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| Hoffa and the Paramount | Started by: Fredo_Trapani on Jun 21, '25 19:52 |
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Fredo and his right-hand man, Babs, waited in the Paramount Detroit's restaurant for an important meeting with a high-ranking member of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters (IBT). As they sipped their coffee and chatted, a man with jet-black hair slicked back and dressed in an expensive suit walked in, accompanied by a bodyguard. The man's eyes locked onto Fredo and Babs' table, and he smiled as he approached. "Ah, Jim," Fredo said, standing up to shake hands and exchange a quick hug. "You have a good flight?" Jimmy smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yes, yes, I did, Fredo. You didn't have to provide a private plane, but I won't complain." He chuckled, and the three men sat down. Jimmy pulled out a pen and placed it on the table, his bodyguard lighting a cigarette as he scanned the room. Jimmy glanced over some papers on the table and asked, "So, Fredo, is the coffee good here?" Fredo nodded, but Babs responded, "Best in Detroit." Fredo smiled, knowing Jimmy was just fucking with him since he didn't drink coffee. He ordered more coffee for the table and a bowl of vanilla ice cream for Jimmy. As the waiter brought their order, Jimmy thanked him, and Babs slipped a twenty-dollar bill onto the tray. Fredo waited, his hand resting on his chin, as Jimmy took a few bites of his ice cream. After wiping his mouth, Jimmy began to discuss the matter at hand. "Okay, Mister Trapani, I went over the paperwork your man sent me. One hundred million is a lot, especially considering it's covering the entire purchase." Fredo leaned back in his chair, taking a drag on his cigarette. "I understand it's a lot, Jim, but The Paramount is becoming a brand name, and it's already showing promise. This hotel just opened, and it's already thirty percent in the green this quarter. With your help, we'll be all over the country in ten years." Jimmy listened patiently, his expression thoughtful. "I understand the potential, Fredo. I've stayed at the hotel in LA, and I've seen the beginnings of some promising movies. But one hundred million still seems like a lot." Babs jumped in, sensing Jimmy's hesitation. "If the price is a problem, we have an alternative. There's a vacant casino right off the strip that used to be a hot spot in the early days of Vegas. We can cut the deal down to seventy million, covering renovations, license fees, bribes, marketing – everything. The IBT's end would be thirty-five percent of the monthly gross." Jimmy reviewed the papers, his eyes scanning the details. Finally, he looked up and said, "Forty percent." Fredo nodded, scratching his head. The extra five percent would come out of his end, but he agreed to the terms. The three men shook hands, chatted for a moment, and then Jimmy and his bodyguard left the restaurant. As they sat back down, Babs shook his head. Fredo took a deep breath, looking over at his right-hand man Babs. "Fucking Hoffa," he muttered. The two finished their coffee and headed upstairs to phone Dynamite. |
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As Fredo and Babs stepped out of the private suite, the door shut behind them like the lid of a coffin. They walked slowly down the dim hallway of the Paramount Detroit, silence clinging to the walls like dust on old velvet. Fredo didn’t speak for the first few steps. Only when they passed a black-and-white photograph of old Detroit framed in gold did he finally break the stillness, his voice low and tense. “Did we just swallow their bullet?” Babs didn’t answer right away. He threw him a look—the kind of look from the days when they played close to the edge and didn’t blink. “No,” he said calmly. “We swallowed the bait. And let them think it choked us.” Fredo gave a dry smile. There was no humor in it—just the smirk of a man who knew he’d lost the hand but still had a gun under the table. “Forty percent… Jimmy really thinks he’s got us cornered.” Babs shrugged. “He sees numbers. We see systems. Control doesn’t run through percentages, Fredo. It runs through people. Paperwork. The hands counting the money. The files no one ever sees. Every atom of that casino will breathe for us—they just don’t know it yet.” They stopped outside the office door. Fredo turned to him. “If we don’t stitch this perfectly—” “We won’t need to stitch,” Babs cut in. “We write the rules. By tonight, our people will be in the bones of that place. Dynamite just needs to greenlight the move. The rest… the rest will fall in line like it always does.” Fredo nodded, stone-faced. He reached for the handle but paused for a second more. “You know what I like about games like this?” he muttered. “What?” Babs asked. Fredo opened the door and looked inside. “That we only smile when the other guy starts to panic.” They stepped into the office and closed the door behind them. The phone was already ringing—only one man could be on the other end. Dynamite. And the real chapter was just beginning. |
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| Reply by: Babs at Jun 21, '25 20:40 | |
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The light from the Paramount’s art deco sconces cast long golden lines across the dark wood paneling, catching in the glint of polished glasses and crystal ashtrays. The clink of cutlery and murmured conversations bled in from the restaurant, but back here, beyond a velvet rope and a pair of discreet guards; it was quieter. Intentional. The kind of quiet that said: business. Carlo Gambino sat in a deep leather chair, one leg crossed over the other, green eyes watching the amber swirl of scotch in his glass like it held secrets. He looked sharp, as always, grey pinstriped suit clean enough to make mirrors jealous, green silk in his breast pocket folding just-so, fedora resting neatly on the table beside him. He’d been summoned, but not with urgency. With purpose. Babs entered first, followed by Fredo; not rushed, but measured, like men who’d already made the decision and were just waiting on the man to carry it out. Fredo lit a cigarette, the match flaring briefly as he gave Carlo a long look through the smoke. “Vegas needs hands. Not loud ones. Smart ones.” Babs leaned forward, voice low, casual but precise. “The casino’s a beauty. Got bones from the old days; red carpets, long halls, stage still intact. But right now, it’s a sleeping lion, and Hoffa thinks he's the one holdin’ the leash.” Carlo smiled faintly, tapping ash into the tray without looking. “Well… lions don’t scare me much. It’s the fleas hangin’ on ‘em that bite hardest.” Fredo nodded slowly, pleased. “That’s why you’re goin’. Not just to smile and shake hands. You’re there to feel the cracks in the walls before they show. To walk the floor, know the dealers, the backroom boys, the janitor with the keys. You make it hum, quiet-like. And if somethin’ don’t fit” He exhaled, sharp. “You remove it.” Carlo swirled the scotch again, thoughtful. “The west coast’s always been a little too shiny for my taste,” he mused. “But I ain’t opposed to addin’ a little Trapani weight to the glitz. I’ll play it soft at first. Shake hands, grease palms. Figure out who’s loyal, who’s got loose lips. And if Hoffa’s crew thinks they run the show… well, maybe they just don’t know what show they’re in.” Babs slid a manila envelope across the table; flight details, room keys, a list of names. “One of ours will meet you at the airstrip. Use the suite at the top of the hotel till the penthouse is done. The old casino’s still got some ghosts in the walls. Feel free to add a few if needed.” Carlo stood, slow and calm, slipping the envelope under his arm. He lifted his fedora from the table, adjusting it with care. “Then I guess it’s time Detroit lent Vegas a bit of class.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, fellas i’ll keep it clean. Until it ain’t.” He tipped his hat, gave a respectful nod to both men, and walked out of the lounge with the quiet confidence of a man about to turn a glittering desert dream into a kingdom. |
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| Reply by: Carlo_Gambino at Jun 22, '25 17:54 | |
| Report Post | Tips: 2 / Total: $250,000 Tip |
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Dynamite sat at his phone in his office at the Paramount Resort and Shops in Los Angeles. He was anxious to see how the meeting went with Jimmy and knew that things should have just concluded. He picked up the phone and dialed Fredo. Fredo picked up.
"Talk to me, I hope we have some good news," Dynamite said.
Fredo talked through all the details of the deal and how Jimmy took the bait to get into the casino business. Dynamite grew with excitement.
"That's what I like to hear. I'll start getting a trusted staff together so start our process," Dynamite said, avoiding using certain words in case he was being phone-tapped by the Feds. "Why don't we meet in Las Vegas at the new place, and we can discuss a bit more in depth."
Boom, who was his lead bodyguard was having a drink in the bar. Dynamite approached him, patting him on the shoulder.
"Boom, head to the studio and see if you can find a couple of our rigged money counters that you can get shipped to Vegas and you know, any other devices we can use to miscount some money."
Dynamite wrote the address of the new casino in Vegas on a paper and handed it to Boom, who finished his drink, nodded, and headed out on his task. |
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| Reply by: Dynamite at Jun 25, '25 17:43 | |
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