also a clock on the wall. It said it was 10:15, and it was probably working, for he could see the second hand jerk, although his wristwatch told him it was 1:15.
It took him a moment to understand. He had been in the air four and a half or five hours. It was 1:15 in Philadelphia, which meant that he had missed lunch as well as breakfast. But they had changed time zones.
His bag was the very last bag to show up on the carousel, and the red UNLOADED FIREARM tag on it attracted the attention of a muscular young man with closely cropped hair, who was wearing blue jeans and a baggy sweater worn outside the jeans. He looked at the chauffeur, and then at Matt, when he saw he was with the chauffeur, with great interest, and then followed them out of the baggage room and watched them get into the cream-colored Cadillac limousine.
Clever fellow that I am, Matt thought, I will offer odds of three to one that the guy in the crew cut is a plainclothesman on the airport detail. He is professionally curious why a nice, clean-cut young man such as myself is arriving in Las Vegas with an UNLOADED FIREARM in his luggage.
The chauffeur installed Matt, whose stomach was now giving audible notice that it hadn’t been fed in some time, in the back seat and then drove away from the airport.
I’m going to have to get something to eat, and right now.
He pushed himself off the seat, and with some difficulty found the switch that lowered the glass divider.
“How far is this place? I’ve got to get something to eat.”
“The Lindens, sir, or the Flamingo?”
“What about the Flamingo?”
“My instructions are to take you to the Flamingo, sir, and then pick you up there at seven-fifteen tomorrow morning and take you out to The Lindens.”
“Oh.”
“They have very nice restaurants in the Flamingo, sir. It’s about fifteen, twenty minutes. But I can stop . . .”
The Flamingo, Matt recalled, was a world-famous den of iniquity, a gambling hall where Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and other people of that ilk entertained the suckers while they were being parted from their money at the roulette and blackjack tables. He also recalled hearing that the world’s best-looking hookers plied their trade in the better Las Vegas dens of iniquity.
“No. That’s fine. I can wait.”
There was a basket of fruit and a bottle of champagne in a cooler in Suite 9012, which consisted of a sitting room overlooking what Matt decided was The Strip of fame and legend, and a bedroom with the largest bed, with a mirrored headboard, Matt had ever seen.
The bellman also showed him a small bar, stocked with miniature bottles of liquor, and a refrigerator that held wine and beer. As soon as he had tipped the bellman, he headed for the refrigerator and opened a bottle of Tuborg, and drank deeply from it.
A moment later he felt a little dizzy.
Christ, I haven’t had anything to eat since that cheese-steak in McGee’s. No wonder the beer’s making me dizzy.
He ripped the cellophane off the basket of fruit and peeled a banana. And noticed that there was an envelope in the basket.
Flamingo Hotel & Casino
Dear Mr. Payne:
Welcome to the Flamingo! It is always a pleasure to have a guest of Mr. Detweiler in the house.
A $10,000 line of credit has been established for you. Should you wish to test Lady Luck at our tables, simply present yourself at the cashier’s window and you will be allowed to draw chips up to that amount.
If there is any way I can help to make your stay more enjoyable, please call me.
Good luck!
James Crawford
General Manager
It took Matt only a second or two to conclude that Mr. James Crawford had made a serious error. Dick and Grace Detweiler might feel themselves blessed to have a friend like him, and they might really have him in their prayers, but there was no way they were going to give him ten thousand dollars to gamble with.
Detweiler probably entertains major clients out here, and the general manager made the natural mistake of thinking I’m one of them, someone in a position to buy a trainload of tomato soup or fifty tons of canned chicken.
The possibilities boggle the mind, but what this nice, young, nongambling police officer is going to do is find someplace to eat and then come back up here and crap out in that polo-field-sized bed.