Booze, Broads and Blackjack: There's More to the Story

By Carl J. Nicita

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

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483597362

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AUTHOR

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 ‘Sneaks’ Bombayo exhorted to his partner Philip ‘Smokey’ 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 North Side 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, Sneaks and Smokey 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 ‘Mayo’ Barone, who could observe Bombayo’s approving smile through his side-view 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 clock on the wall says 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 host 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 studio wall.

He snapped up the phone one last time before leaving the broadcast booth. "You’ve dialed the Cuse! Speak to me" he barked into the handset.

Hey sexy! Guess who? a female with the southern accent coed on the other end. Oh Savannah, of course! King laughed back. I can’t believe it’s still October and it’s going to snow. I hate the weather in Syracuse.

I know baby. But someday you’ll get your dream and move to California, answered back Savannah Holly, a twenty-year-old radio groupie. "Now if I could get my dream and have you! I’d move with you in a heartbeat. But right now, I would settle with a trip to sunny Vegas. We’d get drunk, win lots of money, and I’d fuck your brains out, honey."

I have no doubt, King laughed. But, you’d have to get me to break up with Misty, first, which ain’t going to happen. I got to run, but I’ll talk to you when I get back.

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 a.m. Good morning, Central New York As he hit a button, on 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 deejay announced "Willie Hardick starting your day with the O’Jays and Love Train on the Cuse."

With his microphone securely turned off, Hardick asked Jack, who was logging the six-a.m. transmitter reading, Was that Savannah Holly?

Yes, 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 really has the hots for you. Why not give in? She is one primo hot mama, believe me, Hardick told him. I’m sure she’d be down for a deejay sandwich!"

Maybe someday – who knows? But as of this moment 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 departed the studio, and galloped down the steps of the radio station to the disc jockey lounge. He tossed his headset into his locker and grabbed his fur-lined denim jacket.

Stepping outside, the crisp morning air was stabbing. The twenty-two-year-old radio star got in his car, a beat-up 1966 Ford Falcon and cranked the engine. Ventura Highway, by America began flowing from the car radio. He sighed deeply as he turned up the volume.

Jack ruminated on what Savanah, his devoted admirer had told him. They talked a lot on the phone, but never met. She knew his ultimate dream was to work the airwaves in sunny California. And she was restless like him, wanting more out of life. Surely, she would join him if he ventured west.

Compare that to Misty, who didn’t share Jack’s dream.

It would be such a delightful change from the gloom-filled, cold harsh winters he now had to endure. "Some day! Somehow! Some way!" He thought to himself.

Driving to his apartment, the all-night host could barely keep his eyes open as the morning sunrise crossed the horizon. It had been a tiring shift. And the stuffiness from his car heater only made his dreariness worse.

There wouldn’t be any time to grab some sleep before his long-anticipated trip to Las Vegas, Nevada with his luscious girlfriend Misty Rebel.

Arriving home, King, whose real name was John Monarca, Jr., climbed the two flights of stairs and walked down the narrow hallway. He picked up a newspaper lying in front of the door and quietly unlocked the deadbolt. He didn’t want to wake up his neighbors in adjoining apartments.

Once inside, he closed the door, entered the kitchen and announced: "Honey I’m home. Are you getting ready?’

Jack tossed the newspaper onto the kitchen table. As it landed with a thump, he read the headline on the top fold of the paper:

Dead Body Found in Landfill

Suspected Mob Hit

Making his way in the emerging dawn light, crossing the living room floor Jack headed to the bedroom. Misty, I’m home. Are you getting ready for our trip?

Pushing open the bedroom door, he saw his twenty-six- year-old girlfriend, sound asleep in bed. Jack climbed into bed curling up next to her. He ran his hand through her sheer, pink night gown, and fondled her silky, smooth breasts, nudging her awake.

Whispering, he said, Honey, it’s after seven. We’ve got to get ready to go the Vegas. Are you okay?

Extremely groggy, Misty’s eyes fluttered, but couldn’t open. Finally, the slits of her eyes peeped dismally at Jack.

He took Misty’s soft hand and gently kissed it. Jack then sat up and his sullen faced lady put her head on his shoulder. The young Sicilian leaned in to kiss her full-on.

She raised her index finger and touched his lips to block him.

Confused, he asked, What’s wrong, babe?

At first there was no response. She just gazed intently into her young Italian’s hazel eyes. Her now open emerald eyes began to well up, slowly at first, then erupting into a steady stream.

Oh Jack, I just don’t…know.

Know what? he asked softly.

A lot of things, she blurted. Oh, never mind! I guess I just don’t feel well.

Jackie pulled out a tissue and gently dabbed his lover’s tears. You’re not feeling good? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?

Suddenly it began to run through Jack’s mind. It’s that time of the month! That could be good or bad, but usually it’s bad.

Well, she answered, I didn’t want to spoil our trip.

Then he let it out. I knew it. You’re starting your period? Great! No sex for me this weekend.

Wrong, she started to cry again, this is what I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like our relationship is only about sex.

"No, no, no! That is not true." Jack said defensively raising his voice. He hated being put on the defense.

Suddenly, the telephone on the nightstand next to the bed clanged to life. Misty, still tearful, answered it, with a sniffle. It’s for you, she said plopping the handset into Jack’s palm.

At the other end of the line was a scraggly, male voice. It was that of Jack’s uncle, Vinny Bombayo, who was calling his nephew from his strip-club office, located about fifteen miles away, in Cicero.

Hey Butch, what’s wrong with the broad? She sounds like she was crying. Anyway, rumor has it you’re going to Las Vegas for a gambling tournament.

Yes, it’s a twenty-five-thousand-dollar blackjack tournament. We leave for the airport shortly. Why do ask Uncle Sneaks? Jack quizzed back.

His uncle persisted. I have my reasons. Is the broad going with you?

Looking over at Misty, Jack replied, Yes, she’s joining me in Vegas.

As the phone conversation continued, Misty glanced back toward her boyfriend. She bore a worrisome look.

Jack then concluded the phone call with: Well, just so it doesn’t take too long. Okay, I’ll see you in a few.

When he handed the phone back to Misty, she slammed the receiver into the cradle.

What does that jerk want? she demanded, obviously upset.

He wants me to stop by and see him at his office before we go to the airport. Jack answered back.

You mean at that cruddy strip club? What for? Misty’s voice was trembling.

Jack rolled his eyes, and then sighed. Honey, I don’t know. I’ll find out when we get there.

Still agitated, Misty then cracked, You and your damn uncle. I don’t know why you’re always having to drop everything you’re doing whenever that sleaze calls. I can’t stand the pervert.

Trying to head off further argument, Jack snapped back, Misty stop it! You know damn well why! He raised me since I was ten years old. And I owe him a lot.

Congested from tears, Misty shot back snidely, Yes, I’m sure you do. Just like a lot of other people. Whatever!

By now Jack