Mob Hit

WARNING: Violence

It was late 1977, when I was ordered out to Vegas at the direction of Tony Accardo, the boss of the Chicago mob known as the “Outfit.” Word was out that Frank “Lefty” Rosenthal was mismanaging the skim from the Stardust Hotel and Casino. My instructions were to get to the bottom of things and let the guys know what the hell he was up to.

Lefty welcomed me with reservation. I could sense things were amiss. His wife Geri was a fucking mess, and rumor had it that she was fooling around with Tony “the Ant” Spilotro. That dude scared the hell out of me. What he lacked in stature, Tony made up for in viciousness. Napoleon syndrome? Probably. I mean the guy was just barely over five feet tall. Sure, I’ve offed my share of guys, but it was always business. Tony took a sick pleasure in the job. If he could torture them a bit first, he was all about it. My first week in town, I helped him kill a man by squeezing his head in a vice. It popped like a melon. Craziest thing I’d ever seen.

I had full access to the count room, and on the surface everything appeared to be running according to plan. As the crew gained trust in me, they let their guard down. For every ten bags of cash that found their way back to the Outfit in Chicago, one got diverted to Tony’s crew. After a couple of weeks, Tony presented me with my cut — for living expenses.

Now, I had a decision to make. Keep the cash and stash it away or tell the bosses back home the truth about what was really going on in Vegas. I made the wrong choice — a bunch of bad decisions actually. I kept the money and eagerly collected more. Sure, I sent some home to my sister Nancy with instructions to take care of our elderly parents. And in the end, Nancy tucked away a couple hundred grand.

The problem was that money is intoxicating. I spent thousands on hookers and blow. It was the ‘70s — damn it. Boys are gonna have fun.

My access to the count room led to access to the money bags. Truth be told, I couldn’t help myself. At first, I just took a roll or two from the entire take. Then I got greedy. I became committed to pilfering one roll from every bag that passed my way. That came close to ten grand a week, in addition to the cut that everyone in Tony’s crew went home with. I had wads of cash hidden all over my apartment near the university. I became known as a big tipper and a big shot. But I got sloppy.

Eventually, someone tipped off Tony.

* * * * * * * * * *

I came home from dinner at the Library Buttery and Pub by the Sahara — a favorite hangout of the rich and powerful set. I had taken some college chick out with the expectation of some serious action afterwards. When we got back to my apartment, Tony was there with Sammy, another member of the crew. Tony handed my date a $20 and told her to catch a cab home. She kissed me on the cheek and walked out.

“We need to talk about the take,” said Tony. “It’s been coming up light — real light.”

I shrugged my shoulders, but kept looking him in the eye.

“I suggest you come clean,” said Sammy, as he leafed through my latest issue of Penthouse.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” I looked back at Tony. “What’s this dickhead been feeding you?”

“You calling me a liar?” Sammy got up and postured himself at me — chest to chest.

“Let’s all relax a minute,” said Tony. “You and me — let’s talk in private.” With a nod of his head, Tony gestured toward my bedroom.

Tony led the way. I entered to find countless rolls of cash splattered across my bed. The whole room had been trashed. Dresser drawers were lying on the carpet. The contents of my closet were strewn about. Even the bathroom had been ransacked. It was over for me. There was nothing I could say to exonerate myself.

“It’s a pity,” said Tony. “I really liked you.” He cocked his head and smiled. “What do the boys in Chicago know?”

“Not a thing, Tony. I swear. They sent me out to get the skinny on Lefty and your organization, but instead of turning you in, I decided to cash in.”

“You sure did.” Tony looked down at all the cash on the bed and raised an eyebrow. “Like I said, I really liked you, but you can never trust a cheater.”

I thought that statement was rich coming from Tony Fucking Spilotro — the guy in charge of ripping off the big boys in Chicago. Still, I knew better than to rile up Tony by making a bold statement.

“Man, I’m sorry. I really fucked up.”

“Big time!” Tony called to Sammy, who was still working his way through the magazine. “Come in here and bag up this cash.”

“With what?” asked Sammy.

“What the fuck,” said Tony. He grabbed a pillow from the bed and threw it at Sammy. “Put it in here, then wipe down the place with a t-shirt or something.”

Sammy yanked out the pillow and filled the case with cash — probably close to a hundred grand. He looked me in the eyes and smiled as he tossed the magazine in along with the cash.

“We’re going for a ride,” said Tony. The three of us walked over to an older Ford pickup that the crew used to haul shit around. It was parked a couple buildings over, so I wouldn’t see it when I when I came home. I sat in the middle, while Sammy drove us out to the desert north of town. When we went off-road, any last hope for my future evaporated. A mile or so off of US-95, Sammy stopped the car.

“Get out,” said Tony, with his revolver pointed at my temple.

I did as I was told. Sammy grabbed a shovel from the truck bed and threw it at me.

“Hell no, I’m not digging my own grave.”

“This is going down,” said Tony. “You know my style. Since I like you — or used to — I’ll give you two choices. Either dig the fucking grave or I’m gonna hack you apart piece-by-fucking-piece with this shovel.”

I picked up the shovel and dug down a couple feet before hitting caliche.

“It’s rock hard. I can’t go any deeper.”

“Then this will do.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Over the decades, the Las Vegas city limits expanded as more and more housing tracks pushed their way into the Mohave Desert.

* * * * * * * * * *

As the bulldozer dug a few feet into the arid ground, my bones finally saw the light of day after 45 years.

“Hey, Russ,” yelled the driver to his supervisor who was standing ten yards away. “Check out them bones. Must be another casualty of the mob era.”

“Damn it,” said the site foreman. “Now I’ll have to call the cops to come investigate this corpse. It’ll slow down construction for weeks.”

Later that day, Las Vegas CSI came out to process the scene. DNA tests later revealed my identity, and my sister back in Chicago reburied my remains next to our long-deceased parents.

At least my story is now complete, and I am no longer a prisoner of the vast Nevada wasteland.

Engulfed in the desert’s parched silence, I was nothing but another grain of sand in the wind.

* * * * * * * * * *

This is based on the true story of Frank “Lefty” Rosenthal and Tony “the Ant” Spilotro. The 1995 Martin Scorsese movie Casino with Robert De Niro, Joe Pesci, and Sharon Stone accurately portrays their illegal activities in Las Vegas in the late 1970s and early 1980s. I also relied on information from Cullotta: The Life of a Chicago Criminal, Las Vegas Mobster, and Government Witness by Dennis N. Griffin and Frank Cullotta, 2007.

(C) Joyce O'Day 2023. All Rights Reserved.

For the history of this era, please see the following article: "My Afternoon with a Vegas Hitman."

https://vocal.media/criminal/my-afternoon-with-a-vegas-hitman