Wow, I don't know whether to give this one star or five. It's a total train wreck and is really badly written. He repeats himself in the same paragraph, loves run on sentences, and rambles on with stories that have no point ("This guy is a good friend. Last year we went out to his private island for vacation. It was fun". The end.) He also has a tendency to reference stories he doesn't tell ("That was quite a night. What a story." The end.)
He mentions people that he doesn't introduce until chapters later, alludes to events that he assumes the reader should know ("and of course, we all know what happened to random stranger once the feds caught up with him." The end.) and jumps around so much that it's impossible to keep track of a chronology. Which I guess is awesome as a literary device, because the whole thing is a mystery the entire time, but I don't think it's on purpose.
As a memoir, it totally fails -- it's like someone read a draft and said, hey, you need to include things about your own life, and so he went back and added random details: and this one time, we had dinner; this other time, we went on vacation. He never says how he feels about anything or why he did anything. He was married for like 40 years, then got divorced and instantly remarried to his personal trainer and got divorced almost as instantly. But does he have any feelings about that? Any motivation? Not as far as you can tell from this book.
But as a train wreck, it is awesome. He is pretty confident that he is responsible for nearly everything that's ever happened: the success of the Beatles, the longevity of the rat pack, Vegas itself. The book is a chaotic mess of name dropping and an expose of how everyone in the world but him (an innocent bystander the whole time) was mixed up with the mob, drugs, orgies, and watching women have sex with sheep.