The Colossus Conspiracy

Stories of down on their luck gamblers who went from rags to riches in one lucky session were commonplace in Vegas. And for good reason.

With every new roll of the dice, the hope of winning provided a mega-kilowatt adrenalin rush, better than the first snort of blow. Life was wonderful and it stood still for those few seconds as the dotted red cubes tumbled from the shooter’s hand across the green felt and came to rest at the far end of the oblong table.

It was the same glorious high a blackjack player felt when he called for a hit and turned a thirteen into a twenty-one, or watched the dealer bust out.

It was "gaming" not gambling, and the slots were referred to as "the machines", as in "Does he play tables or machines?" It had an innocent ring and the jargon carried over to the money too.

A five dollar chip was a nickel, a $25 chip was a quarter or green, as in " green plays", and a hundred dollar token was never referred to by denomination. It was always "black" or a buck. A guy making a sports bet would say "Gimme a buck ten on the Lakers minus the seven" and the ticket writer understood the bet was for $110. A "dime" or "large" meant a thousand as in " I had two dimes on the Cowboys, or he’s up forty-seven large.

The city could make your heart race like the engines of an Indy car on Memorial Day.

You could put casino chips in the collection plate at Sunday mass, find a sports book to make a line on whether the end of the world would come on a weekend or weekday, and visit the best parts of the most fascinating cities in the world for the price of a cab ride up and down the famous Las Vegas Strip.

And even though the new billion dollar mega resorts kept putting in roller coasters, motion rides and arcades, Vegas was not a place for kids, no matter what the Chamber of Commerce said. Not unless casinos started giving kids credit lines or setting up booster seats at the blackjack tables.

It was a town of wise guys as much as it was a city of lights. In Vegas everybody had a scheme or a dream. Most of the time merit had little to do with your ultimate success. It was more important who you knew or who you blew.

The natives called it "juice", and in Vegas "juice" was more important than money. If you had "juice" you didn’t wait in line to check in, or to get into shows or restaurants. And you didn’t pay for squat. The acronym, "RFB", stood for Room, Food and Beverage, and it meant all your charges were compliments of the casino.

And the wise guys had their own code of ethics. They didn’t abuse their power. They didn’t ask too often, and they never raised their voices. Their most sensitive requests were handled in a tone no louder than a whisper, like an eight-year old making his first confession.

When Dominic "The Donut" Donato rose from the high-back leather chair at the head of the long oak conference table an immediate quiet came over the room.

The other four men gave him their full and undivided attention, and with good reason.

At 66, he was still a strong stump of a man with powerful shoulders and the solid build of a wrestler or retired football lineman. And despite his sagging jowls his huge hands and massive arms proved he was still as strong as a bull.

Legend had it that he had earned his nickname in the 50s when he had single handedly murdered three men foolish enough to try to double-cross him. After killing them with his bare hands he sat at their table and gorged himself on the freshly baked donuts they had brought from the corner bakery that same morning.

" The Donut" had done nothing to diminish his reputation as a cold-blooded killer in the ensuing years, and now, as the senior member of the five major Cosa Nostra families he commanded respect. Donato had risen through the ranks, and had the support of virtually every capo and foot soldier on the street, which is why he had been elected chairman of the family heads by unanimous vote.

Donato had also learned to change with the times. He knew the families could no longer solve all their problems through violence or gang wars, and he had demonstrated on more than one occasion that he could mediate disagreements and bring about compromise without bloodshed.

It was that rare combination of ruthlessness and reason that made him the perfect choice to cast the deciding vote when necessary.

" What we do is a business," he said looking around the table. " It’s like any other business, and we must do whatever we can to keep things running smoothly.

" We must always explore every option before we take physical action," he warned. And when we're dealing with a problem that affects someone out of your own territory it must be discussed before you are allowed to move.

"You can deal with problems in your own cities however you want to. The council will never interfere. Anything else we must talk about.

" Is that understood?"

The men in the room nodded.

" We don’t visit someone just because we don’t like them," he said slamming his fist hard on the heavy, newly waxed tabletop.

" There are times when we must set an example, but that doesn’t happen unless the majority of us in this room agree. Capish?"

There were whispers but no rebuttals.