The auction concluded with great success, bringing the Nevada state government an unexpected windfall of over eight million U.S. dollars. The politicians and officials of Nevada, of course, were delighted. With this sum in hand, the entire state was no longer in danger of bankruptcy.
At a time when skilled industrial workers earned no more than thirty dollars a month—some as little as twenty—eight million dollars could keep the government running until the end of time.
With satisfied smiles, the officials departed. A commissioner from the Gaming Development Board informed the successful bidders that they must wire payment to the Nevada state government within seven days to receive their licenses. Thus, the auction formally ended, though the crowd's cheers continued to echo.
Despite the usual friction among the mob groups, Charles "Lucky" Luciano was still the flag-bearer, the face of the underworld. The fact that he had repelled a newly emerged group of Japanese bidders was a boost to the prestige of the established crime syndicates.
Truth be told, these infamous mafia bosses looked down on those ragtag street gangs—groups of three or five petty thugs who called themselves "mafias" after sharing a few beers. To them, these were just street punks, not even of the same breed.
In terms of fantasy novels, these mafias were the prestigious sects, while the street gangs were rogue cultivators who could only sell cheap drugs in back alleys—utterly beneath notice.
Hahaha...
Several crime bosses stepped forward to congratulate Luciano. The scene was lively. But Neal knew that Luciano had probably exhausted his Nevada funds and couldn't come up with the $3.5 million and one dollar needed for a second license. So, as the nationwide mafia coordinator, Luciano would likely need to split this license up and share it.
After all, he wanted everyone to get into the gray business together, rather than fighting and killing on the streets every day. That only invited police attention and had no future.
Back at the hotel, Luciano indeed sent Mario to gather those Italian mafia allies who typically followed his lead. Though there was only one license, nothing stopped him from dividing it into several shares. The bosses weren't going to manage casinos themselves anyway. They would just hire managers and divide the profits according to their stake.
Meyer Lansky shared this view: If the Italians controlled two licenses, it would look too conspicuous—and unnecessary. The applause might be loud now, but give it a few days, and sentiments would shift. Such is human nature. Better to distribute the license while the mood was still high.
Neal didn't get involved in this, and with lunchtime approaching, he excused himself to go eat, not wanting to interfere with their internal affairs.
All hotel expenses were billed under Luciano's name. A meal didn't cost much, so it wasn't a concern. Luciano had told him to eat whatever, whenever—no problem.
Neal sat by the window in the hotel's restaurant. A slanted awning outside blocked the sun, and each seat had a small fan overhead—much more comfortable than sitting indoors.
Please, let air conditioning become widespread already. I'm begging here.
Glancing over the lunch menu, he noted that with all the big shots gathered in Carson City, the quality of offerings had improved drastically. The mafia bosses liked to indulge in their appetites, and where there's demand, there's supply.
Asparagus cream soup, he decided. It was still hot outside, and heavy meat dishes felt greasy. The waiter recommended grilled lobster as a pairing, which sounded fine. As usual, Neal added an ice-cold Coca-Cola and made no other requests.
"What the hell happened?!" a middle-aged man demanded, his tone accusatory as he confronted another man, even older than himself.
Had Neal been present, he would have recognized the man being scolded—it was the same person who had competed with Luciano for the sixth gambling license. A man who could bring $3 million in cash now looked like a schoolboy being berated.
"It was Charles Luciano—one of the most important leaders of the Italian Mafia. He has massive influence in the Great Lakes region and along the West Coast. He was previously sent to prison by New York's Southern District Attorney, Thomas Dewey, but somehow, he's shown up here," the older man explained. Clearly, he had done some research on his competitors.
"Charles Luciano?" The middle-aged man's face showed recognition. He had obviously heard the name back in Washington.
In fact, not just heard it—he knew it all too well. In just a few years, Luciano would appear on the cover of Time magazine, becoming the most famous Italian Mafia godfather in America before being forced into exile in Italy. Rumor had it he helped facilitate the U.S. military's landing in Sicily, though the details remained unclear.
"They say he gathered several million dollars to bribe key Nevada officials, making gambling legalization a reality. If it's about money, we simply can't compete."
That was the plain truth. Luciano's fortune was estimated in the tens of millions. Although he had over 3,000 underlings to support, making cash flow both fast and fleeting, it also proved he had the power to mobilize enormous funds and crush the competition.
"Ugh…" The middle-aged man had thought $3 million would be enough to secure his victory. Who could have anticipated running into someone like Luciano? That was a battle he was destined to lose.
"You needn't worry. The federal government is cracking down on organized crime. The mob will be destroyed eventually…"
No need to say more. Within a year or two, or three at most, some mob family would inevitably be targeted as a warning to the rest. If even Luciano had been imprisoned for months, how could the other mobs hope to oppose the federal government? That would be suicidal.
All they needed to do was wait for one mob to collapse—then they'd find a way to get a license, maybe even at a cheaper price. No need to pay over three million.
"Time waits for no one," the middle-aged man muttered, shaking his head. It wasn't clear what exactly had caused his melancholy.
Of the 22 mafia groups that had participated in the auction, only four besides Luciano had secured licenses. That meant many others had failed. If they all sat around sighing, life would be unlivable.
Seeing the middle-aged man's frustration, his companion fell silent. Their car slowly ambled down Carson City's bumpy roads.
Just then, Neal—sitting by the hotel window with his glass of Coca-Cola—looked out. A passing car revealed a face in the window that nearly made him scream.
That face would, in just over a decade, become unforgettable to all Americans—etched in hatred and burned into memory forever.
Isoroku Yamamoto!