Neon Nights: Daymond Runyon meets James Ellroy in the Nevada Desert

by John Hudson

  Neon Nights

  by

  John Hudson

  Chapter One

  Johnny Won't Be Coming to Work Tonight

  Fifteen miles north of Las Vegas Nevada, 12:45 P.M. Wednesday, September 14, 1949--

  Johnny Del Rio's brand new yellow, Cadillac convertible was found just after noon, 15 miles out in the desert on a lonely dirt road by a Clark County Deputy Sheriff on patrol. The deputy was young and wasn't a skilled investigator, but even he knew this had the feel of a professional murder.

  Anyone who knew Johnny would tell you he was the type of a guy who'd be killed by a professional. You might say it was his fate.

  It was my fate to investigate guys like Johnny, and that's why I was summoned from Las Vegas by the Clark County Sheriff's Office to the crime scene. When I got there, the ambulance drivers were wrestling with Johnny trying to get his hands off the steering wheel. Rigor mortis was stronger than they were and the deputy and I had to help get his hands free. It wasn’t all that easy and as soon as we pried him loose I jumped out of the car and took a deep breath, "Jeeze louise, it smells like he's been in there a week!"

  An old Ford delivery truck that was painted black and had hand lettered Coroner painted on the side screeched to a halt. Clark County didn’t actually have a coroner. A local undertaker, Miles Jones, was given the job. Everybody called him “digger” and he looked more like his clients than a law-enforcement official. Bean-pole skinny and tall with a skelatial face, Digger had to be at least 70. He walked over to Johnny and slowly circled him.

  I asked him, “When do you figure he died?”

  "Six to eighteen hours, ago hot shot."

  "Could you be just a little more specific?"

  "Naw, I wouldn't be able to come that close except the deputy told me the car wasn't here yesterday."

  "Then why in the hell does he smell like that?"

  (Chuckle) "He's been baking in the sun for hours." Digger poked a long, boney finger into Johnny ribs; "He's about medium rare right now. When I split him open lots of juice"

  It was hard to tell how much of Digger’s grave-yard humor was for my benefit and how much was for real. Digger rolled Johnny over. He got real close to him and squinted his eyes as he examined him. He stood up and motioned for me to come over, "Look at this." He pointed at a small red spot on Johnny's neck, "I’ll bet this is what cooled him." Upon closer examination, the red spot turned out to be a small hole at the base of his skull. Below the tiny wound was a small trickle of dried blood.

  "You figure got an ice pick in the brain"

  "Maybe, all I'll say is that wound was caused by a thin pointed metal object about six inches long. You find that and you've probably found what did him in."

  I took a deep breath and grabbed a quick look inside the car. I didn’t see anything resembling a thin pointed metal object, but I didn't expect to. Pro's aren’t that sloppy and don't leave evidence laying around.

  A tow-truck rumbled up and the driver asked when he could tow Johnny's car into town. Normally I wouldn't release the car until the Deputy Sawyer could use him fingerprint kit on it, but the car was already so hot it would burn your hand. Any fingerprints long ago had turned into a greasy goo. Deputy Sawyer could still go over the car, but he could do it as easily in the shade of an impound lot as here. I told the driver to go ahead and take the car.

  One thing I did see in Johnny’s car was hanging under the dash—what they were calling an air-conditioner. I’d heard that Cadillac and a couple other makes were offering that as an option on the new 1950’s models. While it was still 1949, that didn’t seen to make much difference to the car makers.

  It was too hot to be standing around admiring Johnny’s car so I retreated to my car. I was wondering how the air conditioner worked and daydreaming about having one in my car when my radio crackled to life. I was told to return to the station.

  When I arrived back at the station my boss, Dick Pearson, was on the phone. It sounded like he was talking to one of his snitches. Even through he was a small man--he had a big voice and he loved to intimidate people verbally. He ended the call with the usual, "Call me if you hear anything," and turned his attention to me. (He asks gleefully), "Is it true Johnny Del Rio is dead?"

  "Yeah it's true. It looks like someone ice-picked his brain."

  Dick got a wicked grin on his face. "Did he go out kicking and screaming?"

  "Naw, he probably didn't know he was dead for a few seconds."

  "Too bad, but at least I can comfort myself with the gruesome details." I started to tell him how we found him but he stopped me. "Don't rush! Take your time so I can enjoy it!"

  There really wasn't much to tell. The murder bore mute testament to the skill of the killer. Just one short stab and Johnny was instantly dead.

  After I finished Dick suggested, "Let’s go see Johnny's boss. It'll be fun watching him try to look shocked when I tell him Johnny won't be coming to work tonight."

  The Flamingo Hotel sat by itself three miles out of town on the Los Angeles highway. Bugsy Siegel built it on the east side of the road so it would be easy to get to coming from Los Angeles. Coming from the other direction required turning in front of on-coming traffic. Dick turned in front of a huge truck that had to swerve to miss us. He pulled up under the two stories high awning in front of the hotel. The doorman made us instantly for cops. He suggested we park behind the hotel. Dick suggested something that was anatomically impossible for him to do and parked the car in front. The doormen, like Johnny, were imported by Vincent "Vinnie" Costello who ran the Flamingo for "some businessmen back East." We all knew who the businessmen were, but no one had been able to prove it--yet.

  Our footsteps echoed on the Italian marble floor as we walked past the front desk. The sound abruptly ended when we stepped on the foot-deep carpet that led to the elevators. Vinnie lived in the penthouse, and his private elevator was guarded by a lump of muscle in a three-hundred‑dollar suit. Dick flashed his badge, but the goon wasn't impressed.

  Dick said, "Stand aside Junior. I want to see your boss."

  "You’z got an appointment?"

  "I don't need one. Now pick up the phone and tell Vinnie he's got guests."

  The goon mumbled, "Wait here."

  He returned with Alfie "Big Lips" Rocco. Alfie smiled a crooked smile and asked, "What you want here?"

  Dick replied, "Come on Alfie you wouldn't want me to think that the, "everybody welcome" painted on your sign is a lie--would you?"

  "I don't care what you think. Now, what you want?"

  "I want to talk to Vinnie about one of his boys--Johnny Del Rio."

  "What about Johnny?"

  Dick shook his head. "You don't get it Alfie. I don't talk to low-rent help. My business is with Vinnie," Alfie gave Dick a hard look and Dick gave him one back. After a couple of seconds staring each other down, Alfie got nervous and looked away. Dick looked bored and brushed an invisible bit of dirt off his coat sleeve. "Are you going to tell Vinnie I'm here or not? Or is it too hard to remember his phone number?"

  Alfie looked like he'd just stepped in some dog crap. He wrinkled his nose and spat out, "I'll be right back." Whatever was said on the phone got him upset. He was waving his hands around in the air and shaking his head so hard it looked like it might snap off. He hung-up the phone violently and walked over to us. He nodded his head, and the goon moved out of the way. Alfie unlocked the elevator and stepped inside. Dick followed him, but the goon tried to stop me from entering. Alfie said, "Vinnie don't like more than one person coming to visit him."

&n
bsp; Dick Shook his head, "Screw what Vinnie likes! Either he talks to me now or I’ll drag Vinnie’s fat guinea ass down to the police station!"

  Alfie thought for a second and snapped his fingers. The goon moved out of the way and I got into the elevator. Alfie pressed the button to start the elevator and said, "Mister Costello ain’t going to like this,"

  Dick patted him on the shoulder, "Don't worry. If you want me to, I'll tell him I made you do it."

  Alfie started to smile and then realized that would make him look worse rather than better. "Screw you--don't do me any favors!"

  I'd never seen Vinnie Costello before, and he didn't look like what I expected. He was short, fat, and his eyes slightly bulged out. He looked like a guy who'd own a grocery store in Brooklyn, not a mob boss in Las Vegas.

  He made no attempt to greet us when we arrived. He pointed his cigar at me and asked, "Who in the hell is this and what's all the hub-bub about?"

  Dick replied, "He’s Kelly O’Brian and what? No--nice to see you or how's the family? Vinnie, is that anyway to greet an old friend? Hey, I'm afraid your social skills are slipping. You need to work on them!"

  "Up your's Pearson, did you come here to waste my time or what?"

  "Me? Waste your time? Vinnie, you know me better than that. I was just trying to be polite but I forgot you don't know anything about manners."

  "Where the hell do you get off telling me about manners!" Vinnie was getting red in the face, and his eyes were bulging out further. "Just because you're some big shot investigator it don't mean you got the right to come in here and insult me!" He looked at Alfie and pointed at Dick. "Throw this gum shoe clown and this mick out on their ass!"

  Dick was unfazed by Vinnie’s threat, "What's the matter Vinnie? Getting sensitive in your old age?" Alfie started to move toward Dick, and I stood up. Dick had a mouth, but he wasn't a fighter. If there was going to be a fight, it would be with me. Alfie wouldn't be much trouble. He'd been laying around too many bars I’d been fighting drunk Marines on shore leave. A good solid shot to his gut would lay him out. But Dick stopped the confrontation before it happened. In a calm cool voice Dick asked, "Tell me, what do you know about the murder of Johnny Del Rio?"

  Alfie and Vinnie both looked at Dick like he said he was going to be the new lead show girl in the next nudie revue. Vinnie shook his head and asked, "What in the hell are you talking about?"

  Dick smiled and said, "Oh, you mean to tell me you haven't heard? Johnny was found out in the desert sitting behind the wheel of his Caddy with a hole in his head. Come on, Vinnie, you can level with me. Was he skimming too much of the take? Is that why you had him put down? Come on Vinnie, why don't you save the state some time and trouble and confess? It'll make you feel better. You can tell me."

  Vinnie looked truly shocked, which was a surprise; because most of the time when one mobster was told about the death of another goomba they had to work to feign surprise. His reaction looked genuine and was bolstered by the fact Alfie looked surprised too.

  Vinnie shook his head. "I don't know anything about it." He got up and walked over to the window. "How did it happen?"

  "It looks like an ice pick in the brain. Neat and clean, just the way wanted it done."

  Vinnie didn't say anything. He kept looking out the window. Alfie motioned for us to follow him. Alfie said in a voice that didn't invite discussion., "That's enough for today—okay?"

  When we got into the elevator, Dick grabbed Alfie by the arm. "Tell your boss not to be a jerk. If he wasn't involved, he'd be better off cooperating than fighting me!" Dick poked his finger into Alfie's arm to punctuate his message. "I don't want a gang war breaking out, but if one does, I'll make it real uncomfortable for all of you--particularly Vinnie." Alfie didn't look intimidated and pulled his arm away. The door opened and we stepped out. Alfie pushed a button, but Dick stopped the door from closing. "I know it's hard, but try to remember what I told you to tell your boss!"

  "Yeah--yeah--sure." Alfie pushed Dick's hand away and disappeared behind the elevator's doors.

  Dick waited until we were in the car before he said anything. "Vinnie's one hell of an actor, isn't he?"

  "You think that was just an act?"

  "Sure, no one else would have the balls to ace a guy like Johnny. Not unless they want to commit suicide."

  I wasn't as sure as Dick. To me, Vinnie seemed truly shocked and so did Alfie. There was also another possibility Dick had yet to consider. Johnny's death could be revenge for Benjamin "Bugsy" Siegel being gunned down in Beverly Hills on June twentieth a couple of years ago. By eight A.M. the next day Vinnie and Johnny were the new management of Bugsy's Flamingo Hotel and Casino. At the time, everyone speculated on how long it would take some of Bugsy's friends to try and even the score. After several months the fear of a mob war faded, but the mob also had a long memory.

  "Maybe it's revenge for Bugsy Siegel.” I speculated.

  "You better damn well hope it isn't--because if it is, bodies are going to be falling like hail-stones all over town."

  Before the highway patrol loaned me to the Las Vegas PD I was stationed in northern Nevada. Up there coyotes and cowboys were mainly what I dealt with. They had coyotes here but they wore hand-tailored suits and drove new caddies. I figured I need to know more about Johnny Del Rio to understand why someone would want to kill him. When we got back to the station I pulled the FBI files on him. Johnny was a classic mobster. He'd stole and murdered his way out of the slums of Newark, New Jersey. He was already a convicted felon by the time he was fourteen. He stayed a minor punk until he hooked up with some guys who were connected to the Luciano crime family. He proved to be a good solider and worked his way up in the family. His big break came when he married one of Lucky's nieces and was formally invited into the family. The report speculated he "made his bones" by putting “Big Mike Napoliano’s” head in a carpenter’s vise and turning it until Big Mike’s eyes popped out. After putting the squeeze on Big Mike, he was taken into the inner circle of the Luciano family. For awhile it looked like Johnny was destined for the top when two things caused his tail to be tied in a knot. First, Lucky got himself deported back to Sicily. Then Johnny's wife died in a car wreck. When Carlo Gambino took over the Luciano family, apparently Johnny became a problem for him. Since he wasn't blood related he was an outsider, but he knew too much to kick him out of the family. Carlo solved the problem by selecting him to look after the Gambino’s family's interest in the Flamingo.

  The report speculated Johnny's role was to make sure the Gambino family got its share of the profits of the casino. That probably didn't take too much of Johnny’s time. The rest it appeared he spent either trying to bag every show girl in town or in committing some form of crime. Mostly it was penny ante stuff which would occasionally bring him in contact with the law. All his current record showed were a couple of minor loan‑sharking beefs and one complaint for beating up a female companion. All the charges were, of course, subsequently dropped, and Johnny never saw the inside of a Nevada courtroom.

  Even though he wasn't a big deal anymore, with his connections his death would demand something be done about it. The "Moustache Petes" back East would insist on making sure Johnny was avenged. Not that they really gave a damn about him. Most probably didn't, but they couldn't let "made" guys get popped-off. Otherwise they'd be saying it was okay to pop one of them off, and that certainly wasn't the message they wanted to give out.

  My attention was diverted by a grease-stained bag being thrown on my desk. Dick grinned and pulled out a hamburger and a newspaper cone which held French fries. He set them in front of me and proclaimed they were, "food of the gods."

  Dick finished his hamburger and started on his fries. When he leaned over to pick up the catsup bottle I smelt booze on his breath. It shouldn't have surprised me, since Dick was a known boozer, but I'd heard he'd lain off the sauce. But I should have known better. A drunk's a drunk and that fact rarely changes. He might have suspected I knew he'd be
en drinking, because he suddenly turned talkative. "What did you think of Vinnie?"

  "Not much,--he sure doesn't look like a mob guy."

  "He may not look it but he's dangerous as a rattlesnake. Be careful around him."

  "You didn't act very careful around him."

  "That's because Vinnie and I understand each other. He understands I'd like to see him with pennies on his eyes, and I understand he's nothing but a cheap olive-oil grease ball. That's why we get along so well." Even though Dick was making light of his hatred for Vinnie Costello, his feelings were genuine, and nothing would please him more than to piss on Vinnie's grave. I knew the root of his animosity started while I was still in the Marines, with the death Matthew Clarbrezzi, an undercover Las Vegas vice cop. In 47 they worked together investigating the mob's growing influence in Nevada. One night, Matt called Dick saying he had "something real good on Vinnie" to give him, and they set up a meeting for later that evening. Before that could happen, Matt was cut in half with a shotgun blast, and whatever he had, died with him. Dick couldn't prove it but he believed that Vinnie Costello was responsible for Matt's death. Out of frustration, he went on a week long bender and ended up camped outside the Flamingo waiting for Vinnie to come out. Fortunately, someone in the hotel got worried and called the Police. They grabbed Dick before he could do something rash and locked him up until he sobered-up.

  I could understand why Dick hated Vinnie, but I hoped he wouldn't become so wrapped around the axle in a personal vendetta it clouded his judgment. That could prove dangerous for both of us, but right now that wasn’t an issue. What was an issue was who killed Johnny and why. What I didn’t know was the answer would have far ranging consequences for me as well.

  Chapter Two

  The Neon Night

  The abundant power supplied by Hoover Dam made electricity cheap, and The Flamingo used tons of it lighting up the night. As soon as the sun went down, the hotel was awash various shades of neon.

  The Flamingo's glitter and neon worked magic on the tourists, and as soon as the other casinos figured this out, they also sported various hues of blue, yellow and red. Right after gambling, the quickest growing business in town had to be either signs or light bulbs. Every business felt they had to have some neon, even a dive like the one I was going to.