Interesting new book mentioned in Las Vegas Advisor this week. There's a book signing in Las Vegas next week at the Ice House Lounge. Available from Huntington Press.

--------------------------------------------------
Of Rats & Men

by John L. Smith

This book is big, as big as it gets for Sin City. And like a Cecil B. DeMille biblical extravaganza, it's got a cast of thousands, notably Mafioso from all over the country.
Consider the nicknames of just a few of them: Milwaukee Phil. The Wizard of Odds. The Brain. Nicky Crow. Tony Ripe. Cork. Uncle. King Rat. Tony Ducks. DeBe. Tuffy. Mad Sam. Vinny Nip. The Rifleman. Jimmy the Weasel. Billy Jack. The Midget. Crazy Phil. Joey the Clown. Toots. Vinnie Ocean. Charlie the Moose. Richie the Fixer. Big Chris. The Count. Little Pussy. Fat Vinnie. Chicken Man. Chicken Wing. The Ant. Jimmy Blue Eyes. The Mad Bomber.
And Las Vegas' current top elected official, Oscar Goodman, stands tall right in the thick of this kaleidoscope of humanity. Goodman, the subject of John L. Smith's new biography Of Rats and Men, is unquestionably America's most celebrated and controversial current big-city mayor. Since Goodman's arrival in the mid-'60s, he's been at the epicenter of this tumultuous town's most explosive criminal cases, courtroom dramas, and political debates. And John L. Smith, Nevada's most honored and recognized journalist, narrates the whole epic story.

An excerpt from Of Rats and Men:

And it came to pass in the new Las Vegas at the twilight of the 20th century that all the most notorious mobsters-at least those with the snappy monikers and blood-soaked resumes who lacked Ivy League MBAs and vast stock portfolios-were either infirm, incarcerated, interred, or had assumed new identities in the Federal Witness Protection Program.
This state of affairs suited the corporate image of a city built by Meyer Lansky and Benny Siegel, Moe Dalitz and the recalcitrant killers behind the Teamsters Central States Pension Fund. But it was no fun at all for criminal defense attorney Oscar B. Goodman, whose marble-floored law office at 520 South Fourth Street in downtown Las Vegas was known nationally as "The House the Mob Built." Not that Goodman was complaining loudly. He'd grown rich and infamous representing a rogue's gallery of reputed members of organized crime-a felonious fraternity whose very existence he'd denied throughout most of his 35-year legal career. If the Mafia was a myth, it certainly paid exceedingly well and often in cash.
Goodman had become a name in the American justice system. He was among the nation's premier criminal defense attorneys. He'd argued on the floor of the U.S. Senate, served as president of the National Association of Criminal Defense Attorneys, was named one of America's "Best Trial Lawyers" by the National Law Journal, generated a seven-figure annual income, and attracted a legion of clients to his plush office lobby. Accused killers and racketeers lined up to see the lawyer who'd spent his life zealously and successfully defending the rights of such dangerous men in hostile courtrooms across the nation. His winning percentage was as enviable as his client list was disreputable. His in-your-face taunts sizzled in the psyches of Organized Crime Strike Force attorneys.
Whenever the latter-day history of gangsterism was considered, Goodman the Mob Mouthpiece was prominently mentioned. Here was a man whose image was so synonymous with organized crime that he appeared as himself in Martin Scorsese's Las Vegas mobster epic Casino, a man whose life was so intriguing it was the subject of the feature-length documentary Mob Law: The True Story of Oscar Goodman. Here was a man some organized-crime experts believed was juiced in to Las Vegas at a pivotal time in the city's dark history through a mysterious connection from Philadelphia, as well as Lansky, the financial titan of the underworld whom he'd one day represent but would never meet. Here was a man without a criminal record, but a record of criminal representation that made him Public Enemy Number One among federal mob prosecutors.
In his shadowy netherworld, Oscar Goodman was a celebrity.
But what about the rest of the world?
As he sat in his office near the turn of the millennium, crafting his cases like Balzac with his endless manuscripts, a question formed in the morning light: If Las Vegas, America's most tawdry and notorious city, could lose its five-o'clock shadow, dress up in a corporate collar, and merge with mainstream society as a sort of Mickey Cohen-meets-Mickey Mouse resort-destination mecca, might it not also be possible for a man of Oscar Goodman's reputation to change his pinstripes and write a fresh ending to his life story?
The odds were long, but then Las Vegas was the land of long odds. Of all the mobsters who gave Las Vegas its reputation as a bastion of the broken-nose set, eventually it was their mouthpiece who came to symbolize all that was notorious about Las Vegas. Chicago hitman Tony Spilotro wasn't quoted in the newspapers more than a handful of times in his life; Oscar Goodman did his tough talking for him. Most FBI agents couldn't have picked Kansas City boss Nick Civella out of a lineup, but they could see Oscar Goodman's hawk's beak, piercing eyes, and perpetual sneer coming from a mile away. Goodman paraded his dangerous clients past a line of television cameras and print reporters. He was one-part lion tamer, one-part bodyguard, and he played the role to perfection.
After Spilotro's grisly murder in 1986 by his Outfit bosses, Goodman's professional life began to change. His wiseguy world view was altered forever.
Like Olivier rendering Hamlet for the ten-thousandth time, Goodman wore the character of the mob mouthpiece like the Prince's of Denmark cape. Hebegan to grow tired of metaphorically holding up the bullet-pierced skull of his client's victim and decrying, "Alas, poor Yorick! We never knew him, Your Honor, and we've got alibi witnesses." With so much attention paid to Oscar the Mouthpiece, there was little recognition of the other Oscar, the fiercely loyal husband and father of four who privately cared more about the academic success of his kids than the succession of the Chicago mob or the Gambino crime family.
An actor at heart, he'd spent a career courting the spotlight like a Broadway hoofer. That high profile was great for business, but he gradually became identified more with his clients than with his practice of jurisprudence. There came a time early in his career when Goodman was no longer simply considered a skilled attorney, but was widely known as a mob lawyer. In at least a segment of the government's view, he was a mobster with a juris doctorate. FBI men and local police investigators whispered that he was quite likely a consigliere to La Cosa Nostra, a man whose advice was sought by the mob's top hoodlums, killers, and bosses.
Was Goodman really connected by more than the attorney-client relationship?
It had happened many times with other criminal defense attorneys who had stepped out of their roles and stood too close to the fire. Chicago had Sidney Korshak, the dynamo long-suspected of playing a senior role in Outfit business. Boston had John Fitzgerald, who'd lost a leg and nearly his life when his car exploded. Philadelphia had Goodman's old college friend Bobby Simone, who took a federal tax fall after being identified as a trusted confidant of Philadelphia mob boss Little Nicky Scarfo.
Whether a mobster lawyer or, as he'd long argued, a lawyer who represented reputed mobsters, Goodman was sorely in need of the kind of character rehabilitation that Las Vegas seemed able to provide. For generations, the city had been the place a fellow hamstrung by felonious repute could come to change his luck, or at least his name, and start life anew. If even Oscar Goodman could redefine his persona, then Las Vegas truly was a magical place, a neon River Jordan capable of making any man reborn.
The odds were far longer than the chances of the traditional mob making a comeback in the new Las Vegas. Then again, Oscar Goodman had faced long odds throughout his legal career.