1940s
The room smelled of sweat, stale cigar smoke, and money – the kind that changes hands too fast to keep track of. Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel perched on the edge of a plush velvet chair, not bothering to hide the irritation twisting his handsome features.
“We protect the workers on that dam,” one of the suited men at the table said, voice thick with a Chicago accent, “We keep things running smooth. See that as an investment, Mr. Siegel.”
Bugsy scoffed. “Investment? You bleeding me dry, Meyer. And for what? Some goons to make sure the concrete sets? This town’s a graveyard, not a goldmine.”
Meyer Lansky, the sharp-eyed numbers man of the East Coast mob, smirked. “Got a better idea to fill those empty rooms at your fancy Flamingo, Bugsy?” His voice was a deceptive purr that masked a mind like a steel trap.
A bead of sweat trickled down Bugsy’s temple. The Flamingo, his dream rising out of the dust with its swanky rooms and a casino floor that would knock their socks off, was bleeding him dry. Construction costs were ballooning, and those union goons from Chicago were squeezing him for every dime. Yet, Meyer was right. Vegas was a gamble, but Bugsy’s gut – the same gut that had pulled him up from the slums of Brooklyn – told him this was it. The next frontier. He just needed an edge.
“Gentlemen.” His voice took on that smooth, dangerous tone that got people listening. “We ain’t just building a hotel here. We’re building a paradise. What’s a paradise without a touch of sin, am I right?” He leaned forward, the flicker of the chandelier catching in his eyes. “Legalized gambling. That’s the juice that’ll put this desert oasis on the map.”
Silence filled the room, thick and heavy like the Vegas heat. Then Meyer burst out laughing, the sound harsh and echoing off the garish red wallpaper. “Ben, the Bible-thumpers running this state would sooner outlaw air than hand you a gambling license.”
Bugsy let a sly smile spread across his face. “You underestimate the power of persuasion, Meyer my friend. Money talks louder than preachers out here, and we’ve got plenty to make them listen.”
A hush fell over the room. They, the East Coast syndicate, the men who’d carved out empires in bootlegging and backroom card games, were used to operating in the shadows. Here, in this nowhere town, Bugsy was proposing they step right into the blazing desert sun.
“And how exactly do you plan on making those politicians see the light, Bugsy?” The question came from Willy, a hulking man with knuckles the size of grapefruit and a brain to match.
Bugsy winked, feeling a surge of dangerous excitement. “It’s simple, fellas. We play the long game. Get our hands into politics, grease the right palms, and rewrite the damn rule book. And when those roulette wheels start spinning, well, that’s when they’ll be thanking us for bringing salvation to Nevada.”
The room erupted in a cacophony of voices – argumentative, dubious, a few even tinged with a hint of awe. Bugsy let them talk, his own vision as clear as the crystal chandelier above. He saw it all: The money pouring in, the high rollers, the dames dripping in diamonds. Vegas wouldn’t be some dusty stopover anymore – it would be their glittering crown jewel.
