You're nobody 'til somebody kills you

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I like the Flamingo, and the Riv. Along with the Golden Nugget, Binions and a few other places, they’re the last vestiges of my Las Vegas-the Las Vegas of Frank and Dean and Sammy. Now it’s the Vegas of Howie Mandel, Siegfried and Roy and Danny Gans-talented, yes. The Rat Pack? Hardly.

I had a meeting at the Riviera that day. Some kid journalist wanted an interview about the old days, and when anybody wanted to talk about the old days they came to Eddie G.

“Hey, Eddie,” a blackjack dealer shouted as I walked by, “how the hell are ya, man?”

“Good, good.” I didn’t know his name, but I knew the face. It made an old man feel good when the youngsters working Vegas recognized me.

I went past the bar, and it’s, “Hey, Eddie, have a drink, man.” Past the pit and they said, “Mr. Gianelli,” respectfully, because I made the pit what it is today. And when a waitress stopped to kiss my cheek, let me smell her perfume and breathed, “Hey, Eddie,” into my ear-well, I ain’t dead, ya know. I popped wood-or what passes for wood when you’re eighty-two.

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