When I reached the downtown district, I parked the bike and caught a cab to the Los Angeles airport. Within thirty minutes I was in the air, returning to San Francisco. I was plagued with a feeling I couldn't identify the entire trip, and the nebulous emotion stayed with me as I packed, paid my motel bill and returned to the airport. I bought a ticket to Las Vegas, using the name James Franklin, and I left the Barracuda in the airport parking lot, the keys in the ignition. It was the first of many cars I purchased and abandoned.
I was still possessed by the odd feeling during the flight to Las Vegas. It wasn't anger. It wasn't sadness. It wasn't guilt. I couldn't put my finger on it until I stepped off the plane in Nevada. Then I identified the emotion.
It was relief. I was happy to have Rosalie out of my life! The knowledge astonished me, for not six hours past I'd been desperately seeking a way to make her my wife. Astonished or not, I was still relieved.
It was my first trip to Las Vegas and the city was everything and more than I'd imagined. There was a frantic, electric aura about the whole city, and the people, visitors and residents alike, seemed to be rushing around in a state of frenetic expectation. New York was a city of leisurely calm in comparison. "Gambling fever," explained a cabbie when I mentioned the dynamic atmosphere.
"Everybody's got it. Everybody's out to make a killing, especially the Johns. They fly in on jets or driving big wheels and leave on their thumbs. The only winners in this town are the houses. Everybody else is a loser. Take my advice-if you're gonna play, play the dolls. A lot of them are hungry."
I took a suite at a motel and paid two weeks' rent in advance. The registration clerk wasn't impressed at all by the wad of $100 bills from which I peeled the hotel charge. A big roll in Vegas is like pocket change in Peoria, I soon learned.
I intended Las Vegas to be just an R amp; R stop. I followed the cabbie's advice and played the chicks. He was right about the girls. Most of them were hungry. Actually hungry. Famished, in fact. After a week with some of the more ravenous ones, I felt like Moses feeding the multitudes.
However, as the Good Book sayeth: He that giveth unto the poor shall not lack.
I am feeding a famished gamin poolside. She has been living on casino free lunches for three days while trying to contact a brother in Phoenix to ask for bus fare home. "I blew everything," she said ruefully while devouring a huge steak with all the trimmings. "All the money I brought with me, all the money in my checking account, all I could raise on my jewelry. I even cashed in my return airline ticket. It's a good thing my room was paid in advance or I'd be sleeping on lobby couches."
She grinned cheerfully. "Serves me right. I've never gambled before, and I didn't intend to gamble when I came here. But the damned place gets to you."
She looked at me quizzically. "I hope you're just being nice, buying me dinner. I know there're ways a girl can get things in this burg, but that ain't my style, man."
I laughed. "Relax. I like your style. Are you going back to a job in Phoenix?"
She nodded. "I am if I can get hold of Bud. But I may not have a job if I'm not back by Monday."
"What do you do?" I asked. She looked the secretary type.
"I'm a check designer for a firm that designs and prints checks," she said. "A commercial artist, really. It's a small firm, but we do work for a couple of big banks and a lot of business firms."
I was astonished. "Well, I'll be darned," I ventured. "That's interesting. What do you do when you design and print a check?"
"Oh, it depends on whether we're making up plain checks or fancy ones; you know, the kind with pictures, landscapes and different colors. It's a simple operation for just plain checks. I just lay it out on a big paste-up board however the customer wants it, and then we photograph it with an I-Tek camera, reducing it to size, and the camera produces an engraving. We just put the engraving on a little offset press and print up the check in