And On and On It Goes
Las Vegas, 1987
Monsignor O’Leary glanced at his watch. He was ten minutes away from Saturday night supper. With any luck, this sinner would be his last for the weekend.
“Yes, my son?” He waited for the penitent to respond. He could see a silhouette beyond a screen. But it sat motionless.
The priest prompted the stranger and helped him recite the beginning words:
“Forgive me Father for I have sinned...” He waited for the man to repeat them.
The thick velvet curtains muffled the small confessional quite well. But O’Leary heard quite clearly when the man hissed at him.
“I’m not your Father. and I don’t give a damn about your sins...”
O’Leary froze. Then, calmly spoke.
“If you are not here to absolve your sins, you must kindly leave.”
“Not until you hear what’s going to happen to your buddy, Sergio Ramirez.”
Silence. Father Ramirez was his young associate priest, barely a year since ordination.
The voice paused.
O’Leary did the sign of the cross, and prayed silently to his guardian angel. And Sergio’s as well.
“When was the last time you saw him...” the voice paused, then added “...Padre?” The words were threatening, spoken with an acid sneer. O’Leary placed the accent as Italian, similar to many of his flock who came to Las Vegas from Chicago.
“That’s none of your business. Now for the second time, you must leave. Now.”
He pushed a red button wired to the rectory. A warning light would be blinking next to the rectory phone, but there was no guarantee anyone would notice it. If the housekeeper or his associate saw the red light, they would call Frank Vasquez, a retired police officer and parishioner who lived across the street from the church. If he was home he would walk over to the church and size up the situation. There were times when he escorted belligerent drunks out of the church. But there was no guarantee that Ted would be by the phone either.
The voice continued. “The last time you saw him will be the last time you will ever see him. Unless you bring your Sunday collection dough to a particular casino I will direct you to. You’ve got 24 hours to chum up with 20K, otherwise your boy’s dead body is dumped out in the desert. Capisce?
Before O’Leary could respond, he heard the confessional door open and shut. He heard footsteps hurry away and the church door echo. All was silent.
He turned off the confessional light and exited the church. At the church steps he was relieved to see Frank Vasquez hurrying towards him. “Are you all right, Monsignor?”
“Yes, thank you for coming so quickly, Frank.”
“I was able to get a look at the guy - youngish, probably a teenager, dark curly hair and skin. What was the red light about?”
O’Leary took a deep breath. “He claims he’s kidnapped Father Ramirez and he wants twenty grand. Said he needed it within 24 hours, and threatened to kill him.”
“My guess is he’s a punk. Mafia knows better. The kid jumped into a car, a beat up junker that looked as old as he was. I got a good look at his car license.” Frank unfolded a scrap of paper and showed it to the Monsignor. “I probably can do a search at the police department and see if they can identify the guy. But first, let’s go see if Father Ramirez is home.”
“Unfortunately, he’s not. He’s off this weekend, gone camping with some of his seminary friends.”
Frank pondered the situation. “Hate to say it, Monsignor, but we probably would be wise to gather up the money just in case. Do you have anything like that kind of cash in the rectory?”
“No, but I’m sure Bishop Hanrahan does. I will give him a call about this matter right now. Frank, would you like to come in?”
“Thanks Monsignor, but I’m going to head out to the police station. I will let you know if I find out anything. In the mean time, stay close to your phone, lock the church, and the rectory.
And yes, call the Bishop.”
* * *
Bishop Hanrahan heard Monsignor O’Leary’s plight and immediately called Moe Dalitz.
Moe Dalitz, a Jewish mobster in his Chicago days, knew every saint and sinner on the Strip. Most of them owed him money, information, and most of all respect. He was clever, and ruthless when necessary, enough to survive three decades as Vegas’ kingpin. Like a chess master, he knew how and when to call in or call out the Vegas Mafia families, skillfully doing lucrative business with each.
Moe was on an image campaign. He attempted to sweeten his life of crime, buying respectability selling real estate, hotels, and casinos. He often made generous donations to schools, charities, and building churches. His philanthropy served both as penance and public relations.
Bishop Patrick Hanrahan and Moe Dalitz had an unlikely friendship and long history, stretching back to the Chicago mobster era decades ago.
“Moe, I got a problem and I hope you can help me.”
“You know I can help you, Pat, and you know I will. How’s the new cathedral plans coming along?”
“We’re very grateful for your generous donations, Moe. It is unusual to have a cathedral on a Strip surrounded by casinos, to say the least. But it will benefit all our workers to be able to walk to church between shifts. And when we pass the basket we’ll surely to get some casino chips to cash in. All thanks to you, Moe.
“I know you are a busy guy Moe so I will cut right to the chase. I got a death threat to one of my priests this evening, some kid wanting 20K.”
“Well Pat, you know I wouldn’t be involved in chump change... you know me, if you go in, go big...”
The Bishop had a good belly laugh. “The Stardust is looking for a comedian, and as my favorite ahem... ‘Jewish land developer’ I am sure you will be a smash.”
“I’ll have my courier run it over to you within the hour, my friend. Anything else I can do for you Pat?”
“Yes - Moe. would it be a bother for you to check in with your favorite Mafiosos to see if they have any information on the 20K kid. It’s kind of corny, but I’d like to set the kid straight. We have this thing about the prodigal son. My priest sent the kid’s car license - ZC 378.”
* * *
“Vito, it’s me.”
“Hello, Mr. Dalitz.”
“Moe. It’s Moe, right? You can call me that, can’t you?”
“Yes sir.... uh, sorry, sure Moe.”
“That’s better Vito. Moe, Vito, Vito, Moe.”
“OK Moe, I got it!”
“Good. We’re friends and friends help each other, right? You heard about Tony and Mike?”
“Yeah, everybody heard. Damn shame.”
“Live by the sword, die by the sword.” Moe continued. “I got this kid I wanna help avoid that kind of stuff. Italian kid, name Lorenzo, talks Chicago Italian. Can you do some calls and find out everything the Mafia knows about him? Specifically, he is trying to extort cash from a priest.”
“I can swear that ain’t anything the Mafia would tolerate.”
“Yeah Vito, everybody knows that, except this kid, Lorenzo.”
“Okay, can do. How much is he demanding?”
“20K.”
“Gotta be a rookie.”
“That or dumb.”
“Okay Moe, I will take care of this.”
“Vito, how’s the family?”
“Which one, Moe?”
“You got me on that one,” Moe laughed. “My best to Gina and your kids.”
* * *
When the 24 hour period ended, Monsignor O’Leary reached for the phone. The acid voice identified a casino where the bag of bills was to be placed on a specific hotel desk at 6 pm sharp. “No funny business... or you will never see your friend alive.”
O’Leary did as he was told. He loaded a bag with the bills. He arrived at the casino five minutes early, and was surprised to see one of his parishioners.
“Hello Vito! What are you doing here?”
“I know it’s the Lord’s Day, but I got a job to do in just a few minutes. Sorry I had to miss Mass this morning, Monsignor.”
“Let me guess, Vito. Something about Bishop Hanrahan, and a dumb kid wanting 20K in cash.”
“Bingo, Father. Not wanting cash. Needing it. It turns out the kid owed that to a bookie, who was threatening him to cut off a few fingers.”
The two of them, O’Leary and Vito, stood by and watched the bag of bills on the desk. At precisely 6 o’clock, a figure with sunglasses in a hooded sweater dashed past the desk, grabbed the bag, and disappeared through a stairway door. He was gone in a split second.
Monsignor O’Leary sighed. “On and on it goes, doesn’t it?”
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