Chapter 25

This is Gemma Kane, speaking with Virgil Capello, my mother’s one-time beau, at The Golden Mint Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada. Today is Thursday, May 18, 1961, and the time is 9:00 PM.

Gemma: Swanky place.

Virgil: Help yourself to the all-you-can-eat buffet before we start talking. Golden Mint was the first place to open one, fifteen years ago. Folks come in thinking they’re getting a freebie, but they spend more on the slots than we do on food. After one plateful, they’re glued to their “lucky seat” and don’t hit the buffet again.

Gemma: Thanks, but no thanks.

Virgil: I can see you’re not the gambling type. For you, the buffet really would be a good deal.

Gemma: Maybe I’ll sample it on the way out. Right now, it’s “food for thought” I’m after. As I recall, you began dating my mother when I was fourteen, so that would be 1925?

Virgil: Your mother was very proper. I was six years older and a bit of a fast guy, so it took a while to convince her to go out with me. (Flexes muscles, smooths hair) Surprised I’m seventy-three? Not slowing down either.

Gemma: (Smiles) You and my mother met at the Chinese laundry where she worked?

Virgil: Yeah. I used to bring in my boss’s dirty laundry. (Snickers) I got Tazia to warm up to me by talking about us both being Italian. My parents came from Sicily in 1885, with my older sister. I was born in New York but moved to Chicago in my teens.

Gemma: Mmm. My mother moved there not long after. But you didn’t know her then?

Virgil: Not unless she hung around with my gang, Lizard Legs Lagorio and Tommy Marmo the Marble. Head as bald and hard as a Steely. (We laugh imagining my mother as a gang girl.) Tazia talked about the village where she grew up, though she never named it. It reminded me of my parents’ stories, how life was ruled by the rhythm of planting and harvesting, yet they still found time to relax, feast out in the countryside. Here, everything is a hustle. Tazia made me stop to look and listen, breathe and taste. She was like no other woman I knew. Am I embarrassing you?

Gemma: Not at all. I like hearing what my mother was like when she was younger. When did you find out she had a daughter? Did she say anything else about her past?

Virgil: Not really. The other thing I liked about her was she didn’t go on about herself, like other broads. Even when I got curious, the most she’d say is that she lived different places, wherever she found work. The only city she named was Topeka, before she moved here, and that only came up because she missed farmwork. She said she could plant the seeds of her sorrow and something new and better would grow. Your mother was quite a poet.

Gemma: You’re the one who’s named after a poet. Virgil.

Virgil: My last name, Capello, means trickster. My parents hoped that by giving me a respectable first name it would cancel out the second. (Smirks) They were disappointed.

Gemma: What did my mother say about having me?

Virgil: That you were a seed she expected to grow up and be better than her. (Waves one of the dealers over to our table) Drago, give the guy in the red vest a taste. (Drago bows and leaves)

Gemma: You give out free booze too?

Virgil: (Laughs) We’d lose money if we did that. A “taste” is a small amount we pay out so a player will stay in his seat and keep betting. The slots do it automatically; the dealers at their—or more often at my—discretion. (Points to the red-vested man) He’ll spend big if we get him to stay at least one hour. At that point he’s “in” and he’ll stay ten more trying to recoup his losses.

Gemma: I know casinos win by playing the odds. I never dreamt psychology was involved too.

Virgil: Big time. Vegas was bankrupt when I first got here. Nevada had outlawed gambling seven years earlier; Prohibition hit us two years later. Yet, after moving all the way from Chicago, I was already “in” so I invested in staying. In my case, the gamble paid off.

Gemma: (Sweeps hand around casino) All this is yours?

Virgil: (Thrusts out chest) I began as an errand boy. The Mafia ran casinos and speakeasies, so there was plenty of work. I made myself indispensable. By the time gambling was legalized again in 1931, the Mafia was rooted in the city. A few years later, I was made part owner of this place.

Gemma: Why do you think my mother stayed?

Virgil: (Grins) I’d say on account of me, except it was eight years before we met and she only stayed two more. I think Tazia stuck around because she had faith that God brought her here and would make things work out. If she’d had enough faith to wait another four years, it might have.

Gemma: I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother lose faith, although I don’t suppose there’s a person who hasn’t questioned his belief in God at some point.

Virgil: (Rubs fingers together) The only God I believe in is money and for prayers to come true, you gotta supplement faith with cheating. Not Tazia, though. She wouldn’t even tell a lie.

Gemma: You’re right my mother doesn’t lie, but she doesn’t tell the whole truth either. There’s more in what she doesn’t say than in what she does.

Virgil: Just like the Mafia; it pays to keep your mouth shut.

Gemma: I still find it hard to believe that my mother worked for the Mafia, even indirectly. Did she know you were connected? The owner of the Chinese laundry said you used to bring in bloody sheets. Can you tell me what they were from? Were you just the carrier, or did you ... ?

Virgil: (Covers mouth with hand and shakes head theatrically) No can say.

Gemma: Well, what did my mother say? Didn’t she ask?

Virgil: I told her I worked for an abortion doctor and she believed me. Or wanted me to believe she did. I never figured out what she really thought, but I didn’t care as long as she kept quiet.

Gemma: (Hesitates) Did my mother ever say anything about wanting to have an abortion when she was pregnant with me?

Virgil: I doubt she would have even considered it. Despite our affair, your mother was a good Catholic. (Looks thoughtful) Now that I think of it though, Tazia was pretty tolerant. There wasn’t much about human behaviour that shocked her. In fact, she was more likely to shock me.

Gemma: What on earth did my mother do that shocked you?

Virgil: She told me that on the farm in Topeka, not only was she the only woman, she was also the only white person. Other than the farmer himself. He was Norwegian or Swedish or something, and he actually employed niggers. I can’t imagine working with those animals.

Gemma: (Scribbling down this clue just in case tape recorder fails) Why do you suppose my mother told you about working with Negroes? It seems like a big piece of history to share.

Virgil: I don’t think she thought about my reaction. It was just the way she romanticized working in the fields, with everybody equal. (Makes a disgusted face) Ugh. Ask me a different question.

Gemma: Tell me what you and my mother did on her days off. Did you ever include me?

Virgil: Your mother waited a long time before introducing us, and by then you were usually too busy with your own boyfriend to tag along. Except one day, I’ll never forget, when I took you both to the grand opening of Lorenzi Lake Park. That would have been in 1926.

Gemma: So that’s where this old picture I found was taken. (Fishes inside pocketbook) Now I remember. There was a dance pavilion where you taught me how to do the Charleston.

Virgil: (Laughs) I told your mother she should let you dress like a flapper and bob your hair.

Gemma: Then I made a joke about skinny dipping in the swimming pool. My mother shot daggers at you when you said we should all do it.

Virgil: (Chuckles) We both had fun provoking your mother. What she liked best about the park was the fruit orchards around the lake. She’d have been happy spending the whole day walking through the trees, but I wanted to be where the action was. You too. We hit it off right away.

Gemma: I always was an active child. I assume I got that trait from my father. (Raises eyebrows)

Virgil: I am not your father. Do we look alike?

Gemma: We both have thick, curly hair.

Virgil: And mine was dark like yours before it turned gray. Big deal.

Gemma: You’re right, we’re nothing alike. (He: Brown eyes, medium height, muscular. Me: Green eyes, long and lean)

Virgil: (Laughs) I don’t blame you for hoping. If people didn’t hope, I’d be broke. (Closes eyes) I can still picture what the two of you wore that day. Your mother’s yellow sun dress had straps that crossed in the back, pretty revealing for her. (Opens eyes to make sure I’m not embarrassed; I nod he should go on) You wore a pink skirt and white blouse, which she made you tuck in, but you were most excited about your new open-toed sandals.

Gemma: Here it is. (Pulls out photo) Mama’s facing front and it’s black and white, but you can tell that’s what we’re wearing. And see the “zi” at the end of the sign. Did you take the picture?

Virgil: (Snatches photo) Yes, with your mother’s Brownie. Look how young she is. (Eyes tear) She said to make sure the sign wasn’t in the photo. I missed those two letters in the viewfinder.

Gemma: My mother looks so happy, like she’s having fun and not worrying for a change.

Virgil: She helped me relax. I’d like to think I did the same for her, even if it was only for a day.

Gemma: What else do you remember about that day?

Virgil: I’d just done a messy job for the boss ...

Gemma: A hit?

Virgil: (Wags finger) I told you, young lady, I ain’t saying, but I was moving up to being a “made man” and the boss paid me a wad of money. I wanted to spend big and show off my girl, and when Tazia asked if she could bring you along, I thought “Two girls, why not?” You were every bit as pretty as your mother and I liked your rambunctiousness. (Frowns) Maybe too much.

Gemma: What do you mean?

Virgil: (Takes a deep breath) I think your mother ...

Gemma: Damn. Hold on a second, I have to change the tape. (Inserts new reel). You were saying you liked me and that my mother ...

Virgil: (Silently watches tape spin for a minute before speaking again) Maybe your mother thought I liked you too much, you know, that I was ... interested in you.

Gemma: (Scowls) Were you?

Virgil: Of course not. I did some bad things in my time, but nothing that sick. Still, Tazia was young when she got pregnant, so I thought maybe she was a little crazy when it came to sex stuff with you. We never took you with us again, and a year later, you and your mother were gone.

Gemma: Did you ever talk to her about her suspicions?

Virgil: Nah. It was just a hunch I had. Gamblers live on hunches.

Gemma: (Yawns) Sorry. I’m not bored (laughs), just tired.

Virgil: Already? The night’s still young. Things won’t get hopping for another few hours yet.

Gemma: I’m not a night person. As a labour reporter, I interview people on the night shift now and then, but most of my work is during the day, in corporate board rooms and courtrooms.

Virgil: Tazia wasn’t a night person either. She worked long hours and then came home to take care of you. Like I said, she was different from all the other broads I knew. She was my daylight girl, my sunshine. She opened me up to a whole different world.

Gemma: Why do you suppose she was attracted to you?

Virgil: Maybe I did the opposite for her. You know, let her brush up against the underworld. You’d be amazed how many good girls like the thrill, as long as they can keep a safe distance.

Gemma: That doesn’t sound like my mother, but you can never tell. I’m learning things about her on this trip that I never knew before. (Starts to pack up)

Virgil: Don’t forget to try the all-you-can-eat buffet on your way out. Shrimp, egg rolls, ravioli.

Gemma: Thanks again, but I’ll pass.

Virgil: (Grins) Lost your appetite?

Gemma: (Smiles back) No. Just ready for some fresh farm food.

The interview ended at 10:20 PM.