Spilotro was merely a killer; Lefty mastered the more frightening Glare

Now I’ve been on the receiving end of plenty of cold stares, but Rosenthal really gave it his all and his cold stare did a number on me when I was a federal court reporter between 1978 and 1984. Our first face-to-face encounter was during that period when he was unofficially running the Stardust when naïve California businessman Allen Glick was the owner. The Chicago Outfit put Rosenthal in. They used the nickname "Crazy" when they spoke of him.

He had various titles, from food and beverage director to entertainment director, but it was no secret he was concerned with more than how many blueberries were in a blueberry muffin and how tall the show girls were.

One day I was asked to be part of a panel of a few reporters to ask Rosenthal questions on a local television news show. I don’t remember the exact date, but it was about the time he was running the Stardust, the Hacienda, the Marina and the Fremont, but didn’t have a gaming license. When the time came for me to ask my first question, I caught Rosenthal’s eye and froze. It seemed forever before I thawed out and had the sense to look at my notes and read a question.

In the game of intimidation, it was one for Frank, zero for Jane Ann.

The next time we spoke, he was leaving the federal courthouse wearing that silly hat he wore to cover his hair plugs. I tried to joke with him about what I assumed was his appearance before a grand jury meeting that day, asking whether he had spilled his guts. Maybe it was the hat and the awful hair plugs, but The Glare didn’t turn me into a pillar of salt.

The last time I spoke with him was after he had cooperated with writer Nick Pileggi to write "Casino," the fascinating book that captured the Las Vegas of the 1970s and 1980s. Martin Scorsese’s movie "Casino" was about to come out in 1995. Figuring Rosenthal was in the mood to talk about his Las Vegas days, I called him in Florida and said I’d like an interview. It was a pretty short conversation. Fortunately, I take rejection well.

Rosenthal had become a part of my daily life by then because of the memento that sat atop my computer.

Rosenthal’s Cadillac exploded in 1982 in the parking lot between Tony Roma’s and Marie Callender’s on Sahara Avenue, just as he was getting in. While it was never solved, he said he didn’t think the bombing was the work of the Boy Scouts.

I wasn’t on the scene until the next day and spied a wire attached to a small piece of metal where the car had burned the asphalt. I didn’t presume it was part of the bomb, but I did presume it was part of the car and for years it sat atop my computer in the newsroom, reminding me of a time when a car bombing did one of two things: It killed you. Or it sent you a message.

Rosenthal got the message and moved to Florida the next year.

About a month after the 1982 car bombing, his ex-wife Geri died in Hollywood from an apparent drug overdose. She was 46.

Spilotro, whose affair with Geri destroyed his friendship with Rosenthal, was murdered and dumped in an Indiana cornfield in 1986, courtesy of his mob bosses. He was 48.

Of the three, only Rosenthal died a natural death. This past Monday, the sports handicapper, whose lasting legacy was creating the first sports book in Las Vegas, had a fatal heart attack at 79.

My memories are fairly tame, but I know this: I’m not the only one who was on the receiving end of the Rosenthal Glare, which combined contempt with a touch of loathing and a hint of murderous rage. If you’ve seen it, you don’t forget it.

Jane Ann Morrison’s column appears Monday, Thursday and Saturday. E-mail her at Jane@reviewjournal.com or call (702) 383-0275.