Be careful who you admire. Life's all-stars, even the coolest titans we know, aren't necessarily well-adjusted, happy or nice.
*
In Las Vegas, during my two-year craps dealing run at the Stardust Casino, (1980-1982), I worked several months with Vincienzo Emilio Vesuvio, (he preferred to be called Milo).
Milo was the best dealer I ever saw as well as an arrogant, easy to hate punk. He combined his technical skills and game expertise with a charming personality that earned him and his crew a bigger toke (tip) income. But he was also an egotist who got his rocks off making his friends, family and coworkers feel bad.
Milo was energetic and
handsome, young women would refer to his looks as cute. He was also short and due to his youthful
appearance, jealous men said he looked sixteen.
Vesuvio was a Vegas native and a licensed real estate broker. He lived with high school sweetheart Rachel Pross, in a gated community. Their new, over-sized yellow custom home was
the grand centerpiece of a picturesque cul-de-sac.
Rachel dealt blackjack part-time at
the Stardust while studying interior design at UNLV. Her dream was to decorate their house in a
Victorian motif, in the hopes of it becoming a “Show-Home.” The first piece she had bought was an
ornate picture frame that housed a mirror in their grand foyer. She teased Milo because he
couldn’t walk past it without admiring his “portrait.”
In Milo’s
den, a collection of Degas, Monet
and Lautrec lithographs were mounted on a
pure white wall. Professional track lighting gave it a museum-like appearance. The art was just an investment because his two passions were collecting firearms and dirt-biking in the desert.
*
For me, other than economics, the only advantage of working with Milo came by observing him. From him, I developed a deeper understanding of craps and how to service customers.
Few people stood too close to Vesuvio because his harsh sarcasm and condescending attitude towards coworkers and supervisors made him a target, leaving the innocents around him at risk of collateral damage.
 |
MILO HAD A TALENT FOR WAVING THE CRAPS STICK INCHES FROM A DEALER'S EYES TO GET HIS ATTENTION. OFTEN, HE WOULD TELL HIS CREW MATES TO SOLICIT TIPS. IF THEY DIDN'T, THE ASSHOLE WOULD BRAG THAT THEY'D STARVE WITHOUT HIM.
|
Milo brought more unnecessary heat on himself because he disregarded the craps dealers unwritten code of; an implied vow of
poverty. Vesuvio was “dripping in gold.” He gave low-rollers the false impression that dealers were
wealthy by flaunting a thick, 18-karat necklace and matching bracelet. He also wore a pinkie ring with a big diamond
stud set into an onyx slab. Worst of all, he dealt with a blinding, diamond encrusted Rolex.
Milo's magnetism attracted the Stardust's “jet-set" employees. Like disciples, people from every conceivable department and shift, would go out of their way to watch their icon deal or call out his name as they
passed. Finally someone clued me in. Milo's fans weren't fascinated by the artistry of his craps dealing, they were interested in getting the attention of a great drug dealer.
*
His perky girlfriend Rachel was the darling of the whole staff. But her earthy friendliness, optimism and trustfulness translated into naivete. She was so pure of heart that many of our coworkers and supervisors who despised Milo's swaggering cocksure attitude never hurt her by identifying him as a drug dealer or a whore monger.
*
Milo’s
best friend since childhood was Giacomo “Jack” Grilli. He worked in the same vocation at the more
prestigious Tropicana Casino and partnered with Milo, in their illegal avocation. Jack
was tall, handsome and equally conceited.
Although his wife was expecting their first child, he remained just
as much a womanizer as Milo.
Jack
shared Milo’s passion for guns and dirt
biking. Together with a miniature arsenal of rifles, shotguns and pistols, they frequently loaded
their bikes into a caged cart and hitched it to the back of Milo’s new Toyota Celica. Additionally,
they completed these excursions by being “armed” with hip flasks of Johnnie Walker Black and a cooler of icy Heinekens.
On a day off, they headed north towards
the Utah
border.
Jack said, "Other than the telephone
poles and the train tracks, I bet the scenery hasn't changed for thousands
of years."
Milo snapped, “You’re so deep.”
Jack shrugged off the typical smugness, turned on the radio and lit a joint.
The Don McLean song "Vincent" was playing and within seconds, Milo shut it off and said, "How can you listen to that shit? I'd actually rather listen to you."
Twenty minutes and several whiskey shots later Jack philosophized,
“Dude, remember the time we saw that herd of mustangs running through the
desert. Wasn’t that amazing?”
Milo
stared him down as if he had no idea what Jack was talking about until bursting into laughter.
They
pulled off the highway onto an unpaved road and Jack said, “You're such a prick. Don’t
bust my balls. You thought the mustangs were cool too.”
For three
miles, they bounced and bucked along the pockmarked trail until they were in the middle of nowhere. Milo got out
and removed both bikes from the cart. He
rejoined Jack in the car and split six lines of cocaine.
They removed twenty, one-gallon plastic jugs filled with water, numerous
empty aluminum cans and an assortment of glass bottles. While drinking beer, they laid out their
targets amid barrel cacti, Joshua trees and rocks.
Ten minutes later the targets were destroyed and Milo said, “Jackie, check this
out.”
Tucked behind the spare
tire, wrapped in a plush towel from Caesar's Palace, he revealed a magnificent, vintage, pearl handled Smith and Wesson 45° revolver. Together they
marveled at its aesthetics.
 |
| MILO'S NEW TOY IMMEDIATELY BECAME HIS FAVORITE WEAPON. A FEW MINUTES AFTER SHOWING IT TO JACK, HE SAID, "IF I DIE TOMORROW, MAKE SURE THEY PUT IN MY COFFIN." |
“What a cannon. It’s
beautiful,” Jack declared while aiming it.
“The craftsmanship, the balance...”
Before Jack finished his thought, Milo
swiped his weapon back and wildly fired at a holey Budweiser can atop a massive boulder and missed.
“C’mon Dickhead,” Milo cried. “Let’s put this shit away and ride.”
*
They roared through the wilderness, racing up hills
and chasing each other through gullies.
An hour later, two miles from the car, Jack waited in the shade, at the
foot of a mountain. Milo slammed on his brakes and intentionally kicked sandy gravel into his friend’s face before skidding to a stop.
“I had enough,” Jack
confessed while wiping the fresh layer of grit off his perspired face, “I’m ready to go.”
“Cool, I’ll race you.
Loser puts the bikes away.”
Milo
jerked the bike around, popped a wheelie and sped off. Jack followed Milo along a virgin trail that snaked upward and quickly tapered into a narrow ridge. At first, to accommodate his
pursuer, Milo veered to the left edge of the rising road until impulsively swerving back to the right. Milo
accelerated down from the thirty-foot high summit and looked back through the veil of settling dust. But where was Jack? He had vanished.
Vesuvio
stopped. He shut off his bike. Alone in
a remote sea of eerie silence, he waited.
Milo stared back up the mini-mountain and
smiled because this was the kind of thing he would do to spook Jack. His grin
eroded to a grimace because Jack was overplaying his grand reappearance. Stoic Milo reluctantly made a U-Turn and walked his bike back up.
At the crest, the absolute
quiet was broken by a muted whir of an engine. Milo continued down the far slope. Through the mourning whistle of the wind, he heard a horrible, low moan. Milo looked
down the lip of the hill and found a sheer cliff. At the bottom, separating the inclining path from
the desert floor was a shallow chasm just wide enough to trap Jack
under his bike.
Guilt-ridden by his prank,
Milo hastily slid down the rocky embankment. He fell and the sun-baked, cement-like terrain lacerated his hands and face.
Jack was wedged into the
crevice, bleeding profusely and shivering.
Groans were the only responses Milo
heard, as he shut off the bike. In a panic, he made a futile try to free his friend but was unable to budge man or machine.
Milo soon noticed Jack’s shinbone had
pierced his jeans. It was time to get help.
Milo whipped off his dungaree jacket and made a makeshift pillow. He pushed it
underneath Jack’s head until the victim let out a disturbing high-pitched wail. Instead, Milo
spread it over Jack’s chest, to keep him warm.
Vesuvio commingled their blood before lighting a marijuana stick. He whispered
encouraging words of brotherhood as he placed it between Jack’s lips. The joint fell to the ground as Milo turned to leave.
In a slow motion
dream-like trance, Milo recklessly sped
through the wasteland to his car. Tears
blurred his vision as gruesome images of buzzards pecking at his friend’s
contorted carcass dominated his mind.
Milo tore-off in his Celica and left a shroud of billowing smoke behind him. Each dip, bump and pothole tortured the car’s
suspension as the empty cart bounced violently behind. Obsessed by grisly images of death, he neared
the interstate. On solid pavement, Milo “put
the pedal to the metal,” and quickly eclipsed 85 MPH.
Vesuvio accelerated in the hope of being stopped by the Highway Patrol or to
at least get to a pay phone quick. Neither scenario panned out. Nearly back to town, he roared into a Husky
Truck Stop.
Milo
harnessed all his poise to clearly explain the
circumstances to the police dispatcher. To reduce his paranoia while
waiting for assistance, he discarded any evidence of contraband into a rusty
trash barrel. He also took the added
precaution of checking his pockets, washing his hands and buying breath mints.
The police car and
ambulance arrived. Milo rode with Sergeant
Austin McKinley. He conveniently didn't mention that he forced Jack off the road as he rehashed the gory details.
The sergeant removed his
mirrored sunglasses and asserted, “You know drinking's not a good idea while
operating any motor vehicle.”
Milo stammered, “Y-y-yes sir.”
Little else was said as he
looked away. Daydreaming, Milo focused on the
lifeless brown landscape. Plagued by his
transgression, he couldn’t get the terrible accident scene out of his mind.
Milo spied rolling tumbleweed and pictured it as
Jack’s head being chased by wild black stallions.
 |
| TUMBLEWEEDS ARE DEAD DESERT PLANTS WHOSE ROOT HAS BEEN SNAPPED BY THE WIND AND ROLL IN OPEN ENVIRONMENTS. |
Milo’s left foot involuntarily pressed
down as if “flooring” the cruiser’s accelerator as the Grim
Reaper atop a white horse emerged from the imaginary herd. He used his
scythe like a polo mallet and whacked Jack’s head.
The
officer startled Milo by saying, “He’ll be
okay.”
The policeman was doing 110 MPH as he took the precaution of requesting a
helicopter.
Milo
searched the distant sky for buzzards.
“Yes my
friend,” started the officer. “A little prayer can’t hurt.”
“I wasn’t
praying,” Milo bleated.
“Well,”
the sergeant said, “besides divine intervention, all that’s up there are
vultures.”
Devastated by his own
culpability, Milo was jolted by McKinley’s perceived clairvoyance. He didn’t speak again until pointing out
the turn-off for the access road. The
ambulance followed as they bucked and bounced past Milo’s unattended bike. Jack had been alone for an hour and five minutes when they arrived.
*
Jack was unconscious and having difficulty breathing as the three-person emergency squad inserted an IV.
The youngest medic exclaimed, "He's in shock."
McKinley ran back to his unit's radio, to reiterate
the need for a “copter.” He returned to
find the team trying to support the casualty’s broken body while attempting
to pry him from the trench.
“I’ve got
shovels,” announced the sergeant.
The female medic and the officer were digging as Milo
pestered the other two EMTs about Jack’s condition.
The leader didn't answer and said, "Sit down and be quiet."
Milo kept yammering and looking over their shoulder until the young attendant, behind his boss' back, showed Milo the joint he found
beneath Jack. Silently, Milo hustled to Jack and clawed the cement-like earth with his already bloody hands.
Five minutes later a
chopper appeared in the southern horizon.
The rescuers used a blanket like a sling and freed Jack from the
would-be grave, before airlifting him away.
*
Three days after the accident, Jack’s wife (two weeks prematurely), gave birth
to their five-pound son. The baby, Giacomo Emilio Grilli, remained
in the same hospital as his father until his jaundice condition improved and
his respiratory system matured. Nonetheless, the infant was home ten days
before his comatose dad left the Intensive Care Unit.
Jack survived a compound fracture of the right tibia, dislocated hip, spinal
trauma, a collapsed lung, internal bleeding and a concussion.
He would need a cane for a year and despite a slight limp would lead a
normal life.
While
Jack’s life was still in doubt, Milo was
declared a hero. Basking in glory, he
was interviewed on TV and the Sunday paper had an in depth article about
him.
Outwardly
everything was going well for Milo. But he couldn’t cope with his undeserved superstar-status. He alone knew his friend's near death experience was his fault. Instead of rising out of the melancholia
when Jack improved, Milo became enveloped by
self-imposed loneliness and depression.
Every aspect of Milo’s life became infected. Twice I saw his mother come into the casino
to admonish him about unfinished real estate business and his girlfriend Rachel
publicly argued with him regarding rumors of his infidelity.
To ease the pain, Milo started getting high
at work. Soon the recreational use of
his own products snowballed into reliance. A vicious cycle of dulling his
misery with cocaine led to more unhappiness because of it. Early in most shifts, at fifty-percent efficiency,
Milo was still an excellent dealer. But the downward spiral continued as the night wore on. In the end, he was sloppy, disoriented and useless.
*
Milo
was asked to make a speech in Jack’s absence at the baby’s christening. Under perfect conditions, Milo
was no public speaker. On this particular morning, he was hung over. Plus, as was the norm
when waking up before noon, Milo used
amphetamines to “rise” to the occasion.
In front of the
considerable gathering, Milo blithered for
thirty seconds before articulating, “NOTHING is more important than life...”
There was an exaggerated
pause. Onlookers assumed he had lost his
train of thought but Milo, with eyes open, had
fallen asleep standing up.
The crowd began to buzz causing Milo to snap out of his
stupor and close with an energetic, “And NOTHING is better than babies!”
The austere throng became invigorated and some applauded their hero. Twenty
minutes later, Milo was told that Rachel had
run out of the chapel in tears during his oration.
*
Milo’s
dilemma worsened when an allied drug dealer contacted him that day. Vidál, a Brazilian informed Milo
of a large cocaine shipment and offered half the action. They had worked well on smaller deals but
this was going to be huge.
Greed got the better of Milo. He knew to whom he would sell his entire split as he calculated doubling his $25,000.00 investment over night. What he didn't factor in was, the deal was going down the next
afternoon. Due to Jack’s unavailability,
Milo with Vidál and three of his men, was compelled to
go it alone.
Milo spent the rest of the day accumulating loose
cash. He raced around town collecting
debts and borrowing money from friends.
Together with his own money, he amassed $19,000.00. To save time, rather than chasing chump
change, he headed to his mother’s real estate office. She had financially “assisted” him several
times but never for six thousand.
In actuality despite being
licensed, Milo had only a superficial
knowledge of real estate and almost never sold anything. Instead, his mother helped “launder” drug
money, by putting some of her smaller commissions in his name.
Inside the sanctuary of her private office, she verbally hammered him with a familiar, profane speech that he'd suffered through his whole life.
“I’ve been
on my own since I was sixteen,” she started.
“When I got pregnant with YOU, all I got was a cheap engagement
ring. Then the asshole turned his back
on me and my parents disowned me! I
killed myself to take care of you, finish high school, get a job and put myself
through college. I wish I had
someone to give me money for two abortions, Christ...I only needed one! I wish I didn’t have any
responsibilities or a single goddamned care in the world!”
Milo whined, "But Ma."
“You
have no respect for people. What do you take me for, a doormat, a piece of
shit... what?”
She
marched into the main office and crossed the floor to the street exit.
Witnessed
by two employees, she opened the door, pointed outside and mandated, “Get the fuck out.
Straighten out your sorry life and stop the drug bullshit. If you don’t, I never want to see your
pitiful ass ever again.”
Milo
ducked his head and left.
*
Milo had to be at work by 6:00PM. He hurried home, gathered all his guns, removed
the impressionist lithographs and loaded them into his car. He rolled both his dirt bikes into the caged
cart and hitched it to his Celica.
He looked at his Rolex as he pulled up in front of Stoney’s Pawn
Shop at 4:45PM. The counterman
looked at the goods and asked for identification. Satisfied of Milo’s
age, he questioned the items’ legality.
Milo produced certificates of
authenticity for the art and bills of sale for the weapons.
He spewed, “How much for all of it?” Over-anxiously he added, “Wait, wait, wait, all of it except this,”
as he withdrew his ivory handled 45º.
Unimpressed the cashier said, “Twenty-eight
hundred.”
“I
need six grand,” Milo exploded. “What do you think I’m fuckin’ crazy?”
“Sonny,
what I think you are, is jumpy. I’m not
taking advantage of you,” said the calm man. “But, in negotiations you should never let on that you’re
desperate.”
“Yeah,
yeah, yeah,” Milo pouted. “How much?”
The
man frowned, “I don’t really want any of your stuff but I’ll pump it up to
three.”
Milo opened the door and pointed to his two bikes, “How much?”
“A
thousand,” exclaimed the man.
“How
much with the cart?” Milo declared.
The
man shook his head and smiled, “I was including the cart.”
Milo said, "You heartless bastard," before removing his thick gold necklace.
Motionless, the man watched Milo
take off his matching bracelet and the gold pinkie ring. They stared each other down. Milo broke the stalemate by checking the time before taking off his Rolex.
The man used a jeweler’s loupe to examine the goods and abruptly
said, “Five grand for all of it. And not a dime more!”
“C’mon,” Milo begged,
“Fifty-five. I’m coming back the day
after tomorrow to get it all back anyway.”
“Kid, you got moxie. Fifty-two, take it or
leave it.”
With all the charm he could muster, Milo
countered, “Make me happy, fifty-three.”
“You watch too many movies my boy. Why don’t you be half-happy and take
fifty-two fifty.”
The
deal was done. Confident he could
generate seven hundred and fifty dollars more in tokes, borrowing and
incidentals, Milo made it to work fractionally
late.
*
An hour into our shift
Rachel and Milo had a heated discussion in
front of the casino cashier.
I
couldn’t hear much but when he stormed off she venomously shouted, “You’ve got
to be the world’s worst money manager!”
Milo
was uncharacteristically nervous that night.
Still, we made some good tips early.
Then, two drunk Texans, carelessly spitting tobacco juice
into Styrofoam cups arrived on Milo’s end of
the table. At first he was nauseated by their wet brown flakes dotting his work area. However, when he saw a way into their pocket,
he enthusiastically focused on giving them the royal treatment.
Their tips were steady but when Milo found out they were brother-in-laws, he manipulated them into a contest of who would toke him best.
From them, thirteen hundred dollars in tokes were generated. By the time they left, Milo
was as cocky as ever. When he came back from his last break, he was all messed
up.
An
hour later our shift was over, we had netted $460.00 each in tokes. To help
celebrate our good fortune, we invited five supervisors across the street to the Silver City Casino so we could make our “lay-offs,” (tip them for helping us hustle tokes).
Our four-member crew crossed the strip under the starry night. In that time, Milo borrowed the rest of what he needed from another dealer.
At the bar, Milo stood away from us and slapped a twenty down, “Hey ‘Beer-tender,’ Johnnie Walker Black,
straight...make it a double.”
He
slugged it down and ordered another. His
third was being poured before the bartender acknowledged any of us.
Our party was starting to break up when a striking, petite blond
approached. Milo,
nursing a Heineken was showing the effect from the evening’s intake as she
struck up a conversation with him.
She
ran her index finger across his embroidered name on his Stardust shirt and said, “Hey Milo, you like games?”
“Sure
gorgeous. What’s on your mind?”
“Well
Cutie, I like the vulture game.”
Milo
shook off the image of Jack’s remains being torn at and cautiously asked,
“Vulture game. What’s that?”
“I
take you back to my hotel room,” she beamed, “and play dead. Then you eat me!”
He put his arm around her waist and without saying good-bye left.
*
Milo staggered to his bedroom at dawn. Anesthetized, Milo minimized the risk of disturbing Rachel by stripping down to his shorts in the
guest bathroom. He slithered delicately into
bed. Rachel stirred enough to give him a welcoming kiss and to apologize for
not having more faith in his economic judgment.
She
rubbed his belly and slid her hand under his briefs.
When
Rachel encountered the spent prophylactic he still had on, she went into a rare
vulgarity-laced tirade and demanded, “What the fuck is this?”
Milo,
the consummate bullshit artist responded, “You were great. We should do it that way more often.”
On
the verge of screaming, confused Rachel calmed herself and said, “Oh?
Good night.”
Milo
smirked, rolled over and within seconds was out. Rachel wasn't that gullible. She made certain Milo
was asleep and examined herself.
She sneered at the passed out lump lying beside her and huffed, “I was
great, eh.”
Rachel
glided out of bed and started gathering her things. Her anger intensified when
it occurred to her that she was on the pill and that they hadn't used condoms for a long time.
*
At 11:20AM, a series of
unanswered phone calls finally got the nauseous Milo
out of bed. Beleaguered by a splitting headache, it took a while before he
noticed Rachel’s empty bureau drawers were open, her jewelry box was
missing and a section of her walk-in closet was barren.
Milo
stumbled back to his nightstand. From
his “stash,” he produced his “wake-up vitamins.” Downstairs, he stopped in front of the Victorian
mirror. He stared at his increasingly
sullen portrait and swallowed a black capsule.
Vesuvio rummaged through the house in search of an explanation. He was
walking past the front door as he heard a rustling sound, followed by the
metallic clink of his mailbox. He was
expecting to catch Rachel dropping off a note but it was the postman.
Milo
scanned the three bills, some junk mail and an official looking envelope before
tossing it all on the counter. While drinking orange juice from the
container, he continued his search. Frustrated, it was time to call Rachel’s
mother.
Mrs. Pross greeted him with a robust, “She ain’t here you
depraved lowlife animal...I always told her you were scum...she
never wants to see you again.”
“Look Mrs. P.,” he gently pleaded, “I know she’s there. Please,
put her on.”
She looked at her sobbing daughter and snapped, “You’re a lush.
She’ll never go back with...”
Rachel took the phone and croaked in a frail voice, “I’m missing
an important day at school.” She fought off tears and whimpered, “I’m too upset...”
Milo cut her off and after some
flowery nonsense said, “I love you, I need you, we’re great together, I’ll
make it up to you.”
Rachel
removed the receiver from her ear and said to her mom, “Yaddy, yada.” Before interrupting his speech, “We’re finished!”
Unprepared
and desperate, Milo blurted out, “Last week I
bought you a ring. I really...” There
was a pause as he gulped, “I really love you Rae. I was waiting
for...er...um...Easter Sunday to give it to you...will you...” Milo cringed, “Um...er...will you marry me?”
Rachel fired back, “After all you put me through, you have the fucking audacity
to propose over the phone!”
Milo
started blathering. Rachel held
the phone away from her ear again and mockingly gestured that he was babbling.
Her mom irritably warned her, “Rachel Iris Pross, Don't lower yourself to his level. Obscenities are for common folks.”
Annoyed, Rachel nodded and hissed, “Okay.”
Mom added, “He bought you a ring? I don’t
believe it. Tell that scheming liar to
describe it.”
Milo, without a reference point softly
bluffed, “Well, ya know. I uh, only saw it once.”
“That tears it,” Rachel bellowed. “When you’re at work, I’ll get the rest of my
stuff.”
Saddened, Milo hung up and
sifted through the mail. He stopped at
the official looking envelope; it was from the Internal Revenue Service.
Dazed and achy he whispered aloud, “Must be a check.”
There was no check, only an audit notification for 1978 and
1979. Milo
with all his big-ticket possessions, never declared any tip income in his
four-year craps dealing career.
*
Milo dialed his accountant. The phone was ringing as he made a mental note to
change his small bills into hundreds for the cocaine buy.
The audit notice angered his accountant, “Didn’t I tell you something
had to be declared. I told you about my
client from the Dunes, the IRS got him for 17K plus interest and
penalties.”
During
the lecture, Milo’s mind wandered to placating
Rachel.
“Are you even listening?” demanded the accountant.
Milo said, “Uh huh.”
“Why do you have to be so headstrong? Look, I’m going into a meeting now, I’ll call
you.”
Milo hung up and contrived a shoddy plan to get Rachel back. He had one foot out the door when the phone rang. It was Sergeant Austin McKinley doing a routine follow-up for his report.
During Milo's crosstown drive, the friendly conversation with the officer left him shaking. He was convinced that McKinley was "double-sharp" and that he knew about the joint under Jack's body.
Milo wondered; it's natural for cops to look for more evidence. What if Sherlock snooped around the truck stop and found my shit in the garbage can.
The vision of Jack's cocaine kit, pot, rolling paper and roaches were indelibly burnt into Milo's psyche as he pulled into his mother's empty driveway.
*
In his mother's bedroom, Milo probed the furthest left-hand corner of her hosiery drawer. There he found a felt, cobalt blue Crown Royal bag. He pulled open the drawstring and sifted through her keepsakes. Milo removed his quarry, refilled the contents and replaced the sack.
*
Milo's next stop was the Gold Coast Casino. He bought in at a blackjack table for five-thousand dollars in twenties. Without playing, Vesuvio cashed out the chips for hundred-dollar bills. He repeated this process at other casinos until he had two, hundred-dollar packets of $10,000 and one of $5,000.
*
Milo left his car running in a handicapped parking spot next to a Hallmark store. He selected the first card that read: I love you. Indiscriminately, he grabbed feminine gift paper and marched to the register. He borrowed a pencil and scribbled similar hackneyed sentiments like the ones he told Rachel over the phone. Milo flattered the cashier and she gift wrapped the tiny box in Japanese-themed plum blossom paper.
*
Milo sped to drop off the "gift" with Rachel's mother.
Through the locked screen door, Milo tried to display an erudite manner, "Guard this sacred object carefully. When you present it to Rachel, tell her I love her."
Mrs. Pross said, "Sacred object. What's this crazy talk. You already drunk at this hour?
She refused the gift without opening the door and took the opportunity to berate him.
“B-but...” was all Milo could muster.
Her lambasting continued, “You should burn in hell forever.”
Milo
tried to persevere. He used all his
forced “sincerity,” but talked in circles.
She cried, "Beat it. Or I'll call Metro."
Milo kept ranting gibberish until he said, "How about I leave this on the ground and you bring it in the house after I leave."
Just to get rid of him she said, "Okay."
When he got to the curb, she unleashed enough harsh vulgarity to make the saltiest longshoremen blush.
*
Milo
telephoned Vidál to confirm last minute details. The Brazilian was surprised he was
free-lancing without Jack and was shocked that with Milo’s
collection of guns, that he needed to borrow one. The “meet” was set for 5:00PM, behind Lone Mountain.
In the
northwest corner of Las Vegas, a mile after civilization ends, there is a free-standing, hundred-foot high, oblong rock formation, called Lone Mountain. Uniquely set in the otherwise flat valley,
it’s dwarfed against the backdrop of the nearby Spring Mountain
Range. The natural beauty of this
landmark is spoiled because the local residents use it as a free garbage dump.
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| SHOT FROM THE SPRING MOUNTAIN RANGE, LOOKING TOWARDS LAS VEGAS. TODAY, THE ONCE EMPTY LANDSCAPE AROUND LONE MOUNTAIN IS SURROUNDED BY A NEW COMMUNITY. |
Lone Mountain was only accessible by driving west on Cheyenne
Avenue.
When the pavement ended, it was a dusty trek through the desert to
get there.
Stress, the bumpy road and endless string of abandoned appliances preoccupied Milo.
Lost in thought, he didn’t notice what attracted photographers and tourists; an exquisite palette of pastels that the
late afternoon sun projected onto the puffy clouds above the gray rocks and
azure sky.
In the distance, Vidál’s
late-model beige Plymouth Duster approached. Milo
focused on his dragging tailpipe and the sparks it caused. Vidál parked. Three accomplices remained at the car as he met Milo and handed him a 38º.
During their conference, Milo checked the breach, spun
the cylinder, removed the bullets and reloaded.
He looked through the barrel, clicked off the safety, tucked the
gun into his jeans and fastened the bottom two buttons of his jacket.
At 5:15, a beat-up, navy pick-up with Arizona tags appeared. Two Hispanics ominously rolled past them. Behind the colossal rock, they stopped next to a beat-up, avocado refrigerator.
The driver remained inside
as a squat, empty-handed passenger, in a bright yellow windbreaker
approached. His scowl and deliberate
gait added to the tension. From a
comfortable distance, the principals stared each other down with Vidál’s
henchmen standing in readiness, thirty-feet back. Overseeing the situation, the supplier
remained in the truck.
The squat man called out, “Got dee moany?”
Vidál growled, “Got the goods?”
The driver wearing a long winter coat, cuffed jeans and decrepit steel-toed motorcycle boots stepped out. Leery, carrying a sleek black attache, he advanced to a cracked toilet.
He set the case atop the tank and barked, “Dinero.”
Inside the leather case, four
clear rectangular plastic bags filled with the powdery, white commodity were
revealed. Vidál snapped his fingers
signaling his second in command to test the product.
To get a better look, the Brazilian holding
the cash lost his balance and lurched forward. In a panic, the yellow-jacketed man brandished an automatic pistol
and sprayed the three unwitting Brazilian underlings.
Simultaneously, the winter-coated wheelman produced a shotgun and screamed, “Throw down you guns.”
Vidál
cursed them in Spanish as a hidden, third Hispanic came out of the truck and shot him in the shoulder.
Yellow jacket took aim
at Milo’s face, “On you
bellies!”
He rigidly marched to the
original victims and finished them with a single shot to
their temple. In addition to the
Brazilian’s money, he collected their weapons.
Milo glanced at writhing Vidál and was
kicked in his ribs.
His assailant bellowed,
“He’ll live.”
The squat man in the yellow jacket patted down Milo, found his money and gun and yelled, “Vamanos!”
Milo peeked and saw the flash of a scruffy boot coming at his face. Instinctively, he drew his hands up. He
succeeded in deflecting the blow but suffered a broken right thumb.
The third Latino shot out a tire from Milo and Vidál’s car. The trio fled with $50,000 and the cocaine they brought in good faith.
Luckily, Milo wasn't included in the human carnage. But he didn't come to work that night nor was he for the next nine weeks.
*
Milo Vesuvio,
in financial ruin was soon two months in arrears on his mortgage. He liquidated his rental properties, sold off
his sparse furnishings and every day feared his car would be repossessed. Still, he hadn’t put a dent in his debt with friends.
His mother turned her back
on him even though Rachel did return what she referred to as: the world’s
smallest diamond ring.
Milo did
face a tax audit and was overwhelmed by the fear that the police were secretly
putting together a case against him.
While all this was going on, Jack remained his friend. Inundated with guilt and pride, Milo didn’t ask for any monetary assistance...and Jack
never offered.
Vesuvio
was back to work for several weeks when the Stardust changed the craps
crews. He had glimpses of greatness but
never for a sustained period. A pariah,
his continuous parade of “satisfied customers” neither stopped to watch him
deal nor waved as they passed. Instead,
his detractors neared 100%.
*
Unrelated to Milo,
after one month with my new crew, I (along with the other three dealers) were fired. In the weeks that followed, my life spiraled downward as my daily
aggressive routine of looking for a new job evolved into barely trying.
I fell from the pinnacle of my field and without hope, I floundered into deep depression. Out of boredom, I reached for the newspaper.
Inadvertently, I opened to the obituaries.
I had never read a death
notice in my life and I joked to myself, “At least someone has it worse than
me.”
I was right, the first obit was for Emilio “Milo” Vesuvio.
*
A week earlier, at the gate to Milo’s community, his mom insisted that she be allowed in. Together with a guard, they went to his house. She rang the bell several times until using her key.
Inside she was shocked to see the house unfurnished and the broken mirror glass on the floor below where the Victorian picture frame had hung.
In the basement, in the empty space where Milo’s antique roll-top desk used to be, she discovered her son. His crumpled body was clutching his
cherished ivory handled revolver. It seemed he had taken a self-inflicted shot
through the heart.
When the
detectives arrived, they had trouble deciphering the illegible suicide note:
Rachel, I believe and hope that I am not what many people say I am.
*
The priest (a stranger) delivered Milo’s
eulogy to a small gallery that consisted of his mother, her friends, associates
and Jack. The kind words began solemnly
with an ironic statement about Emilio’s value for life.
Midway through the
tribute, in a somber tone the clergyman cited, “Man is not easily content. First he finds things too easy and then again
he is not contented enough but he must not talk about it but continue quietly
on his way.”
Towards the end the priest
pronounced, “We could never expect to truly understand the psychology of
anyone’s attitude. In retrospect, we can
all imagine Emilio’s intense battle with right and wrong. Where some of us might have been more
resolute or resilient, he was torn apart.
Seeing only his present predicament, he couldn’t see or wasn’t willing
to thrash out a clear path to the future.”
In closing, the priest reminded
the congregation, “Let us not judge him.
Unconsciously we all see love as a means for survival. Perhaps seeing that notion as a weakness, Emilio chose to resist the conformity of a formal, pure responsibility to
others. Ultimately with a skewed sense
of love, he couldn’t face himself.”
In the
first pew, his mother lingered after everyone had left. She had remained strong throughout the
service but now openly sobbed. The priest allotted her ample time to meditate,
before coming down from the pulpit to console her. In a comforting manner, he gently put his
hand on her shoulder.
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| WHEN ASKED OF THE BOY'S FATHER, MILO'S MOTHER SAID, "HE RAN OUT ON ME WHEN I BECAME PREGNANT. STUPIDLY, I NAMED HIM VINCENZIO AFTER HIS FATHER. THAT'S WHY I CALLED HIM MY HIS MIDDLE NAME, THE WORLD DIDN'T NEED ANOTHER VINNY." |
“Father,”
she lamented. “Is there a place in heaven for dealers?”
The priest
wasn’t privy to Milo’s avocation so he
responded in terms of the casino industry, “Even built on the strongest
foundation, an emotional house of cards is likely to fall. Please believe me;
people in far less noble professions have been ushered through the pearly
gates.”
Milo’s mom realized the confusion and chose not to
clarify the matter.
Rather, she sunk her head and without
any conception of Milo’s lifestyle said, “It’s
almost strange he didn’t end his life even earlier than he did."
*
During the follow-up investigation, one of the detectives
pretended to be transfixed on the vivid hues of the splattered blood and
guts. Mockingly, he held his fingers up
to frame the gore. He reflected upon the previously sanitary white wall
that had displayed the lithograph collection.
“Hey
Lenny,” he quipped to his partner as he turned on the track lighting. “Look
ultra-modernist.”
*
Be careful who you hate. The world's worst jerks are probably willing to cut off a piece of their ear, to enjoy love and live your normalcy.
