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Meyer Lansky and Doc Stacher, with others, saw that the Sands had real potential. It could be more than the Flamingo, more than the Thunderbird. New York money and know-how, Texas gambling bonhomie, Hollywood glamor: The Sands could be something else entirely. The time was right, and, as Lansky knew from experience, timing was everything.
For a while, it looked like Estes Kefauver might ruin everything, but the cowboys came through. Thanks to the vigorous opposition of Nevada’s Congressional delegation, Kefauver’s proposals were blunted. The only anti-gambling laws that passed, an excise tax on sports wagering and restrictions on the interstate shipment of slot machines, were an inconvenience. Las Vegas had faced the worst and survived. If Estes Kefauver hadn’t stopped the dice from rolling on Highway 91, no one could.
So by early 1952, it made sense to build a casino in Las Vegas that could show the country just what the boys could do, given enough open space. That meant not just a casino for serious gambling but also top-notch entertainment. By fusing underground capital, Texas gambling hospitality, and Manhattan nightlife, the Sands could demonstrate the possibilities of this stretch of desert road.
The Tax Commission’s spring 1952 balkiness over licensing first Kufferman, then Freedman, obscured the real story—just how confident the real money was in the concept of the Sands. From the time that Kufferman first applied for a license to the September day when Freedman officially took possession of the Sands, the project expanded from a simple remodel and expansion of Wilkerson’s LaRue to a full-fledged resort and casino, which meant enough of the right people were sufficiently convinced that the Sands could be profitable.
One of the best qualities of Lansky and Stacher—and their friends—was that they knew what they didn’t know and didn’t pretend otherwise. When they wanted something built, they hired an architect, hired a contractor, and left it at that. Sure, they might get creative with financing or procuring materials, but when it came to the nuts and bolts of design, they were content to let the experts draft plans and pour concrete. These weren’t dilettantes who fussed over the drapery or demanded change orders. You hired people you could trust and trusted them to do their job.
In this case, Kufferman did exactly that, bringing on Wayne McAllister as soon as he closed on LaRue. McAllister was a known quantity, arguably the best in the nation at building the kind of place Kufferman’s associates envisioned. Since designing Agua Caliente, a Mexican gambling resort, as a teenager in 1928, he had become a specialist in restaurants and casinos despite a lack of formal training or credentials. He had several hotel, nightclub, and restaurant commissions in Southern California, running the gamut from drive-ins to exclusive nightspots. He was also no stranger to Las Vegas, having designed the El Rancho Vegas, which, in 1941, was the first resort built on Highway 91, a stretch of road that by the time he came back to work on LaRue was already being called the “Las Vegas Strip.” Interestingly, McAllister assisted Ben Siegel and his associates (which included, at a distance, Meyer Lansky) in remodeling the El Cortez on Fremont Street and declined a commission—his first—to take over the under-construction Flamingo after Siegel pushed Wilkerson aside. Reportedly, Kufferman had been Siegel’s envoy. Then, McAllister had said no, but this time, he said yes. In the interim, he had designed the first plan for the Desert Inn for Wilbur Clark, before the project stalled and was taken over by Moe Dalitz and his Cleveland associates.
Neither Kufferman, Freedman, nor Entratter offered much input into the design process. They didn’t much care about aesthetics. So long as the architect kept within his budget, McAllister had carte blanche. The designer conceived a look along the lines of his Los Angeles restaurants—modern, car friendly, and sophisticated.
Initially, the project was small. As of July, LaRue was a single structure with a square restaurant space called the Garden Room adjoining a cocktail lounge with a small stage. Beyond the lounge was the casino, which boasted only a dozen table games and 74 slot machines distributed in rows to the right and left of the tables.
By the time Jake Freedman and Jack Entratter came aboard, the project was unrecognizable. It now was a complete resort, albeit a rather modestly sized one. From the Strip, the most visible element of the design was the sign. Along the low-rise Highway 91, signs were the most distinguishable element of most resorts. The El Rancho Vegas was known for its rooftop neon-outlined windmill. The Thunderbird sported, in multicolored neon, its eponymous avian. Wilbur Clark’s Desert Inn had a massive kidney-shaped installation next to its third-story Skyroom, in 1952 still the highest point on the Strip. To stand out, McAllister knew he had to create something distinctive, something that would fit with the prevailing desert modern aesthetic without blending into the background.
McAllister’s solution was a 56-foot-tall monument to modern simplicity. A rectangular pylon anchored an eggcrate grill, over which was placed the word “Sands” with an oversize “S,” with “A PLACE IN THE SUN” below it. During the day, the eggcrate grill gave the sign a feeling of being there and yet not there, with the script appearing to float in the desert sky. At night, red neon and white incandescent bulbs continuously traced the “Sands” letters. At any time, the sign gave the Sands the feel of a resort that was relaxed, fanciful, and fully modern—everything that a Las Vegas hotel wanted to project. This was not a stuffy European-style gambling salon or a grubby backroom dice den. Rather, it was an elegant, contemporary, and most of all fun resort. A place in the sun, indeed.
That phrase was tied to the Sands from its inception. It was a curious choice, given that the 1951 movie by that name was based on Theodore Dreiser’s 1925 novel An American Tragedy, hardly the prospectus for a vacation getaway. Indeed, the film ends with one member of its love triangle dead and the other plodding to his execution, a distinct downer. Divorced of its cinematic context, though, “A Place in the Sun” perfectly described just what the Sands was to be: an oasis of relaxation, entertainment, and gambling, in the exotic desert. And for years, it was an important part of the name, featured in every advertisement and many news stories. Whatever else you might find at the Sands, you would never forget that it was your place in the sun.
The Sands’ main entrance made a similar impression at street level. A narrow roof jutted out over the porte cochere, providing a measure of protection from the blazing sun to arriving guests. More striking were the three dogleg pylons that protruded from the main structure. The entrance bore more than a passing resemblance to Lawry’s, a Beverly Hills prime rib restaurant that McAllister had designed five years earlier, which had four doglegs. The entryway was clad in textured green Italian marble, left unfinished to better weather the harsh desert environment.
The complex was executed in a style called “Bermuda modern,” a fusion of sleek lines and tropical sensibilities. The vermiculite tile used for the hotel wings’ roofing was lauded for its cooling characteristics, which reportedly earned it heavy usage in Bermuda and elsewhere.
McAllister more than doubled the main building in size. The core of the old LaRue remained, with the Garden Room on the building’s north side, next to the Silver Queen cocktail lounge and small snack bar. The inside of the Sands wasn’t all plain lines and bold geometry. Behind the bar of the Silver Queen stood a piece of art that would only make sense in Las Vegas in the 1950s. Muralist Albert Stewart depicted a saguaro cactus, a Joshua tree, a bucking bronco and rider, and, in the distance, the mushroom cloud of an atomic blast. The lounge itself curved 108 feet along two walls of the casino. With the capacity to serve over 500 customers at a time, it had a stage that would feature, for the price of a drink, a range of singers and comedians.
The casino had been enlarged from the original plan and a lobby with a reception desk added. The biggest change, however, was the 395-seat nightclub added to the rear of the building. This, by the opening date, would be named the Copa Room. A deliberate homage to Entratter’s former club, the Copa Room had what was described as a “Brazilian Carnival” motif. Recessed, nearly flush chandeliers provided light from within cutouts in the room’s light green ceiling. Along the sides of the room, quasi-abstract sculptures depicting the riotous revelry of Carnival provided the atmosphere.
Behind the Copa Room were storage and mechanical facilities, whose two wings enclosed a service yard. Sunrise Terrace, a glass-enclosed area for light dining, was south of the Copa Room. Named for Sunrise Mountain, which it faced, it was easily accessible from the Paradise pool, which was named for Paradise Valley. Beyond the pool were the resort’s rooms, 200 of them in five buildings, named, with deference to Freedman’s history as a horseman, after famous racetracks: Arlington Park, Belmont Park, Hialeah, Rockingham Park, and Santa Anita.
Touring the property with McAllister one last time before opening, Freedman and Entratter were satisfied. He had built them a resort worthy of the trust that Lansky and his associates had placed in them. The next step was to get it open.
***
BY 1952, LAS VEGAS casino openings had come a long way. At the 1941 opening of Thomas Hull’s El Rancho Vegas, the big attraction was the roast beef, coated in two inches of rock salt and slowly cooked over charcoal. Colonel Bob Russell led a cowboy singalong at the sneak-peek preview, while Hull brought out what were no doubt to him the big guns for the grand opening, a smorgasbord of talent that included the resident El Rancho Orchestra, Pierre Carta and his Desert Caballeros, singer Lorraine de Wood, and dancers Dan Hoctor and Petite Chiquita. Five years earlier, the Flamingo had boasted Jimmy Durante and Xavier Cugat as its debut stars. In 1950, the Desert Inn opened its doors with ventriloquist Edgar Bergen supported by future Guys and Dolls star Vivian Blaine and comic duo Abbott and Costello. That was the bar that Freedman and Entratter had to, at bare minimum, meet.
Onstage performances were only part of the opening, though. They were important in establishing the casino as a glamorous, prestigious place for the tourists, but this was arguably the least important group that owners courted at the opening. They worried far more about making a good impression on the national media. Favorable press notices were vital to building a name for the Sands in an era when casinos did not advertise much.
The press junket would be one of the most potent tools in publicist Al Freeman’s arsenal over the years. It was a self-evident business expense to fly 146 radio, television, magazine, and newspaper personalities into Las Vegas for the opening, with accommodations, food, and drinks all on the house, as well as 25 silver dollars, to gamble as they wished—or not. Needless to say, the opening would get national publicity far in excess of its actual newsworthiness.
The most important group that the opening was designed to lure, however, was significantly more discriminating than the eating press. They also had the potential to make or break a new casino far beyond that of the kinds of people who got their news from newspapers. These were the gamblers. The word, as men like Freedman and Entratter would use it, didn’t mean simply one who wagers on a game of chance. A hotel guest betting a dollar on roulette or his wife putting a nickel in a slot machine was not, in their minds, a gambler; they were mere tourists, to be tolerated and even humored, but never truly respected.
A gambler, to them, was someone who bet enough to hurt the house. Today, they might be called a high roller or even a whale, but back then, just “gambler,” spoken with the right inflection, did the job. It was a term of respect: Being called a gambler meant you had not just the means and the fortitude to bet big, but also the confidence that, if you lost big, you were good for it. A gambler was only as good as his reputation, and in those days, a gambler would protect his reputation with his life. Being discovered as a cheat might fog that reputation, more for the clumsiness of being caught than any ethical concerns over the purity of the game. Not paying an honestly incurred debt would destroy it. For men of certain aspirations, being known as a gambler was more precious than any material wealth.
Though the law of averages said they must, in the end, lose, these men (and, in 1952, “gamblers” were exclusively male, though a not insignificant number of women gambled) could make or break a casino with their play. First, they could drop enough money to make a significant dent in the casino’s significant overhead. Second, their visible presence would give the place legitimacy. Gamblers of this magnitude were known and respected by the savvier tourists, and even if they couldn’t approach a professional’s bankroll, being able to say that you gambled alongside Nick the Greek, or at least in the same room as him, was a hell of a story to tell back in Winnetka.
All the theatrics around Ben Siegel aside, Meyer Lansky and his partners approached their business rationally and systematically. No need to shout or threaten when the right look would do. And it bears saying that Lansky might have been the guy who put the “organized” in organized crime. Since that impromptu conference in an Atlantic City hotel back in 1929, with a few exceptions like the case of Siegel, reason had ruled the day. That meant everyone had a crystal-clear idea of what they were doing, and what their partners were doing.
The Sands, therefore, had a clearly demarcated division of labor. Jack Entratter had final responsibility for entertainment, food, drinks, and publicity—all the things that could attract and keep happy the tourists and media. Jake Freedman had a less well-defined but no less important remit: to serve as ambassador both to the gamblers and the cowboys who dominated Nevada politics. Entratter was Broadway and Hollywood, Freedman Houston, Dallas, and Carson City. Finally, Ed Levinson was casino manager, keeping the gamblers coming. No one cared much who grabbed which headline, who schmoozed which Hollywood star. All that mattered was money in the drop boxes—and that enough of it found its way back to New York, Miami, and parts unknown.
With so much money poured into the Sands, Freedman and Entratter were careful to accommodate the cowboys. They hired longtime local Matt Howard, who was also a member of the state boxing commission and a member of the Sheriff’s Mounted Posse, to oversee the bar. That gave Howard power to hire two dozen bartenders and a smaller number of bar backs and porters. Making sure some of those jobs were reserved for the sons, sons-in-law, and nephews of well-connected power brokers would go a long way to keeping the cowboys on the Sands’ side.
In that cooperative spirit, Freedman was perfectly happy to cede booking of the opening to Entratter, who in turn was equally sanguine when Freedman strode through the casino, tossing out thousand-dollar bills to wide-eyed tourists.
The important thing, Entratter knew, was to begin building anticipation. At the end of the night, the business was always the same: people dressed in their finest, they drank, they ate. Entertainers entertained. Then the lights went up and everyone went home. To make a night out really magical, you had to build anticipation. The Sands’ opening didn’t just mean there would be a seventh major resort on what was sometimes called the Las Vegas Strip, but was usually still known as the Los Angeles Highway: it was going to be the greatest event in the history of entertainment.
In Entratter’s hands, even mundane human resources matters became newsworthy. In late November, from California to Georgia, papers devoted a few column inches to a simple fact: Jack Entratter was hiring dancers. The set formula for shows in Las Vegas those days was a headliner and a few complementary supporting acts: a singer with a comedy trio, a pianist, maybe a juggler. And a line of dancing women—the legendary Las Vegas showgirls—was essential. Entratter dubbed the Sands’ chorus line the Copa Girls. They would be advertised alternately as “the most beautiful women in the world,” and “the most beautiful women in the West.” And the fact that 415 dazzling young women had descended on the under-construction Sands to audition for the 14 spots on the line became national news, thanks in part to the pouting, hopeful photo of Lorraine Carol, the first in line for the interview, circulated by publicist Al Freeman.
Similarly, Entratter turned a series of construction slowdowns that had pushed the opening back from mid-November to December to his advantage. Days before the December 15 preview opening, both the New York News and Hollywood Reporter (in what was no doubt a bitter pill for Wilkerson to swallow) made it known that the former Copacabana boss was paying 115 construction workers $15,000 a day in overtime to get the resort ready on time. An event worth that kind of investment couldn’t be missed.
Demand indeed outstripped supply. In November, Entratter announced that he had already had to turn down hundreds of requests for New Year’s. By the time the casino was actually open, he was able to say that he and Freedman were deep into plans to double the hotel’s capacity to 400 rooms. Anticipation was that high.
***
AT LAST, CONSTRUCTION was complete, $75,000 worth of liquor stocked, and the gamblers en route.
The opening would unfold over three days. On Monday, December 15, the Sands would open to locals, who would be treated to a full run-through of the casino’s amenities and given the chance to play. The following night, the general public would be allowed in; this included both tourists and gamblers. On Wednesday, an official ceremony would mark the resort’s debut.
For the opening, Entratter had booked Danny Thomas, a veteran nightclub comic, singer, and radio star. Thomas was at the height of his powers, fresh off starring in a remake of Al Jolson’s The Jazz Singer. Also on the bill were singer Connie Russell, making her Las Vegas debut, and dancer Lew Wills, Jr. Music was provided by Ray Sinatra and an orchestra comprised of local musicians. Sinatra, who had gained national renown as Mario Lanza’s band leader, was second cousins with Frank.
The day of the opening, Entratter chartered planes that flew in press and celebrity guests from Esther Williams to Fernando Lamas for the event. Howard Hughes lent his personal Constellation, which was used to ferry a group of New Yorkers, including columnists Earl Wilson and Hy Gardner. A flotilla of planes reportedly brought in $10,000 worth of Dutch asparagus, Italian chestnuts, and Brazilian palm hearts, which would be complimentary hors d’oeuvres not just for the big bash, but for years at the Sands. All in all, the preparations cost $35,000, exclusive of entertainment costs.
The first night’s festivities went off almost without a hitch, though there was one heart-stopping moment. A rare December storm downed electrical wires, plunging the Sands into darkness just as Thomas was about to take the stage. An automatic backup generator clicked on, lighting the casino as bright as midday, before even one throw of the dice was missed.
The following morning, with the help of a “miniature atomic bomb,” the doors were open to the public, never to be closed, publicist Freeman promised, except by a real atomic blast. A slightly less explosive catastrophe had the potential to mar the big night, though: Danny Thomas found himself afflicted with “Vegas throat,” the bane of many a singer in that dry, smoky town. He couldn’t speak, much less sing. Luckily, there were a few entertainers in the house. After getting clearance from the powerful union leader James Petrillo and the American Guild of Variety Artists, an all-star troupe took the stage: Jimmy Durante, Frankie Laine, Jane Powell, Ray Anthony, the Ritz Brothers, Denise Darcel, and Eddie Jackson. With that impromptu bill, Entratter turned a potential liability into an asset, underscoring for the public first, the caliber of patron that the Sands would attract, and second, that even if the announced talent couldn’t perform, they would get a night to remember.
Entertainment was, indeed, going to be the Sands’ calling card. Before the opening, Entratter made public that he had spent $250,000 on entertainment for the property’s first ten weeks. He had inked Thomas for three weeks at $15,000 per; Lena Horne, also for three weeks, at $13,000 per; Edith Piaf at $10,000 per week for two weeks; and Billy Eckstine also at that rate, also for two weeks. This totaled $124,000, with a similar amount spent on supporting acts, musicians, and the Copa Girls. The announcement not only let the public know that the Sands was sparing no expense to keep them entertained; it informed artists and booking agents that the Sands was in the game.
In the excitement of the opening, there was even a publicity-conscious effort at historic preservation. At the opening festivities, a few items were placed in a nine-foot aluminum time capsule: microfilms of the year’s trade papers and gossip columns; a gold-plated auto jack, a reference to a signature Danny Thomas routine; Jimmy Durante’s hat and a copy of his life story; a Frankie Laine record; Bing Crosby’s pipe; Arthur Godfrey’s ukulele; and the autobiography of Tallulah Bankhead. Throughout the coming year, more visiting celebrities would contribute items. The capsule would be buried December 17, 1953, to be unearthed in 2052.
One final point was repeated in newspapers across America: The Sands was giving money away. The day after its formal December 17 opening, newspapers reported that the Sands had lost $285,000 in its first six official hours of business. An estimated 12,000 visitors swarmed the casino throughout the day. In the first few hours, luck ran against the house. The most improbable bettors were taking the brand-new Sands to the cleaners.
“Just a bunch of nice, average people, many of them locals, wearing jeans and shorts,” is how Al Freeman described the winners. “Mostly at the slot machines.”
Most new businesses would hardly advertise their losses, but news of the Sands’ “too loose” slot machines was calculated to drive the small stakes players who could keep the casino filled, keep the atmosphere right, into a frenzy. Even if the players had kept the entire $285,000 (they didn’t), those losses were worth their weight in newsprint. The Sands would never have trouble drawing tourists.
The gamblers came, too. Syndicated Broadway gossip columnist Earl Wilson dutifully wrote that he saw, in the shade of 90 slot machines, “Gambling Society” in its glory: Ray Ryan of Texas, reputed to be the fastest gambler west or east of the Mississippi; Nick the Greek; Al Levy of San Francisco; and a host of celebrities like Jimmy Durante, Frankie Laine, Terry Moore, and Spike Jones. Some of the stars were serious gamblers; others were not, but the public was hungry for news of each.
“Miss Moore said that she had lost $20,” Wilson wrote. “The report was that Ray Ryan had lost $20,000—not a large sum to him.”
Freeman, dashing around the casino in his Western finery, was, by the end of the opening, positively jovial.
“We were a $200,000 loser for a while,” he told Wilson. “But we overcame it.” The intimation—that the casino’s big wins were at the expense of heavy plungers who could afford to lose so much, underwriting cheap vacations for the tourists—would become a mainstay of Las Vegas promotion for years. Wilson claimed to be a little ashamed to have only lost $2 in the face of such gambling nobility. The mere presence of a Nick the Greek or Ray Ryan encouraged the tourists to open their wallets.
“All the loose money in America seems to be here,” Wilson concluded.
Jimmy Durante summed up the mood when he shouted, “It cost $5.5 million to build this place and the bosses are burned up! It took ‘em four hours to get even!”