He threw it on the table. “Open it,” he said. Dean took the envelope. Inside were photographs. Dean’s children leaving school, going to the park, playing in front of their house. Dean’s hands started to shake. Beautiful children, Sam said. You have a very beautiful family, Dean. The kind you’d want to protect.
Dean threw the envelope on the table. Are you threatening my children? Threatening? Sam made an innocent face. No, Dean. Just reminding you Vegas is a dangerous city for families, especially unprotected families. Dean took a step closer to Sam. His fists were clenched. If you touch my children, what will you do, Dean? Sam laughed.
Will you hit me? Call the police? Go to the newspapers. Sam touched Dean’s shoulder. You’re just a singer, Dean. And I I’m one of those who run this city. Don’t forget that. Sam walked toward the door. He stopped at the threshold. Monday night, 10:00, special show. I want to see you on stage. Otherwise, he looked at the photographs. I’ll see you elsewhere.
The door closed. Dean was alone with photographs of his children in his hand and the hardest decision of his life. When Dean returned to his hotel, it was 2:00 in the morning. Jean, his wife, was waiting in the living room. Dean, where are you? It’s 2:00. Jean fell silent when she saw Dean’s face. Dean’s face was pale. His hands were still shaking.
“What happened?” Jean asked, worried. Dean pulled the photographs from his jacket pocket. He gave them to Jon. What are these? John asked, looking at the photographs. Then she understood. “Oh my god, our children.” “Dan, who took these?” “Sam Morano,” Dean said. He sat down. He put his head in his hands.
He asked me for a favor. I said no. And now he’s threatening our children. Jean dropped the photographs to the floor. What? No. No. Dean, we we have to go to the police. The FBI. We can’t. Dean said. He raised his head. His eyes met Jean’s. Jean, if we go to the police, they’ll retaliate. You know who Sam Morano is. He won’t stop.
So, what are we going to do? Jean had started crying. How are we going to protect our children? Dean stood up. He went to the window. Outside, the lights of Las Vegas were shining. The city never slept. And Dean knew the dark side of this city very well. “I need to make a phone call,” Dean said. 3:15 a.m. Dean was in a phone booth, not from the hotel lobby, from the street.
Because he knew in Las Vegas every phone could be tapped. He dialed the number. It rang three times, then a voice. Hello, Frank. Dean said. It’s me. Did I wake you? Dino? Frank Sinatra’s voice was sleepy but worried. It’s past 3. What happened? I need to talk to you. Urgent. Where? Fremont Street. Old diner. Meet me in 30 minutes. I’m coming.
Frank was there in 25 minutes. Dean was sitting at a corner table. Coffee in front of him, cold, untouched. Frank sat down. What happened, Dino? You look terrible. Dean pulled out the photographs. He gave them to Frank. Sam Morano visited me today. Frank looked at the photographs. His face hardened. These these are your kids. I know Sam did this. Yes.
Frank threw the photographs on the table. Damn it. What does he want? Dean explained. Special show guest coming from Chicago. Threatened him not to refuse. Frank listened silently. Then he lit his cigarette. “Dino,” he said. “What do you want to do?” “I want to say no,” Dean said.
“But my children, you’re thinking about your children.” “That’s right.” Frank blew smoke. “But Dino, if you say yes this time, you’ll never be able to say no again. You’ll become Sam’s man forever.” Dean knew Frank was right. “So, what should I do?” Frank thought for a while. Then, I know someone, he said. Someone reliable, not from the FBI, but can help.
Who? Don’t ask, Frank said. He’ll call you tomorrow. Trust him. Okay. Dean nodded. He had no other choice. The next day at noon, there was a knock on Dean’s hotel room door. When Dean opened it, a man he didn’t know was standing there, suited, tied, plain looking, but his eyes were sharp. Mr. Martin, my name is Robert Hayes.
Frank sent me. Dean let the man in. He locked the door. Robert got straight to the point. Frank explained the situation. Sam Morirano threatened your children and you want to refuse? Yes, Dean said. But how? How am I going to protect my children? Robert opened his briefcase. He pulled out a file. Mr.
Martin, I’m a private security consultant, retired from the FBI. Now I work for families. Families like yours. What can you do? Two things, Robert said. First, protect your children. I’ll set up a team to keep them under surveillance 24 hours. They won’t even see them, but they’re there. Second, Robert smiled, but this wasn’t a warm smile.
Second, we send Sam Morano a message, the kind that’s understood. June 19th, 1963. Wednesday, 200 p.m. Sam Morano was sitting in his office at the Desert Inn, feet on the desk, smoking a cigar. The phone rang. Yes, Sam Morano. A voice he didn’t recognize. Who’s calling? That’s not important. What’s important is stay away from Dean Martin. Sam laughed.
I don’t know who you are, but we know who you are, Sam, the voice said coldly. We know what you’ve done and know this. If anything happens to Dean Martin or his family, everything you know, every dirty deal, every illegal arrangement will be on the FBI’s desk. Sam’s laughter stopped.
Who do you think you are? Also, the voice continued, “Your bosses in Chicago will know, too. How you’re drawing attention in Vegas. How you’re bringing the police down on yourself. Do they like that, Sam?” The line went dead. Sam slowly put the phone back. He still had the cigar in his hand, but it didn’t taste sweet anymore. That same night, Dean Martin was on stage at the Sans Hotel, his regular show.
1,200 people. Frank Sinatra was beside him. Sammy Davis Jr., Joey Bishop, Peter Lofford, Dean was singing That’s Amore. But his eyes were scanning the crowd. Was Sam Morano there? He wasn’t. The show ended. Dean went backstage. He opened his dressing room door, empty. Just Dean’s things. No one. There was an envelope on the table, unsigned.
Dean opened it. Inside was a note. Your children are safe. No one will bother you anymore. RH. Dean burned the note. He threw it in the ashtray. He watched it burn. But the story didn’t end there. June 20th, 1963. Morning. When Sam Morano entered his office, he was shocked. On his desk was a file.
