LADY IN THE DESERT (The True Story of the Flamingo as Told by Benjamin "Bugsy" Siegel)
First off, don't call me Bugsy. Don't ever call me Bugsy. Not so I can hear anyway. It's Ben. Benny if you like. Thank you. As for the Flamingo, I'll tell you straight away that almost everything you've heard, seen in the movies and the like -- how it was first concieved; built; named; etcetera -- is strictly a fabrication. I'd use a stronger word but I'm a gentleman.
The Hollywood types would have you believe that it was I, Benjamin Siegel, who first hatched the idea to build an "oasis" in the desert; a palace rising outa the Mojave like a mirage; a vision imagined by some drunken goatherd whose brains had been fried by the sun -- and that it was me who named it the "Flamingo" in honor of my lady friend, Virginia Hill. While this makes for a great yarn it simply ain't so. Let it never be said that Benny Siegel didn't give credit where credit was due. The Flamingo was really the idea of a guy named Billy Wilkerson. Billy owned Ciro's, a joint in L.A.; a nightclub that all the Hollywood hotshots frequented: John Wayne; Marlene Dietrich. Even my old pal Georgie Raft. Anybody who was anybody hung out at Ciro's. I'd known Billy for years. We'd bend an elbow every now and again at The Stork Club in New York. Billy loved The Stork Club. It was his favorite joint in the entire world. He often told me how he wished his own place, Ciro's, could exude that kinda class -- that elegance you normally only got to see in Europe or on the French Riviera. Fuck John Wayne and Marlene Dietrich.
Like I say, Billy was an okay guy. Very personable. Always with a joke or story to tell. And very successful. Ciro's might not have been The Stork Club, but lemme tell ya it was a friggin' goldmine just the same. Excuse my French. Like most high fliers Billy had a fatal flaw. It's either booze, broads or gambling. For Billy it was gambling. If you pissed your pants Billy would bet on which leg it would run down. Billy would bet on everything from the ponies to prizefights. I even took some of his action. The thing Billy really loved though was all them sawdust joints along Fremont Street. He'd charter a plane and fly in from L.A.; spend the afternoon, sometimes the weekend. There were days Billy would fly outa Vegas 50 Gs lighter than when he arrived. Billy had the fever. And he had it bad.
One day a friend of Billy's said: "Billy, if you like gambling so much, why not own the house?"
This was how Billy got the idea for the Flamingo. Billy was a dreamer though. A guy who imagined things on a grand scale. Like yours truly. He wasn't just gonna build another cowboy joint like the dives on Fremont. He was gonna build The Stork Club right there in the middle of the Mojave desert. A place that would be every bit as elegant and glamorous as those joints on the French Riviera; where all them high rollers he catered to back home could come to drop a bundle. He even decided to call it the "Flamingo" so people would be reminded of The Stork Club. Flamingo. Stork. Both exotic birds. Capice? As Charlie Lucky would say. So much for the bit about me naming the place for Virginia Hill.
Let me set the record straight about me and Virginia. It wasn't exactly the great love affair Hollywood's made it out to be. Don't get me wrong. Virginia was a helluva kid. A real spitfire. Had a temper to match mine and then some. She was alotta fun to be around . . . most of the time. Knew what she was doin' in the sack too. Liked it a little rough but that was fine by me. Romeo and Juliet we weren't though. As for me naming the Flamingo for her 'cause she was long and leggy . . . well . . . Virginia was many things but long and leggy she wasn't. Virginia was short and buxom. "Rubenesque" as she liked me to say. A little fat in the can but nothing wrong with that. Actually the whole name thing was kinda ironic since Virginia hated flamingos. Was attacked by one while vacationing in the Caribbean. Go figure.
Anyway, gettin' back to Billy. He borrowed a ton of dough using Ciro's as collateral; bought a parcel of land from some crazy old broad living in a shack out on what's now The Strip -- and set about building the Flamingo. Had it more than half finished by the time I stepped in. Like I mentioned earlier, Billy had the fever. Had it in spades. He went and gambled away the money he needed to finish the place, and with Billy mortgaged to the eyeballs and his "problem" a topic of the rumor mill, there wasn't a bank outside of Timbuktu that'd lend him another nickle. That's when I heard opportunity knock. I got my old cronies Charlie Luciano and Meyer Lansky to pony up the cash and I became Billy's "partner."
I gotta admit, at first it was strictly all business. I thought Billy was really onto something. Not just a gambling joint but fine dining and cocktails; a lounge for top-notch acts like Lena Horne and Henny Youngman. And a hotel attached to it all. First-rate accomodations to match anything you'd find at The Plaza or Waldorf in New York. The Flamingo would have it all. I'd spare no expense. That's when I got the fever. What was supposed to cost a million turned into two million. Then three. Then four. Six million before it was all said and done. I was getting calls and telegrams from Meyer Lansky asking what the hell was going on. Six million dollars for a gambling joint in the middle of the desert? Had I flipped my stack? Charlie Luciano was foaming at the mouth. Where was all the dough going? For shit sakes put the brakes on. But I couldn't. Not even if I wanted to.
Not only was I spending money like a drunken Shiek, I was getting ripped off. Imagine me, Benny Siegel -- strong-arming pushcart operators when I was thirteen; cofounder of Murder Icorporated -- I was getting took. I'd have palm trees trucked in from California and at night the same guys who made the delivery would steal 'em back and sell 'em to me again. But I didn't know. Or maybe just didn't care. The only thing I cared about was the Flamingo. It was no longer Billy's dream. It was my dream. I forced Billy out. Gave him some dough. Told him it was his choice. He could either have the silver or the lead. He took the silver. Billy was no dope. The Flamingo was all mine.
I watched it grow, day by day. From a bunch of planks and beams and cement and plaster to a palace. It meant more to me than any dame. More than money. It meant more to me than my two daughters. God help me for saying it. It was beautiful. Majestic. The Flamingo was my lady. There would never be another. One night, shortly after it was finished, I stood watching it from a distance; all lit with neon. A thousand stars in the desert sky. Stars like I never seen sleeping on that fire escape back in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, when I was a kid. Looking up at the night sky and dreaming I'd do something big. But nothing like this. A thousand stars in the desert sky but the Flamingo was the brightest. That was it. I'd done it. Benny Siegel had fulfilled his destiny. I knew it. Just like a part of me knew it was already over. I didn't see it when the end finally came. Never knew what hit me. That's all you can ask for in my business. Bye, bye Benny.
They tore it down eventually. Built an even bigger place. Bigger but not better. If you visit the Flamingo today, out back by the wedding chapel and the exotic bird habitat where they keep the African penguins and flamingos (Virginia would shit), you'll find a little memorial: a stone and plaque bearing my face and name. A memorial for Benjamin Siegel. The man who built the Flamingo. At least they didn't call me Bugsy.
*Author's Note*: Bugsy -- excuse me -- Benny Siegel's photo hangs on my wall right next to a matted and framed fragment of a legal document bearing his actual signature. I believe I was channeling him as I wrote this piece of fiction. Rest in peace Benny -- Quinn
The Hollywood types would have you believe that it was I, Benjamin Siegel, who first hatched the idea to build an "oasis" in the desert; a palace rising outa the Mojave like a mirage; a vision imagined by some drunken goatherd whose brains had been fried by the sun -- and that it was me who named it the "Flamingo" in honor of my lady friend, Virginia Hill. While this makes for a great yarn it simply ain't so. Let it never be said that Benny Siegel didn't give credit where credit was due. The Flamingo was really the idea of a guy named Billy Wilkerson. Billy owned Ciro's, a joint in L.A.; a nightclub that all the Hollywood hotshots frequented: John Wayne; Marlene Dietrich. Even my old pal Georgie Raft. Anybody who was anybody hung out at Ciro's. I'd known Billy for years. We'd bend an elbow every now and again at The Stork Club in New York. Billy loved The Stork Club. It was his favorite joint in the entire world. He often told me how he wished his own place, Ciro's, could exude that kinda class -- that elegance you normally only got to see in Europe or on the French Riviera. Fuck John Wayne and Marlene Dietrich.
Like I say, Billy was an okay guy. Very personable. Always with a joke or story to tell. And very successful. Ciro's might not have been The Stork Club, but lemme tell ya it was a friggin' goldmine just the same. Excuse my French. Like most high fliers Billy had a fatal flaw. It's either booze, broads or gambling. For Billy it was gambling. If you pissed your pants Billy would bet on which leg it would run down. Billy would bet on everything from the ponies to prizefights. I even took some of his action. The thing Billy really loved though was all them sawdust joints along Fremont Street. He'd charter a plane and fly in from L.A.; spend the afternoon, sometimes the weekend. There were days Billy would fly outa Vegas 50 Gs lighter than when he arrived. Billy had the fever. And he had it bad.
One day a friend of Billy's said: "Billy, if you like gambling so much, why not own the house?"
This was how Billy got the idea for the Flamingo. Billy was a dreamer though. A guy who imagined things on a grand scale. Like yours truly. He wasn't just gonna build another cowboy joint like the dives on Fremont. He was gonna build The Stork Club right there in the middle of the Mojave desert. A place that would be every bit as elegant and glamorous as those joints on the French Riviera; where all them high rollers he catered to back home could come to drop a bundle. He even decided to call it the "Flamingo" so people would be reminded of The Stork Club. Flamingo. Stork. Both exotic birds. Capice? As Charlie Lucky would say. So much for the bit about me naming the place for Virginia Hill.
Let me set the record straight about me and Virginia. It wasn't exactly the great love affair Hollywood's made it out to be. Don't get me wrong. Virginia was a helluva kid. A real spitfire. Had a temper to match mine and then some. She was alotta fun to be around . . . most of the time. Knew what she was doin' in the sack too. Liked it a little rough but that was fine by me. Romeo and Juliet we weren't though. As for me naming the Flamingo for her 'cause she was long and leggy . . . well . . . Virginia was many things but long and leggy she wasn't. Virginia was short and buxom. "Rubenesque" as she liked me to say. A little fat in the can but nothing wrong with that. Actually the whole name thing was kinda ironic since Virginia hated flamingos. Was attacked by one while vacationing in the Caribbean. Go figure.
Anyway, gettin' back to Billy. He borrowed a ton of dough using Ciro's as collateral; bought a parcel of land from some crazy old broad living in a shack out on what's now The Strip -- and set about building the Flamingo. Had it more than half finished by the time I stepped in. Like I mentioned earlier, Billy had the fever. Had it in spades. He went and gambled away the money he needed to finish the place, and with Billy mortgaged to the eyeballs and his "problem" a topic of the rumor mill, there wasn't a bank outside of Timbuktu that'd lend him another nickle. That's when I heard opportunity knock. I got my old cronies Charlie Luciano and Meyer Lansky to pony up the cash and I became Billy's "partner."
I gotta admit, at first it was strictly all business. I thought Billy was really onto something. Not just a gambling joint but fine dining and cocktails; a lounge for top-notch acts like Lena Horne and Henny Youngman. And a hotel attached to it all. First-rate accomodations to match anything you'd find at The Plaza or Waldorf in New York. The Flamingo would have it all. I'd spare no expense. That's when I got the fever. What was supposed to cost a million turned into two million. Then three. Then four. Six million before it was all said and done. I was getting calls and telegrams from Meyer Lansky asking what the hell was going on. Six million dollars for a gambling joint in the middle of the desert? Had I flipped my stack? Charlie Luciano was foaming at the mouth. Where was all the dough going? For shit sakes put the brakes on. But I couldn't. Not even if I wanted to.
Not only was I spending money like a drunken Shiek, I was getting ripped off. Imagine me, Benny Siegel -- strong-arming pushcart operators when I was thirteen; cofounder of Murder Icorporated -- I was getting took. I'd have palm trees trucked in from California and at night the same guys who made the delivery would steal 'em back and sell 'em to me again. But I didn't know. Or maybe just didn't care. The only thing I cared about was the Flamingo. It was no longer Billy's dream. It was my dream. I forced Billy out. Gave him some dough. Told him it was his choice. He could either have the silver or the lead. He took the silver. Billy was no dope. The Flamingo was all mine.
I watched it grow, day by day. From a bunch of planks and beams and cement and plaster to a palace. It meant more to me than any dame. More than money. It meant more to me than my two daughters. God help me for saying it. It was beautiful. Majestic. The Flamingo was my lady. There would never be another. One night, shortly after it was finished, I stood watching it from a distance; all lit with neon. A thousand stars in the desert sky. Stars like I never seen sleeping on that fire escape back in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, when I was a kid. Looking up at the night sky and dreaming I'd do something big. But nothing like this. A thousand stars in the desert sky but the Flamingo was the brightest. That was it. I'd done it. Benny Siegel had fulfilled his destiny. I knew it. Just like a part of me knew it was already over. I didn't see it when the end finally came. Never knew what hit me. That's all you can ask for in my business. Bye, bye Benny.
They tore it down eventually. Built an even bigger place. Bigger but not better. If you visit the Flamingo today, out back by the wedding chapel and the exotic bird habitat where they keep the African penguins and flamingos (Virginia would shit), you'll find a little memorial: a stone and plaque bearing my face and name. A memorial for Benjamin Siegel. The man who built the Flamingo. At least they didn't call me Bugsy.
*Author's Note*: Bugsy -- excuse me -- Benny Siegel's photo hangs on my wall right next to a matted and framed fragment of a legal document bearing his actual signature. I believe I was channeling him as I wrote this piece of fiction. Rest in peace Benny -- Quinn
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