Booze, Broads, And Blackjack: A Deadly Combination

By Carl J. Nicita

It was supposed to be just a fun-filled weekend in Vegas. But when a philandering radio DJ takes his ditzy girlfriend to a celebrity blackjack tournament in the 1970's, the trip meets screeching a dead end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781682223277

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Prologue

Syracuse, NY – Sometime in the 1970s

The two mobsters were out of breath, struggling to lift the thick roll of carpeting from the trunk of the ruby red 1967 Impala hardtop.

Careful! Careful! Vinny Bombayo exhorted to his partner Philip Parisi, as they hoisted the bundled up load, and dropped it with a loud thud, into the pickle green dumpster.

Slamming down the trunk, the duo retreated into the coupe and Vinny cranked the engine. Clicking on the radio tuned to WCUS, 1020 A.M., they listened as the familiar voice of all night radio disc jockey Jack King announced the next song, Killing Me Softly by Roberta Flack.

Parisi, lighting up a smoke, laughed, and uttered the ironies of life and death.

As the classic car whizzed down the narrow alley, a shadowy figure emerged from the parking structure behind the northside medical complex. Her tiny, ivory hands struggled, lifting the black lid to toss an empty Styrofoam coffee cup into the trash bin.

Following the white cylinder as it plopped into the receptacle, she gasped in horror observing human fingers protruding from a rolled up sheath of grungy, berber carpet.

Suddenly headlights from an oncoming red and white trash truck pierced the pre-dawn darkness and rumbled slowly down the alley.

Dropping the lid, the young woman scampered back inside the parking structure out of sight, terrified she had been spotted snooping in the trash container.

Circling back around the block, Vinny and Philip turned westward down the potholed strewn alley. Waiting patiently, they witnessed the Larry’s Sanitation rig’s hydraulic lift jiggle, then convulse the rotting contents of garbage and the remains of Paul Rossi, a degenerate gambler, into the belly of the mobile beast.

Rossi, a working stiff and father of five young children, owed the hoodlums $15,000 in unpaid gambling debts.

The pickup is right on schedule, Vinny giggled cart him off to the dump with the rest of the trash.

The mob boss delivered a victorious thumb-up to the truck’s driver, Larry Barone, who could see Bombayo’s approving smile through his sideview mirror.

As the elevator doors opened, the young lady impatient for its arrival, glanced to her left and noticed the dark red Impala strolling purposely through the one-way, commercial corridor. She hurried in, jamming the up-button, while praying she would go unnoticed.

Please God! she said to herself, expelling a labored breath as the heavy steel conveyance whisked her four stories skyward.

The elevator music system’s Don’t Fear the Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult only magnified her anxiety.

Chapter 1

"That’s Burning Love by Elvis. And you KNOW I’m burning for you baby! This is ‘The King of the Airwaves’ reminding you that you can do anything you want – if you really want to!

The time is 5:55 – Hard-dick comes at six. Here’s Billy Swan to help you out – I’m off to Vegas baby!"

With that, popular all-night radio man John Jack King popped off his microphone and threw his headset down. He saw the big, blue light of his request line flashing on the wall.

He snapped up the phone one last time before leaving the studio. Hit line, GO! he barked into the handset.

"You’re a no good liar Jackie! I really want to do you and I can’t" the female with the southern accent said sarcastically on the other end.

Oh Savannah, you sexy tease, King laughed back. If I wasn’t attached at the hip, you know we’d be getting down tonight, baby! What’s up?

Savannah, the station groupie cooed back, I just wanted to wish you luck in your gambling tournament and say I wish it was me going with you…hint…hint. That girl Misty is no good for you.

Thanks hon. Hey I gotta go – your real lover is here. Bye! John hung up the receiver before the lass with sass could say anything else.

Just then the studio door flew open. In rushed a tall, bearded hippie, with an arm full of music cartridges and dangling papers. A red light started flashing indicating the song on the air, I Can Help by Billy Swan was ending. The sandy haired, middle-aged hulk, reeking of cigarettes and stale beer, threw a cartridge into an open slot, and cracked open the microphone.

It’s six AM. Good morning, Central New York and he hit a button. On the air popped a chorus of jingle singers: "W-C-U-S!!! We are the Cuse in Syracuse!"

Over the top of the thumping musical beat the DJ announced "Willie Hardick starting your day with the O’Jays and Love Train on the Cuse."

With the microphone off, Hardick asked Jack, who was logging the six AM transmitter reading, Was that Savannah Holly?

Yeah, our number one groupie, King responded. She won’t leave me alone. The woman insists Misty isn’t right for me.

"Jack, you little shit! She is really hot for you. Why not give in and take a shot. She is one primo hot mama, believe me, Hardick told him. I’m sure she’d be down for a DJ sandwich!"

Maybe someday – who knows? But for now I’m off to the real City of Sin! the young Italian said.

"All right dude – have fun and win big – or lose it all you little prick."

King Jack left the studio, and ran down the steps of the radio station to the disc jockey lounge. He threw his headset into his locker and grabbed his fur-lined denim jacket.

Stepping outside, the crisp morning air was stabbing. It was only 29 degrees - quite chilly for mid-October. Soon the dreaded snow would be flying. DJ Jack shuddered at the thought.

The 29-year-old radio star got in his car and cranked the engine. Ventura Highway, by America began flowing from his car radio. He sighed deeply as he turned up the volume.

His dream was to be working the airwaves in sunny California. Located far away from the cold, harsh winters he was now forced to endure. Some day! Somehow! Some way!

Driving to his apartment, the up and comer could barely keep his eyes open as the morning sunrise crossed the horizon. It had been a long night. And the stuffiness from his car heater only made it worse.

He would grab about three hours of sleep and then get ready for the long awaited trip to Las Vegas, Nevada with his attractive girlfriend Misty Rebel.

The all night radio Royal climbed the two flights of stairs and walked down the narrow hallway. He quietly unlocked the deadbolt on the apartment door. He didn’t want to wake up his roommates Larry and Sandy.

Best buds, growing up in the Italian northside hood, John Monarca (his real last name, which in Italian translates to King) with his pal, Lawrence Peter Barone, rented an apartment together while attending community college. Despite the passage of years since they graduated, they still shared the same pad in the old neighborhood.

The only difference is Larry had his girlfriend, Sandy, move in as well. More power to him! If he didn’t work the graveyard shift, Jackie would probably have Misty living there too.

He tiptoed his way in the emerging dawn light, dodging empty beer bottles scattered on the living room floor. Creeping through a dimly lit hallway he accidently stepped on a cat’s tail.

Rowrrr moaned the calico feline, owned by Sandy.

Jackie whispered, Sorry, Pricilla, I didn’t see you in the dark.

Once in his bedroom, he fell on the bed - kerplop. His wind-up alarm clock squeaked as he set it for 11:00 AM. Then, poof – he was out like a light.

Clang, Clang, Clang! The alarm clock shocked him awake. King jumped out of bed, took a long deep breath, and was totally energized.

Finally! The time had arrived to fly to the city in the desert for a $25,000 blackjack tournament and a weekend of pure fun and non-stop sex with insatiable girl Misty. There was only one thing that made this young stud the horniest - gambling.

Just as the Jackster got out of the shower the phone rang. Still dripping, he picked it up and answered, Hey, Misty, – I’ll be ready in about twenty minutes, hon.

The scraggly, male voice on the other end of the line cracked, Misty? Do I sound like a Misty? It’s me, your uncle Vinny he laughed.

Oh, it’s you Uncle V! I thought you were my --- never mind. What’s up?

Uncle Vincenzo Bombayo was like a surrogate dad to John Monarca. Being his Godfather, he looked after him since the time of his brother-in-law, Salvatore Monarca’s untimely, suspicious death, when little Johnny was a mere ten years old.

Well, listen up Butch, I hear from your roommate, Larry, that you’re going to Vegas for - some type of gambling junket or something?

That’s right. My flight leaves in a couple hours.

Well lissen, I have some friends there. Where will you be staying? The raspy voiced, Sicilian uncle inquired.

I’m booked at the Starburst.

Perfect! Perfect! Now, do me a big favor. Write down this phone number; and when you get there, call my associate Nicky. He works right there at the Starburst. He will set you up with a top class suite, and you’ll get the works.

Hey, Uncle V, that’s okay, but I already got reservations there. That’s why I’m going to be playing in the tournament; I received a celebrity V-I-P invite.

Hey Butch, fuck that celebrity shit, Vincent interrupted. This is going to be better. Nick is one of the big guys okay? So, just go along with what I’m saying. Who knows, you just might win that fucking tournament the uncle gurgled a laugh. "The only thing is, you gotta meet up with Nicky and he’s gonna give you a briefcase to bring back with you.

"Listen, this is very important. Don’t open the briefcase. You can’t anyway because it’ll be fucking locked, whatever you do, don’t let anything happen to it. Guard it with your fricking life! As soon as you get back to town, bring that sucker over to my joint in Cicero. Capice?"

Sure Uncle Vinny. I’d do anything for you. You know that. Johnny felt a twinge of uneasiness in his stomach.

Briefcase? he wondered to himself. Hope it’s not filled with drugs or money – or both! He shrugged his shoulders.

Okay, so what’s the phone number? The kid jotted it down. I have it. I’ll bring you the briefcase as soon as I get back.

It was 11:30 AM. Outside he heard a car horn. He peeked out the window and saw the beige ’73 Fiat. It was Misty.

John took one last gulp of coffee, grabbed his suitcase,