Dark Money

Dark Money

David Medansky

Copyright © 2016 by David Medansky. All rights reserved. No part of this document may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the authors and/or the publisher.

First Edition 2017

MMXVII

All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Except for obvious historical events, this book is entirely a work of the imagination. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the authors or the publisher.

Library of Congress

Control Number: 2016951281

WGA(W) Registration Number: 1848983

Medansky, David

I. Title 1. Las Vegas. 2. Mafia. 3. Law

4. Chicago Board of Trade

ISBN: 978-1-938015-59-5

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-938015-60-1

Hybrid Global Publishing

355 Lexington Avenue

New York, NY 10017

Contents

Dedications

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Epilogue—May, 1992—Eighteen years later

About the Author

Dedications

This book is dedicated to my beautiful wife, Debbie, and to my parents Lloyd and Eileen.

This book is also dedicated in loving memory to:

Lawrence Allen Medansky

April 7, 1955—July 14, 1974

Line Editing/Proofreading by: Patrick Hodges

Front Cover by: Molly Phipps

Special thanks to Martin Seldin who inspired me to write this novel and for introducing me to Big Julie of Las Vegas.

You cannot worry about the past, what has been; you can only focus on the future, what will be. If you dwell on what has been, you will miss what can be. Sometimes good is found in the darkness of a soul.

—David Medansky

Be who you are and say what you feel because those that mind don’t matter and those that matter don’t mind.

—Dr. Seuss

Prologue

Chicago-October, 1962

Paul Bazzoli sat across from his boss, Anthony Sindler, in a booth at Chicago’s Pizzeria Uno’s on Ohio Street, a large deep-dish pizza positioned between the two men. Neither had touched the slice of pie the waiter dished out on the small plates in front of them. Bazzoli, although hungry, dared not touch his food until his boss finished his homily and ate first.

Sindler continued, The money we take from the casino is our money. It’s not stealing if we take cash from ourselves. We just don’t show it on the books as revenue, so we don’t pay taxes on it. Think of it as our piggy bank.

Alright boss. I’m just nervous that the IRS might start breathing down on us. Bazzoli feigned worrying about skimming money from the casino; a ploy to keep his boss from learning the truth. He skimmed from the skim; a calculated risk given the nature of his employer.

Fuck the Internal Revenue Service. Who gives a shit what they think? They can’t prove a thing. Go ahead and eat. Your pizza’s getting cold.

With that Bazzoli took a mouthful of the delectable mouth-watering pizza. He had a glass of Chianti to wash down his afternoon meal.

Bazzoli, a member of the Outfit, a Chicago crime syndicate, was a lieutenant for Sindler. He traveled to and from Las Vegas every other week to collect money from the various casinos owned and operated together by Midwest ‘crime families’ from Chicago, Kansas City, Cleveland, and Milwaukee. These Vegas casinos included the Dunes, the Sands, Hacienda and the Riviera. The position paid him handsomely. Despite the generous compensation, he wanted more. Gambling was a license to skim and everybody wanted a piece of the action. Bazzoli felt no different.

Sindler paid the check and spoke softly before parting ways. See you in a few days my friend. Be safe.

Bazzoli took a taxi to O’Hare Airport to catch a United Airlines flight to Vegas. Happy to leave the Windy City in October for a warmer climate, he smiled as the cab arrived at the terminal.

The United flight landed at McCarran Airport in Las Vegas at approximately four p.m. The Vegas sky, clear with nary a hint of clouds, and an early evening temperature of seventy-two, greeted passengers flying the Friendly Skies. The warm sun began to fade in the western horizon. Bazzoli slipped through the airport terminal and caught a taxi to the Dunes.

The Dunes opened in May, of 1955 along with three other casinos: The Royal Nevada, Hacienda, and Riviera. Basically a low-rise motel casino, topped by a sultan statue, it was located diagonally across from The Flamingo. He checked into his lavishly furnished suite before heading to the casino.

The one-armed bandits buzzed with an electrifying noise of loud bells and chimes as silver dollars dropped into the cash trays with clangs and clatters. The cards at the blackjack tables fluttered with a soft murmur as players anxiously waited for the next hand to be dealt. The roulette wheel spun in quite silence as the ball whirled around, banging and clacking, before settling into a pocket indicating the winning number. Beautiful cocktail waitresses wearing short leather skirts and black sequenced halter tops that extended their bosoms, called out, Cigars, cigarettes, cocktails, moved to and fro around the casino.

Bazzoli, after refreshing himself in his room, made his way through the casino. Oblivious to all of the excitement, he methodically made his way towards the craps table. Smoky air hung in the casino intoxicating patrons.

Standing six foot one, weighing one hundred ninety-five pounds, he towered over the other players. He had an average build with dark brown hair and eyes. His rugged face was clean-shaven. He’d been to Vegas too many times for any of the exterior exhilaration to be meaningful. Besides, this was business, not pleasure.

He asked for a ten-thousand-dollar marker. The marker acted as a promissory note, credit with the casino. The pit boss came over, and had him sign a document. The dealer pushed ten-thousand dollars in chips to Bazzoli. He ignored the gawks and stares from several other players. He could care less if anyone else wondered about him and his large buy-in. It was none of their business.

How’s the table tonight? Bazzoli asked the dealer. He noted the dealer’s slicked back hair and formal attire; a white shirt and black vest.

The dice are cold tonight Mr. Bazzoli.

He took a deep calming breath and smiled. Outstanding.

A new person prepared to roll the dice. The person rolling the dice was called a shooter. Bazzoli put a purple five-hundred-dollar chip on the Don’t Pass Line. The stick person dumped the dice bowl out on the green felt layout and passed five dice to the shooter. The shooter, a tall, thin man in his mid-thirties, selected two dice. If the shooter rolled a seven or an eleven on the Come-out roll, Bazzoli lost his Don’t Pass Line bet. All of the other players who made a bet on the Pass Line won on a seven or eleven. If the roll was two, three, or twelve the Pass Line bettors lost their bets. Bazzoli won his Don’t Pass Line wager on a two or three. A twelve meant a push for the Don’t Pass bet. Any other number: four, five, six, eight, nine or ten would be marked as the shooter’s point.

After the shooter established a point, in order for the Pass Line bettors to win, the shooter had to roll the point number before a seven. If a seven appeared before the point, the Pass Line bettors lost and Don’t Pass Line bettors won. In its essence, craps was a simple game. Other side bets could be wagered after a point had been established.

The shooter turned to his lady friend standing beside him and said, Sweetie, blow a little kiss on these bones for me for good luck. She gently pursed her lips together and blew a soft kiss on the dice. After the lovely lady finished, he tossed the two cubes toward the opposite end of the table. They danced and spun on the table before settling down. The stick person called out, Nine, the point is nine, mark it! The dealer turned the puck used to indicate the point from Off to On and placed it on the box marked "Nine."

Several rolls later the shooter rolled a six and one. The stick person called out, Six and one, this shooter is done. Seven out, line away. A loud groan went up from all of the players at the table except for Bazzoli who won his wager. The seven came up before the point-number.

He played for several hours betting against the shooters. He was up more than fifteen thousand dollars when he asked to color-up his chips. The dealer counted the chips on the layout for the box person to verify. The dealer then passed twenty-five thousand dollars in large-denominated cheques to Bazzoli for him to take to the cashier’s cage. He tossed a purple five-hundred-dollar chip to the stick person and said, For the boys. It was a nice tip for the dealers who appreciated his generosity. He left the table without paying off his marker and headed to the cashier’s cage. Neither the pit boss, box man, nor dealer said a word about the marker.

Bazzoli knew his marker would mysteriously disappear leaving no evidence it ever existed. He used this one method, among others, to skim money from the casino. The casino personnel, aware of the skim, did not ask any questions. Every employee knew he worked for those who owned and operated the casino.

The cashier counted out twenty-five thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills in front of him. He quickly stashed the cash into a plain brown paper bag and brought it to the front desk. The clerk at the front desk handed him a private safe deposit box in which Bazzoli placed the bag. He kept the key and handed the box back to the clerk. The clerk placed the locked box in the casino’s vault for safe keeping. Tired from a long day of traveling, he retired for the night.

$ $ $

The next afternoon, dressed in a black suit, white shirt and conservative tie, nonchalantly walked to the front desk and removed the brown paper bag from the safe deposit box. He took the funds and made three separate deposits of approximately eight thousand dollars each into his personal accounts at three local banks.

Later, he returned to the Dune’s and strolled into the counting room. This was the most secured and sensitive area of the casino, where employees sorted and counted cash from the table games’ drop boxes, and he had full access. He entered without being questioned, or even acknowledged, by the employees. They were told by management to purposely ignore Bazzoli. He carried a large black brief case and filled it with cash. The currency, never logged in, or recorded, had no official record of it. For all practical purposes, the money could not be traced.

Paul Bazzoli left the counting room as silently as he entered and made his way to the airport to return to the Windy City. Once back in Chicago, Bazzoli delivered the loot to James LaPierta. LaPierta kept a portion of the currency for the Outfit and split the balance to Anthony Chiavola, Sr., Carl DeLuna, and Milton Rockman for delivery to their respective families. Each family received more than forty-thousand dollars a month.

٭ ٭ ٭

On a cold, dreary, windy day, typical of Chicago weather in April, Bazzoli met Sindler for lunch at the Club International, a members-only club for businessmen who could afford the hefty dues and wanted privacy. Club International, located in the Drake Hotel, was founded in 1920. It overlooked Lake Michigan. The Drake, designed in an Italian Renaissance style, rivaled the Palmer House.

I want out, Bazzoli began the conversation before they had a chance to order.

Sindler eyed Bazzoli with a suspicious gaze and took a drag from his cigarette, the tip which had a red glow as the smoke swirled in the air above his head. Out? Nobody gets out. The only way you get out is to die. Do you have a death wish? What’s all of this nonsense?

I’ve invested my own money in a few legitimate businesses and want to retire to enjoy the fruits of my labor.

Paul, you’re putting me in a difficult spot. The other families, they’re gonna wonder and ask a lot of questions.

I know, but I have a plan to escape this racket and make myself scarce. All I ask if you ever think you see me just pretend it’s not me. Can you do that for me? And one more thing, don’t believe everything you read about me in the newspapers. Bazzoli winked.

Sindler shook his head without saying another word. The two finished their meal, said their goodbyes and departed the Drake going their separate ways.

٭ ٭ ٭

The United red-eye flight from Chicago landed at McCarran Airport at approximately six a.m. The Vegas sky clear, with a beautiful orange and red hue, as the sun rose over the eastern horizon. The early morning sixty-five degrees eased Bazzoli as he exited the airport terminal and caught a taxi to the Dunes. Before he could check into his suite, two men grabbed him and forced him into the back of a black sedan in front of the lobby. Witness to the abduction stated that Bazzoli resisted, but the car sped off heading toward the desert.

The Las Vegas police did a cursory investigation based on an anonymous tip. They found a charred body buried in a shallow grave just off the Highway 15 running between Los Angeles and Vegas. Along with the body were Paul Bazzoli’s wallet and other personal items. A few weeks later, his disappearance and alleged demise appeared in the Chicago Sun Times obituary.

Chapter One

Evanston, Illinois-May, 1974

Edwin R. Goldberg sat in his seat in the back of the Economics classroom at Northwestern University pondering his future. A gorgeous spring day, the air outside was crisp, with nary a hint of fish stench, as it came off Lake Michigan. The bright sun distracted most of the students. Edwin was no exception. Except, the light that distracted him came from a different bright star. It shined from his girlfriend of six months, Valerie Taylor, a beautiful vixen with shoulder-length auburn hair, sparkling blues eyes, and a slender build. She gave Edwin a seductive wink causing his face to blush.

Goldberg, a soon to be an MBA graduate from Northwestern University, uncontrollably bounced his foot, nervous about his situation. His thoughts turned to his inability to land a job. The anemic economy and the war in Vietnam appeared to be winding down. It meant the frail job market for his skills would last longer. This recession had high unemployment that coincided with high inflation. ‘Stagflation’ became the buzz-word used by economists to describe business and the financial world.

Edwin, good looking, and tall, with dark brown wavy hair, wore glasses. His observant green eyes dazzled most women. Not very athletic, Edwin was geeky and shy. Valerie’s obsession for him to find a suitable job made Edwin’s stomach twist and churn. She came from a middle class family but wanted a more affluent life style. He also came from a middle class family, but had no assets or wealth of his own.

Her efforts to marry a wealthy student failed during her time at school. Desperate to become affluent, she chose Edwin as a last resort. She saw he had potential to find a lucrative position in the corporate world.

After class, Edwin escorted Valerie to his studio apartment just off Howard Street. As they walked, Edwin asked, Any luck with your job applications?

No! Valerie responded emphatically. Put off by the question. How about you? Her eyes searched his face.

He detected a hint of anger in her voice. I’ve sent out several resumés and contacted a headhunter, but no interviews yet, he countered.

I thought for sure you would’ve had several offers by now? What seems to be the problem? she said, her nostrils flaring slightly. This was not how she pictured her life.

Hell if I know. Only one of my classmates got an offer. It was for a large firm in New York. The market seems to be saturated with MBAs.

What is your plan B, so to speak?

Edwin hesitated before answering. Deep down he understood that Valerie wanted him to have a high-paying secure job. They’d discussed their future despite having been together for less than six months. I can always open my own business as a consultant.

Valerie gave him a wide-eyed look, Very funny. And what makes you think you can earn any money in this bearish economy?

Well, I could work with your father at the Exchange. What does he do exactly?

I’m not sure how to describe what he does. All I know is that he works for a floor trader as his assistant.

Valerie, early on in their relationship, had told Edwin about her father, Aaron Taylor. Taylor worked for William Beckwith, a floor trader at the Chicago Board of Trade. Prior to being Beckwith’s assistant, Aaron held his own seat on the Board of Trade trading soybeans and sugar. Unfortunately, Taylor made several poor decisions that resulted with him losing just about everything.

Taylor made substantial money, but recklessly managed it. The cliché that one day you’re up and your kids are going to an Ivy League school and the next day you’re mortgaging the home and cars was a truism for Aaron.

Please don’t beg my father for a position. It would embarrass me.

Edwin chuckled out loud—Did you really think I was serious about asking your father for a job? Come on, Val, you know I’ll find something soon.

Valerie didn’t say another word. Her mind raced with the thought of being married to Edwin, and what it would be like if he didn’t have a high paying job. She didn’t like the unpleasantness of it at all, and grimaced.

Meanwhile, Edwin, dead serious about working at the Exchange, gave it a lot of thought. Deep down he knew Valerie was right. He should not ask her father for a job. He planned to do some research about trading in the futures market immediately after finals if a job opportunity did not present itself. Each day he scoured the newspaper’s employment section and sent out his resume and cover letters. Even the headhunter he hired hadn’t had any luck getting him an interview.

After they arrived at Edwin’s residence, Valerie said, Can we order Chinese food from Golden Dragon? I have a craving for Lemon Grass Chicken.

Edwin’s stomach churned. It grumbled hungry for food. Fine, call it in. I’ll have the Curry Beef.

After their meal, Valerie plopped down on the sofa to study. Edwin remained at the small dining table. The table sat covered with his open books and a newspaper. Staring out the window, and unable to concentrate, he was jolted back to reality by a passing ambulance’s piercing siren.

Startled, Edwin knocked the newspaper on to the floor. It landed open, to a page with a small one inch-by-one-inch ad that caught his attention. The ad simply read, Earn $100,000 a year with a new company in the travel industry. Call 312-555-1212 for more information. Edwin clipped the ad and put it between the pages of his book. He thought it might be interesting to pursue if nothing else worked out.

Later in the night, Valerie said, I should get going. We both have early exams tomorrow.

I thought you were staying tonight.

"No, not