MY LAW FIRM OF: IMPERIALE, IANUCCI AND IZZO.

Easily overlooked in my five years of working in Las Vegas were the adventures, misadventures and life lessons I experienced, during leisure time.



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In early 1979, I befriended three coworkers at my first casino job, (Slots-A-Fun). Interestingly, they were all blackjack dealers, Italian-Americans, (Imperiale, Ianucci and Izzo), New Englanders, (Connecticut, Massachusetts and Rhode Island), and most importantly, fat.  Okay, very fat.

SOMEHOW WITH ALL THE HIGH-PROFILE RENOVATIONS TO LAS VEGAS, THE FLEA-BITTEN TOILET NEXT TO CIRCUS CIRCUS CALLED SLOTS-A-FUN STILL EXISTS, (WITHOUT LIVE TABLE GAMES).

At 185 pounds, I was a Lilliputian compared to my friends. Ianucci and Izzo were about my height but weighed 260+.  Imperiale, a college football player, was an out of shape 6 foot 5, 310-pounder.

WE WERE ALL UNATTACHED. IMPERIALE AND IZZO HAD THE GIFT OF GAB AND THOUGHT THEY WERE GOD'S GIFT TO WOMEN.  I T WAS A GOOD SPOT FOR ME IF WE EVER MET A GROUP OF GIRLS BECAUSE I'D ATTRACT THE CUTEST ONE.  TOO BAD, THAT NEVER HAPPENED.

On Thursday nights, we went out on the town.  Our access to excess was limited because at Slots-A-Fun, we grossed $170.00/week. Our paltry pittance spent on entertainment had to done carefully rationed. We gravitated to downtown Vegas, specifically the El Cortez Casino.

The "Tez," was away from the other "Glitter Gulch" clubs. It catered to locals and won our hearts with a twenty-five cent craps game, free liquor and a $3.95 steak dinner, (it should be noted that we bought two dinners each and doggie-bags were NEVER necessary).

Other casinos had similar amenities. The El Cortez's allure to knuckleheads like us was, it had a rustic charm that translated to, a real feeling of the wild west. To prove it, the first week I was in town, a drunken old-timer in a wheelchair was denied a spot at a crowded 25c craps table. He got pissed, pulled a gun and got off three shots. Luckily, the lowlife didn't hurt anyone. Management recognized that three bullet holes, (in a slot machine, wall and ceiling), was a marketing boon and didn't repair the damage, (their ploy certainly attracted us).

40 YEARS LATER, THE "TEZ" IS STILL SO UGLY THAT ITS GLAMOUR SHOTS MUST BE TAKEN AT NIGHT. 

To keep our amusement fresh, on three occasions, we went to the jai-alai fronton, in the MGM Casino. Jai alai is a racquetball-like game that originated in the Basque region of Spain. Players use a long hook-like basket, (cesta), to catch and throw a ball, (pelota), off a wall. Each player has odds based on their ability and spectators place bets...like at the racetrack.

THE SAFEST BET IN THE WORLD IS THAT JAI-ALAI IS RIGGED. NOTHING IS MORE FRUSTRATING THAN SEEING THE ACROBATIC GUY YOU BET ON, SCALE THE WALL, FLING A "KILL-SHOT" FROM A MILE AWAY AND THEN WITH THE GAME ON THE LINE, DROP ONE THAT FREDDY MULLER'S 93-YEAR OLD GREAT-GRANDMOTHER FROM CANARSIE COULD HAVE RETURNED...WITH HER GOOD EYE SHUT.

Admission to jai-alai was $2.00 But the REVIEW JOURNAL had a dollar-off coupon for Thursdays.

The last time we went Izzo, (our unofficial leader) said, "We don't need no freakin' coupons no more. I gotta connection, I'm gettin' us in free!"

At the turnstile, Izzo said, "We're with Tompkins."

The ticket taker welcomed us in with a big smile, "Yes sir and good luck gentlemen."

That night was the only time I ever won anything "big." I gave my friends a deuce to bet while I went to the bathroom. When we were re-united, I was handed a ticket for the 2-5 exacta but I wanted the 5-2.

I whined, "Idiots!  My law firm of Imperiale, Ianucci and Izzo will never be trusted with my family fortune again."

It was too wordy, so I switched it to the Law Firm of, DEWEY, CHEATEM AND HOWE. They liked my, "THREE STOOGES," reference and after that "wrong" ticket won me $56.00, the nickname stuck.

WE HAD NEVER MADE A THREE STOOGES REFERENCE BEFORE BUT AMONG MEN SO MANY OF THE ICONIC ROUTINES; LIKE DEWEY, CHEATEM AND HOWE ARE UNIVERSAL.

I returned from cashing in my ticket with a round of beers.  We were already toasted and started loudly carrying on.  Soon, two armed (but benign looking) security guards asked us to tone it down.

We complied and still had a quieter, raucous time. During the next game, we reverted to our loud, immature and profane ways.  A wealthy looking little guy wearing Bermuda shorts, a white Izod shirt and a gigantic, gaudy golden medallion around his neck approached . Behind him was a posse of three zoftig, dead-serious security guards and a plainclothes supervisor talking into a walkie-talkie.  I guessed we were going to be read the Riot Act.

We shut-up and took our feet off the movie theater-like seats in front of us. Like four choirboys ready to spazz-out into laughter, we sat-up, ready for a second warning. But the little guy in the shorts did all the talking.

We were already giddy so fighting off our snickers was almost impossible as he stuttered, "J-j-j-just, w-w-w-where, d-d-d-do, y-y-y-you, g-g-g-get off."

By the time he got that far into his statement, my eyes were glued to the carpet to hide my hilarity.

Finally, Mr. Tompkins burst through and announced, "Just where do you get off using my n-n-name to get in here !?!!!?"

We were ejected and under the threat of being arrested, permanently barred from returning.
That meant we had to become more creative for our next entertainment idea.  And the solution was a less traditional form of gambling.

One unseasonably warm, early-April afternoon, we decided to go horseback riding. Somewhere in the middle of the nowhere, south of McCarron Airport was a stable. Before signing-up, my three rotund buddies attacked the vending machines.

We played pool in the barroom, had some beers and took a shot on their nickel slot machines. The cowboy dude at the window was indifferent to us even after Imperiale offered him a Three Musketeers candy bar. He made it seem like a chore to ask one of the three girls in the office to serve as our trail guide. They said it was too hot for the horses.

Izzo pointed his Slim-Jim at the attendant and said in his mock-Bostonian accent, "Lookit, we came all the way from freakin' Providence..."

A deep tanned, hyper-skinny girl (20), in long, black pig-tails stood-up and snarled, "I'll go."

She was wearing tattered jeans and an open, buckskin vest over a white tee-shirt.

The girl didn't introduce herself. Her rugged, high-cheeked face was plain and dominated by a big hooked nose.  She turned to lead us outside. Her vest shifted as she looked back at us.  Her shirt's thin material revealed the sharp, erect nipple of her left, pancake-like breast.

Ianucci and I shared grins then he crowed, "Her brights are on!"

My law firm of Dewey, Cheatem and Howe began the competitive, clannish ritual of metaphorically banging their chests as if to signify that Olive was their "goyl."

The guide brought four saddled horses and one bareback pinto into the paddock.

"We're going for a walk," she said. "These mares don't like running in this heat."

She helped me saddle-up first and my horse let out a piercing neigh.

I said, "Mine is bragging because he lucked into the skinny guy."

The guide said, "HE'S a mare. That means, he's a she."

I said, "Oh. What's HER name?"

"Bessie!"

I said, "Good. And yours?"

She groaned, "Sunbeam."

I said, "I meant your name, not the horse."

The guide said, "Sunbeam is my name."

Moon-eyed Izzo aggressively stepped forward, "Sunbeam? Are you an Indian?"

"No! I'm a Native American."

He smiled, "Sure you ain't from the O'Houlihan tribe?"

Sunbeam huffed, "I'm, part Choctaw, part Hopi...if that's what you mean?"

Izzo tossed what was left of his beef jerky on the ground and said, "Even if you're not a thoroughbred, you're very pretty when you're angry."

She gave him a dirty look and muttered, "Pig."

Izzo said, "Heh?  You say sumthin'?"

She ignored him and turned to Imperiale, "Mr. BIG, you're riding Gussie."

Izzo walked back to face her, "Hey missy.  After work, whatcha yiz do way out here fuh fun?"

Sunbeam looked past him and said to Ianucci, "You got Bella."

Izzo lifted his shirt and crowed, "Wanna rub my sexy belly?"

She spit onto a manure pile and scattered some flies.

He said, "I know. Ya savin' me for last.  I betcha ya got sumthin' special for me."

Our muted guide stopped to lift the last horse's left, front hoof. She shook her head and led it back into the stable. Seconds later, she came back with a different, much larger horse. Behind her back, Izzo pantomimed grabbing Sunbeam's rear-end.  He then gaped at her as she helped him mount-up.

Izzo was secure in the saddle as he stared down at her meager chest and said, "What's my cute little horsey's name...Cupcakes?"

Sunbeam put her hand across her bosom and said, "His name is Budweiser! And like most WISE-guys, he spooks easy."

Sunbeam let out a primal scream, ran up behind her pinto, and like in the movies, bounded up onto the horse's back. I was impressed.

Our journey on the desert trail was ugly, boring and slow. The encrusted, cement-like, brown terrain was dominated by litter and horse crap. The only joy I got was the harmless jokes the other three made at the expense of the ranch and Sunbeam.

*INTERNET PHOTO*   THE PART OF THE DESERT WE WERE IN WAS NOT THE WILD, PRISTINE LANDSCAPE I EXPECTED. INSTEAD, WE WERE SURROUNDED BY BROKEN GLASS, ABANDONED MAJOR APPLIANCES AND HOUSEHOLD TRASH.

Izzo said, "C'mon honey, you ain't no real Indian...I mean Native American."

She didn't respond.

Imperiale said, "I bet she's from Akron and her name is Sally Smith, Mary Jones or Shirley Quackenbush."

I was the only one not laughing so Sunbeam rode along side me.

In a short time, the glaring sun took its toll.

Izzo stared out at the vast wasteland and moaned, "Where can we go for a drink?"

Sunbeam said, "The horses will be okay until we get back."

He said, "I was talking about us. Us humans."

She whipped out a small crescent-shaped leather pouch from her back pocket, squirted water in her mouth and said, "Not too smart coming to the desert unprepared?"

Izzo said, "You're as funny as an IRS audit."

Imperiale said, "Is that why you guys don't like coming out here?"

She said, "We usually only come out in the morning this time of year."

Ianucci said, "We aren't halfway through spring.  What do you do in the summer?  Ride at night?"

"You city boys wouldn't understand."

Izzo said, "Yous ain't the kind of earners I'd want in my crew. What kind of business is this? A non-profit organization."

Sunbeam said to me, "Yeah, you guys sound very organized."

I played dumb, "What do you mean?"

"You jokers remind me of my dago father."

Loud enough for all to hear I said, "Dago? What's a dago?"

She said, "You know, a wop, a guinea, a..."

I said, "Heh?"

She said, "Are you sure you're an Italian?"

I said, "Positive, I'm not Italian at all."

"Oh," she said. "You're all so annoying.  I thought you jack-offs were Mafia goombas."

I called back, "Hey Imperiale, Ianucci, Izzo...Sunbeam here, doesn't like you olive-skinned Mediterraneans. She thinks you're Mafioso !"

Izzo coaxed Budweiser forward and rasped, "We been nuthin' but nice to you SUNBEAM and all we got back is attitude. Now turn your red neck, and Native American ass around and take us back."

Suddenly there was a sharp hissy, clicking sound as a rattler arose from between two rocks. The snake startled Budweiser.  The huge horse reared-up like a bronco.  Izzo screamed like a twelve-year old girl. Budweiser, like a firecracker exploded in his butt, took off. Izzo slipped sideways off the speeding horse and hung on with his torso parallel to the ground.

Imperiale said, "Aren't you gonna help?"

Sunbeam said, "Sure!  But I'll wait till that lard-ass Italian stallion hits the ground."

Like a fine Arab charger, Budweiser galloped for a half-mile before stopping. Somehow, Izzo didn't fall off. Sunbeam walked us to him.  He was swaying and clinging to the saddle's horn like his life depended on it.  The poor bastard looked stoned, was as pale as a sheet and I expected him to pass-out or wretch. Sunbeam waited until Izzo was focused on her before offering a sip of water.

Izzo croaked, "I'm one hurtin' buckaroo," as he made a feeble attempt to snatch her leather water pouch.  To make it easier for him, she grabbed his reins to stabilize Budweiser.  She led us back.

Soon the stables were in sight. Izzo felt stronger and cursed like a longshoreman the rest of the way. He was unkind to Budweiser, particularly ignorant to the snake and saved the worst obscenities for the ranch. At no time did he direct negativity towards Sunbeam.

Nobody spoke as we got off our horses until Imperiale, Ianucci and I politely thanked Sunbeam.  Izzo took Sunbeam aside and gave her a ten dollar tip.

She thanked him and said, "No hard feelings?"

"Of course not. I'm sorry if I insulted your heritage."

Sunbeam smiled, "No.  Don't apologize.  You were actually right. I'm what you would call Heinz-57.  But there's no Native American blood in me.  It's just a good act for you eastern tourists."

Izzo scratched his inner ear with his pinkie and said, "Any dago red flowing through your veins?"

She smiled awkwardly, "Yeah, my dead-beat dad..."

"It don't matter," Izzo said. "And to prove how bad I feel, let me take you out tonight."

"Nah," said Sunbeam.  She gave back his money and frowned, "go treat your buddies to ice cream."

Izzo said, "Don't be that way.  Lookit, we're not tourists...we're dealers at Slots-A-Fun..."

Sunbeam silently turned her back on him and disappeared inside.



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The names of all the horses were changed to protect the innocent.  Except Budweiser, his name was too cool and too perfect.