Cold War Copa

by Phil Swann

  I switched on the light above my music stand and organized my charts. I noticed everyone suddenly got quiet, so I figured the boss must be near. Sure enough, I glanced in the wing and saw Morelli laughing it up with the star of the show. Now, let me be clear about something right now. I’m no flit. I like girls. I like them in every size, shape, and political persuasion, and I think my record’s pretty clear on that point. But I gotta say, this cat talking to Morelli could’ve turned Eisenhower’s head—handsome as hell and as cool as a five-beat measure. The first time I played for the guy, I vowed we’d someday be chums. We’ll sit around, have cocktails, and laugh about the days when I played third chair trumpet for him in the orchestra at the Sands. Trust me, it will happen.

  I was thinking about that very thing when Mr. Morelli took the stage. He offered a pleasant smile, and we all smiled back. Antonio Morelli was an elegant man with silver hair and a courtly mustache waxed to pencil-tip endpoints. He carried himself like royalty because, in a way, he was. It was well known Jack Entratter offered the old man the world to leave his cushy job at the Copacabana in New York to come out west and be the musical director of his new property. That was back in ’54, and by all accounts, Entratter knew what he was doing. Morelli’s impeccable musical reputation attracted the biggest stars, which in turn, attracted a different class of Las Vegas clientele. The old-timers swear nearly overnight Las Vegas went from being a little western cow town to a tuxedo-clad hotspot for the rich and famous, with Morelli, the Copa Girls, and the Copa Room being ground zero. And guess what? It still is.

  The lights dimmed, and Mr. Morelli raised his arms. Everyone blew a note and made last-minute tuning corrections. I did an Oscar winning performance of pretending. Morelli cut us off and waited. The lights came up, and he glanced to the wing and nodded. He looked back at us, smiled, and counted to four. Just like that we were off.

  Tears welled in my eyes when I blew the first note of “Come Fly with Me.” As the curtain opened, I felt light-headed, my legs tingled, and my torso became so wracked with pain I wanted to throw up. Go to a happy place. Go to a happy place. When the spotlight hit the stage and the announcer’s voice came over the PA, it was as close as I’d ever come to having an out-of-body experience.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Sands Hotel and Casino and the world famous Copa Room. And now, please welcome the one, the only, Frank Sinatra!”

  Chapter 2

  The second show ran long because of a surprise appearance by Sammy. The audience loved it, of course, and normally I wouldn’t have minded a bit. But the timing wasn’t ideal for a celebrity drop-in. It meant a long night got even longer, and I was forced to play three songs I hadn’t planned on playing. When he and Frank finally ended their shtick with a duet of “The Birth of the Blues,” I felt like I’d actually given birth.

  It was nearly three-thirty before the orchestra was released. I was wiping off my horn when I noticed one of the Copa Girls—Mandy, I think it was—crossing the stage in her street clothes. That’s when it hit me. I’d forgotten to talk to Lydia between the first and second show. I’d been so busy congratulating myself on getting through round one of my nuit d’horreur she never even crossed my mind. I needed to make this right. I was nothing if not true to my word—especially to five-foot-seven blondes with pouty lips.

  The dressing room for the showgirls was off the right wing and down a narrow, carpeted hallway. Suzy, a pretty little redheaded firecracker with dastardly green eyes, opened the door just as I was about to knock.

  “Hey, Sooz, is Lyds in there?”

  “Sorry, doll, she vamoosed right after the show. This one must be a whale too.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “She didn’t even take off her makeup. Just lost her costume, threw on a blue dress, and made tracks, but you know our Lyds. Her dance card’s like a hungry bear.”

  I smiled. “Always full and never satisfied?”

  “You said it, honey, not me,” Suzy replied.

  We both laughed.

  I thanked Suzy, wished her a good night, and that was that.

  I need to stop for a second and explain something. There was nothing unusual about what Lydia did. Most of us who work the night shift in this town live our social lives in the wee hours of the morning. By us, I mean the bartenders, blackjack dealers, strippers, and so forth…you can also include showgirls and musicians to the list. In short, it’s all those people Mrs. Jackson, my third-grade Sunday school teacher, would have dubbed “The Fallen.” That’s us. While the rest of the country is sawing logs in a wholesome all-American two-story, we, “The Fallen,” are out there taking care of business. That can mean anything from a nightcap at the Golden Steer to eggs and hash at some dive on the outskirts of town. There’s nothing necessarily tawdry going on—unless you’re lucky—it’s just birds of a feather flocking. Pop always said nothing good ever happened after midnight. I can’t imagine what he would’ve said about this place. The point is, Lydia having a date after the show was nothing to raise an eyebrow about. In retrospect, I wish it had. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  I left the Sands—this time through the front door—and headed out to be among the great unwashed. The Las Vegas Strip might be the only street anywhere, with the possible exception of the boulevards in Hades itself, where the hustle and bustle is more hustling and bustling at four in the morning than at eight in the evening. I definitely wasn’t in the mood. All I could think about was sinking into a tub of hot water, resting my aching body, and easing my weary mind. Besides, I still needed to figure out a way to conjure up some money for Fat Tony. I was going home.

  Shortly after landing the gig at the Sands, I took up residence at the Sierra Vista Apartments off Paradise Road. I chose the one bed, one bath based on proximity more than posh, and in that way it was brilliant. It only took me fifteen minutes to walk to work and twenty to get back. But there were those times when The Strip was especially overrun with the overdone, it could take as long as thirty minutes to make the return journey. So, moi, never missing an opportunity to make something easy easier, found a super-secret way of getting back to Chez Trip that avoided the huddled masses altogether. I didn’t use it every night for fear of drawing attention to myself, but I did call upon it from time to time when I really needed to. I won’t tell you the exact route because it’s super-secret. I’ll only reveal it involved cutting through some of the lesser known casinos, sneaking out a sundry of Employee Only doors, and then scaling an imposing yet manageable block wall I don’t think anybody even remembered was still there. The shortcut was not just faster, it was quite a bit faster, ergo, twelve minutes after exiting the glass doors of the Sands, I was inserting a key into the lock of my own fortress of solitude.

  Be it ever so humble, 281 Sierra Lane, Apt. E, was still considerably nicer than my previous roach trap. This place actually had plumbing that sort of didn’t leak, and a window that sort of closed. The décor was simple yet tasteful—much like myself I like to think—with dark wood floors, white plaster walls, a bluish couch in the center of the room, and two yellowish armchairs on either side. It had a television that mostly worked when I took the time to finagle the rabbit ears, and beside it stood a shelf that housed my impressive record collection as well as the portable record player Pop had given me on my twelfth birthday. The kitchen was nothing but an alcove with an icebox and stove, but I didn’t cook, so I didn’t care. The dining area was a metal table with a stool, and the bathroom was on the right as you entered. The bedroom was a square box with a bed, nightstand, closet, and the window that sort of closed, but what I liked most about my digs was the number on the door. It wasn’t a number at all but a letter: E, like my favorite key to play in. Actually, my favorite key to play in is E flat, but E was close enough for me to take it as a good omen when I signed the lease. I don’t know why, but I always felt that people who had letters instead of numbers on their apartment doors were just better than the rest of us. Anyway,
though it wasn’t the Ritz, it was a fine place to hang my hat for a while…if I wore a hat, which I didn’t.

  I drew a bath and munched on an apple as the tub filled. I surveyed my record library and decided on some Chet Baker. I shed my tux, slid into the hot water, and closed my eyes. It was time to get serious about formulating a plan on how to come up with some money for Fat Tony. I knew I could do it if I focused. I could accomplish anything if I put my mind to it. Therefore, I was certain I’d have the Fat Tony problem solved in no time. I just needed to relax.

  I remember Chet kicking off his famous rendition of “My Funny Valentine.” Next thing I knew I was on a beach with Doris Day and Sophia Loren. Doris was gently massaging my temples. Sophia was desperately trying to convince me I was a genius.

  No, I did not spend the entire night in the bathtub. At some point I did crawl into bed, though I had absolutely no recollection of doing so. It was like when I was a kid back on the farm. In the summertime, I would often fall asleep on the porch listening to the radio, but somehow the next morning I’d wake up in my bed. I always assumed Pop had come out during the night, picked me up, and tucked me in. But he swore he never did. It’s still one of the great mysteries of my life.

  It was after one before I arose from my slumber—actually early for me—and because it was Sunday and Frank never played Sundays, it meant I was off. In fact, I was off the next three nights. Tony Bennett was coming in on Monday to do a two-night stint before Dino started up on Wednesday, and since Tony brought his own players, the old man gave us the time off. As far as my ribs were concerned, that was just fine and dandy. On that subject, you’re probably thinking I’d completely blown it. That by falling asleep in the tub, I’d squandered an opportunity for hatching a plan to get Fat Tony his money. You’d be wrong. Fact is, I’ve had many of my most profound revelations while in the land of Nod. It’s like my brain says, “Okay, now that the rest of the body has checked out, I’ll give full attention to this problem.” Hence, I woke up knowing exactly what to do.

  Face shaven and choppers brushed, I put on a new pair of chinos and a freshly ironed white shirt to face the day in. I always try to look sharp when I go out. Perception is reality, and everything in life is show business. But it can be a tricky business getting one’s wardrobe right in this town, especially during daylight hours when it’s often hot enough to fry an egg on your forehead. The knee-jerk reaction is to settle for the beach bum look, which one should never do. But you don’t want to look like you’re oblivious to the extreme desert climate, either. That can make you look foolish. Like I said, it’s tricky. That’s why I opted for brown loafers, sans socks. I saw Peter Lawford sporting the look awhile back and thought it made a powerful statement. As if to say to the world, “Of course I can afford to wear socks, but it’s hot, and I choose not to.” The perfect balance. All it takes is a little thought.

  Anyway, looking dashing and ribs feeling a thousand times better than they had hours before, I bounded from my second story lair to the assigned parking space where I docked the Falcon. With the top already dropped on my chariot, I vaulted into the driver’s seat without opening the door—a maneuver I hadn’t fully mastered yet but was getting better at with each attempt. I brought the two hundred horses to life and spun out like a man on a mission. Because I was.

  I turned left onto Paradise, another left onto Reno, and then slid over to Russell Road where I could finally let my baby loose. Now would be a good time to tell you about the Falcon. She was the result of me playing every wedding, bar mitzvah, and dive bar in this town from the time I stepped off the bus four years ago. Once I landed the gig at the Sands, it only took me two and a half months to come up with the rest of the money—okay, a few timely bets helped too, and yes, in hindsight I should’ve stopped while I was ahead, but let’s not dwell. Back to the car. She was a ragtop, of course, with a 280 cubic-inch V8 and a three-speed automatic transmission. She had all the latest doodads: a padded instrument panel, seat belts, power steering, power brakes, radio, and a remote-control trunk release. I’m telling you these interesting details not to brag but to point out I’m really into cars and know my Detroit steel. Which was why the black ’59 Sedan de Ville that had been tailing me ever since I pulled out of Chez Trip hadn’t gone unnoticed. A blind man could spot those tailfins. I was being followed.

  I knew Fat Tony was tenacious when it came to collecting on debts, but I considered this beyond the pale, even for him. I was about to pull over and give his goons the what’s-what when something came to me. Perhaps Fat T keeping a watchful eye on me might not be such a bad thing. At the very least, his henchmen could report I was doing my best to come up with his dough. It might spare me another beat-down should I fail. So, instead of trying to lose the losers—which I no doubt could’ve—I decided to let them tag along. Besides, I’d never been tailed before. It could be fun.

  Sunday in Vegas is a transition day. Traffic tends to be light unless you’re going to the airport or using one of the main arteries heading into or out of town. I was doing neither. I was driving to Ken Baldwin’s house. Ken lived east of downtown in a new development befitting his personality. It’s not that Ken was boring, just not the kind of person one would describe as…descriptive. He was the sort of fella one meets, has a conversation with, and then never thinks about again—ever. That’s probably not fair to Ken, given I’m always surrounded by bigger than life personalities with egos to match. I include myself in that lot and make no apologies for it. After all, where would Armstrong be without his hundred-watt smile? Or Durante without his schnoz? Or Groucho without his cigar? But I suppose, in Ken’s line of work being dazzling wasn’t all that important. I wasn’t exactly sure what that line was, though he might have told me once, but to be honest, I probably wasn’t paying much attention. I find the humdrum of the humdrum just too humdrum and confess to tuning out when things start becoming too…well, humdrum.

  After a quick turn here, an unexpected acceleration there, I checked the rearview to make sure my chaperones were still behind me. To their credit, they were. I turned off the main road and drove into a pristine neighborhood called Paradise Estates. In Paradise Estates all the yards were green, all the houses looked basically the same, kids played in front, dads barbequed out back, and one could almost hear the Leave It to Beaver theme song wafting through the air. For some, Paradise Estates was just that, paradise. For me, it’s what I imagined purgatory might look like.

  Ken’s house was on the opposite side of the street, so I made a quick U-ie and brought my bird to a stop at the curb. I got out and trotted up a stone path to the front door. I didn’t look directly back down the street, but I could see out of the corner of my eye the black Caddy had pulled over behind a delivery truck a few houses away. They were good, but not that good.

  Ken’s beige Buick was in the driveway, but I knew that didn’t necessarily mean he was home. Whatever Ken did for a living required him to travel, a lot actually. There were times he’d be gone for weeks. I once asked him if he ever went anywhere fun, and he just shrugged. That was Ken in a nutshell, one giant shrug. I rang the doorbell and considered how I’d casually bring up the Fat Tony issue. I’d learned a long time ago it was best to let Ken come up with the solution to a problem himself rather than blurt one out. If I played my cards right—poor analogy—Ken would offer to lend me the money, I’d decline, he’d insist, I’d reluctantly accept, and abracadabra, the Fat Tony fiasco would be finito. I never said I was proud of my plan, just that I had a plan.

  Ken didn’t come to the door, so I rang the bell again.

  No answer.

  Thinking perhaps the bell was broken, I knocked. When I did, the door opened. This was more than odd; it was unheard of. I’d been to Ken’s house on several occasions, and even when he and I were sitting in the living room in the middle of the day, Ken always kept the doors locked—he was funny that way. I stuck my head in and called out his name. No reply. I opened the door all the way and stepped in.r />
  It was a nice house, in that way houses in the suburbs are nice. In other words, completely devoid of any character at all. I walked in and surveyed the living room. Ken was a neat freak, so I wasn’t surprised to see how utterly unlived in the place appeared to be. It always looked that way. The pillows on the sofa were properly fluffed, the rug in front of the fireplace was without the slightest wrinkle, and everything was dusted to within an inch of its knotty-pine life. I called out for Ken again.

  Silence.

  I crossed the house and into the hallway that led to the two bedrooms. My mid-western sensibilities forbade me from actually venturing into the rooms themselves, but a quick glance was enough to satisfy me Ken wasn’t in either of them. I walked back through the living room and into the kitchen. Once again, all looked tidy and perfectly Ken-ish. Then something occurred to me. Perhaps Ken had just forgotten to lock the door. Yes, he was maniacal about such things, but it was still possible this one time he’d forgotten, or he thought he’d locked it and hadn’t. It was then I noticed the sliding glass door leading to the patio was pulled partially open. I forgot to mention it, but the coolest thing about Ken’s house was it had a swimming pool. It wasn’t large, but it was still a pool, and that impressed even me. I slid the door open and stepped out, fully expecting to find Ken sacked out on a chaise.

  I didn’t.

  If I live to be a thousand, I will never forget that moment. How every inch of my body went ice cold, how my legs went numb, and how my gut tightened. How I knew no matter how hard I’d try, I would never rid my brain of the horrific image in front of me. The body floated face down in the water. Blonde hair cascaded around the head, and the royal blue dress clung to her every curve. It was Lydia.