Although Nevada was the birthplace of the quickie divorce and even quicker marriage, when Las Vegas first became the playground of the Rat Pack (and if you don’t know to whom I’m referring, don’t bother reading further), there were only a few hotels: the Flamingo, the Sahara, the Tropicana, the Frontier and, later, Caesars. It’s true that it all began with Bugsy Siegal, who opened the Flamingo with Meyer Lansky’s Mexican drug money. During the 1950s and 1960s, mobsters helped build the Sahara, the Sands, the New Frontier and the Riviera. In 1966 Howard Hughes checked into the penthouse of the Desert Inn and never left, preferring to buy the hotel rather than face eviction. He bought other hotels too—$300 million worth—ushering in an era in which mob interests were displaced by corporate conglomerates. Money from organized crime combined with funds from more respectable investors—Wall Street banks, union pension funds, the Mormon Church and the Princeton University endowment. Angels and demons; who was which was/is still the debatable question.
Entertainment then was much more remarkable because anything could happen. Dinner shows were the norm although there was a late show too. Oftentimes, one, or a few, of the Rat Pack boys would hop on the stage, with a dazzling smile and a drink in hand, no matter who was headlining, and take over the show if they felt like it, which they did do. Don Rickles gave Frankie as good as he got. Dean would sing along with Elvis. Wayne Newton was 15 when he first began performing; couldn’t legally drink but he could sing. His parents had put him on a Greyhound bus to Vegas and the rest was history. It wasn’t called child abuse then. Johnny Cash had just found God and, for whatever mysterious reason, subjected the audience to “His loving grace” with photoshopped screen shots of JC arm-in-arm with Cash, somewhat bemused that Vegas was not the place to find Jesus.
The non-headliner floor shows, too, were extraordinary. They were Busby Berkley inspired spectaculars with almost naked Amazon goddesses waltzing around in pastel colored bikinis and tasseled pasties with matching feathered headdresses that were practically as tall as they were. Added to that were four inch heels and utter amazement on the audience’s part that these performers could even walk, much less dance in synchronized patterns.
Liquor flowed in copious amounts, like it was free, because it was free. Anyone gambling was offered a free drink — many free drinks. The more one drank, the more one gambled, the more one gambled, the more money was lost, so the more one drank. It was the circle of life. The tables themselves were very pristine, lustrous and elegant. There was never an empty table. At least one shill sat at each table. The mafia ran everything so the ladies were allowed to stay as long as they paid off the boss. Initially, I was very impressed at how elegant, and pretty, these ladies were, not yet having become quite sophisticated enough to understand their true job description. When I did understand that they were "ladies of the night" I was very curious, but never curious enough, or brave enough, to sidle up to one and ask about the line of work: OT? health benefits, etc., just curious.
Later, in the 70s a few more hotels popped up, then Steve Wynn opened the Mirage, the first mega-hotel and from there all hell broke loose. Old casinos were dynamited and one grandiose hotel after another went up on every corner. Each one more ridiculously extravagant than the next one. Enormous two storey mouth blown crystal chandeliers made to look like bouquets of flowers; koi filled rivers flowing under the glass floors; entire hotels had themes: Circus, Circus, the Venetian, Paris Vegas, like a Disneyland park for adults only.
We — me and a few office miscreants, on the other hand, were just out to have fun. We would leave the office at 5 pm, drive to the airport, hop a PSA flight to Vegas ($15 return) and land an hour later, all the while humming the Hall and Oats’ tune: “Sarah’s off on a turnaround, flying gambling fools to the holy land Las Vegas, sometimes she’s here, and sometimes she can’t be found, turn around.”
We would ogle the shiny hotels, their lights reflecting on the taxi that took us to the strip. We visited a different casino each time - equal opportunity employers. We would gamble a little at the slots or blackjack, eye the shills, watch a floor show or two, visit the more high end gambling rooms, dine at the “all you can eat for 99 cents” buffets, catch a side show, then return to the gambling dens for more gambling, depending on the kindness of Lady Luck, and looking out for another celebrity or two.
All the while being so naive and so impressed with ourselves, that we could stay up all night and not tire. There were no windows or clocks in those casinos; time ceased to exist. We didn’t realize that, as the evening progressed, so did the oxygen levels being pumped into the casinos. By 2 am we were inhaling pure oxygen. This was fine until it was time to collect each other and return on the first flight back to LA which occurred at 7 am. By 8:00 we were in the car and in the office promptly at 9 am. The bad news: since the office AC was not pumping pure oxygen, a very long day ensued. But it was Vegas, baby and what happens in Vegas. . . .
