Ad in the Nevada State Journal, June 26, 1935

1929-1941

In the early decades of legal gambling in Nevada, Reno’s McKay/Graham combine expropriated legitimate business owners’ casinos in Washoe County.

The local Mob, headed by William “Bill” Graham and James “Jim” McKay, strove to dominate and control gambling in Reno without competition. Thus, anyone who wanted to open a gambling club had to seek their permission first, and the duo may or may not have granted it. Those who failed to ask for entry into the exclusive fraternity suffered dire consequences. Most times, McKay and Graham stole the business outright, but sometimes they infiltrated it and caused its demise.

Here are the stories of some gambling clubs that fell victim to Graham and McKay:

1) Country Club (in Reno)

With the backing of an ex-Nevada investor, Charles Rennie opened the Country Club in June 1935 on Plumas Street (between what today are Moana Lane and Urban Road).* At the time, Rennie was the gambling licensee for the Town House in downtown Reno.

“It was one of the most dazzling, exciting, and glamorous clubs ever opened in Reno,” wrote Dwayne Kling in The Rise of the Biggest Little City.

The $250,000 (a $4.7 million value today) establishment featured a restaurant, dance floor, polo grounds and tennis courts. The Bridge Room casino offered  roulette, craps, 21 and slot machines. Following a debut for which 600 people made reservations to attend, the County Club was doing great business.

Graham and McKay sent one of their henchmen, Jack Sullivan, several times to tell Rennie he should talk to the duo, but Rennie refused, according to Al W. Moe in The Roots of Reno.

Then, only 1.5 months after the Country Club’s premier, Rennie announced he was abandoning it and returning to the Town House full-time. Eighteen days later, the Country Club closed. It reopened soon after with a Graham/McKay man, James Merrell, as the new general manager.

The next year, Rennie tried to take back his Country Club from the Mobsters, without success. Subsequently, on May 15, a fire erupted at 3:40 a.m., under a serving table in the kitchen according to the steward, the only person on the premises at the time. Fueled by strong winds, the conflagration reduced the facilities to rubble within two hours. The fire chief said the fire looked to have been set, but it never was proven. Despite promises by Merrell that the Country Club would be rebuilt, it wasn’t.

2) Monte Carlo (in Reno)

The Monte Carlo opened on June 19, 1931 at 216 N. Virginia Street and boasted varied casino games, 12 in all, including hazard, roulette, big six, craps, 21, draw and stud poker, panguingue, klondike and chemin de fer.

By the end of that year, it was shuttered. According to Harold Smith, Sr., who co-owned nearby Harolds Club, “No warning went to its owners. The clique simply infiltrated its thieves among the employees and stole the bankroll. The Monte Carlo Club was broke in three months.”

3) La Boite Amusement Palace (in Reno)

Clarence Shockey launched La Boite Amusement Park, a keno-pool parlor, on July 21, 1932, to great success. Three days later, a fire broke out in the garbage behind the building but was extinguished quickly, saving the business. On the eighth day after opening, Shockey uncharacteristically failed to show up at La Boite that night, and he never was heard from or seen again. The club re-opened under new management three days later. The full story is here.

4) The Cowshed (in Reno)

Shortly after Belle Livingstone opened The Cowshed, a nightclub offering gaming (21,  roulette, craps), dining and dancing, Graham and McKay sent in their goons to drive her out. They did. The full story is here.

5) Harolds Club (in Reno)

Graham and McKay tried to close down Harolds Club in 1937, about two years after it opened.

One day, William A. Justi, third ward city councilman and police committee chairman, showed up at Harolds with two other councilmen, Harolds co-owner Harold S. Smith, Sr. described in his book. “They were there to examine our big roulette wheel hanging from the ceiling,” Smith, Sr. wrote. “The city’s ordinance imposed a tax on each gaming wheel. The Third Ward councilman was trying to persuade his colleagues to collect the tax instead on each of our 43 roulette layouts since they were placed from a single wheel. Fortunately, he wasn’t able to sell his plan. Forty-three licenses would have put us out of business.

“The real showdown came just before 10 AM a few days later when Raymond [Harold’s brother and co-owner] and I were alone in the place. Seven men sauntered in, all big, all sashaying from side to side to knock over whatever, or whoever, got in their way. I had heard through the grapevine our place was going to be wrecked. I was ready, though I would have liked to have had more witnesses. The men headed straight for Raymond standing behind the crap table, when I reached under the roulette counter for my loaded .38.

“‘You’re not going to shoot any dice,’ I declared, ‘so just turn around walk out that door.’ Not a tremor of vibrato was in my voice. I simply couldn’t stand there, aware of Raymond’s vulnerable mastoidal ear, and let them tear my brother apart or wreck the store. Had any of them taken another step, I’d have put a bullet near his feet and the next one into him.

“They halted and turned to face me. Anyone, I believe, knows when an armed man means to use his gun. They could see by the line of my lips I would use mine. They knew, furthermore, as I knew, that unless I faced them down, Harolds Club was through in Reno. Every hoodlum in the area would take his turn at clobbering us.  We would be their mirth, out in the street dodging our furniture. If, on the other hand, they retreated before a gun, the psychological advantage was ours. We would have made our stand and the word would be all over town by noon. Public opinion might save us from further rough stuff. The seven men put their heads together in solemn pow-wow, turned stiffly and marched out the door. I took my clammy hand off the pistol grip and murmured a silent prayer.

“We were in Reno to stay though I continued to carry the gun and watch every shadow as I drove home nights.”

6) Cal-Neva Lodge (in Incline Village)

“Graham and McKay swept over Cal-Neva at Lake Tahoe in 1929,” Moe wrote in Nevada’s Golden Age of Gambling. As soon as they did, they offered gambling there, which was illegal until 1931.

The Cal-Neva also burned down in a blaze thought to be arson, in mid-May 1937, just before the start of the summer tourist season (the enterprise typically was closed between September and June). It was rebuilt and quickly, however. If Graham/McKay had the fire set, why did they choose that time? It may have had something to do with the opening of the nearby Ta-Neva-Ho.

7) Ta-Neva-Ho (in Crystal Bay)

When John “Johnny” Rayburn opened the Ta-Neva-Ho,** the Cal-Neva Lodge fire had raged two weeks earlier. “The opportunity to own his own club and enter the Nevada gambling scene caused Rayburn to sell the Buckhorn [restaurant]” at North Lake Tahoe,” wrote Bethel Van Tassel in Wood Chips to Gambling Chips.

However, suddenly McKay’s people were running not just the gambling at the Ta-Neva-Ho but the entire place. McKay himself got a gambling license for the casino for 21, craps, roulette, panguingue, slots and a race book.

The Mobsters’ thinking behind taking over the Ta-Neva-Ho likely was that gambling revenue from it would make up for monies lost during the Cal-Neva Lodge rebuild.

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* On the former Country Club property today is the Classic Residence by Hyatt senior living community.
** Rayburn later renamed the Ta-Neva-Ho the Crystal Bay Club.

Sources

Ed Robbin

1941-1956

The Nevada Club (1941-1987) in Reno exemplifies the stereotypic mobsters-and-gambling connection that pervaded The Silver State for decades during the 1900s.

The business began as Robbin and Robbin, opened by Harry Robbin, 65, and his son Isadore Edward “Ed” Robbin, 45, in April 1941, and boasted 21, craps, roulette, bingo and slot machines. Located at 224 N. Virginia Street, it had been Langley’s Tango Club previously. Today, it’s part of Harrah’s property.  In November 1941, the name was changed to Robbins’ Nevada Club.

Three or four years later,* mobsters allegedly wormed their way into the club and usurped the Robbins’ control. Despite no evidence they sought any, the two familial proprietors suddenly had these “partners” in 1946:

• Lincoln Fitzgerald, 52
• Daniel “Danny” W. Sullivan, 55
• Myrton “Mert” C. Wertheimer, 60
• Raymond Reuben “Ruby” Mathis, 55

These new Reno gambling house operators were former members of the Chesterfield Syndicate, which had owned and run resorts, casinos, clubs and speakeasies primarily in the Detroit area. They’d recently relocated to The Biggest Little City due to a crackdown on illegal gambling in Macomb County, Michigan, in which they’d been involved for two-plus decades. Wertheimer, however, had moved from Florida, where he’d run casinos for Meyer Lansky.

Robbins’ Nevada Club “was the foothold the Detroit syndicate needed to transplant the operators into the Reno area,” wrote Jeff Sunzeri in The Nevada Club.

Name Is Changed

In March 1946, Robbins’ Nevada Club underwent a $250,000 (about $3.2 million today) makeover, including a building addition and a remodel of the existing part, likely funded by the newcomers. After, it debuted as simply the Nevada Club, offering 21, craps, roulette, keno, chuck-a-luck and slots. The building was three stories, one underground.

Paying The Price

Five months later, in August 1946, a Macomb County grand jury indicted Sullivan, Fitzgerald and Wertheimer with illegal gambling and obstructing justice by paying bribes and requested their extradition back to Michigan. Wertheimer surrendered and, ultimately, paid a fine. Sullivan and Fitzgerald, however, successfully fought and delayed extradition for two years. The duo was extradited in August 1948 and paid fines.

By that time, Wertheimer and Mathis had left the Nevada Club to run the gambling concession at George Wingfield, Sr.’s Riverside Hotel in Reno. Also by this time, Harry Robbin presumably had bowed out as well, as he already was at retirement age when he and Ed had launched Robbin and Robbin.

Out of Commission

About three months after being extradited to Michigan, someone shot Fitzgerald in his home’s driveway in November 1949, about three months after he’d been extradited to Michigan. Critically injured, he didn’t return to running the Nevada Club until spring 1950.

Used As A Straw Man

Until this time, for nine years, all pertinent business applications, such as those for gambling licenses and building permits, had been in Ed Robbin’s name only. This suggests the syndicate members had used him as a front until they knew Nevada gaming regulators would approve them for a gambling license despite their tainted background.

That happened in 1952 after Fitzgerald, Sullivan and Ed Robbin formed the partnership, Nevada Club Enterprises Inc. Sullivan was the club’s general manager; Fitzgerald was the casino manager. Had Ed Robbin then become a co-owner in name only?

Move Made To Fly Solo

Four years later, Sullivan passed away at age 67 in September. Soon after, Fitzgerald bought Ed Robbin’s stake (Ed was 61) and became the Nevada Club’s only owner. Did Ed Robbin have any say in that?**

Fitzgerald continued to run the Nevada Club, along with his other casino properties, until his death at age 88 in April 1981. That event marked the departure of Chesterfield Syndicate members from the ownership and management of the iconic casino.

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* A newspaper article noted the Chesterfield quartet began operating Robbins’ Nevada Club in summer 1946, but perhaps it was earlier because Sullivan and Fitzgerald, at least, had been living in Reno since May 1945.

** Note that Ed Robbin had a 20 percent interest in Lincoln Fitzgerald’s Nevada Lodge in Crystal Bay at Lake Tahoe when it opened in 1958. (The Nevada Lodge previously had been the Tahoe Biltmore, the name it again has today.

Sources

Montreux Casino, 1971

1971

The sight of Switzerland’s Montreux Casino burning down on December 4, 1971 was the inspiration for Deep Purple’s hit song, Smoke on the Water.

A fan firing a flare gun during a Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention concert caused the conflagration of this then-90-year-old establishment. The casino subsequently was rebuilt.

Here are the lyrics, which tell it all:

We all came out to Montreux
On the Lake Geneva shoreline
To make records with a mobile
We didn’t have much time
Frank Zappa and the Mothers
Were at the best place around
But some stupid with a flare gun
Burned the place to the ground

Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky
Smoke on the water

They burned down the gambling house
It died with an awful sound
Funky Claude was running in and out
Pulling kids out of the ground
When it all was over
We had to find another place
But Swiss time was running out
It seemed that we would lose the race

Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky
Smoke on the water

We ended up at the Grand Hotel
It was empty, cold and bare
But with the Rolling truck Stones thing just outside
Making our music there
With a few red lights, a few old beds
We make a place to sweat
No matter what we get out of this
I know, I know we’ll never forget

Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky
Smoke on the water

Songwriters: Ritchie Blackmore, Ian Gillan, Roger D Glover, Jon Lord, Ian Paice

1949-1950

The Den opened its doors in spring 1949. The proprietors — Donald A. Bentley, John R. Hope and Robert M. Colahan — likely were hoping for at least as long a run as their predecessors’, nine-plus years, when the property was called the Louvre. But it didn’t happen.

In mid-September 1949, from the basement of that Reno, Nevada saloon/gambling club, a burglar punched a hole in the wall near the door, reached in and opened the lock. After entry, he stole a cash box said to contain $586 (about $5,900 today) in cash and checks, a valuable watch and an agate ring.

The next month, a seemingly unprovoked assault occurred. While a Fallon resident, Francis N. Coolbrith, talked to the bartender in the club, around 7 a.m., a stocky man in his early 30s punched Coolbrith in the face, fracturing the bone below one of his eyes.

The next year, on New Year’s Day, a man named Lloyd McCrorey entered The Den at about 5 a.m. A short time later, gunshots hit him in both legs and severed his right pinkie finger. The victim told officers he didn’t know who’d shot him or why, and all patrons claimed they hadn’t seen anything. Police identified the weapon as a German Luger from the spent shell casings but not the shooter. 

Too Much Crime

When The Den’s gambling license came up for renewal, Chief of Police L.R. Greeson recommended denial because the establishment, in his mind, was a nuisance. The determining body, the Reno City Council, concurred in a unanimous vote.

Bentley, the principal owner, protested, arguing he hadn’t been warned of impending trouble.

“That’s putting us out in the street without enough money to get out of town,” he said.

Mayor Francis R. Smith responded, “I think you are aware of all the reasons the license was not renewed.”

Bentley pleaded for a special permit, at a minimum, so he and his co-owners could operate the bar for a bit longer to make enough money to leave town.

The council members said no, meaning the enterprise had to close immediately.

Hot Way Out

Six hours later, at about 1:15 a.m., a small blaze broke out in The Den’s lowest floor. The fire department extinguished it easily and concluded it had been man-made and ignited in a pile of boxes.

About two hours later, while firemen were questioning Bentley, a second, larger fire erupted in the same room, that one gutting the building and damaging four adjacent businesses.

Authorities, who suspected arson, conducted numerous interviews. Witnesses said little, only that they’d smelled gas fumes just before they saw the fire, which they described as scorching and fast spreading.

“We seem to be dealing with close-mouthed individuals,” Fire Chief Karl L. Evans said, adding that the inferno hadn’t been a rekindling of the first and, too, had been set deliberately.

Also seemingly suspicious was that someone, prior to the flames, had emptied The Den’s slot machine’s coin box. That had required removal of the back paneling, which appeared to have been done carefully but replacement of it, haphazardly.

Bentley said a handful of insurance policies on The Den were in place but had burned, and as such, he didn’t know their value. In fact, the building and its contents were indemnified for $25,000 (a roughly $250,000 value today) — $10,000 for equipment, $5,000 for merchandise and $10,000 for interruption of business.

In spring, the operators of Benetti Novelty Co., a slot machine and juke box distributor, Louis Benetti and Jack Douglass, sued The Den’s proprietors for payment on four unpaid notes totaling $6,540. Douglass, also the landowner, asked the court to terminate his lease agreement with the trio, which they’d breached by not maintaining their liquor license.

The defendants failed to answer the suit, therefore, a judgment was entered by default. Judge William McKnight ordered them to return the property to Douglass and to pay the plaintiffs $8,000, including attorneys’ fees and interest (about $80,000 today).

Financial Recovery Fizzles

In July, Bentley, Colahan and Hope sued the New York Fire Insurance Co. and the Orient Insurance Co. of Connecticut because neither had paid on The Den’s policies. They asked for $10,000 from the former for damage to the club and $1,000 from the latter for lost inventory.

The insurance companies filed a demurrer, or an objection that the insureds’ point was invalid. The judge, though, overruled it and mandated they reply to the complaints against them within 15 days.

They did, noting The Den owners hadn’t submitted the requisite itemized list of items lost in the fire within the stipulated 60 days following the event. They hadn’t provided any records at all.

Sources

Photo from freeimages.com: “Fire” by Rick Cowan

Mexico’s Monte Carlo and Sunset Inn

1913-1929

With various state bans on gambling and, later, a nationwide prohibition against liquor, many Americans, particularly wealthy Southern Californians, traveled to casinos in Mexican border cities to play and imbibe.

“The great hegira* is in, and already these towns are filled to the limit with throngs of the thirsty, willing to pay big sums for the pleasures banned by law on American soil,” reported the Reno Evening Gazette (March 30, 1920).

Here are some casinos that lured U.S. citizens across the border to do what they legally couldn’t at home:

In Calexico

• Owl (Tecolote) Café and Theatre: Large but unadorned, “an immense barn-like structure,” the Owl boasted nearly 40 tables for keno, faro and poker along with many roulette wheels (The Bakersfield Californian, Feb. 10, 1920). Advertisements for the gaming resort touted: “Both night and day, across the way, you will never find closed, the Owl Café.” Three Bakersfield, California, saloon and brothel owners — Marvin Allen, Frank Beyer and Carl Withington — or ABC Corp., opened the Owl around 1913. Seven years later, a fire that raged for three hours burned it down.

“The destruction of the Owl leaves one large gambling house in Mexicali, a Chinese establishment where many of the games are beyond the ken** of the average American,” reported The Bakersfield Californian (Feb. 10, 1920).

In Mexicali

• Casino de Mexicali: Following the conflagration of the Owl, Governor Esteban Cantu of Baja, California, built and oversaw in his capital city the upscale Casino de Mexicali, which also was open 24/7. Luxuriously appointed, the entire top floor was divided into suites equipped with games for wagering. Cantu charged customers an initial $250 membership tax (about $2,950 today) and a $20 monthly fee. In the first month alone, 2,000 people had joined. In its early days, the Casino de Mexicali drew about 25,000 to 30,000 Americans per day.

“The project stood Cantu an even million dollars before a wheel turned,” noted the Reno Evening Gazette (March 30, 1920).

In Tijuana

• Feria Típica: This traditional fair, the brainchild of Antonio Elosúa, offered gambling in the forms of cockfighting, bullfighting, bull baiting and horse racing along with folk dancing and Mexican food and drink. It debuted in 1915 with the slogan: “Where Everything Goes and Where Everyone Goes.”
• Monte Carlo: Elosúa opened this casino the following year. Adjacent to the Feria Típica’s open-air arena, it offered cards and dice table games, slot machines and roulette wheels. By 1917, ABC Corp. had bought out all of Elosúa’s holdings.
• Sunset Inn: ABC Corp. and Jim Coffroth built in 1920 this new $1 million casino with a balcony that overlooked the racetrack. The proprietors added to the casino’s events schedule many of the feria’s most popular exhibitions, like bullfighting.

“To lure and keep gamblers on the property, the new Monte Carlo served decent enough 75-cent meals and the dance hall stayed open all night,” wrote Lawrence D. Taylor (San Diego Historical Society Quarterly, Summer 2002).

• Agua Caliente Casino and Hotel: Another trio of Americans — Wirt G. Bowman, Baron Long and James N. Crofton — built this ornate, $10 million, Spanish-style resort that boasted a casino offering faro, roulette and baccarat, horse and greyhound racing among other recreational amenities. Four-person bungalows allowed for gambling in private. Located six miles south of the border near the hot spring, the property opened in two phases, in 1928 and 1929. During its heyday, Agua Caliente attracted a slew of tourists, among them famous Hollywood stars.

“American cupidity has enriched the gamblers of Augua [sic] Caliente more than $4 million in the past 10 months. The Old West in its heyday never saw such gambling as is being done at Augua Caliente these days,” reported The Kokomo Tribune (June 7, 1929).

The end of Prohibition curtailed the throngs of U.S. citizens visiting Mexico for pleasures.

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*A flight or journey to a more desirable or congenial place
**Understanding or knowledge

Sources