October, 1982. Frank “Lefty” Rosenthal walks out of the Tony Roma’s restaurant on Sahara Avenue carrying an order of take-out ribs. When he slides behind the wheel of his Cadillac Eldorado, the car explodes.  “Lefty”, legendary sports handicapper and boss of the mafia-connected Stardust casino, survived the attempted “amateur night” mob hit. But symbolically, the old Las Vegas, the Vegas run by the Chicago Outfit and entertained by the Rat Pack, was dead.

I’m too young to have seen Sinatra at the Sands or Elvis at the Hilton, but I remember the Vegas of the late 70s and early 80s. My grandparents lived a few miles west of the Strip and we knew the town well. Back then, nothing but empty lots separated their house from the emerald green glow of Caesar’s Palace, the glittering “L” atop the Landmark Hotel tower and the demonic neon clown outside Circus Circus. Today, wall-to-wall strip malls stretch from the Strip clear out to the edge of Red Rock Canyon. Naturally, I’m nostalgic for old school Vegas. And whenever I find myself adrift in Sin City’s sea of corporate megaresorts, velvet rope nightclubs and Carrot Top billboards, I seek out the past.

Bill’s Gamblin’ Hall & Saloon (formerly the Barbary Coast), opened in ‘79 at the corner of Flamingo Ave and Las Vegas Blvd, is where I like to stay. No, it’s not one of the Freemont Street classics, but on the ever-changing Strip, it's postively prehistoric. Bill’s sports a San Francisco-circa-1895 theme. Think dark wood paneling and lots of Victorian stained glass. All 197 rooms (a small hotel by today’s Vegas standards) were renovated in 2001. Flat screen plasma TVs and views of the Bellagio fountains are big pluses. Loud traffic noise from the Strip below, a big minus. But come on, this is Vegas, sweetheart. Sleep at home. The casino floor jumps 24/7 thanks to typically low table minimums. You can get $5.99 prime rib in the casino coffee shop at 3am. Over rubbery beef, undercooked eggs and weak coffee, I scan the Las Vegas Review-Journal sports page, tired eyes peeled for sure things and upsets. “Lefty” would be proud.

In the tourist brochure rack near the hostess stand, a pamphlet for the Vegas Mob Tour  catches my eye. Bob, our tour guide, hails from Chi-town. He’s dressed in a dark gray pin-striped gangster suit and speaks in a gravely baritone. Sounds cheesy, I know. But trust me, he’s perfect. Me, my girl, a newlywed couple from Kansas and two NYC buddies pile into the tour van, a comfy ten-seater equipped with seat-back video screens. History Channel-type clips about Vegas and the mob roll throughout the 2-1/2 hour tour.

The van stops at storied mafia hangouts, the Las Vegas Country Club golf course, Hilton sports book, the famous Tony Roma’s ground zero, the site of a legendary jewelry store robbery, shopping malls with mob histories and the house where Scorsese filmed scenes for his 1995 organized crime epic “Casino.” Along the way Bob tells gruesome R-rated stories of bloody mafia hits and heists. The boys love it. The ladies squirm. The tour wraps at the bronze plaque commemorating Bugsy Siegel’s original Flamingo hotel.

Gambler’s Book Shop sits in a scruffy neighborhood near downtown at the unglamorous intersection of 11th Street and Garces Ave. Serious gamblers looking to beat the odds—from high stakes whales to uber losers—know the store’s stock is peerless when it comes to strategy books and videos on poker, blackjack, slots, sports wagering, you name it. Casual gamers love the wide selection of general interest books on Vegas history, the mob, classic casinos, boxing, horse racing, the list goes on. As I browse the craps section, two well-dressed older gentlemen with thick Spanish accents stroll in. They’re looking for books on casino surveillance. To call them “shady characters” would be an understatement. Book Shop owner Howard Schwartz points them in the right direction.

I eavesdrop as the trio discuss degenerate card counters and chip thieves. They miss the good old days of “cheaters justice.” Those would be the “good old days” when blackjack cheats had their hands smashed with ball peen hammers. Schwartz spies me heading for the register with an autographed paperback copy of “Wise Guy” by Nicholas Pileggi (the basis for the movie “Goodfellas”). A knowledgeable and genuinely nice guy, Schwartz pulls me aside and tells me about the night he dined with Pileggi and Robert DeNiro at an underground mobster restaurant in Brooklyn. Good stuff – the kind you can’t get buying books on amazon.com.

While the tourist crowds line up for buffets and clamor for tables at the Strip’s latest greatest celebrity chef restaurant, we roll into Piero’s, a classy (Three Diamond) Italian restaurant on quiet Convention Center Drive. Back in the day, mobster Tony “The Ant” Spilotro used the joint as his crew’s unofficial conference room. Scorsese shot several “Casino” scenes at Piero’s and Joe Pesci (who played a Spilotro-inspired character in the flick) became a loyal customer.  Dressed to the nines, we slip into a big leather booth. Even at 9pm on a Monday, the dimly lit dining room is full. Boisterous groups pass around bottles of wine. Couples have hushed conversations over linguine and clams. Without fail, the smooth-as-silk waiter treats us like the big shots we’re not. The food is fantastic. We start with big meaty lobster claw appetizers. For dinner, the lady has fettuccine Alfredo topped with juicy hunks of chicken breast. I order Piero’s signature osso buco (veal shank). Tender and flavorful? Yes. PETA approved? No. Out front, we wait for a cab back to the hotel. A sharp dressed greaseball with 100-proof breath asks me for a light. He fires up a cigar, and in a deep ominous voice says,
“You need a job?”
“A job? Doing what?”
“Takin’ care of things.”
“Things? Ha! What things?” I giggle.
“Things,” he says, dead serious. “You look like a big guy who can take care of things. We’ll put you up in an apartment. We’ll get ya a nice car. Think about it. Here’s my number.”
 
So far, I haven’t called about the job. But if this travel writing thing doesn’t work out, you’ll find me in Vegas. Or the federal witness protection program.