, a court case with one of the strangest, cut-the-baby-in-half rulings ever issued by any judge anywhere, and a murder. Desert Dust is the story of one man’s passion to discover the true story of two men, a wild stallion, and the photograph that changed their lives forever.

  Coming summer 2020, by HPD Publishing

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  About the Author

  Paul W. Papa is a full-time writer and ghost writer who has lived in Las Vegas for more than thirty years. He developed a fascination with the area, and all its wonders, while working for nearly fifteen years at several Las Vegas casinos. In his role as a security officer, Paul was the person who actually shut and locked the doors of the Sands Hotel and Casino for the final time. He eventually became a hotel investigator for a major Strip casino, during which time he developed a love for writing stories about uncommon events. When not at his keyboard, Paul can be found talking to tourists on Fremont Street, investigating some old building, or sitting in a local diner hunting down his next story.