Being involved in the movie was a fabulous experience, hobnobbing with all the stars and with Scorsese. I never saw anyone who was more a seeker of perfection than he was. He’d do a scene over and over and over until he had it just the way he wanted it. Naturally, he went way over budget, but he was a genius.
DeNiro was quiet, a decent fellow. He made me feel very comfortable on the set. I clowned around with Pesci and Don Rickles and Tommy Smothers. And Sharon Stone was just a sweetheart, nothing like the characters she plays. She’s more the girl next door.
During the filming, we had them over to the house for dinner. Steve Wynn, who was then a neighbor of mine, threw a tantrum when he wasn’t invited. He had his wife call us, and we finally let him come. Carolyn cooked, and after dinner, Sharon Stone and Elaine Wynn helped wash the dishes. Unbelievable. I loved the whole experience, but I don’t think I brought a lot to the big screen. After the movie came out, I got a call from my mother, who was still living back in Philadelphia.
“I saw your movie,” she said.
“What did you think?” I asked.
“It’s a good thing you’re a lawyer.”
It didn’t matter. I had been bitten by the bug, and I wanted to do it again. Once I was elected mayor, I saw a way to stardom. One of the first things I did after being sworn in on June 28, 1999, was head over to the city permit department. I told the woman in charge that I was the new mayor and I had a directive for her. From now on, anyone who came in for a permit to film a movie in Las Vegas had to agree to give me a part in the film.
“You can’t do this,” she said.
“Yes I can,” I said. “I’m the mayor.”
A couple of weeks went by. One day my receptionist came into my office very excited and whispered, “Jackie Chan and Bret Ratner are waiting to see you.”
Perfect, I thought.
“Send the gentlemen in,” I told her.
They came in and didn’t know where to begin. Ratner seemed very flustered.
“We can’t believe what we were just told,” he said. “For us to get a permit to film Rush Hour Two, you have to get a part?”
“Absolutely correct,” I said.
It was a great part. It was filmed at the Desert Inn before it was imploded. The casino had been decked out in an Asian motif. Jackie Chan, Chris Tucker, and Alan King were in the scene with me.
I couldn’t wait for the movie to come out, but my scene got left on the cutting room floor! I was livid. I got Chan and Ratner on the phone.
“Do you know who I am?” I screamed. “As long as I’m mayor, you’ll never make Rush Hour Three in Las Vegas.”
They were so scared of my ranting they restored my scene to the DVD edition.
The next movie was the sequel to Ocean’s Eleven. There was a great fight scene at the MGM. Steven Soderberg on the camera. Wayne Newton, Danny Gans, Seigfried and Roy, Angie Dickinson, and me.
Again, cutting room floor!
I went to the city attorney, a guy named Brad Jerbic.
“A fraud is being perpetrated on the City of Las Vegas,” I said. “These producers come in, promise to give me a part, get the permits, and I end up cut from the film.”
“Mr. Mayor,” Jerbic said, “what would you want me to do?”
“We need an airtight contract,” I said. “If we give them a permit, and I’m not in the film, I want to be able to go to court and enjoin them from showing the movie.”
“You can’t do that,” he said.
“Yes I can. I’m the mayor.”
The next movie was a film called Angel Blade, not exactly an Academy Award nominee. I had them sign an agreement guaranteeing that my part would not be cut. It was a cameo appearance, an Alfred Hitchcock moment. I played the mayor. They told me Angel Blade was going to be an “exotic” thriller. Turns out it’s an erotic thriller. And I am in it.
I did a little better on the small screen. I became friends with Anthony Zuiker, the creator of the CSI television series. He’s an amazing guy, and he’s actually from Las Vegas. When he was attending UNLV, he used to work as a conductor on one of the trams that ferried people from one casino to the other. He came up with that great idea for a dramatic series, and it has changed the way lawyers try cases, especially prosecutors.
Before CSI, most people had no idea how evidence was gathered or how important forensics could be to a case. Now, jurors come into a trial expecting it. It puts an added burden on the prosecution, the same way the old Perry Mason shows had jurors expecting dramatic confessions and neatly wrapped up evidence, adding pressure to the defense. CSI created the same kind of anticipation, and it also made jurors more cognizant of modern science and technology. In that respect, it worked both ways. If the prosecution didn’t have DNA evidence, for example, or blood tracings or fingerprints, then it was harder to convince a jury. But if the prosecution did have those things, then the defense was hard-pressed to refute and counteract. And it all came from a television series.
I appeared on CSI three times, and each time I was treated like a king—first class hotel, great cuisine, and my own trailer on the set. I’ve done scenes with Ted Danson and Paul Guilfoyle, and two wonderful actresses, Ann Margaret and Frances Foster—all really nice people. My problem was that I had trouble remembering my lines.
In court, I could make a six-hour closing argument without any notes and never stutter or stumble. But put me in front of a movie or television camera, and I can’t find the words. It might go back to my childhood. I took piano lessons, and I distinctly remember a day when I was supposed to give a recital for my family, my mother, father, aunts, uncles, cousins. My piece was a cacophonous one by Béla Bartók, the great Hungarian composer. I sat down at the piano and my mind went totally blank. I couldn’t play a note. I ran out of the house that day thinking, “I hope I get hit by a truck.” I was just despondent. Since that time, I can’t memorize lines.
When we filmed Casino, I drove Scorsese nuts. We were doing this scene based on actual events where Lefty is challenging Harry Reid during an appearance in front of the Gaming Control Board. But I kept screwing up my lines.
Finally, Scorsese—perhaps the greatest director in American cinema—couldn’t take it anymore. He said to me, “Oscar, just do it the way you would do it in real life.”
I stopped worrying about the lines, and it worked. But the next time you watch the movie, check out the scene. You’ll notice the other actors don’t have a clue; they had no idea where I was going.
I was on another CSI set one time with the great actor Laurence Fishburne, and I told him I felt like an idiot because I needed cue cards. He said, “Oscar, don’t feel bad. Marlon Brando uses them, too.”
That puts me in pretty good company. And truthfully, over time, I think I’ve gotten better. I really do enjoy acting. It can be both an exhilarating and a humbling experience. I finally felt comfortable as an actor on the last episode I did on CSI, a show called “Maid Man.”
Dustin Lee Abraham, who had been with the show since its inception, wrote a part especially for me. It’s funny how things connect. Dustin had worked with my daughter Cara during summer breaks at a Banana Republic store when they both were in college. Cara spoke Spanish and became one of the best salespeople on the staff. She dealt with the Mexican tourists who were in Las Vegas and went to the mall to shop. I’m not sure what Dustin’s job was at the store, but if I remember correctly, he also had another job, collecting for a bookmaker. Those would be the kinds of experiences that would help any scriptwriter. I knew from the criminal cases I had handled that you can’t make the stuff up any better than it is.
Dustin wrote a part where I got shot at the Mob Museum during an opening night party. Martha Coolidge, a wonderful director, was in charge of the episode. She gave me two pieces of direction that I like to think made me a better actor. The first thing she told me was to slow down and to speak slowly. I think I was rushing to get through my lines because I was worried about messing them up. I knew I had a p
roblem memorizing, and I just wanted to get the lines over with. She told me to relax, slow down, and be natural.
She also gave me perspective.
“What are you going to do next?” she asked as we were shooting a scene.
“I’m going over to the X,” I said.
“What’s the X?” she asked.
I said, “You know, the X mark taped on the floor where I’m supposed to stand for the next scene. I’m going over to the X.”
“No you’re not,” she said.
I looked puzzled. I didn’t know what she meant.
“You’re not going over to the X,” she said. “You’re going to see your client in jail.”
And it hit me. It seems simple, but I had gotten so caught up in the process that I had lost the meaning. I’ve been a “method actor” ever since. And I’ve stopped worrying about the X. I’ve also developed a greater appreciation for actors and their craft. Sometimes we lose sight of that, because they make it look so easy that you don’t even know they’re acting.
I worked with James Caan when I did a spot on Las Vegas, the television series that ran from 2003 to 2008. He was the star of the show. I knew him before that, of course. He had that great part playing Sonny Corleone in The Godfather, and was just a genuinely good guy. I first met him out at Dean Shendal’s ranch in the Las Vegas valley.
Dean was one of my favorite people: handsome, rugged, what you pictured when you thought about Las Vegas and the American West in the old days. He had come here from St. Louis and started working in casinos, but also had his own ranch where he roped and rode.
When I was still actively practicing law, I helped Dean with a problem. He had been indicted in federal court for possessing a silencer. The judge who was to hear the case had come out from Los Angeles. Before the trial was to start, he called me in and asked how I intended to offer a defense.
“He had the silencer, didn’t he?” the judge asked.
I told the judge what I intended to argue. “Dean is a duck hunter,” I said. “But he’s not a very good shot. He needed the silencer so he wouldn’t scare the ducks away.”
The judge laughed, and I was able to work out a deal where Dean pleaded guilty and was given unsupervised probation. Dean and I became good friends, and on weekends I would take my children out to the ranch, where they would ride ponies or swim in Dean’s pool. Ralph Lamb, the sheriff, would be out there with show biz people and local folks, just regular guys. It was a great time. James Caan was always there, and we became good friends. When I shot the episode for the television series, he let me use his “star” trailer. I had a scene with Mollie Sims and Josh Duhamel, two other stars of the show. In the scene I had to drink a boilermaker, a shot of whiskey in a mug of beer. Given my background and experience, it wasn’t really acting. I nailed it.
I had a part in another show with Tom Selleck, who is as suave and as professional as it gets. We were in Los Angeles doing a breakfast scene early in the day. When I finished, I got up and started to leave the set.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m finished,” I said. “I’m going back to Las Vegas.”
He looked disappointed.
“That’s rude,” he said, looking me right in the eye. “The cast was here while you were acting. The least you could do is show them the same courtesy. Stay until they complete the scene.”
I did, and I’ve never thought about leaving early again. It was a great lesson, not only about acting, but about life. Movies and dealing with celebrities were the fun part of being mayor. But I also had some serious business I needed to take care of.
CHAPTER 13
A RIVER IN THE DESERT
Being mayor was a part-time job, and it paid $48,000. But as I said, I turned it into a full-time position. I worked at it every day; ten, sometimes twelve hours a day, seven days a week. And I loved every minute of it. But like anything else, there was a learning curve.
There was one adjustment that I had to make immediately.
While there were plenty of perks associated with being mayor and I was happy to avail myself of most of them, it wasn’t the same as when I was a defense attorney. As mayor, I was an elected official, so I had to be cognizant of my role and of “public perception.” When I was actively practicing law, if someone wanted to buy me dinner or give me tickets to a ball game or a concert, I would gladly accept. Gifts and favors came with the turf. The Chagra brothers gave me a pair of gorgeous leather cowboy boots made by Lucchesi. Tony Spilotro gave me a set of ivory Chinese statues. Other appreciative clients showered me with gifts like Cuban cigars and Crystal champagne.
The most unusual gift I ever received came from Natale “Big Chris” Richichi, John Gotti’s consigliere, and Charlie “The Moose” Panarella, two mob figures I had represented. They were funny guys. I don’t think I ever laughed as much as I did when I was around them.
I was in Palm Beach once with Big Chris getting ready for a trial in which he was charged with extortion. We were staying at the Chesterfield Hotel. They have a great bar there, the Leopard. We were having drinks one night and Chris, who was in his late seventies, couldn’t stop looking at the cocktail waitress. He was a loyal husband and family man, but he loved women with long legs. And this waitress had the longest legs in the world—at least it seemed that way to us after we’d had a few drinks.
After she brought another round of drinks over, Chris had this big smile on his face and he said to me, “Oscar, do you know what osso bucco means?”
I said, “Yeah, it’s veal in a shank sauce, right?”
He had this twinkle in his eye.
“Nope,” he said. “It means hard bone.”
Then he started laughing and he couldn’t stop. He kept looking at the waitress and shaking his head.
“Osso bucco,” he said again and again.
Chris got convicted of extortion and racketeering in that case, which involved payoffs from a “gentleman’s club” in Florida, in which he supposedly had an interest. After the verdict I asked the judge to allow him to remain free on bail pending an appeal. I cited his deteriorating health as one reason. But the judge wouldn’t hear it. He ordered him remanded immediately to prison.
I had to go back to the hotel where we were staying and collect his belongings—his clothes, his shaving gear, some family photos, even an extra set of false teeth that he had on his night-stand. Those are the kinds of things the public doesn’t know anything about. They see the headline and hear the prosecutor describing this Mafia figure. To me, Chris was a kind and funny old man. I’m picking up his false teeth in his hotel room so that I can give them to his family, and the thought that he’s some kind of racketeer is the furthest thing from my mind.
Chris eventually got sentenced to six years in that case. He never made it home. He died in prison in January 2001. I was the mayor by that point and I took some criticism for it, but I went to his funeral. He was a friend. It was the right thing to do.
It was the same way with Charlie Panarella. I had represented him in a number of cases, and you couldn’t find a more thankful client. The feds, of course, had a different view of him. His reputation in the underworld was steeped in violence. It was said that he once forced one of his victims to eat his own testicles before he killed him.
That piece of underworld folklore took on added meaning when The Moose and Big Chris gave me a plaque with two steel balls mounted on it. I hung that plaque over the door in my law office. It was a daily reminder of what they thought of me, and what I needed to battle the federal government.
Once I was elected, of course, I had to be more circumspect about gifts and favors. In the political world, the concept of influence peddling can quickly turn into a criminal offense. I was always conscious of that.
I had been in office for a few weeks when I was running late for an appointment. I pulled my car out of the neighborhood, the Scotch Eighties, where we live. The way the roads are set up, I wasn’t able to make a left-han
d turn. But I was late and there wasn’t anyone coming the other way, so I made what I still believe to this day was a U-turn, not a left turn.
Seconds later, I heard a siren and saw a police motorcycle in my rearview mirror. I pulled over.
The officer walked up to the car. I rolled down my window. He recognized me.
“Oh, my God,” he said.
“No, just the mayor,” I replied.
He wasn’t sure what he should do, but I told him to just write me a ticket. I paid my fine and spent five hours in traffic school for some remedial driver’s ed. I was the mayor, and if anything, I had to bend over backwards to follow the rules. If I had been practicing law, I probably would have either tried to talk my way out of a ticket or tried to get the ticket fixed once it was issued.
That’s one way my approach to things changed after I was elected.
Another thing I had to adjust to was the “celebrity” of the job. I’ve always enjoyed the spotlight; there’s great ego gratification that comes with being center stage. I had that as a criminal defense attorney representing high-profile clients in high-profile cases. And I had it again as mayor of a great city. But there also can be petty aggravations that as an elected official you just can’t dismiss or ignore.
During my tenure, a couple of gadflies tried to raise ethics questions about the way I did business. I don’t want to bore you with all the details here, but one issue had to do with my son Ross’s involvement in a start-up company called iPolitix. I encouraged some people to touch base with him at a cocktail party. I got nothing out of it, but the issue got traction in the media, as they say, and I had to defend myself before the city’s Ethics Commission. I won on every issue but one, and had originally intended to let it go at that. But Carolyn, whose advice I almost always follow, said I had to challenge the one negative ruling.
“The only things we leave our children are their educations and their good names,” she said.
Being Oscar: From Mob Lawyer to Mayor of Las Vegas Page 19