The Gambler

by William C. Rempel

  Banks in the 1940s and 1950s did not make loans to casinos for anything—least of all to fund shortfalls at the cashier’s cage. To cover the huge payout, Hicks and Jones turned to Lansky, “the mob’s accountant.” In return for a briefcase full of cash, Lansky extracted a significant share of casino ownership and a job for his brother. Jake Lansky not only got an executive’s title but also the casino’s best place to park his black Cadillac, just outside the Thunderbird offices.

  The Lansky brothers’ not-so-secret involvement in the Thunderbird would eventually put the casino license in jeopardy, but Hicks was still building up the business when he hired a musical act for his showroom. The act came with a young dancer from England named Jean Maree Hardy—a blonde with Grace Kelly good looks and that very British accent.

  Hicks introduced his dancer to Kirk at the casino bar. They were very different. He was a financially comfortable divorcé in his midthirties; she was never married and barely old enough to drink. He was intense but shy; she was an outgoing, confident performer with a touch of blunt-spoken candor like Kirk’s sister, Rose. He was deeply tanned with black hair; she was pale and fair-haired. So, of course, they fell in love. After a two-year romance, Kirk took out a marriage license in Los Angeles County and set a wedding date.

  Their decision dashed any lingering hopes in the greater Kerkorian family that Kirk might one day end up with a nice Armenian girl. But the couple passed up a quickie Las Vegas ceremony for something more traditional back home in an Inglewood church. Kirk’s family was there. His friend Jerry Williams was the best man. Little Johnny Hicks, Marion’s son, was the ring bearer. And on December 5, 1954, a Catholic priest presided over the nuptials. Later, Hicks threw them a party back at the Thunderbird.3

  Kirk was thirty-seven; Jean was twenty-three.

  As Kirk once again was feeling lucky in love, he tried to extend that streak into business, this time the gambling business. A surge in new casino openings promised to make 1955 the biggest year ever for Las Vegas expansion. Some friends were offering to let Kirk buy in to one of the new ones—he could own a percentage of the Dunes.

  Originally envisioned as the Middle Eastern–themed Araby, the Dunes opened beneath a roof-mounted and lighted thirty-five-foot fiberglass figure of a sultan. It was on prime property kitty-corner across the Strip from the Flamingo. It boasted the widest stage in town—room for forty chorus girls—and the country’s biggest swimming pool. What it didn’t have, apparently, was experienced casino management and seasoned resort staff.

  The timing was unfortunate, too. Four other hotel-casinos opened within a matter of weeks, with two more in advanced stages of development. There was a glut in the making. Life Magazine published a cover story questioning whether Las Vegas was growing too fast. One headline asked: “Is Boom Overextended?”4

  All the new resort operations struggled that summer. Still, Kirk submitted an application to state gaming regulators seeking approval to buy 3 percent of the Dunes. He was willing to pay up to $150,000. He listed himself as an airplane dealer and easily passed regulatory review. After an investigation, Kirk was authorized to buy his first casino point (a one-percentage share) for $50,000. But the business was too far gone to be salvaged by his late investment.

  If timing is everything, this deal had nothing going for it. “They were in such bad shape,” Kirk later conceded.

  The Dunes managed to stay open (unlike some others), but it went through a rapid series of ownership changes that left Kirk’s equity share absolutely worthless. The good news for Kirk was that he lost only $50,000. But it was a bitter lesson. “I learned then not to invest in a business that I didn’t run.”5

  Friends say the Dunes debacle even put a damper on Kirk’s enthusiasm for big casino nights, at least for a time. But there were other possible explanations as well—for example, his new life with a new wife. And Kirk’s air charter service was surging with new business. Business risks may have satisfied some of his gambling urges. He also became an avid sports bettor. And with friends in the casino business, Kirk remained a familiar figure on the Strip.

  Despite the costly failure of his first foray into casino ownership, Kirk still harbored private ambitions to gamble again on the gambling business.

  9

  Jack Magic and the Blade

  Inauguration Day, 1961

  Washington, D.C.

  Politics had never been an interest or concern of the apolitical Kirk Kerkorian. Friends said that “if forced at gunpoint” to declare a party affiliation, he would probably say he leaned Republican. But in the 1960 presidential race, Kirk supported the young Democrat from Massachusetts, John F. Kennedy. It was, at least in part, a business decision.

  Kirk was doing very well financially, but the charter business was often at the mercy of federal rules changes. One day the CAB was encouraging competition with bigger commercial carriers, the next it was protecting those same carriers. Sometimes, the frustration drove Kirk to contemplate cashing out of the business.

  In that election year, however, he had been persuaded that a Kennedy administration might improve matters, that it might be more sympathetic to American charter operators. Kirk was also impressed with the senator’s heroic war record. And at forty-three they were the same age, their birthdays only eight days apart. So the kid evicted from Weedpatch decided to bet on the kid who summered in Hyannis Port.

  It probably helped that one of Kirk’s new friends in Las Vegas was singer-actor Frank Sinatra, a regular at the Sands Hotel with his “Rat Pack,” who happened to be a big Jack Kennedy backer. Kirk made a campaign donation sufficiently generous to score an invitation with wife Jean to the Kennedy inauguration celebrations.

  Kirk and Jean were part of the crowd in tuxedos and gowns filing into the Washington Armory that snowy night before Kennedy’s formal swearing-in ceremonies in January 1961. The star-studded Kennedy Inaugural Gala, a preinaugural ball, was organized and headlined by Sinatra. He crooned one of his standards to lyrics specially revised for the occasion: “That old ‘Jack’ magic that you weave so well . . .”1

  The next day, a memorably cold and blustery winter morning in Washington, Kennedy famously proclaimed, “ask not what your country can do for you . . .”

  Of course, Kirk was asking his country for a small favor—as he saw it, a chance to compete fairly with bigger commercial airlines. And there was no need to ask what he could do for his country. Besides his own heroic war service, Kirk’s efficient little airline was contributing to the economy and to the nation’s increasingly robust transportation system. His fleet had even helped the Eisenhower administration a few years earlier evacuate refugees fleeing strife-torn Hungary.

  All the glamour and power brokers on display during those historic few days in the nation’s capital had to mark a high point in Kirk’s social life. He was seated with the elite of American society and politics. The junk-plane-dealing son of an illiterate Armenian farmer was sharing the same smoke-filled ballroom with a scion of the wealthiest and most influential of New England families. But Kirk came away disappointed.

  “It was a waste of time and money,” he told friends,2 a specific reference to his lobbying campaign. In the end, he considered the Kennedy administration no more friendly to his business interests than the previous bunch. Worse, he felt misled when promises were not kept. As a man of his word, Kirk naively expected politicians and their people to keep theirs.

  Afterward, he declared himself “done with politics.” Even the inaugural ball had annoyed him. Kirk complained that the handsome new president was a flirt who spent far too much time that evening “keeping his eyes on Jean.”3

  Six years into their marriage, Kirk and his beautiful young wife had a two-year-old daughter, Tracy, and a thriving business. Los Angeles Air Service had expanded to operate out of Burbank and Los Angeles, and adopted a new name—Trans International Airlines (TIA)—reflecting its more ambitious global intentions. Kirk had also added a maintenance operation center at sub
urban Hawthorne Airport. Business was good. He was making an annual income in the range of $300,000 to $350,000.

  And he was bored.

  The steady growth of LAAS/TIA had thrust Kirk into realms of affluence he could barely have imagined while selling two-cent newspapers on the streets of Los Angeles or clearing brush in the Sierras for a dollar a day. Nonetheless, he was still looking for new challenges, new risks, new thrills.

  One of Kirk’s guilty pleasures was sports betting. He especially loved wagering on professional football or boxing matches around the country. It often meant placing bets outside the legal sanctuary of Nevada. And that meant dealing with illegal gaming figures. Bookies. Guys with arrest records. Guys with “reputed mobster” in their press descriptions. Guys with monikers like “the Blade.”

  At the same time, Kirk’s search for new and more interesting challenges was drawing him back to the fringes of the boxing world. A United Press International story published in April 1959 disclosed that Kerkorian, “a wealthy Los Angeles aviation executive,” was considering buying the contract of a British fighter named Brian London—that is, if London did well in an upcoming bout against American Floyd Patterson.4 The 204-pound Brit, described as “an aggressive mauler” with a face like a battered Elvis Presley, was knocked out fifty-one seconds into the eleventh round, and Kirk’s interest apparently collapsed at the same time.

  Kirk’s name appeared again in 1960 press reports that he had taken over management of dethroned welterweight champion Don Jordan of Los Angeles. Kirk told reporters he was working to arrange a rematch with the new champ, Benny “the Kid” Paret of Cuba, who had beaten Jordan soundly in a unanimous decision at the convention center in Las Vegas.

  However, a few weeks later the California State Athletic Commission yanked Jordan’s state boxing license for “actions detrimental to the best interest of boxing.” Jordan had acknowledged an earlier friendship with Mickey Cohen, a reputed Los Angeles mobster described by the Associated Press as “an ex-gambler.”5 But the fighter insisted that friendly association was long over. Kirk publicly championed Jordan’s reinstatement and assured reporters that his man’s personal life was beyond reproach. Jordan was finally reinstated seven months later, and in March 1961 he faced another former champion also trying to rehabilitate his career—Carmen Basilio.

  Kirk was in the audience at War Memorial Auditorium in Syracuse that snowy night on March 116 when his protégé and rehab project went ten rounds only to lose by a unanimous decision. It wasn’t official, and he would lose a few more fights, but that night Jordan’s boxing career was over. So was Kirk’s flirtation with a new career as a boxing manager. It was not, however, the end of his gambling on fights.

  The next big event in the boxing world of 1961 was the rematch and grudge fight between dethroned welterweight champion Kid Paret and new champ Emile Griffith. The fight was set for September 30 in Madison Square Garden. Kirk liked Griffith, who had knocked out Paret to seize the crown back in April.

  This time, both fighters were still standing at the final bell. But after fifteen rounds, Paret looked like the loser—bleeding from the mouth since the fifth round, with a bloody cut under his left eye and with both eyes badly swollen. Griffith looked untouched, not a mark on his face. But on a split decision Paret was declared the winner.7

  And Kirk owed his bookie $21,300.

  Five days later the phone rang at the Kerkorian residence in Beverly Hills. The operator said, “I have a call from Mister George Raft.” Kirk knew it wasn’t really Raft, the movie actor. It was a code name for Charles “Charlie the Blade” Tourine, Kirk’s friend and bookie, known by the alias “Charles White.” Kirk owed him the twenty-one grand and had been expecting his call. The question was where to send the money.

  Tourine, whose criminal record included bootlegging and gambling convictions in New Jersey, wanted a check sent directly to him. Kirk offered instead to fly to New York and deliver the money in person. It would be best, Kirk suggested, if the bookie’s name did not appear on the check—not even his endorsement on the back.

  “The heat is on,” Kirk tried to explain.8 It was a possible reference to law enforcement crackdowns on illegal gambling, but also an indication that Kirk may have known something of “Charles White’s” true notoriety. Tourine was known in some circles, including among federal investigators, as a mob enforcer for Vito Genovese.

  It was finally agreed. Kirk would send the $21,300 check via airmail special delivery to George Raft at the Warwick Hotel in Manhattan. The understanding was that Raft the actor would endorse the check and turn the funds over to Charlie the Blade. No one would ever know that Kirk the aviation executive had any dealings with a bookie or a mob lieutenant or whatever he was with his ties to Vito “the boss of the bosses” Genovese.

  No one would know except . . . the FBI. A court-approved wiretap on Tourine’s phone had just captured and recorded every word of his conversation with Kirk.

  10

  A Crapshooter’s Dream

  Early 1962

  Nassau County, Long Island

  Kirk had been uncomfortable writing a check that might link him officially with Charlie the Blade Tourine, but at least paying a gambling debt didn’t make him a partner. It didn’t put Kirk in business with any of Charlie’s shady associates. Kirk was having bigger doubts, however, about what he was doing riding along with his bookie buddy to meet a banker of sorts, a guy with access to a lot of cash—a vending machine tycoon.

  So far it was just a shopping trip. Kirk was under no obligation. Neither was the guy with all the coin. Still, Kirk wrestled with whether he should even be here.

  His latest brainchild was a big, bold, and risky plan that could make or break his charter business—stakes perversely big enough to excite the small-business owner. With commercial airlines all switching their fleets to jetliners, Kirk wanted his to be the first supplemental service to own one. He wanted to buy a state-of-the-art four-engine jet-propelled DC-8. And for that he needed at least . . . $5 million.1

  It turned out to be an especially difficult challenge. Kirk could buy a perfectly fine prop plane on the glutted used-plane market for a million to a million and a half. That was more easily in Trans International Airline’s range. Its net annual profits hovered around a quarter of a million dollars. But TIA’s corporate value was far from sufficient to secure a loan in the stratospheric neighborhood of $5 million.

  Commercial banks were particularly leery of edging out on any limb with supplemental air carriers for fear the CAB might abruptly change its rules and shut down a profitable route or service. Regulators had done just that to TIA’s California-Hawaii service the year before.

  Kirk was getting signals from just about everyone that he might be out of his league, that even if his idea was sound, it was not financially feasible given his limited resources. So, he was out meeting people, testing the market, shopping for cash, riding out to visit Harold Roth at his Long Island residence near Hewlett Bay Park with Charlie the Blade.

  Roth owned a tool-making firm, ran an East Coast vending machine empire that sprawled to St. Louis, and made loans through a corporate entity called Valley Commercial Corporation. Some of those loans were shady, as were some of his friends and clientele. One of those was Tourine, a.k.a. the Blade, a.k.a. Charles White, Kirk’s friendly and well-connected bookie.

  In arranging the meeting with Kirk, Tourine made it clear to Roth what mattered most: “He’s a very good friend of mine.” The emphasis was less on business than on personal favors. “He’s a very nice guy. I like him a lot,” he told the vending machine executive. So Roth opened his door, shook hands with Kirk, and invited him to make his pitch.2

  The key to Kirk’s grand plan was to go all in with TIA as a defense contractor. Since 1959 when the company landed its first government bid—ferrying U.S. soldiers and their families to North Africa—military business had become a steady and reliable source of revenue. But that wouldn’t last if TIA had to compete wi
th jets moving troops and cargo twice as fast as his prop planes.

  Kirk also reasoned that if his company was the first supplemental airline with jets, he could sew up all the government business he could possibly handle and take a giant leap ahead of his competitors.

  It wasn’t exactly a crapshoot, but it was a crapshooter’s dream—a big risk for a big payout. But Kirk wasn’t taking a wild guess or betting on chance. He knew the business. He saw the expansion of U.S. military bases in and around the Pacific. And he was confident that future demand for troops and cargo would translate into strong returns on investment.

  Roth listened to Kirk’s enthusiastic assessment. Tourine was right. Kirk was a very nice guy. But Roth wasn’t sure Valley Commercial could handle such a big investment. And across the coffee table, Kirk wasn’t sure he wanted anything to do with Valley Commercial and whatever came with it.

  Kirk headed back to California determined to defy the odds and parlay his numerous advantages with people he knew and trusted in the more traditional banking and aviation worlds.

  It was the right move. Back home Kirk’s reputation was gold plated. His track record running Trans International, or LAAS, for nearly two decades was the envy of the aviation business. His credit was flawless. He had a loyal friend at the Bank of America. And he had a smart, ambitious idea.

  His first stop was Walter Sharp at the Bank of America branch in Montebello—a Kerkorian fan since Kirk’s Vail Field flight school days. Sharp said he would try to get his main office to go for a loan up to $2 million. It was no sure thing. It was an amount well beyond a branch manager’s independent authorization.

  With that request pending, Kirk drove out to Long Beach to look at a plane. He had learned that Douglas Aircraft Company was refurbishing a used jetliner—the very first DC-8 fuselage that came off the assembly line back in 1958: factory number N8008D. It was being upgraded with more powerful engines and reconfigured for passenger and cargo service as a Model 50 Jet Trader.