The Mob’s Back
The mob is back in Las Vegas. (This assumes that the mob ever left). Soon there will be two museums dedicated to gangsters of the past. You’d think that Las Vegas would want people to forget its mob origins. Nope. In fact, the mayor, Oscar B. Goodman (who has represented many alleged mobsters) is very excited about the “Las Vegas Museum of Organized Crime and Law Enforcement.” (No, this is not my April Fools Day column). The mayor is somewhat upset because there is a rival museum that is scheduled to open soon. According to The New York Times, this other one is subtly named the “Las Vegas Mob Experience.” I hope the forces behind the two museums don’t settle their differences like the people they honor did.
The mob is back in Las Vegas. (This assumes that the mob ever left). Soon there will be two museums dedicated to gangsters of the past. You’d think that Las Vegas would want people to forget its mob origins. Nope. In fact, the mayor, Oscar B. Goo
dman (who has represented many alleged mobsters) is very excited about the “Las Vegas Museum of Organized Crime and Law Enforcement.” (No, this is not my April Fools Day column). The mayor is somewhat upset because there is a rival museum that is scheduled to open soon. According to The New York Times, this other one is subtly named the “Las Vegas Mob Experience.” I hope the forces behind the two museums don’t settle their differences like the people they honor did.
One of the folks involved in the Las Vegas Mob Experience is Antoinette McConnell, the daughter of Chicago crime boss – I mean, alleged crime boss – Sam Giancana. The place they have in mind will actually resemble a theme park more than a museum. One of the planned exhibits will be called, “Final Fate.” In this one, to get a feel for the way things were, a visitor has a chance of getting “whacked.” The little kids will love that one, won’t they?
Giancana’s daughter makes no bones, oops, no pretense about her father’s occupation. In fact, she says, “The Mafia is something people can’t get enough of.” When I close my eyes, I imagine how proud she’ll be when they cut the opening day ribbon with a knife that has been wiped clean of all fingerprints. It’s the kind of tribute that any daughter would like to give her late, beloved father.
I admit that I enjoyed going to Las Vegas back in the days that the mob ran the place. Allegedly. If you play blackjack today, your dealer is likely to be a pretty, young woman who decided to take that job instead of selling real estate. Back in the old days, it was a lot more exciting to have a scary looking dealer whose pinky ring was just slightly smaller than his head.
I’ve enjoyed watching movies and reading books about gangsters. I loved to watch “The Untouchables” on TV when I was a kid. However, in all of these earlier instances, the criminals were the bad guys. Maybe they fascinated us, but we weren’t building a tribute to them. As much as it might be fun to sometimes romanticize these people, they were criminals. They weren’t Robin Hoods. They were just hoods.
Mayor Goodman probably thought he had a way around this by not just naming the museum the “Las Vegas Museum of Organized Crime”, but adding “And Law Enforcement.” Yeah, right. Which exhibit do you think more people would be drawn to: one about John Dillinger being gunned down after he was lured to the movie theater by the “lady in red” or one that tells where F.B.I. agents buy their shoes?
So what’s behind these mob veneration ventures? What do you think? Money. The people who put together the deal for the Museum of Organized Crime and Law Enforcement were able to buy an old federally owned building for only one dollar. That’s because the building will be used for “cultural purposes.” The transported and rebuilt wall from the St.Valentine’s Day Massacre qualifies as culture? I guess it was between the crime museum and a new opera house.
Those behind these museums/theme parks hope they’ll bring in lots of money. They believe Las Vegas will get booming again because of interest in organized crime. Sounds like the old days. Like the old days, this gangster gambit has official support. Only this time it’s not under the table. The $42 million museum (the one the mayor likes) has been financed by state, federal, and local grants. And you thought the government wasted money on silly things.
But this is America, and I guess you can build whatever you want here. I know I’m not going to be the one to tell Giancana’s daughter that she can’t have what she wants.
Lloyd Garver has written for many television shows, ranging from “Sesame Street” to “Family Ties” to “Home Improvement” to “Frasier.” He has also read many books, some of them in hardcover. He can be reached at lloydgarver@gmail.com. Check out his website at lloydgarver.com and his podcasts on iTunes.
The Texas Perimeter Hike: Installment #8
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
We talked, the four of us, about what I was doing. After covering the basics of food, water, and shelter, our talk turned to El Paso and the US-Mexico border. Like chips at a Mexican restaurant, a border story is usually followed by another and another, each one as hot as the last.
I remember one about a friend of theirs, a hunter. The guy got in his deer blind early one morning, felt something different in the small space, but didn’t want to shine a light to see what it was. When the sun came up and his luck ran out with wild game, he turned his attention to the object he had felt earlier. It was a metal box, though he hadn’t remembered leaving it. He lifted the lid, then shut it. The box was filled with cocaine.
I don’t vouch for the tale’s authenticity. But the men touched upon a fear that’s been getting closer and closer ever since I left Corpus Christi. To borrow Lucky Day’s words, El Paso had become my El Guapo.
Fast forward to a few evenings ago. My panhandle tour in its final days, I walked out of the plains and into the desert landscape of West Texas. I camped out underneath a mesquite tree on a slope slightly beneath the level of the road. As the sunlight faded and a plethora of bugs and birds made a few last minute flights, I waited for the sky to fill with stars. Then I saw headlights.
At an intersection
I had passed not half a mile prior, a car stopped. The driver could have been doing anything – consulting a map, picking up
his cell phone, looking for a tissue in the backseat of the car – but with the veil of a dozen border stories clouding my vision I could think of only a single explanation: drugs.
When
another vehicle approached in the distance, the car in question took off. The driver didn’t peel out, but he seemed intent on making a getaway. I ducked down as he passed. It had the feel of a close call, and though nothing had happened, I left early the next morning.
I continued south to the lower left of the panhandle, trying to find the corner marker. What I found instead were the remnants of a survey site, a pile of cement chunks marked by a fading sign. Hidden in the jumble, I noticed something more, a canister. Good lord, it was even covered in camouflage tape. I reached for it, unscrewing the lid slowly.
No coke.
It was a geocache, a hobby-box for “treasure” seekers, filled with the signatures of people who, like me, were looking for the corner. I signed the register and left.
The way I’ve acted, you’d think I was already on the Rio Grande, but it’s actually a couple of weeks away. These infamous border tales which currently share an edge with my imagination will soon be very real. My name’s not Lucky Day either. I will be careful; I will be quiet; I shall overcome my fear.
Smatt is the penname of S.Matt Read. A writer, inventor, baker, and hiker, he is currently hiking the entire outline of the state. Follow his adventure here and at www.texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com and www.twitter.com/perimeterhiker.