Columnist John Katsilometes: Nondeadly night at the Oasis

It can be likened to the Bates Motel, at first glance.

The guy who runs the place can be likened to Norman Bates, also at first glance.

But in the case of the Oasis Motel and manager Peter Napoli, looks can be deceptive.

The Oasis, you might recall, has served as the infamous place of death for two men famous for widely disparate reasons. Professional poker champion Stu "The Kid" Ungar was found dead of heart failure (linked to a long life of drug abuse) last November, and actor David Strickland hanged himself in late March.

The Pavlovian response for anyone making the Oasis-fatality connection is, "What's going on in that place?"

I set out to find out, calling the Oasis last week, asking a few pertinent questions: Are rooms available? What are the rates? Can I have the David Strickland room?

The answers, in order, were: Yes, $48 and "Wha-a?"

However, with no hesitance, Napoli agreed to book me for a night under the agreement that I would write about the experience. He welcomed the publicity, which seemed odd since his business has alternately been depicted as a real-life Roach Motel (where guests check in but don't check out) or the punch line to some really lame jokes (people are dying to get into that place).

As it turns out, Napoli is no Dead Head, Grim Reaper or Grim Anything. He's a friendly, chatty guy who has taken over operations of the motel from his 65-year-old father, John, who has owned the place for 10 years.

"People see us when they come up the Strip," Napoli said. "We have a nice look, it's a newer-looking place, kind of modern. It's not a place where people go to die."

Napoli gauges prospective guests carefully for tell-tale signs of bad news (check your crack pipe at the door), vagrancy and overtly illicit activities (ignore those cabs coming and going by the hour).

A devout Catholic, Napoli is far from the cigar-chomping purveyor of porno one might expect from the businesses populating the Strip region near the Stratosphere.

"It's not a bad place at all," he said. "It's safe. See for yourself."

Fine. But because of a glitch in communication, I was not booked into the Strickland Suite, but rather the Ungar Penthouse, across the way in Room 4.

No matter. Essentially, they're the same room, equipped with a small TV that shows hard-core porno (for free!) on channels 4 and 6.

The walls are cracked cement. The ceiling is warped wooden paneling. The bed is draped with a faded brown-and-yellow bedspread and sagging in the middle. The drapes (ugh) are a darkened gold and stained with who-knows-what. The bathroom is devoid of towels or toiletries and the place smells funny.

Just like any other neighboring, by-the-hour flop-and-drop, in other words. It's not a place to get a good night's sleep. When it's cold outside, it's cold inside. Sirens blare through the windows, and the flashing lights give the room a strobe-lit effect like Studio 54.

And cozying up in the death bed of a wayward gambler can prompt a mild case of insomnia.

But take it from the manager or from a one-night guest. The Oasis might be sleazy, but it's hardly a place to go and die.

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