When it comes to killers, looks can be deceiving

Not so many years ago, Las Vegas was riddled with wanna-be wiseguys.

You know, the type of fellow who talks tough and can’t help alluding to his underworld connections no matter how distant. As Las Vegas was also home to plenty of actual mob associates, some of them quite violent, it was always smart not to get too inquisitive about a braggart’s pedigree.

Because when it comes to the business of murder, you can’t always tell who’s who by neon light.

Take that plain-looking guy at the side bar at the old MGM Grand. Receding hair, face weathered from spending too many years living by lamplight. In his black-and-whites he resembled just another casino dealer knocking a few back before heading home for the night.

Those who worked with him knew Steve Homick was more than a little different. Although he wasn’t a gifted dealer, he was a member of the tip committee, which meant he helped cut up the tokes. It was a trusted job, one that had historically been given to pals of casino bosses who never squawked when an extra envelope came their way.

Anyone who moved in certain circles would notice Homick. He played racquetball at the Sporting House back when old Ray Wax made book out of the men’s locker room. Homick knew plenty of connected guys on both sides of the law. Athletic and outgoing, the former pro ballplayer and ex-cop befriended police detectives and casino executives. And he couldn’t wait to do a favor for a new friend.

Over time, of course, he always wanted something in return.

At the bar one night, Homick was drinking and getting loose-lipped about his skill set away from the green felt. He liked to talk in riddles and parables, as if he was up to something mysterious. He let on that he was connected to some mob people. It was nothing the bartender hadn’t heard before from countless boozy wanna-be types.

But then Homick uttered words that chilled the bartender to the bone and stuck with him for the rest of his life.

“Somebody bothers you, you let me know,” Homick said. “I’ll take care of him for you.”

It wasn’t so much what Homick said. There’s no shortage of tough talkers in Las Vegas. It was the emotionless, matter-of-fact way he said it that raised the hair on the back of his neck.

The bartender never took Homick up on his offer, and not long after that conversation, the strangely affable fellow left his dealing job and turned to other work.

By the mid-1980s everyone in Las Vegas who read a newspaper knew Steve Homick’s name. He was a remorseless, shark-eyed murderer and thief who would be dubbed “the Ninja Killer” by the press.

Before he was captured and convicted in U.S. District Court of racketeering and continuing criminal enterprise, Homick and his crew cut a swath of violent felonies from Las Vegas to Hawaii. A former Los Angeles police officer, Homick had used his many contacts to set up robberies and contract murders.

Although neither the cops nor the FBI nailed him for it, Homick also was suspected of providing the dynamite that nearly sent Frank “Lefty” Rosenthal from the parking lot of Tony Roma’s to the promised land in 1982.

Homick was responsible for the Sept. 25, 1985, murders in Brentwood, Calif., of Gerald and Vera Woodman. The homicide investigation focused on the Woodmans’ sons, Neil and Stewart, whose profligate spending and high-rolling gambling trips to Las Vegas had put them in contact with Homick. He was dubbed the “Ninja Killer” because of the black hooded sweatshirt he wore on jobs.

That same year in Paradise Valley, Homick and his henchmen murdered Las Vegas heiress Bobbie Jean Tipton, maid Marie Bullock and meat deliveryman James Meyers. Homick was sentenced to death in 1989 in Nevada and again in 1995 in California even after he cooperated in the Woodman murder case.

Homick, who spent the better part of the past three decades at San Quentin, died Nov. 5 of what passes for natural causes in the prison system. He was 74.

Despite his best efforts, during their murder spree Homick and his goon Michael Dominguez actually failed to kill two other Las Vegans. One of the shooting victims was hit multiple times but somehow managed to survive. The couple was lucky and knew it.

After all, they had come in contact with Steve Homick and lived.

John L. Smith’s column appears Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. E-mail him at jsmith@reviewjournal.com or call (702) 383-0295.