I was standing in the checkout line at a Country Fair in Erie when I heard the big tough man’s voice behind me. He was on the phone. “You tell doze guys I’m gonna take care-a dem poysinally when I get back.” He added profanity for emphasis.

I hadn’t heard an accent like that – delivered in a threatening, gravelly voice – in over 50 years. But I didn’t have to dig too deep for the memory. The big tough guy with the rough-neighborhood New York accent was unforgettable. His name was Big Julie. Whadda a package he was.

I was a stewardess based at New York’s Kennedy airport, flying mostly west coast trips. Occasionally, I had the good fortune to be offered a Las Vegas charter trip. Once the aircraft became airborne, most of the rules didn’t apply. Everybody walked around, snacking and drinking, while loud voices rose from their card games. Vegas charters were big boisterous parties in the sky. I don’t even know if gambling charters exist today.

After my first Las Vegas trip, I told the crew schedule I would be happy to fly another one. Not everyone enjoyed working with them – the cigar smoke was horrendous. But I found them a fascinating window into a shady world I didn’t know anything about. And the extra money certainly came in handy.

We stewardesses were not allowed to take tips on routine flights. Charters were the one exception. And while living in New York City on $330 a month, a Vegas flight was a very nice bonus. A good charter could make your Christmas or a vacation.

Back then, American, along with several other airlines, regularly contracted Las Vegas charters. In those days, Vegas was the only place in the country where gambling was legal.

The charter flights I worked were strictly for the “high rollers,” contracted by the old Sands hotel, the home of the “Rat Pack.” For 30 or 35 men, the Sands paid for American’s largest aircraft, the 123-seat 707, and comped everything else for their stay. Including the bossman, Big Julie.

Big Julie ran the high roller junkets. He was over 6-feet tall, easily 300 pounds. He always looked the same – rumpled suit, one shirttail out, tie askew, and old floppy shoes. A gentle giant, he nevertheless carried an aura of danger.

The most important element in his get-up was the oversized stainless-steel briefcase chained to his wrist. He was accompanied through our boarding door by two goons who waited until the engines started and left just before the door closed. Julie spread himself out in the first-class lounge, his “business office” for the flight.

The steel case wasn’t unlocked until we were airborne. Then Julie cashed huge checks or markers for the junket guests from the stash he carried… at least a million, maybe more. Big Julie could easily have played an extra in The Godfather.

The gamblers seated themselves all over the airplane, some in first class, others in coach who pulled out the armrests for comfort. A few who knew each other put together poker games for after take-off. Some tried to sleep – probably from the game the night before. By takeoff, most of them had a full glass of scotch or bourbon.

Big Julie was completely in charge. On the microphone, he told the guys they could begin the cash exchange anytime after we got to cruising altitude. “You need somethin’ special, ask the goils. Oh, and please sit down for takeoff.” He never mentioned seatbelts.

The only bother was the cabin air, blue-gray with enough cigar smoke to gag a goat. The guys were never a problem. A few were crude, but never rude. They mostly drank, smoked, and played cards all the way to Vegas. BIG money changed hands.

When the seat belt sign rang for descent, Big Julie asked for the microphone. “Ok youze guys. It’s binna good flight. Da goils have been terrific. I’m passing da basket – hey Mawcy, gimme me dat bread basket, honey. Ok, cough up guys – you don’ wanna be cheap like dem guys on da last Flamingo flight.”

Nobody ever was. We split the mounded basket four ways. After delivering the guys to Sin City, we ferried the empty flight to L.A. for our overnight. We ate high on the hog those evenings – no Denny’s dinners on charter nights.

At a young age, we “goils” got a peek at a risky, edgy lifestyle. Years later, I heard that Big Julie was found in a Kennedy parking lot, barely alive, both knees blown out. An obvious mafia hit. I never heard after that, but I bet he’s at the big roulette wheel in the sky.

Big Julie was one-of-a-kind, almost a cartoon character of a long-gone era. Like I said, unforgettable.

Marcy O’Brien writes from Warren, Pa.