Summer, 1964. JFK long in the ground. Civil rights “race riots” spreading. LBJ running for reelection. None of that mattered to the kid, whose family had set up camp in a forest near Lake Tahoe. Even if his elementary school had been closed several times due to bomb threats, he comprehended little of it. The smell of pine trees was as pervasive as the warmth of the sun. The camper trailer was a familiar, but not particularly comfortable mobile living situation for a summer trip that was to span the west.
For reasons that would only later be dissembled, the kid –now seven years old—and his younger sister would drive with their father into town. Close to the lake, in a very small town, there’s something of an urban hub where Nevada brushes up against California that remains to this day. To the east, a small stack of casinos formed a city block; to the west was very little, with no gambling on the California side. Harrah’s, one of the larger and more storied casinos on the Nevada side, had once been the site of a notorious kidnapping. Just the previous year, three thugs had abducted Frank Sinatra Jr., the 19-year-old son of singer Frank Sinatra, shortly after his performance at the South Shore Room opening for George Jessel.
The station wagon was easily parked somewhere near the California line, and the father walked his charges towards the entrance of Harrah’s. As the trio approached the casino door, word quickly came that children could not enter the casino floor. Without apparent concern, the children were left to wait on the sidewalk just outside: “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” No marching orders, no words of caution, no further explanation.
To the kid, the few minutes quickly seemed more like twenty, but time passes irregularly for the young. Out of nowhere in particular, a poorly shaved man in a sports jacket approached the boy. “Hey kid, you wanna see a picture? The kid had seen enough movies and cartoons to recognize an obvious Brooklyn accent – although, at the time, he couldn’t identify it as such. The word picture came out as “pik-sha.” He avoided eye contact instinctively. He imagined that the man wanted to show him a picture of something, but the vibe was off-putting. The accent seemed vaguely troubling, for one thing, and invitations from strangers weren’t run-of-the-mill.
The boy murmured his lack of interest. The man retorted, “Are you sure? It’s a really, really good picture. It’s got air conditioning!” as he pointed vaguely down the street. Going to a movie sounded even more ill-advised, as the boy then understood what the invite was. He again demurred, perhaps clenching his sister’s hand, and the man quickly vanished.
Finally, the father emerged, and the campsite was soon revisited. At some point during dinner that evening, the kid mentioned the broad strokes of what had happened, perhaps a calculated ploy to wreak a little extra drama. Unexpectedly, the boy’s mother verbally assaulted the father with a ferocity he’d never seen before or after. Something about getting change for the laundromat was the unconvincing pitch.
Many years later, it occurred to the kid that a serial criminal may have likely been the culprit. Some half-hearted research revealed nothing. He could only imagine how life might have gone in the following acts…and that someone, somewhere might still know.