Through a glass, darkly

I'm an angel with a dirty face.

Havana, Cuba, December 22, 1946

The air was thick with cigar smoke and rum. Outside, Havana pulsed with music — mambo spilling out of nightclubs, tourists stumbling down the Malecón — but inside the Hotel Nacional, the city belonged to Meyer Lansky. The American accountant.

The ballroom was closed off, curtains drawn, chandeliers burning low. One long table stretched down the center, draped in white linen, covered in whiskey glasses, notepads, ashtrays. Around it sat the most notorious individuals in America — Lucky Luciano, flown in quietly from Italy; Frank Costello, Bugsy Siegel, Albert Anastasia, Santo Trafficante. Each with their own crew, their own territory, their own grudges.

The prospects of a new casino in the harsh deserts of Vegas was a key topic of discussion. "Flamingo" it was to be called. The other gentlemen scoffed, but Lansky backed him for the vision of what Vegas could become. Hours passed in smoke and whispers. Deals struck, tempers cooled.

The plan was in motion. First Havana, then Vegas, and finally, Switzerland.

20 years later

Mr Lansky, why are the American authorities after you?

Well apparently some newspaper man wrote that I have $300 million.

Is it true?

[chuckles] I wish I had a million dollars. They accuse me of making a president. Now, I don't know Mr. Nixon any more than what I've seen in the newspapers. They claim I have 50% of Lebanon casinos. 50% of Monte Carlo. Now how ridiculous can we really get?

Mr. Lansky, is there such a thing as organized crime?

[long pause] I have no knowledge on the subject.