Slim Chance - A Las Vegas Adventure (c) By Burt Peretsky

Chapters 15-22

 

Chapter 15

Vy Vuld a Russian Speak English?

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It was still dark when I awoke the next morning at 4:30 AM.   Actually, I didn’t awake.  I simply gave up trying to sleep.    Throughout the night, I had tossed and turned in bed. 

I hadn’t been able to reach Sandra to tell her about the meeting between Zarofsky and the new guy, Mr. X.   I called and called her at home, listening through the walls each time the phone in her apartment rang.   I considered trying her at the FBI office, but each time I had called her there in the past, I had gotten flack.   So I figured I’d keep trying her at home.   I finally gave up at about l AM. 

As I tried to sleep, I imagined hearing other sounds in the night, like someone walking into my bedroom, or turning my doorknob.   My imagination was going wild with fright. 

I was worried about myself, and now, I was even worried about Sandra as well.  It never occurred to me before that she was really in a dangerous job.  My clumsy attempt at playing detective could have landed me in hot water, and it nearly did.   Sandra probably found herself in threatening situations once a week. 

And, where was she this time of night?   I briefly considered that she was possibly being held hostage by some evil criminal.   But more likely – and worse?  – I figured she was probably out on a date, maybe in some guy’s house, sleeping over.   No, I wouldn’t permit Sandra to do that to me!   She must have been working and was probably out of town.   That's it.   She talked about traveling a lot for the Bureau.   She must be in Reno, I told myself, or in Phoenix, or maybe LA.   I decided finally to call her, at the FBI office, first thing in the morning. 

The events of the day, and indeed the events of the month, rolled over and over in my mind.  Meet Z.  Thu 1492.    Soviet trade attaché.    A man with a bowling ball.   Vee haven't enough money, stupid.   I can't tell Lefty anything, Slim.   Lefty's dead.    Victor Milton?  You're under arrest.  You please to be careful, mister! 

The pressure was too much to handle.   I had to get up and out of the house. 

I shaved and showered.   I made a cup of instant coffee, and taking it with me, I headed for the elevator.   I'd do what I usually do to clear my head in the morning.   I'd get into Miss Nomer and drive, just, drive! 

I headed out to Red Rock Canyon and Blue Diamond, away from the rising sun.  I drove past some of the best scenery in the valley as it emerged from the shadows of the night.   But, I barely noticed it.   I was preoccupied.   So much had been happening in such a short time.   Lefty dead, the hotel within a few days of closing, Sandra, Zarofsky, Harry, Mr. X.   Who was Mr. X? 

The drive wasn't settling me down.   Something I had seen, something I had heard, wasn't making sense.  Actually, none of it made any sense.   Why would a guy with a bowling ball meet with a Russian trade attaché?   Why would they go to such great lengths to keep their meeting a secret? 

As I drove, I tried to organize my thinking.   The air-conditioner fan rumbled, but except for that noise, Miss Nomer was thankfully silent.   I felt like I was in my own little concentration booth, like a contestant on the old TV show, “The $64,000 Question.”

"Mr. Chance.   Mr. Chance.  Can you hear us in there?   Tell us, Mr. Chance this is the big one – for $64,000, why would a Russian – let’s assume a Russian spy – want to meet a man with a bowling ball in a room in the Towers section of the Vegas Castle Hotel?   You have 60 seconds to answer.”

The $64,000 question was obviously too tough.  I needed some of the basic questions answered first.   Like, for $128, who was Mr. X?   For $256, what were the Russians really doing in Las Vegas?   Was I to believe their cover story? 

The FBI obviously didn’t, or it wouldn’t have asked the boy detective to help them out! 

Then, a thought suddenly struck me.   Harry had said something to me about Zarofsky and his pal that didn’t ring true.   He was telling me about Zarofsky in the casino that first day, how Zarofsky pulled his big companion away from the quarter slot machines.   According to Harry, Zarofsky told the big guy, "Vee haven’t enough money, stupid."

Yes, that’s what Harry said, or that’s what he said Zarofsky said.   Harry even remarked on the guy’s accent.   I remembered that, because I remembered thinking to myself how good Harry’s lip-reading was.   He could even detect an accent, I marveled. 

"Mr. Chance?   Do you have an answer in there?"

No, I don’t have an answer.   But, I’ve got a damn good question!   Why would a Russian speak English in a private conversation with another Russian? 

Zarofsky didn’t know Harry was lip reading from across the casino floor.   He didn’t have to speak English for Harry’s benefit. 

If what I was thinking was true, then it meant that the big guy with Zarofsky didn’t necessarily come with Zarofsky from the Soviet consulate in San Francisco.   In fact, if what I had surmised was indeed accurate, then the big guy wasn’t even a Russian. 

I thought back to my conversations with Sandra.  I was pretty sure that throughout our dealings with one another, she had never mentioned to me that John-Boy, or Zarofsky, was traveling with anyone else.  And, I simply hadn’t mentioned Zarofsky’s pal in the report I gave her.   It didn’t occur to me to mention him.   I just naturally had assumed that the big guy was someone less important to the FBI, an underling to Zarofsky.   I had also assumed that Sandra knew that there was a man traveling with Zarofsky. 

I was now sure that I had a Mr. Y as well as a Mr. X and a Mr. Z.   X-Y-Z, I had them all, but I didn't have much.   A Russian, accompanied by someone probably of some other nationality, is at the Vegas Castle holding secret meetings with someone else who carries a bowling ball and drives a car with Nevada plates, the number of which I didn't get. 

I was making progress.  But I still had plenty of questions.  Perhaps Sandra would have some more answers for me later when we talked.  I would have some information to give to her.  And she, at the very least, could possibly confirm my suspicions about Zarofsky's pal. 
 

I knew she'd be impressed with my detective work and my deductive powers.  She might even show her appreciation in a more personal way this time ... 
 

I turned around and headed into the office.   Once there, I could sort through all of this.   I could get in touch with Sandra through the FBI office.   I'd call her at 9AM on the dot. 
 

I reached the Vegas Castle at 6:30; there were two-and-a-half hours to go before the rest of the office world would start functioning.   I was hungry ...  for a change.   I was the only customer in the Little King, where I polished off a three-egg Spanish omelet, a side of bacon – a side order, that is – home fries, and toast.   I took a second cup of coffee with me upstairs.  I balanced it gingerly, as I unlocked my office door, went in and looked wearily at my desk piled high with work.   It was Friday, thank God.   I realized I hadn’t had a full day off since Lefty was killed.   I was looking forward to the weekend. 
 

I still had some time to kill before 9 o’clock; in fact, it wasn’t even 8 yet.   I lay down on the office couch, intending to nap.   I fell dead asleep almost immediately.  

 

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Chapter 16

I Got His Number; He Got Mine!

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“Boss?  Are you alright?”
 

I opened one eye to see Pinky standing over me.   For just a moment, I thought I was having an erotic dream about her.   Then, I pulled myself into reality. 
 

“I was just resting.   What time is it?"  How often have you heard it – “I was just resting” from the person who’s dead away?   People just don’t want to admit that they were sleeping!   Why?
 

“It’s 9:30," and she quickly added, "I've been here for a half-hour.   I didn't know whether or not to wake you.   Are you okay?”
 

I pulled myself to a sitting position on the couch, reassured Pinky that I was okay, stood to reassure myself, and reached to my coffee cup on the table only to find that it had become stone cold. 
 

When I was settled at my desk and remembered the mystery I was trying to unravel, I logged onto the hotel computer.   Before doing anything else, I wanted to check on Zarofsky. 
 

The computer asked me to enter the room number or name of the guest in question.   And when I entered 1492, there it was.   Lo and behold, according to the computer, Zarofsky had checked out at 11:01PM.   I had still another thing to tell Sandra. 
 

I put in a call to the FBI office.  To my surprise, Sandra answered the phone this time. 
 

"Where were you last night?" My question of Sandra came out too abruptly.   I hadn't even identified myself.   I sounded like some jealous boyfriend. 
 

For a moment, Sandra was silent, perhaps trying to place the voice.   Then: "I'm surprised at you, Slim.   I am entitled to my personal privacy, you know, especially as to what I'm doing at night.   Were you spying on me?"
 

Now I felt more than a bit embarrassed.   "No.  Sorry about that, Sandra.   No.   I was trying to reach you on the phone.   All night.   That's all.   I was surprised that you weren't home.   Your car wasn't in the parking lot all night, either."
 

"No, it wasn't," she said coldly.   "If you must know, it was parked at the airport all night.   I Just returned from LA this morning.   Why were you trying to reach me, anyway?”
 

I remembered Sandra's warning about using the phone to discuss delicate subjects, so I was careful in phrasing my answer.   "I found out a little more about our mutual friend.   Can we talk?"
 

"You can buy me a cup of coffee, if you'd like," she said, "but somewhere other than at your hotel.   Okay?"
 

I suggested the pancake house on Sahara, and we agreed to meet there. 
 

 

Sandra is beautiful.   I've mentioned that, haven't I?   She sat across from me in the booth of the pancake house.   I stared into her green eyes and thought how I’d love to see them staring back at me every morning.   I looked at her lips, a pink blush lipstick moistening them ever so slightly, and I wanted to feel them on mine.   I wondered if Sandra the dispassionate ever gave in to Sandra the passionate. 
 

I had ordered French toast.   She was having one poached egg on plain toast and a fresh fruit plate with cottage cheese.   Cholesterol oozed from every bite of my food, vitamins from hers! 
 

"Can you tell me what your meeting in LA was all about?"  I was asking more to break the ice than out of prying.
 

"I can’t get into details, Slim, but it was a big FBI meeting with agents from throughout the West.   Never mind that, though, tell me what’s new with our friend."
 

Once again, she was all business.  So, what the heck, I decided to be all business too. 
 

"First, Sandra, our friend checked out of the Castle last night."
 

"I see," she said, without even a hint of emotion.    "But before he left town, he and his pal, who I forgot to tell you about last time, had a clandestine meeting with a third guy, a guy who lives in Vegas."
 

"Zarofsky has a pal?" Sandra asked."  And the two of them had a clandestine meeting with a third man?"
 

I detected a slight, mocking smile on her face, so I pushed on, determined to impress her with my investigative prowess. 
 

I told her about Zarofsky’s big, silent partner and my theory that he wasn’t Russian.   Apparently, I was making points.   She said the FBI believed Zarofsky had been traveling alone.   She agreed with my guess about Zarofsky’s friend not being Russian. 
 

"That's very clever, Slim."
 

Encouraged, I told her about the ad in the Sun’s personals column, and, mercifully, she remained silent through this part of the tale, politely not asking me why I was reading the personals. 
 

I told her about my stakeout of Zarofsky’s room and about his meeting with Mr. X, who carried a bowling ball, and how Mr. X got into a gray late-model Caprice and drove north on the Strip away from the hotel. 
 

"Did you get his license number, Slim?"
 

I didn’t have the heart to tell her about how I followed and nearly rammed him, so I dismissed her question with the simple truth.   "No.  I wasn’t thinking right.”
 

Sandra shrugged.   I could see in those beautiful green eyes that I had been doing well, until the admission that I didn’t get Mr. X’s license plate number.   Now, all I could see was her profound disappointment with me. 
 

She asked me for descriptions of Zarofsky's casino pal and his visitor, and she wrote the descriptions in a little notebook she had drawn from her bag.   "Any other details, Slim?  Anything at all?"
 

I again considered telling her about my tailing Mr. X, but I knew I'd be setting myself up for another scolding on risk-taking, so I clammed up.   As it was, she got me on the stakeout part of my story.  "You should have simply called me when you saw the ad.   The FBI knows how to handle these things, Slim.   You really should know better by now.  Really!”
 

Maybe I should have known better, but I didn't.   On the very next day, Saturday, I took Miss Nomer up the Strip for a ride to the Burger King, the same Burger King in front of which I had lost Mr. X's car on Thursday.   My hope was that Mr. X lived around where I had lost him, and that I'd possibly see his car in the neighborhood. 
 

For an hour, I circled the area with no luck. 
 

Frustrated, I finally pulled back into the Burger King lot and up to the drive-thru window. 
 

A Whopper, two fries, and a Pepsi later, as I was walking back to Miss Nomer from the trash basket, I noticed a gray Caprice driving by.   It was just passing in front of the Burger King.   I could see Mr. X behind the wheel.   But I couldn't see the goddamn plate! 
 

I ran to the sidewalk as the Caprice rolled away.   I still couldn't see the goddamn plate!   So, I ran into the street.   With all the energy I could muster, I sprinted – or what I would call sprinting – along the roadway behind the car.   Finally, I drew close enough to read the plate.  THP-175. 
 

At the same moment, a truck behind me sounded a blast on his horn.   He swerved.  I fell onto the curb.   Mr. X drove on, oblivious, I think, to what was happening behind him. 
 

My ankle was twisted.   I was completely winded.   Sweat poured down my face.   For a full five minutes, I sat on the curbstone before trying to stand, repeating over and over to myself, "THP-175, THP-175."
 

My ankle was killing me, and it took me another five minutes to limp back to the Burger King and to Miss Nomer.   Once inside her, I grabbed the pen I kept in the glove compartment and immediately wrote the plate number on my insurance certificate envelope. 
 

Now I had what I needed.  Putting a name to a plate in a hurry is relatively easy, if you know the right people.  And I know the right people in Las Vegas! 
 

 

As soon as I got home, I picked up the phone.  "Detective Donaruma, please."  I was calling my "dear friend," as Tommy Lake would say. 
 

"Sorry, Jimmy’s off today.   Who’s this?"  I toyed with leaving a message for Jimmy, but the Metro cop on the phone didn’t seem the secretarial type.   Not only that, he’d ask me what I was calling about.   You know how cops ask questions.   Then, I’d have to tell him how a guy with a bowling ball answered a personal ad from a Russian spy at the Vegas Castle Hotel, met with him and his friend, then walked through the bowling alley, got into his car, which I followed and almost hit in front of a Burger King, and then how I found him and his car a couple of days later and chased his car on foot, nearly getting killed in the process. 

 

 

I was told he’d be in on the following day, Sunday.   "Nah, no message," I said,  “I’ll call him tomorrow. 

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Chapter 17

Much Ado, and I Stepped in it!

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LEFTY’S STORY

By Slim Chance

 

Mobsters may have killed Lefty Needham, but  he was no Mobster.  This might surprise you, given what the press has been saying about the late owner of the Vegas Castle Hotel & Casino.   But take it from one who knew him – and knew him well – Lefty was no Mobster.

 

It was the last thing I could give to Lefty to repay him for the confidence and trust he had placed in me.  I figured I owed it to him, and I owed it to his memory.  
 

I planned it and had started to write it on the day of Lefty’s funeral, and a few days later I got the go-ahead on it from the magazine editor at the Sunday Review Journal.   Now, some 25 days after his death, Lefty’s true-life story was being told by someone who knew the truth - me! 
 

 

He may have been a tough guy.  He may have ruled his castle with an iron fist.  He may have sprung forth from the Mob, but Lefty, in his heart and in his actions, was no Mobster. 

 

Lefty was one of the legends of Las Vegas.  He helped build this town into one of the great capitals of the world.  He and his hotel brought millions of people and billions of dollars to our city over the years. 

 

He began as a driver for Mobster Nick Grazzo in Chicago.  The story is well known, how he earned Grazzo’s trust as a faithful employee and then, as the Mobster’s driver, how he earned his gratitude by saving his life with some nifty driving during a would-be Mob hit.  And the boss rewarded Lefty.   Grazzo installed Lefty at the head of a Chicago cab company that the Mob controlled.   But aside from giving the Mob its cut of the taxi profits, Lefty’s operation of the company was fair and honest. 

 

Grazzo loved Lefty.  He would often brag to his Mob colleagues that one of his men put Grazzo’s life before his own.   For the rest of his days, Grazzo continued to show Lefty his appreciation.   He later installed Lefty as the owner of a limousine company located in Las Vegas.   The boss wanted a trusted lieutenant available here to drive him around town whenever he saw fit to visit his Vegas investments. 

 

And now it can be told, for the first time.  ...  About a year after Lefty Needham arrived in Las Vegas, Nick Grazzo secretly purchased the Vegas Castle Hotel from Mitzi Weinstein, the widow of the Castle’s legendary owner, Barney Weinstein. 

 

Grazzo knew he could never be licensed to run the place, and so he set up Lefty as the Castle’s corporate owner.  His secret plan was that Lefty Needham in Las Vegas would be the front man, but the profits would go to Nick Grazzo in Chicago. 

 

But Grazzo never saw a penny from his new Las Vegas investment.   One day after Lefty signed the Vegas Castle ownership papers in Las Vegas, Grazzo was murdered back in Chicago, shot to death in a hail of gunfire as he ate dinner in a friend’s restaurant. 

 

He had never told anyone – except for Lefty – what his plan had been for the Vegas Castle.   As far as anyone knew, Lefty was not only the paper, but also the full-fledged, owner of the Vegas Castle Hotel & Casino.   As far as anyone knew, the late Nick Grazzo of Chicago was simply the late Nick Grazzo.   Nobody, except Lefty and Mitzi Weinstein, by then an old lady with only a few months to live herself, ever had reason to believe that Nick Grazzo had anything to do with the Vegas Castle Hotel & Casino, far away from where he lived, and died. 

 

From the day he became its owner, or rather from the day after, Lefty flung himself into his newly acquired enterprise, and like with everything else, he applied hard work in his search for perfection with the Vegas Castle…

 

 

"Lefty's Story" ran eight pages in the Sunday magazine. 
 

I had labored over it, and it was one of the best pieces I had ever written.  I talked about Lefty's generosity, which at times bordered on philanthropy.   He had given many thousands of dollars anonymously to the University and to every charitable vehicle that came down the freeway, and he had treated his employees better than any employees were treated in town. 
 

I talked about his fierce patriotism, how he often told me how grateful he was to be living in what he called, "the best damn country in the world, bar none!"
 

Lefty was a creature of the Red-baiting McCarthy Era.   He venerated the Wisconsin senator long after the senator was dead and buried, and I talked about that in the story, as well.  Once, as I recounted, Lefty threatened to take back a major gift he had given UNLV, because the University had refused to revoke the student union charter of a 70s anti-war group, the Student Committee Against Racism and Evil (SCARE). 

 

 

 

Lefty had read somewhere that a US Senator had asked whether “such strident groups as SCARE ought not to be investigated for their leanings toward the Kremlin way of thinking.”
 

That was enough for Lefty’s way of thinking to convince him that the group was indeed communist…
 

The story went on.   This was no objective piece – although everything in it was true, as far as I could determine.   No, I came to praise Lefty, not to bury him, and it showed. 
 

 

Other than a small item the week before in the Sun speculating on how long the Vegas Castle would survive, the Sunday piece I had written was the first major story to have appeared in the papers about the hotel since right after Vic Milton’s arrest for Lefty’s murder. 
 

In the earlier piece, the Sun gaming editor had asked whether the rumor was true that Vegas Castle employees had been given a 30-day deadline to come up with a plan to save the hotel from financial ruin or face its imminent closing. 
 

Yes, it was true, but nobody from the hotel was about to confirm the rumor.  That would have been bad business; it would have scared off customers; and everybody employed at the Castle knew that. 
 

And speaking of paranoia, I talked in my story about how Lefty was always worried that the fate that befell Nick Grazzo would befall himself. 
 

 

Lefty may have predicted the way he would die.   "I’ll be blown away by the same people who blew away my boss before me," he told me once. 

Lefty became obsessed about security, pushing the Vegas Castle’s security department to its limits and beyond.   Without question, the Vegas Castle hotel is, because of Lefty’s obsession with security, the Strip’s safest resort. 

 

I recounted Lefty’s dreams for the Vegas Castle, how he was always coming up with plans to remodel or expand his hotel, so that it could someday reclaim its glory days as “The Place To Be.”
 

 

Those dreams were dreamt to the day of his death.   That very morning, he came up with another of his grandiose plans to expand the Vegas Castle.  “Put this in a safe place,” he told me, as he handed me another briefcase filled with more dreams unfu1filled.   “I’ll need it soon.”

Always the optimist, Lefty never let poor business dampen his enthusiasm for the future of the Vegas Castle and Las Vegas itself.   To Lefty, tomorrow was always going to be a better day. 

 

I took my time reading the story, savoring each word that I had written; this was the best writing I had done since my days on the paper back in Boston.  It had feeling, honesty, and sincerity.   Somewhere up there, the big guy was reading this, and I was pleasing him, no doubt. 
 

After I read it, I read it again.  In a way, it was my official goodbye to the boss, to my friend.
 

I would miss him. 
 

 

For the first Sunday in July, I was relaxing at home.   I had only one thing to do today, and that was to call Jimmy Donaruma and see if he could trace Mr. X’s license plate.  My curiosity was driving me crazy.    Maybe Mr. X was a senior officer at Nellis planning to defect to the Soviets.   Maybe Zarofsky and his pal from another eastern bloc country were planning to defect to the United States, and Mr. X was a State Department official assigned to help them.   Maybe the moon is made of green cheese.  Who the hell knew what was going on? 
 

If I could put a name and address on Mr. X, I could get a lead on whatever was going on.  At least with a name and address, I could possibly redeem myself with Sandra.  Her look when I told her I didn’t have Mr. X’s plate number was a look that could kill.  She would be ever more impressed with me this time.  I’d probably be giving her the key for the FBI to break the whole damn case wide open.    More important, though, I’d be helping myself with Sandra, and that had become as important to me as simply helping the FBI.  I wanted to impress her, once and for all!
 

I had accomplished something I had wanted with my Sunday magazine story.   I had corrected the record on Lefty.   Now, on the same day, I could accomplish something else that I really wanted.   I could prove to Sandra and to myself, not unimportantly, that I did amount to something more, as Bogie would say, than a hill of beans.   I knew I was good.   Really good! 
 

I was in luck.   Jimmy Donaruma was in today.   I got through to him right away. 
 

“Jimmy, it's Slim Chance ...  from the Vegas Castle.”  I had been introduced to Detective Donaruma just a few months after I arrived in town.   The AP Bureau chief, a friend of mine who used to work on a newspaper in Boston, had invited me to a party.   Donaruma was there with his wife, a cocktail waitress at – as it turned out -- the Vegas Castle.   We hit it off right away.   Since our meeting, I had helped juice his wife into two better jobs, one on a different shift at our own place and later, when I was collecting a favor from a fellow PR guy at the Sands, in the baccarat pit there.   Running cocktails in a casino is a good toke job, but running them to baccarat players can be a phenomenal toke job. 
 

“How the hell are you, Slim?   How's that beautiful secretary of yours?   What's her name?”
 

“It’s Pinky, Jim, and thank you, we're both fine.”
 

I told him I was calling to check a license plate of a guy who hit my car and drove off, not realizing he had hit me.   I didn't want to file charges, I told Donaruma.   I just wanted to call him and settle the damages.   Jimmy bought the story.   Why not? 
 

He wrote down the license plate and the make of the car and told me that it would take a couple of hours, and that he would get back to me. 
 

Great!  I called out for a Godfather’s pepperoni and green pepper pizza, and polished it off.   A short time later, I must have fallen asleep on the sofa in front of the TV.    My ringing phone woke me with a start. 
 

“Hello?”   Gathering my wits, I expected to hear Jimmy calling me with an answer to my license plate inquiry.  But, I was wrong.   “Slim, this is Chief Casey.   Get right over to the hotel.   Somebody broke into your office, and it’s a mess."
 

"What?" I wasn’t sure what I was hearing.  I had been sleeping pretty solidly, and I thought maybe that business about Jimmy Donaruma had been a dream.  "What time is it?"
 

"It’s 2:30, Slim.   Never mind that!   Get down here now!"
 

The Chief was right.  My office was a mess.  Hotel security had called Metro, but nobody had touched anything pending my arrival.   I was the only person who could say what was missing. 
 

I waded into the mess.  Papers that had been strewn on my desktop were now strewn everywhere else.   Drawers had been torn from my file cabinets, their contents tossed on the floor.   My desk was a special case.   My blotter was ripped from the holder, and both were in pieces scattered about the room.   Each drawer in the desk was pulled out as far as it would go, and everything that had been inside was on the outside now. 
 

As I surveyed the scene, I remembered that I had a box of 40 green chips – worth $1000 – that had been locked inside one of the drawers of my desk.   Casino hosts and certain managers were permitted by the Castle to hold out from the cage a minimum of $1000 and a maximum of $5000.   The chips were to be used, sparingly, as the holder saw fit, in the hotel’s interest.  They were never to be cashed by their holder, and only the most trusted casino employees were allowed to have them. 
 

Almost as soon as I remembered having them, I saw one sitting on the floor next to the desk.  I bent down to grab it and noticed that several more had been tossed beneath the chair, which itself was lying on its side.   Over the next half-hour, as I carefully gathered the papers and my other belongings and sorted them out, I was able to find each of the 40 chips.   All $1000 was accounted for. 
 

In fact, nothing seemed to missing from my office.   Nothing at all. 

 

 

"So, what do you think, Chief?"

 

 

I never realized Al Casey would give me the only possible answer.   "It’s gotta be the same person who robbed Lefty’s safe," he said without hesitation. 
 

"It’s gotta be the same guy, because in both cases, he proved he wasn’t interested in thousands of dollars worth of negotiable chips.   Somebody’s looking for something at the Castle.   Somebody’s looking for something that’s worth more than money to them."
 

It took me five hours to straighten out the mess in my office.  By the time I finished, I was tired and angry.   If I had been a drinking man, I would have headed straight to the nearest bar.   But, food was my alcohol, and since I was hungry, as well as tired and angry, I headed straight to the nearest restaurant.   Since quick was as important as near, and quality was less important than quantity, I pulled up to the express window of the Naugle’s on Maryland, ordered a fast food Mexican feast and a large Coke.   It took me only a few minutes to wolf it all down, and I was on my way home. 

 

 

When I had left my apartment earlier, it was still light outside, so I was pretty sure that I didn’t leave on any lights inside.  But even as I pulled into my parking lot, I noticed light in my apartment window streaming through the pulled blinds.   Upstairs, although my front door was closed, I was startled to find it unlocked.   Something was wrong! 
 

For a moment, I considered turning around, going next door to a neighbor’s apartment, maybe to Sandra’s, and summoning the police.   But, gathering my courage, I nervously stood back from the door, kicked it open, and waited a few moments before stepping into the apartment. 
 

It was apparent what had happened.   Just like at the office, I'd been robbed.   Everything that had been in my breakfront and in my desk drawers was lying on the floor.   My bedroom, kitchen, and even my bathroom looked like little tornadoes had torn through them.   Even my closets had been ransacked.  What had been hung was now flung! 
 

I stood motionless in the middle of this mess for what seemed like twenty minutes, but what was more likely twenty seconds.   Then, panic set in on me.   I didn't have to check, although later I did, to know that, like at my office, nothing of value had been taken from the apartment.   My hand shaking, I reached for the phone, the handset of which had been knocked from its carriage.   I hung it up for a few seconds to get a dial tone.   Then, for the second time in one day, I called Metro. 
 

While I waited for the police to show up, still shaking, I dialed Sandra's phone number.   I let it ring ten times before giving up. 
 

By 3AM, the police had come and gone.   Again they theorized that someone either had a key to my place or had cleanly picked my lock, and again, whoever had broken in was looking for something other than money and valuables. 
 

"Whatever," one officer assured me,” they won't be back tonight."  I remember wishing that he hadn't added that word, tonight. 
 

After the cops left, I dialed Sandra's house again, and again there was no answer.   So, I dialed the FBI offices.   It rang once, twice. 
 

"FBI.   Agent Nelson ...  "
 

I listened for a moment.   Then I hung up the phone.   It occurred to me that I hadn't heard back yet from Jimmy Donaruma on the ID of Mr. X.   Whatever I would say to Sandra at this point in time would have made me sound like a coward.   Sure, you're calling me now, Slim, she would say, because you're frightened.   I told you not to get involved.   See! 
 

No, I had shown my stupid side once too often to Sandra.  Now, it was time for the real Slim Chance to make himself known.   I would wait until the morning.   Jimmy would give me Mr. X's name, his address, maybe even where he worked.   Then, I'd have something with which to impress Sandra.   Right!  
 

 

==================

Chapter 18

The Hyper and the Sniper

==================

 

I tried to sleep.  After straightening my bedroom – it would take me days before getting it back to normal – I lay on my back for a while.  I felt somewhat like I’d imagine a rape victim must feel.   First, my office, then my home had been violated; I had been molested. 
 

Each time I forced my eyes closed, they opened automatically.   My body ached with weariness, my head spun with fear.   Was the air conditioning working?   Why was I sweating?   I was hearing sounds again.   The floorboards were squeaking, the window opening, voices in the hall.   Were they real?   Was I a target for a madman?   Were the burglaries some kind of macabre warning?   Was I in for worse?   Much worse? 
 

I had to get out of the house.   I pulled myself to a sitting position, my legs hanging off the side of the bed, my paunch hanging over my knees.   The clock radio said 3:55.   I raised myself to my feet, considered taking a shower, but remembering the movie “Psycho,” I dressed instead for work, knowing that wherever I was going this time of the day, I would not be returning to my apartment before going to the office. 
 

In my car, I was safe.   My doors locked, I drove.   The only sound I permitted was the fan that brought freon-treated cool air to my lungs. 
 

I don’t remember whether I intended to drive there, and if you had asked me, I wouldn’t have been able to recall the route I took, but I “woke up” in Searchlight, on the road east to Laughlin, state highway 163.   What startled me into a state of wakefulness was the speed limit sign that came from nowhere.   I had been travelling at about 60 to 65 miles per hour, putting Miss Nomer’s pedal to the metal, as it were.   Then suddenly, “25 MPH,” the sign said.   Realizing I was entering the town, I slammed down on the brake, slowing just in time and just enough to avoid being stopped by a Clark County sheriff’s car crossing the main road from Searchlight’s only side street.   Two hundred yards down the road, as sunlight from the rising sun came over a mountain and hit my eyes, I saw the speed limit sign that said “55 MPH.”   Searchlight, that great metropolis, was now behind me. 
 

I reached for the visor, and it was then that I realized I had been driving for about an hour, not actually deep in thought, but instead deep in depression, confusion, and anxiety over what had been happening to me in the last 18 hours and what had been happening around me in the past four weeks. 

 

 

I decided to drive into Laughlin, only another 45 miles through the desert, have breakfast there, and then head back to Vegas and to work. 
 

If Searchlight is virtually a ghost town, then Laughlin is most certainly a boomtown.   In Searchlight, they mined the gold and silver until the boom went bust; the mine shafts with their rotting timbers and rusting rail cars line the craggy hills within sight of the roadway.   Today the “miners” of Laughlin grind gold not from the mountains, but instead from the pockets of thousands of low-rollers, mostly elder citizens of nearby retirement communities across the Colorado River in Arizona. 

 

 

The town took off in the early 1980s, as the corporate casino companies realized that Laughlin could, and would, be the next major gaming market, the fourth in a state that already boasted Vegas, Reno, and Tahoe.   In the middle of nowhere, just south of Davis Dam astride the Colorado, Laughlin’s hotel towers compete for space in the sky with huge construction cranes, there to build more towers to compete for even less sky with more cranes. 
 

I drove up Casino Drive and pulled past the Edgewater and about a dozen more casinos, some brand new, others no older than ten years old.   I passed a sign that stood in front of one construction site.   Next to the newly opened Flamingo Hilton and its 2000 rooms, the sign announced still another new project groundbreaking.   I hadn’t been in Laughlin for more than a year, not since my brother Steve and his wife Gale came visiting from Boston and asked me to take them to the town on the river they had heard so much about.   In those few months, Laughlin had grown appreciably. 
 

I marveled at what had become of the sleepy little river town.  It was something to see, something like Vegas must have been like in the 1950s, when Barney Weinstein and his partners planned the Vegas Castle on the ever-growing, but still manageable, Las Vegas Strip. 

 

 

I pulled into Sam’s Town Gold River Hotel.   After a giant breakfast at Sam’s "Giant Buffet," I sat at my table for a while, sipping coffee and watching the Colorado flow past the window.   Laughlin was unique, in that its casinos had windows, and as I sat, I imagined myself floating in the Colorado, floating all the way to the Gulf of Mexico, around Florida, up the East Coast, to Boston. 
 

What would my life be like today, were I still in Boston?   Would I be a PR man?   Would I be married?   Would I be happy?   Would I be bored?   How does that song go? 
 

One thing I wouldn’t have been, I figured, was in the middle of a mystery, a mystery that seemed to be closing in on me. 
 

My confusion was as great when I pulled into the Castle’s employee lot as it was when I had left my house five hours before.   I still hadn’t slept, but so far I wasn’t too tired.   The adrenalin was still pumping through my body.   And that may have – in retrospect – saved my life. 
 

I pulled into the parking space marked with my name, I was the first of the department heads to arrive.   In fact, the only other car in the named spaces was that of the graveyard casino shift manager, Buddy Longston. 

 

 

As I fumbled trying to lock the driver's door from the outside, a necessity with Chrysler Corporation K-cars, my nerves or the coffee caused me to drop my keys.   I bent over to retrieve them when suddenly, I heard a loud crack, like a firecracker, and almost simultaneously above my head a loud ping, a ricochet noise like you'd hear in a cowboy movie, when the bad guys are shooting at the good guys, and their bullets are hitting the rocks that provide them cover. 
 

I still wasn't aware of what was happening.   Standing again, I heard another firecracker, and I felt something whiz by my ear. 

 

 

Only then did I realize I was being shot at. 
 

I ducked behind Longston's car.   Another shot rang out. 
 

It hit Longston's car door.   From my crouching position, I looked up toward the direction of the shots.   On top of one of the Castle towers, the one further away from me, I could see a sniper.  He was on the roof, and he was aiming a rifle my way. 
 

I considered screaming for help, but nobody was anywhere in the area to hear me. 
 

I'd run for it.   The side door of the hotel, the employee entrance, was only about 30 feet from where I was.   That was one of the perks of being a department head; our spaces were near the door.   Right now, it seemed the best perk an employee could have. 

 

 

I looked up at the tower roof again, but this time I saw nothing.   Either the gunman had moved, or he was ducking, or he was possibly reloading.   In any case, he wasn’t in sight, and seizing the opportunity, I rose and ran to the door, pulled it open and ducked inside.   Sweat poured down my face, and I felt the shirt I was wearing under my jacket soaked with perspiration. 
 

I paused long enough to take a deep breath, and then I ran to the little security office next to where they have the time cards and the shift workers’ clock. 
 

“I’ve been shot at,” I yelled through the glass to the uniformed security officer sitting in front of a bank of TV monitors.   On the monitors were pictures of every hotel entranceway.   Not one human form was anywhere to be seen on the televisions. 

 

 

I quickly explained to the guard what had happened.   He phoned the lieutenant on duty, and two Security Department uniforms were dispatched to the tower roof where I had seen the sniper.   Uniforms were also assigned by radio to cover each of the hotel entrances.  “Have your sidearm at the ready," I heard the lieutenant tell his charges on the radio.   "Whoever this joker is, he’s definitely armed, and he may be carrying a rifle under a coat or something."
 

Chief Casey was called at home.  He was on his way in. 
 

I stayed in the downstairs security office, sweating and shaking, until he arrived.   As Casey walked into the office, the two guards that had gone to the tower also came in. 
 

They had found nothing, except one spent cartridge shell.   They held it up, and Casey pronounced it to be from an M-16 rifle.    Then, he scolded them for taking the shell from where they found it.   “That’s evidence!   You shoulda left it where you found it, so the boys from the lab could dust it for prints!   What the hell’s wrong with you?”

 

 

Turning to me, "You were being staked out, Slim," he said.  "Do you have any idea what’s going on?"
 

I told him about my apartment.   All Casey could do was shake his head. 
 

For the third time in less than 12 hours, Metro police were summoned for me, and I repeated my story to a lieutenant and sergeant, both detectives, and to a pair of uniformed patrolmen. 
 

A sweep of the lot by both police and Castle security officers turned up nothing more than the dent in Longston’s car.   A bullet, also from an M-16, was found embedded in the dent. 
 

Casey assigned a security officer to accompany me “for as long as necessary."  Officer Bill Tribe would stay with me through his shift, and when he got off work, another Castle officer would be assigned to me. 

 

 

I fell asleep on the sofa in my office.  The last thing I remember before falling off was seeing Bill Tribe standing guard in the outer office. 
 

The next thing I remember was Pinky standing over me. 
 

“Boss?   Wake up!   It’s agent Emerson – from the FBI – on the phone.   For you!”
 

I shook my head and tried to rub the sleep from my eyes.  I focused on my watch.  It said 11:15. 
 

“Sandra?”
 

“Are you okay, Slim?”  She sounded genuinely concerned, and that comforted me.   Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Bill Tribe, still standing guard in my outer office next to Pinky’s desk.   That comforted me even more. 
 

“I’m okay, physically,” I said to Sandra, “but do you know that I got shot at this morning?"  My English sucked, and I winced. 

 

 

"That’s why I’m calling, Slim.   I just arrived from LA, and they told me you had a pretty busy time of it yesterday and today."
 

"I sure as shit did!" I blurted out.    Great.   That would impress her.   Calming myself finally, I told the whole story to Sandra, about the shooting and the two burglaries, and she did her best to comfort me. 
 

"Don’t worry, Slim.  It sounds like you’re safe now,” Sandra said. 
 

She also had a surprise for me.  "You’re not the only one who was shot at yesterday.”
 

I didn’t catch on.   “What do you mean?"
 

"I thought you were the ex-newsman, Slim; you obviously haven't read this morning's papers or heard the radio yet.   Have you?"
 

It occurred to me I had done neither. 
 

She continued:  "The FBI and Customs had a bit of a shoot-out last night in El Centro on the Mexican border.   We got the number two man in a Palestinian terrorist ring.   He was trying to sneak into the country to join his pal.   And we're hot on the trail of the top man."
 

I was impressed.  "Were you involved in the shoot-out?   And, are you alright?" I asked. 
 

"Oh yes, I'm fine.   I was in the shootout alright, but none of us suffered a scratch.  And I think it was my shot that brought the suspect down.   But, you never know for sure.   We had six agents and about four Customs people shooting at the same time when he brought his gun up to shoot at us."
 

"Wow!" was all I could mutter, and then Sandra changed the subject back to me. 
 

"But that was last night's ancient history," she said. 
 

"Today's shooting involved you, and it's you I'm worried about.   I could talk to the hotel's chief of security, if you'd like."
 

"Thanks, Sandra," I replied, "but don't bother.   They've got things well in hand.  I've got a hotel guard on me 24 hours a day now.   And, God knows what our chief, Al Casey, would think if the FBI were to call him."
 

"Have you got any idea as to what’s going on?" Sandra asked.   "Do you know anybody who would want to kill you, or do you have anything that may be of value to someone else?"
 

"No," I answered.  "I’ve racked my brain trying to figure this.  I’m up to my ears in something, and I don’t know what!"
 

"Slim, you know, I’m worried about your safety for more than professional reasons."
 

I was pleased to hear that, more pleased than I could express at the time.   All I could muster was a "Thanks, Sandra.   Thanks."  I only hope I sounded as sincere as she sounded. 
 

We said our goodbyes.   I hadn’t mentioned in our conversation that I had now secured Mr. X's license number and was waiting to hear from Jimmy Donaruma about it.   I still wanted to give Sandra some information that would impress the hell out of her.   As scared as I was, I wanted, in some way, to be the hero in her eyes. 

 

 

For now, at least, I wasn’t going to be getting into any trouble.   I was intending to stay put right where I was.   The relative safety of my office, with a security guard at its door, was just a wonderful place to be. 

 

 

I tried, but I couldn’t do any hotel work.  What was the use anyway?  Soon, there wouldn’t be a hotel.   Soon, as things seemed to going, there wouldn’t be a Slim Chance. 
 

I called Jimmy Donaruma at Metro.   By now, he’d probably have put together Mr. X's license plate with Mr. X's name. 

 

 

Not surprisingly, Jimmy already had heard about my shooting incident.   “Does the guy who matches the license plate have anything to do with the shooting?” he asked me. 
 

“No.” I almost certainly lied.  “No, Jimmy, this was just a guy whose car hit mine the other day, and I want the damage paid for.”

 

 

A long pause.  “Okay, Slim, except this sounds like a lot of bullshit you’re giving me.   It’s more than a little fishy.   Not only that, if you’re withholding evidence from a police investigation, it could be a bit more serious than just fishy would be.”
 

“Hey, Jimmy, you know me.   What would I do something like that for?   Why would I be putting my life in even more danger?”  I was getting real good at lying. 
 

“Okay, Slim.  I tried to call you back yesterday, but there was no answer.   He had apparently called the apartment while I was at the Castle.   Who knows, he might have even called me, as someone was ripping my apartment to shreds.   “Here’s the information you asked for.   The guy with the Caprice is a Louis Hassan, and he lives at 3435 Rancho Circle.  I got his home number for you and his office number.    Get yourself a pen.”
 

“Got one, Jimmy.”
 

“At home, it’s 454-6888.    He works for a place called Special Metals, over on Industrial.   The number’s 773-7745.”
 

“Geez, thanks, Jimmy.   Hey, how did you get all this information about his job?   Can I ask?”
 

“Sure, Slim.  Did you ever hear of a city directory?   Once I got the name and address from the DMV, the rest was simply a matter of looking in the directory.   You’re listed in there too, you know.   It says you’re the guy who’s screwing the public by day and a luscious secretary by night.”
 

I laughed my first laugh of the day, thanked Jimmy for his help, and we said our goodbyes.   He offered, if I needed help in “that other little matter of this morning,” that I should simply call him, and he would do whatever he could. 
 

“And be careful, Slim.”  

 

 

I intended to be. 
 

It was Monday morning, and Hassan would probably be at work. 
 

I dialed his office number, and a woman answered, “Special Metals, may I help you?”
 

I said. 

 

“You sure can.   I’m writing a letter to Mr. Hassan there, Mr. Louis Hassan, and I’m wondering if you can give me the spelling of his name and his title.  Also, please, the Zip Code of your place."  The zip code question, I learned long ago as a reporter, gave credence to the pretense of the call. 
 

"Certainly, sir," the operator obliged.   She spelled Hassan's name, and she told me that his title was Metallurgy Department Manager.   And the Zip, by the way, was 89701. 
 

Did I want to talk with him? 
 

“No, I guess he's out in the field.  Isn't he?" I asked. 
 

She wouldn't bite on that one.  "I can't say, sir.  Let me connect you."
 

As soon as I heard Hassan answer, I hung up.  I had nothing to say to him… yet. 
 

 

So, he's a metallurgist.  What the hell do they do?  I grabbed my trusty Webster's and looked it up “ ...  one who works on the science and technology of metals.”
 

Great, add that to the list of things that were confusing me. 
 

My office and my apartment had both been ransacked by somebody looking for something other than money.   The FBI was interested in a Russian trade attaché, his mystery companion, and a metallurgist with a bowling ball who met with them.   And, Just to make things interesting, somebody had just tried to kill me. 
 

I was exhausted.  I realized I hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours in more than a day and a half.   I told Pinky to hold all calls, and I lay down again on the sofa.   I think I fell asleep almost immediately. 
 

The next thing I remember, it was 4 o’clock.   My mouth tasted like cotton; my breath stunk.
 

I stumbled out to the outer office.  Another uniformed guard had taken Bill Tribe’s place in front of Pinky’s desk.   I nodded to him, and he nodded back at me.   Pinky was on the phone. 
 

She saw me standing there, and holding her hand over the mouthpiece, she smiled sweetly and asked, "Would you like a cup of coffee, boss?"  Then, into the phone again, she said, "I’ll call you back, honey."

 

 

The coffee helped awaken me.   I had a half-dozen pink "while you were out" messages – and I was certainly "out" – one from George Purdy, another from Tommy Lake, and another from an LA Times reporter, who, according to Pinky, wanted to interview me about the old days at the Castle, "before it was too late."

 

 

He was either talking about the hotel’s imminent closing, or he had heard about my recent brush with death.   I suspect it was the former, although I had been sleeping for a few hours, and who knows how far the news had traveled? 
 

Before calling the reporter, I checked in with George Purdy.  He sounded worse than I felt. 
 

"Slim, this is it.  Mr. B's back in the casino, and he's winning big again.  The weekend take was way off.   I'm calling a department head's staff meeting for next Monday, a week from today, and an hour later, I'm going to assemble all the employees in the main ballroom.   I'm going to announce the hotel's closing at that time, Slim.   I've got no choice."
 

"I know, George.   Don't take it so hard on yourself.   There's nothing you can do to turn things around," I said.   "This was inevitable the day Lefty died.   And maybe even long before then."
 

As I hung up the phone, I knew then that George would never be able to run a casino hotel.   He was too sensitive of a man, and firing people, something that a good general manager has to know how to do, would never be something George could do. 
 

I called back Tommy Lake.   He wasn't in the Entertainment office, so I had him paged in the casino.   A short time later, he called from the Moat.   I had a picture of him drinking coffee from a tall glass with a spoon in it. 
 

"Slim," he said, "I heard that Purdy's called a staff meeting for next Monday."  The gossip mill at the hotel had been working overtime.   "Is that the end?"
 

"I think so, Tommy.  It doesn't look good.   What have you heard from Pat Andrea?"  I asked both to be polite and to change the subject. 
 

Tommy was quick to answer.   “Nothing, and each time I try to call, they won't put me through.  Ain't that a killer, Slim?   This guy's a friend, too, or at least, he was a friend.”
 

Poor Tommy, I thought.   When the Castle closes, his life will have gone down the tubes.  The Castle, a special place to many of us, was Tommy's life.  Without it, he would be a goner. 
 

“Buck up, Tommy.   Something will happen that's good, you’ll see.”

 

 

“Yeh, Slim.  Something good.   Right.”

 

 

 

==================

Chapter 19

Screw Magazine Shoulda Been There!

==================

 

I had forgotten about my teaching duties.  It was Monday, and not only was my class there to be taught – and I had to hurry to make it in time – but Elaine Chase was there too.   Although she didn't normally work on Monday nights, she had heard on the evening TV newscast about the sniper shooting, and she wanted to see if I was alright.  “I thought you could use a night off ...  with me," she whispered. 
 

Bill Tribe's night-shift replacement Tony Zanno had accompanied me to UNLV.  He waited outside the classroom door as I taught 45 kids and Elaine, who sat in on the class, the details of being so good in hotel PR that the hotel you work for was about to close.   To say my mind wasn't on the class work was a gross understatement. 

 

 

Afterward, I suggested to Elaine that instead of taking officer Zanno with us to a restaurant for a bite to eat, that I'd get rid of him, and we could go to her house and eat, etc.   Needless to say, I was thinking more of the etc.  than the eating! 
 

I told Zanno I'd be alright there and asked him man-to-man for some privacy “with my chick.”  He winked back at me, but before he'd leave, he insisted on accompanying us to Elaine's and checking out each room in her apartment.   Then, I had to call Chief Casey.   Then, Casey had to speak to Zanno. 

 

 

Finally, we, Elaine and I, were alone, at last!   
 

Elaine and I could have qualified that night for the US Olympic screwing team.   We screwed all night; we screwed in every conceivable position; and we even screwed in several positions that are inconceivable.   Screw Magazine should have been there to photograph us. 
 

It was still dark when I awoke the next morning in Elaine’s bed at 4:30.   She was sleeping soundly.   So was her Lhasa Apso, his head resting on my leg. 
 

I shaved with one of Elaine’s underarm razors, showered, and made a cup of instant coffee.  Elaine and her dog slept through it all.   Taking the coffee with me, I headed for the lot and Miss Nomer.   I was in a head-clearing mood.   An early morning drive was what I needed. 
 

I decided to drive up the Strip.   This was the only time of the day during which you could drive the length of Las Vegas Boulevard, from Tropicana to Sahara, and not see a single pedestrian.   It was after the graveyard shift had reported to work and the night shift had gone home, before the tourists had awakened and after the high rollers had gone to sleep.   A few taxis were on the Strip, bathed in the neon of the huge hotel marquees, the yellow of the cabs mixing with the reds, greens, blues, reds, and whites of electric lights. 
 

Before I realized it, I was retracing the trail of Mr. X, who I now knew to be Louis Hassan.   I wondered whether he had checked out my license plate after guessing that I was following him.   I wondered if he was the one on the business end of the M-16 on the hotel roof.   I wondered if he was the guy who burglarized my office and my apartment.   Was Louis Hassan some type of maniac?   A killer?   Or was it Zarofsky – or that big guy traveling with him?   Were any of them, were all of them maniacs? 
 

But the more I thought of it, the less likely it was that any of them could know me, much less know that I was working with the FBI in watching them.   The only one who knew of my involvement with the FBI was Sandra herself. 
 

But who the hell was trying to kill me?   Who had burglarized my office and my apartment? 
 

At Charleston, I stopped for-the light.   I was in the left lane, but while waiting, I realized that the FBI office was a couple of blocks away, on Charleston to the right of where I was.   I had passed it once or twice, each time wondering what the inside looked like, what Sandra looked like at her desk, and what she did around the office.   I was pretty certain she wouldn't be at her office this early.   So, when the light turned, I took the left. 
 

At Rancho Road, I went right.   Hassan lived on Rancho, at number 3435.   I didn't need to reach for my notebook; the number was stenciled on my brain now.   Sure enough, there was Hassan's car, the Caprice, sitting in the driveway of 3435 Rancho Road, a single family cottage, rather small and in rather poor shape.   The stucco front of the house was chipped everywhere and needed painting.  The “lawn” wasn’t a lawn at all.   It was a patch of desert with some scrub grass. 
 

I slowed to a near-crawl.  Nothing was moving inside the house, or at least I couldn’t see any movement.   Of course, it was early in the day, and not much was moving on most residential streets then anyway. 
 

I continued driving, and once past the house, I speeded up, driving and thinking, driving and thinking.  I don’t quite know how I got there, but the next time I gave my driving any thought, I found myself on Rte.  95, the Tonopah Highway, headed north.   The exit ahead of me was Cheyenne Ave., the exit for the North Las Vegas Air Terminal.   It was 5:15AM; I decided to just drive.   I had at least a couple of hours to kill.   So, on I went, as Hitchcock would say, North by Northwest. 
 

This was the road to Mt.  Charleston, where during the winter, visitors or locals could actually ski the Spring Mountain range, and during the rest of the year, hike through the area’s national forest.   Lee Canyon was up here too, a pretty scenic area, as far as Southern Nevada goes. 
 

While Mt.  Charleston’s and Lee Canyon’s picturesque serenity lay off to the left, the hustle of Nellis Air Force Base was somewhere off on the flat lands to my right.   Ahead of me lay such towns as Indian Springs, Cactus Springs, Mercury, and Lathrop Wells.   Much further north was Beatty, and beyond was Tonopah and even Reno.   I wouldn’t drive that far today; even Beatty was a two-hour jaunt one-way, and Reno was ten hours. 
 

The distances in Nevada were way out of whack, as compared to what I was used to in Boston.   The business end of Nellis, for instance, where the runways are and where the people live and work, are just outside of North Las Vegas.   The Nellis Air Force Range, however, stretches about 200 miles north, nearly to Tonopah, and at several places, the tract of Federal land that makes up the range is about 200 miles wide.   Within its boundaries, God only knows what goes on, God and the Defense Department. 
 

One landmark of note within the range is the 1350 square-mile Nevada Test Site, a forbidding mountainous desert, dotted with occasional yucca trees, Joshua trees, and creosote bushes.  It has changed very little, if at all, since 1950, when President Harry Truman followed the advice of his top people and designated what was then known as the Nevada Proving Ground.   What they had to prove then and still today was that our atomic, or more specifically, our nuclear and thermonuclear bombs, could work.   Until 1950, Harry and the bombs were giving hell to atolls in the South Pacific.   But, when Korea became the trouble spot that it became, military planners figured the Pacific might not be the best place for atomic testing security.  
 

So, kit, kaboodle, and kobalt, they moved the whole “shooting” match to Nevada.  And in the years since the first test blast on January 27, 1951, they’ve shot off nearly 700 bombs, and maybe more, considering they don’t like to talk about every one of them. 
 

Lately, it seemed, they had been talking about the bombs with more than average frequency. 
 

The Vegas Castle, one of the Vegas’ tall buildings, always received the notices about upcoming tests from the Energy Department.   And, I could have sworn, in recent weeks, we had been receiving more notices than usual.   "People in tall buildings or on construction sites are advised to take precautions from possible swaying of structures," was what the statements always said. 
 

And always on the following day, the Sun and the Review Journal would carry a paragraph or two about how “the weapon, buried 1650 feet beneath the surface of Yucca Flat, had an explosive yield equivalent to between 20 and 150 kilotons of TNT."  Not many people gave it much thought, but that was the size limited by treaty.   The other side couldn’t, and neither could we, set off bombs larger than 150 kilotons, and all of them had to be set off underground. 
 

I often wondered what the Test Site looked like, especially where they set off those bombs.   Are there craters there?   Or, if the bombs are buried as deep as 1650 feet beneath the ground, how are they put there?   Are there mineshafts built specially for the purpose?   I imagine the construction work alone must be staggering in scope.   On the other hand, I couldn’t imagine a bomb going off with the equivalent power of 150 kilotons of dynamite.   What was the size of the bomb that destroyed Hiroshima?   Wasn’t it only 20 kilotons, or 20,000 tons of dynamite?   Only?   And what about the bombs that the Soviets were setting off before the underground treaty?   Weren’t they in the multi-megaton category, the equivalent of hundreds of thousands of tons of dynamite?   And what about the bomb that killed poor Lefty?   Wasn’t that blast a result of about five pounds of TNT? 
 

I was feeling a little bit more relaxed driving and thinking of such matters.  Perhaps because nuclear bombs were so far out of my purview and had so little to do with my daily existence, there was a weird sort of comfort in thinking about them rather than about more normal, everyday concerns.   Nuclear bombs are among the intangibles of life, out there somewhere, these “devices,” as the Energy Department calls them, neither fish nor fowl, nor even real, to me. 
 

The silence and the boredom of the desert was hypnotizing me.   I switched on the radio. 
 

“Another hot one today in Southern Nevada,” the news radio announcer was saying.  “We’ll have details on today’s weather report in ten minutes.   Among today’s top stories: Authorities still have no leads in the weekend sniper shooting which terrorized a Las Vegas hotel executive ... 
 

"Federal authorities report the Palestinian terrorist captured in an El Centro, California, shootout Sunday night is recovering from his wounds and may be one of a gang of terrorists reported to be in the United States ... 
 

"President Bush departs Washington today for the economic summit meeting in Paris, and "Metro Police are investigating a shooting early this morning on Rancho Road that left a Las Vegas man dead.   Police say that Louis Hassan ....”

 

 

My heart jumped.   Hassan! 
 

“… was killed as he stepped from his car to enter his house.   His wallet was reportedly taken, and police believe that the victim may have been resisting a mugging ...”
 

I switched from station to station, hunting for more news about Hassan.  All I could find was music.   It was obvious that what I heard was all I was going to hear about Hassan on the radio, so I shut it off.   I didn't know what was going on, but I was willing to stake a year's pay on the fact that Hassan's murder wasn't actually the result of a mugging.  I was certain there was much more to this than the police either knew or were saying. 
 

I turned Miss Nomer around at the next cross street the road had neither exits, nor a median strip, and I headed back toward the city. 
 

Normally, mornings were the time I was thinking the straightest.   But the news on the radio about Hassan's murder had shaken me.  
 

 

==================

Chapter 20

I’ll talk with you Thursday, if I’m still alive.

If not, I’ll talk with you Friday.

==================

 

Finally, Sandra was talking to me.   Shit, she was talking a blue streak! 
 

"You’ve gone too far, Slim.   Really.   Too far!   Why the hell didn’t you keep me better informed?"
 

"Better informed?   Christ, I called you, Sandra.   I called you two or three times.   First, it was, ‘Not on the phone, Slim, not on the phone.’   So then, I met with you.    Then, it was, 'Sorry, Slim, we can’t tell you anything more about what’s going on.’  Come on, Sandra.   And now, whaddya doing?   You’re talking to me on the phone.   You’re listening to my gory details.   And you’re telling me I’ve gone too far.   Hell, Sandra, I had no idea where I was going, too far or too little, because you’ve never given me a clue as to what was going on, what I was getting into?" 
 

She didn’t say anything.   I looked aimlessly down on my desk, then at the phone, then at the closed door, beyond which Pinky was sitting in the outer office with officer Tribe, now back on duty.  Still nothing. 
 

"Are you still there, Sandra?” 
 

"Yes, Slim.  I’m still here.   Tell me again about this guy who was killed yesterday, this ...  Louis Hassan.   I want to get it right.”
 

"Okay, he was the guy who answered the ad that Zarofsky put in the paper.   I staked out the room, got the license plate off his car.   My friend at Metro gave me his name and where he works, I mean worked."
 

"And now," Sandra reminded me, "he’s been killed?"
 

"Like I told you.  The radio said he was shot getting out of his car in front of his house.   Sandra, there’s too much coincidence in this.   First, the burglaries, then some asshole shooting at me with a rifle, now this Hassan guy getting killed.   Shit, what did I get myself into when I said yes to you?"
 

"Okay, Slim.   Settle down.   I want you to do nothing.   I repeat: not a thing.   Don’t leave the hotel during the workday.   Go home with whatever security guard they give you.   Have him stay with you in your apartment overnight.   And tomorrow, come to work, and start doing nothing again."
 

"Great, Sandra.   That’s gonna be some way to spend the rest of my life.   The only consolation is that I won’t have to worry much longer, because I’m not going to have much more life to live the way things are going.   What are YOU going to do in the meantime?   How about arresting Zarofsky for starters?   He’s been at the center of all this.   He’s probably behind Lefty’s murder too."
 

"We’ll do everything we can, Slim.   We don’t have any proof that Zarofsky was involved in any of the crimes committed against you, and he doesn’t figure in Lefty’s death either.   Anyway, the FBI can only make arrests in Federal matters, and everything you’ve recited is strictly in Metro's jurisdiction.   By the way, have you told any of this to Metro?”
 

“They're my next call.   I want to tell them about Hassan.”
 

Sandra interrupted.  No, Slim.   If you tell them about Hassan, you'll have to tell them about Zarofsky, and that's Bureau business.   Please.   Let me deal with Metro on this matter.   Please, Slim.   I can't tell you why, so you're going to have to trust me.   I'll deal with Metro.   Please, do as I say.   Do nothing.”
 

She sounded convincing, and I had already started trouble for myself by going beyond what she had told me to do.   I promised Sandra I'd be a good boy. 
 

“Can I see you tonight at the apartment house, Sandra?   I promise to blindfold my guard.”
 

“Very funny!   But, no thanks, Slim.   I have to fly to Reno this afternoon.  But, I'll be back the day after tomorrow, in the afternoon, and we can talk then.   In fact, I WANT to talk with you then.   I'll call you as soon as I get back.”
 

“Are you going to be working on my case in Reno?”
 

"Slim, you don't have a case.   You may be a case, but you don't have one.   If you mean will I be working on the case involving Zarofsky?   Well, no.   The Bureau has other people, you know.   I'm not the only agent in Nevada.  No, I’m going to Reno on a Federal tax case, which I obviously can’t be discussing with you."
 

"Okay, Sandra.  I give up.   Have a good trip.   I’ll talk with you Thursday, if I’m still alive.   If not, I’ll talk with you on Friday."
 

"You’ll be just fine, Slim.   Your sense of humor won’t be, but you will.   See you later!"
 

She was gone, but not forgotten. 
 

 

I thought about her the rest of the day, her and the danger I was in.   Had I bitten off more than I could chew?   Why in the world would a coward like me agree to help the FBI?   Why, indeed?   Sandra, that’s why! 
 

Officer Tribe shadowed me the whole day, never more than a few steps from where I was.   Every once in a while, I’d spy him looking like a Secret Service guy looks when he’s guarding a President, looking this way and that with his eyes, but not moving his head.   I half expected him to start talking into his sleeve. 
 

Tribe impressed me as being a decent kind of guy, and he was, hard-working and loyal to the organization he worked for.   Some day, my crystal ball saw him holding down a chief’s job, if not at the Castle, then at one of the bigger Strip hotels.    As I thought about that possibility, I remembered the likelihood that by the time Tribe is ready to be a chief of security at a Vegas hotel, the Vegas Castle might only be a memory in a Vegas old-timer’s mind. 
 

I watched the clock, or at least my watch, the entire day.   I dreaded going home, even with a security officer to guard me there.   With the knowledge that Sandra wasn't going to be next door overnight, I felt uneasy about my safety. 
 

I decided to check into the Castle for the night.   Why not?  It's a hotel, for me it's free, and a good PR guy should know how guests at the hotel are being treated. 
 

When Tony Zanno relieved officer Tribe for the night, he was also relieved that he didn't have to leave the building overnight.   He checked in with Casey and told him of my plans to stay in the hotel.   Casey ordered him to stay in the corridor outside my room the whole night.   If he wanted to take a break, Zanno was told to get another guard on the walkie-talkie and have him watch the room in his absence. 

 

 

That made me feel a lot better than I had been feeling, and for the first night in a week, I slept like a baby. 

 
 

==================

Chapter 21

Nesson to Webster to Chance

==================

 

I was running through the shadows of city streets, pursued by a maniac with a gun.   I wanted to duck into a building, but the building had no doors.   I followed its solid concrete wall to a street corner, huffing and puffing, stopping momentarily, as there was traffic in the street ahead of me.   I decided I would stay on the sidewalk.   I followed it to the left, and I continued to run alongside the seemingly endless building, no doors, not even windows, nobody else on the street to help me, cars whizzing by with faceless drivers ... 
 

"Mr. Chance?   Good morning, Mr. Chance."  A man's voice was coming from somewhere out of the darkness. 
 

"What?   What is it?   What do you want from me?"
 

"Hey, take it easy, Mr. Chance.   It's Tony Zanno, officer Zanno.   It's only me.   It's six o'clock in the morning, 6AM.   I get off now, Mr. Chance.    I just wanted to tell you."
 

I reached over, groped toward the lamp on the night table and switched it on.   “Oh, sorry, Tony.  How did you get…”
 

"My passkey, Mr. Chance.   I just wanted to tell you goodbye, and I wanted to make sure you were alright before I went home.   Are you?"
 

“Yeh, just fine, thanks.   I guess I was sleeping pretty soundly."

 

 

"You sure were, Mr. Chance.   I stood there for a few minutes trying to wake you.   Didn't want to shake you, or you'd get scared, you know."
 

"Thanks, Tony.   I appreciate that.   So, what's the plan now?"
 

"We've got another guard out in the hall to relieve me, Mr. Chance.  He'll stay with you all day."
 

"Who is it?" I asked, "Bill Tribe again?"
 

"No, Wednesday is Bill's day off.   Mine too.   We got Dave Nesson on the detail during the day today.   Don't know who'll replace me tonight."
 

"Well, go ahead, go on home.   And thanks, Tony.   We'll see you later in the week, I hope."  I lied.   I was hoping that whoever was shooting at me would be caught by later in the week, or early in the week, to tell you the truth.   I was hoping that I wouldn't need Tony Zanno's services anymore. 
 

After he left, I reached for a Merit and sat on the side of the bed for a few moments, drawing deep from the cigarette, thinking – not so intuitively – that I would be inhaling oxygen with the smoke, enough oxygen to clear my head.   My dream, so real a few moments before, was fading from memory.   I sat there, putting together in my mind all the information I'd need to get started for the day.  I couldn't go – or I didn't want to go – for my usual morning drive.   No, I was safer staying right where I was, within the protective circle the Castle and its security force provided me. 
 

Boy, 6AM was about the latest I had slept in months.   Had it not been under such circumstances, I would have been a lot happier than I was.   Make the best of it though, Slim.   At least, you can order a big, greasy room service breakfast.  
 

Which I did. 
 

The three-egg Western omelet, the pancakes, the bacon, toast, juice, and coffee felt good, tucked away in the Slim Machine.   I lingered over the coffee, reading the morning Sun that I had asked the room service people to send up to me with my food. 
 

A four-paragraph story on the murder of Louis Hassan was buried, no pun intended, on the bottom of page two of the Metro section of the paper.   Not much more was in the paper than was in the radio piece on the shooting.   Police were investigating ....  Appears to be a mugging that went sour when Hassan apparently resisted.   Blah, blah, blah.   Watergate quality reporting this wasn’t. 
 

By the time I showered, it was about 9AM.   So, I threw on my clothes from the night before and headed downstairs to my office, officer Dave Nesson in tow.   I had a change of clothes and an electric shaver always at the ready in the office; this was one of those times I could use them. 
 

Sitting at my desk, I tried to organize my thoughts about what had been happening.   Who were these people, Zarofsky, his big friend, the late Louis Hassan?   Were they spies?   But what did the Vegas Castle have that was worth spying on? 
 

And what was Zarofsky's interest in meeting with Hassan?   Think, Slim!   Hassan was a metallurgist, a bowler, a driver of a Caprice.   He was a reader of newspaper personals columns. 
 

Nothing clicked, except for Hassan's job.   It had to have something to do with his being a metallurgist.   Correction ...  it could have something to do with his job, but it may have been something about which I knew nothing.   And there's plenty about which I knew nothing! 
 

My thought process was interrupted as Pinky announced a call from Jimmy Donaruma. 
 

"Slim, what's going on with you?”

 

 

"What do you mean?"
 

"I heard about you getting shot at, and this morning, I find out that the guy you asked me to ID for you was killed, that guy Hassan.   Now, what the hell is going on with you?"
 

Like a good cop, Jimmy was starting to put two and two together. 
 

Remembering Sandra's advice that I keep Metro in the dark about Hassan's connection to her case, I decided quickly that I would deflect Jimmy's curiosity.   "What?   Hassan was killed?”  I’d play Mickey the Dunce."  What happened?   Who killed him?”
 

"Slim, are you saying that you don’t know anything about him?”
 

"No, Jimmy.  I haven’t even called him yet.   I haven’t had anything to do with him, since you gave me his name.”  At least that wasn’t a lie. 
 

“I don’t know, Slim.   There’s too much coincidence here.   Within a couple of days of one another, you get shot at, and Hassan gets killed."
 

“How did he get killed?”  I knew, but Mickey the Dunce didn’t. 
 

“We think he got mugged and resisted the mugger.   It happened outside his house, as he got out of his car.   Christ, Slim, it was in the papers already.   Don’t tell me you didn’t see the story."
 

"No, honest, Jimmy.”  My “no” to a double negative question kept me from lying to Jimmy, I reasoned.    “Are you working on the case?" I asked him. 
 

“No, I’m into drugs this week.  I’m working Vice.    Hassan’s case is for the Homicide boys. 
 

“Slim, is there anything you want me to pass along to them, I mean, about Hassan’s death?  Now, level with me, Slim.   Level with me."
 

Jimmy was too good a cop to let my troubles and Hassan's death be racked up to coincidence.   I had to sound final.   "Absolutely not, Jimmy.   It's strictly coincidence what happened to me and what happened to Hassan.   Strictly coincidence, as far as I know."  And that was true enough! 
 

He asked me to contact him, should I think of anything that would connect the two shooting incidents, mine and Hassan's.   And, as we said our goodbyes, he commented that he would have to let the "boys looking into both cases" know about my call to him last week regarding Hassan. 
 

"You understand.  don't you, Slim?   I'd be guilty of shoddy police work, if I didn't."
 

I reassured him that I understood his situation, and I thanked him for his concern for me. 
 

As soon as I was off the phone, my intercom buzzed again.   "You had a couple more calls, boss, while you were on the phone.   That reporter from the LA Times again, and Tommy Lake."  Pinky would normally have handed me the pink “'while-you-were-out" slips, but my inner office door had been closed and, I might add cowardly, locked from the inside.   So, Pinky was using the intercom, a feat more risky for her than tightrope walking, no doubt. 
 

I called the reporter first.   Before the weekend, I had told him that I would let him know when it was proper to do a Vegas Castle retrospective piece.   At the time, I had too much on my menu, I said, and I reminded him that we weren't dead yet.   But he gratuitously reminded me that we were on death’s door and said he would check again with me in a few days. 
 

This time, I told him that not much had changed, but that the news of the hotel’s imminent closing was probably going to be revealed at a staff meeting scheduled for the following Monday.   I told him I’d call him on Monday afternoon, right after the meeting, to let him know what was what. 
 

He thanked me, and all I could say in response was "yeah."  PR’s subservience to news reporters reminded me, once in a while, of the noble French Revolutionary practice of tipping the executioner.  Here, let me help you sharpen that blade, polish that obituary, and smooth the dirt over the grave! 
 

Tommy Lake only added to the morbidity I was feeling.   "Slim, I got bad news.  I got a letter this morning from Pat Andrea.   He said no to playing the benefit.   And he didn’t even have the decency to write the fucking letter himself.   Some flunkie wrote it.   He wrote, 'Dear Mr. Lake ...  ‘Mr. Lake!’ Can you imagine, Slim?   He’s my friend, a dear friend too, and he hasn’t got the common courtesy to pick up the phone to talk to me, or even to write the fucking letter himself."
 

I had never heard Tommy swear before, except to call Arlene an asshole, which he did almost daily.   He was obviously hurt by Andrea, and obviously pissed at him.   It would be a while, I was certain, before he’d recover from this. 
 

I tried to calm him down.  “It was a long shot to begin with, Tommy," I said.   "And anyway, it probably doesn’t have anything to do with you.   Remember, Pat Andrea hasn’t had anything to do with this place since 1976 when he had a blowout with Lefty.   That was behind what he wrote to you, or what that other guy wrote.   Forget it, Tommy.   It’s got nothing to do with you."
 

“Maybe not, Slim.   But, I’m not through with that guy!”  With that, Tommy slammed down the phone on me.   Twice.   Apparently, in his rage, he had missed the phone carriage the first time. 
 

Tommy would probably be headed toward the Moat to drown his sorrows in Scotch.   By Noon, Tommy would be drunk.   One of Chief Casey’s men would probably get him a cab to take him home.   Fortunately, Tommy didn’t have to work that night.   He’d probably empty a few more glasses of Scotch at home and then fall asleep, a sorrowful wretch if ever there was one. 
 

Over lunch at the Little King, my friends among the other department heads were more than a bit nervous sitting with me.   Operations Manager Herb Schwartz joked about it, but I had the feeling that there was more truth than jest in what he was saying, and that the others shared his feelings.   "Is it safe to sit with you?" he asked as he consciously sat in the chair opposite my end of the six-seat table that already sat officer Nesson and myself. 
 

Eventually, Housekeeping Director Rosa Laurence and Sales Director Ed Griffin joined us.   The talk at the table was of what we all knew was coming at the Monday meeting with George Purdy.   Blame Lefty, blame Lefty’s death, blame changing times, or blame Mr. B’s recent winning streak, but whatever, the hotel was not going to make it beyond the 30-day deadline given by that guy from the bank. 
 

Pat Andrea’s refusal to play a benefit at the Castle wouldn’t even be a topic for conversation at the meeting, because only Tommy, Arlene, and I knew of Tommy’s letter to the singing star.   Tommy wasn’t a participant in staff meetings.   And Arlene and I never brought it up at a staff meeting, because neither of us thought that Andrea’s agreeing to play a Castle benefit would ever come to pass.   Unfortunately, we were right. 
 

Later in the day, I made my "rounds," again with officer Nesson as my shadow. 
 

I saw Harry towering over his blackjack table, and I wanted to ask about my two friends, and whether he had seen them in the last couple of days.  But with Nesson at my side, I couldn’t question Harry without arousing the guard’s curiosity.  Too many people knew too much already, Sandra had told me.   She was quite right!   Quite! 
 

As we passed by Chief Casey in the casino, he asked me if I wanted to spend the night in the hotel again.   He’d assign a man to stay with me, like he had for the past two nights. 
 

I realized that I hadn’t been outside in two days.   "No, thank you, Chief, I’d like to go home tonight and sleep in my own bed."
 

"That’s fine with me, Slim.  But, I’ll still have someone from Security watch you,” Casey offered.  “Bill Tribe’s got the night off, so I’ll check my other people’s schedule and let you know who.”
 

A short time later, Casey called my office.   Roger Webster would take the Slim Chance night watch.   That made me feel good.   Roger was the officer who showed me through The Eye and introduced me to the surveillance room.   From what the chief said, he was also about the best in the business. 

 

 

He showed up for the detail at about 5PM.   We drove over to my place in Miss Nomer. 

 

==================

Chapter 22

“Get up, you fat slob!"

==================

 

Nobody defrosts dinner like I do!   Nobody! 

 

 

This night, since I had company, in the person of Vegas Castle security officer Roger Webster, I was out to impress.   So, out of the freezer came the best that Swanson, Ore Ida, and Green Giant had to offer.   I would much rather have had somebody like Sandra to cook – or defrost – for, but given the reason he was my company, Roger Webster was more than welcome to share my humble repast. 
 

Chance Fried Chicken, a delicate recipe from the South that I first learned from reading the back of the Swanson Food Company box, was the main course I shared with Webster.   It was suitably garnished with my version of the Green Giant’s buttered peas and served with a side order of Slim’s and Ore Ida’s fried potato puffs. 
 

After dinner, Webster and I sat in front of the TV, talking more than watching.   And of course, the hotel was talk topic number one. 

 

 

Now that I think about it, the conversation really centered on Lefty more than on his hotel.   Webster wanted to know what Lefty did in his spare time, whether I knew the specifics of Lefty’s plans to expand the hotel, and I think at one point, he asked if the boss had ever talked to me about hotel security.   Webster undoubtedly thought of himself as management material, perhaps next in line for Chief Casey’s job, and he must have wanted to know if the boss had thought of him in the same way. 

 

 

Just before 11PM, I threw together some bed sheets and a blanket for the sofa which Webster would use for the night.   We said our goodnights, and we each went to bed.   For a few minutes, I watched the 11 o’clock news on my bedroom TV, but sleep was quickly overtaking me.   The last memory I had before drifting off was that I was safe from whoever was trying to kill me, safe at least for the night. 
 

"Get him up, Mr. Vebster.   Vee shall interrogate him."  I heard it, but I didn’t hear it.   Then, I felt somebody shaking my bed.   "Get up, Chance.   Get up, you fat slob!"
 

I opened my eyes.   The overhead light caused me to squint, but I was able to discern somebody standing next to the bed.   It was Webster.   "What the hell?"  I pulled myself up to a sitting position.   "What do you want?   What is it?"
 

"Get the fuck out of bed, you fat shit!"  Webster was holding a gun, pointed at me.   It was only then that I noticed the two of them – Zarofsky and his big ugly friend standing at the foot of my bed. 
 

"What the hell is going on?" I asked again, this time addressing all three.   Was this another dream?
 

"Shut up, Chance,” Webster said.   "Shut the fuck up, or I’ll be happy to kill you right here." 
 

Zarofsky spoke again.   "Take it easy, Mr. Vebster.   Vee don't vish to harm Mr. Chance quite yet."
 

"Alright, get your fat ass out of bed," Webster told me, still pointing the gun at my head, only inches away from my eyes.   "Get this on."  He threw me my bathrobe that had been draped over the bedroom chair. 

 

 

"You're with them, aren't you?"  I said to Webster, as I put on the robe and found my slippers with my feet. 

 

 

“You're damn right I am," Webster answered.   "And wasn't that nice of the Chief to give me a chance to be with you?”   Zarofsky interrupted our little chat.   "Take him into the living room, Mr. Vebster.   Vee have a lot to talk about.  "

 

 

"How did you get here?” I addressed my question to Zarofsky. 
 

"Come into the living room, Mr. Chance.   Vee shall answer all your questions, if you vill answer ours.”

 

 

“He will answer our questions, Dmitri, you may be assured of that!”   I looked around.   The clipped, almost British accent was the big guy's.   This was the first time I had heard his voice.   He sounded like he was from India, or somewhere like that.   I looked at him through eyes that were still half-closed in sleep.   I knew that what was happening to me was real, but my body wanted me to believe I was still sleeping, that this was a dream, a bad dream. 
 

Zarofsky’s friend was, first and foremost, big.   His black curly hair framed a square face, the  principal feature of which was a huge black moustache.   His skin was dark, not quite brown.   He was dressed in a white shirt with a formal front and a black vest.   He wore black jeans.   And he too was pointing a gun at me. 
 

"Who the hell are you?" I asked him.   If I had been more awake, I probably would have been too scared to say a word. 
 

Zarofsky, by now in the living room ahead of us, called out before I could get my answer. 
 

The maharajah – he looked, sounded, and carried himself like one – was directed by Zarofsky, in English, to bring a straight-back chair from the kitchen into the living room.   I was told to sit in it, while Webster, his gun still pointed my way, stood over me, and Zarofsky sat on the sofa.   The big guy stood off to the side of the room, near the apartment door. 
 

Once we were all gathered in the living room, Zarofsky spoke first, addressing Webster.   "You may put your pistol down, Mr. Vebster.   I do not think Mr. Chance is going to be uncooperative."
 

"What are you talking about?" I asked.   "What's this all about?   Who are you?"  I pretended I had never seen them before. 
 

Again, Zarofsky was the spokesman.   "Never mind, Mr. Chance, who vee are.  All vee need from you is the answer to some questions, and you vill be fine.  Vould you care for a cigarette?"  He held out a pack. 

 

 

This was beginning to sound ominous, and to tell you the truth, I was scared shitless.   I indicated I wanted one. 

 

 

Zarofsky snapped his fingers, and Webster came over, took one Marlboro from the box in Zarofsky’s hand, gave it to me, and lighted both Zarofsky’s and mine with a lighter he produced from nowhere.   Marlboro was a bit strong for me, but I had a feeling that strong cigarettes were not my biggest problem that night. 

 

 

"What’s this all about, Roger?" I asked.   "Who are these men?   And what are you doing with a gun on me?"
 

"These men are my guests, Chance.   Mr. Zarofsky here, and Mr. Amhad, they wanted to meet you.   So, I invited them over for a visit."
 

I looked at the clock on the VCR.   It was 1:14AM.  "Why me?" I asked, turning to Zarofsky. 
 

"You have some information vee need, Mr. Chance."  The tone of Zarofsky’s voice was threatening.   "And you have a briefcase vich is our property."
 

I had no idea what briefcase he was referring to.    All I knew at the moment was that I wanted to capture some kind of initiative.   I tried a gamble.   "Your property?   Or the Soviet Union’s?"
 

Zarofsky was quick to answer.   “You seem to know something of us, Mr. Chance.   That could be dangerous, or how do you say, ‘unhealthy?’”
 

Shit.  That was unhealthy, and stupid of me.   I obviously went too far.   Maybe I would play Mickey the Dunce from then on. 
 

To cover myself immediately, I offered, “Your accent, Mr. Zarofsky.   Am I right, isn’t that a Russian accent?”   Would that rescue me from my gaffe? 

 

 

“Vee vill ask the questions, Mr. Chance.   You have a briefcase, no?”
 

“No, I don’t,” I answered truthfully, a bit puzzled by the quest ion.   “What makes you think I do?”
 

Zarofsky didn’t answer.  Instead, he motioned to the big guy, Amhad, who came over to where I was sitting, grabbed my arm up near the shoulder, and roughly pulled me to a standing position.   Still wordless, he twisted my arm to a half nelson behind my back.   I screamed, “Ow!   Hey, take it easy.   That hurts!”
 

Zarofsky answered me, still in his monotone.   “It vill hurt much worse, Mr. Chance, unless you cooperate vith us.  Vere is that briefcase?”
 

The big guy released some of the pressure on my arm, enough to allow me to answer.  “I don’t have a briefcase.   Honest, mister.   I don’t own one.”
 

I think Zarofsky might have believed me, because he was more specific with his next question.  "Didn't your Mr. Needham give you a briefcase before he died, Mr. Chance?"
 

I thought for a moment.   Then, it hit me.   Lefty did give me a briefcase.   He gave it to me the day before he died.   He said it was plans on the expansion of the hotel.   What would Russians want with those? 
 

Zarofsky was waiting for an answer.   "I don't remember," I said. 
 

Zarofsky nodded to Amhad, who pulled my arm further up my back.   I screamed in pain again. 
 

"Mr. Chance," Zarofsky said calmly, "if you choose to scream again, vee shall use other methods to get our information from you, and you vill realize that this way is the preferred way.   You vuld be vise," Zarofsky emphasized his version of the word, wise, "to cooperate with us."
 

Webster piped in, "Leave him to me.   I'll make him talk."  He waved his pistol menacingly in front of my eyes. 
 

"Not yet, Mr. Vebster," Zarofsky said quickly.  "Not yet."
 

Tears were coming to my eyes from the pain Amhad was causing me.   He twisted my arm still more.   I was expecting to hear a bone crack at any time.   My shoulder ached.   Then, Zarofsky nodded, and again Amhad released the pressure. 
 

And again, Zarofsky asked me, "Your Mr. Needham, he gave you a briefcase, no?"
 

"They were building plans.   What do you want with them?"  I shouted my answer, for a moment thinking that I could rouse my next-door neighbor FBI Agent Sandra.   But then, I remembered she told me she’d be in Reno.   Shit!   I was in a bad spot, and I was alone! 

 

 

"Yes," Zarofsky said, "they were building plans.   Vee are interested in having them, Mr. Chance.  Where are they?"
 

It quickly occurred to me that these guys must have been the ones to have broken into my office and the apartment, and that they were probably looking for Lefty’s briefcase. 
 

I remembered that I had unthinkingly thrown the briefcase into the trunk of my car when Lefty told me, the morning of his murder, to keep it in a safe place.   He said he would need them later, but later – for Lefty, at least – never came.   Now I was facing a situation in which later might not ever come for me. 
 

"Why should I tell you where the briefcase is?" I asked Zarofsky.   "Will you let me go, if I tell you?"
 

"Mr. Chance,” Zarofsky answered, "you are in no position to bargain.   I vill say that if you do not give us the briefcase, you vill most certainly die tonight.   If you give it to us, then vee shall see.   Now, I ask you again.   Vere is the briefcase?   Shall I have Mr. Amhad remind you of your position on this matter?"  He raised his arm toward Amhad, one finger outstretched on his hand as if to show he could bring it down and bring me pain at the same time. 
 

“No!   No!” I said.    “I’ll tell you where it is.”   It’s in the trunk of my car.   Take it, and get out of here.  I’ll give you the keys.”   I motioned to get up, but Amhad tightened the pressure on my arm, pulling it up to the back of my neck.   I screamed out in pain still again. 
 

“Quiet!” Zarofsky said, almost as loud.   And then, in his softer monotone to Webster: “Take his keys.  Mr. Vebster, and go down to Mr. Chance’s automobile.   Bring me the briefcase, if you vould.”

 

 

Webster did as he was told, closing the apartment door quietly and disappearing behind it to head downstairs. 

 

 

I surveyed the situation.   Zarofsky didn’t have a gun, or at least that’s the way it appeared.  Amhad had one, but he had placed it back inside a holster under his vest.   I could make a dash for the door, but Amhad was standing beside my chair, he could grab me in an instant if I were to try anything.   I’d probably get shot too. 
 

I could see no way out of the mess I was in. 
 

Perhaps, if I could get them talking.    “What’s this all about?   Can you at least tell me that much?”  I addressed Zarofsky, who seemed to be the man in charge. 
 

Mr. Chance.   At the appropriate time.  vee shall tell you everything.   At this time, however, vee must have the briefcase.”
 

I wasn’t going to get much more out of Zarofsky.   That was apparent.   "May I have another cigarette, please?"  At least, I could get that much. 
 

Zarofsky had Amhad take the cigarette box from him and bring it over to me.   I took another Marlboro, and Amhad lighted it this time. 
 

Webster returned to the apartment, and in his hand was the black briefcase Lefty had given me the day before his death. 

 

 

"Open it, Mr. Vebster," Zarofsky said. 
 

Silently, Webster put the case down on my coffee table, drew his gun and took aim. 
 

"No," Zarofsky said.   "The noise will arouse people.   Open it another way."
 

After a few minutes of working on the lock with a heavy screwdriver, the use of which I had volunteered, Webster finally forced the briefcase open.   We all leaned forward, as he looked inside.   "Here they are" he said, "right here."
 

He was holding a videotape cassette and some Polaroid pictures, about a half-dozen of them.   I couldn’t see what was on the Polaroids. 
 

"Let me see them, Mr. Vebster," Zarofsky said, reaching over.   He took the pictures, leaving the cassette in Webster’s hand.   Looking at the Polaroids, he apparently liked what he saw and nodded his head approvingly.  "Yes, these are fine."
 

I saw the only possible opportunity of the night so far.   "Okay?  Will you go now, and leave me alone?"  Somehow, I knew better. 
 

Zarofsky answered again.   "No, Mr. Chance.   Vee cannot do that.   You know our faces, and poor Mr. Vebster here, he could possibly lose his job if you were to report him to his superiors."

 

 

"I wouldn't do that.   I assure you.  I won't say anything to anybody.   Just leave.   We'll let bygones be bygones."
 

Heroic of me, huh? 

 

 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Chance."  Then, Zarofsky said it: "We cannot let you live.   Our own lives vould be in danger.   And Mr. Amhad's friends throughout the world could suffer.   You understand, don't you?"

 

 

That sunk in quickly, and I felt my heartbeat and my respiration quicken simultaneously.   This was big.   Amhad's friends throughout the world would suffer.   Shit! 
 

I could see these assholes meant business!   And my living to a ripe old age was not part of their business plan. 
 

Maybe I could bluff my way out of this.   "You'll never get away with this.   The FBI is bugging my apartment.   They've heard everything.   Give up now, and I'll ask them to go easy on you.”  Then, playing my hole card, “They know about you and Hassan, Louis Hassan…”
 

“What do you know of Hassan?”   Zarofsky interrupted me abruptly.    I apparently had struck a chord.   The other two also suddenly looked my way.   Webster's eyes widened, as he stared. 
 

I had to play out my hand.  “I know everything, and so does the FBI.   They're right outside this building, watching you.   I'm telling you to give yourself up, or at least leave me alone, and they'll go easier on you.”
 

“Hassan!”  Zarofsky shouted at me.   "What do you know of Hassan, Mr. Chance?"
 

“I know he met with you secretly in Room 1492 of the Vegas Castle, Mr. Zarofsky!"  I was rolling now ...   "I know how you signalled him, using the personals ads in the papers.   I know that he works as a metallurgist, and that he was giving you secret information.   I know, Mr. Zarofsky, that you, Mr. Amhad, and now Webster here, are all spies.   I know,”  and as much as I was interpolating before, I was bluffing now, "I know that you killed Lefty and Hassan, and that you were the ones who broke into Lefty's safe, my office, and this apartment.   I know you were the ones who took potshots at me from the roof of the Vegas Castle.   And now, Mr. Smartass Russian, the FBI knows it.   So, I warn you, give yourself up!"

 

 

A bravura performance, Slim!   For a couple of moments of complete silence, I could see in Zarofsky's, Amhad's, and Webster's eyes that I had them completely mystified.   But mystification and credibility are two different things, as I was quickly to find out. 

 

 

Zarofsky broke the silence.  He turned to Amhad.   “You fool!   You should never have trusted your cousin!   He lied to you from the beginning.   He vas vith the FBI.”

 

 

Cousin?   Who were cousins?   Amhad and who?  It suddenly occurred to me that the only person Zarofsky could mean was Hassan.   And weren’t both names – Amhad and Hassan – Arabic? 

 

 

My mind raced.   Amhad!   I had heard that name before.    Just recently.    But where?    When?    I looked at Amhad.   His face suddenly seemed familiar looking.   Then I remembered.   It was a face I had seen in a newspaper, not a face, but a sketch of a face, an FBI sketch.   It all fell together.   This was the same Amhad, the Mideast terrorist Amhad, that the FBI was hunting in the United States.   Sandra had been in on the hunt.   She had even shot one of Amhad’s gang, in that shootout she told me about, the one in El Centro. 
 

“And YOU,” I said to Amhad, “You’re the terrorist, Amhad.   My FBI friends took care of your partner in EI Centro.”  I conjured up my best Bogie: “You touch me, pal, and you’ll see some serious trouble.   Serious trouble!”
 

Amhad looked at me menacingly.  But Zarofsky ignored my babbling.   He turned to Webster.  “Search the apartment,” he ordered.   “Look for listening devices.”
 

Webster, now assisted by Amhad, began to tear my place apart.  Zarofsky now turned his attention to me.   "You seem to be brighter than I have thought you vould be, Mr. Chance.   You are a vorthy adversary.   It will be a shame to have to kill you.  Yes, that is the famous Amhad.   And vee are vorking together to cause you Americans some trouble in the Near East. 
 

"You may as vell know, Mr. Chance, that vee have acquired through the help of the late Mr. Hassan a formula for a metallic alloy.   Perhaps you have heard of osmium, Mr. Chance?"
 

I had heard of the Osmonds, but not of osmium.   "What’s that?" I asked. 
 

“Osmium is the hardest metal on earth, Mr. Chance, but I suspect you knew that. 
 

"Mr. Amhad’s colleagues in the Near East vill use this osmium alloy as the casing for a new veapon they are making.”
 

"What kind of veapon?" I asked, putting extra emphasis on the "V" in "veapon."
 

"A bomb, Mr. Chance.  A nuclear bomb!”
 

"You’re crazy, Zarofsky."  The hopelessness of my situation had emboldened me.   "You’ll never make this work.   You’ll never get this formula of yours out of the country.   The FBI is watching every step you take."
 

"You fool, Mr. Chance.  Even your vaunted FBI can't inspect our Soviet diplomatic pouches."
 

I looked at Zarofsky blankly.  I had no answer to that one.   "What are you going to do with me," I asked, fearing the answer."
 

"If vee don't find any microphones here, then I shall know how you are, as you say, bluffing me about your colleagues at the FBI listening to us."
 

"You'll never find the FBI bugs, Zarofsky.   They're too well-hidden.”
 

That was my last bluff of the night.   Webster and Amhad picked the place clean.  Now we all knew that no bugs were there. 
 

Zarofsky, satisfied that I was lying, ordered Webster and Amhad to tie and gag me.  Webster tore the sheet that I had left for him on the sofa, making a rope from it for my hands.  He pulled both my arms behind my back, tying the sheet tightly around my wrist, so tightly in fact, that I could feel the sheet cutting into my skin.   Amhad tore another piece of the sheet to make a gag, which he put into my mouth like a horse would wear a bit.   When this was accomplished, Zarofsky addressed Webster. 
 

"You drive Mr. Chance's car.   Vee shall follow in ours.   You vill put Mr. Chance in the trunk of his car, and ven vee get to the desert, you vill shoot him.  Vee shall then return to the city in our car."
 

My heart skipped several beats.   Although I intuitively knew before this that they would kill me, to hear it for the first time shocked me. 
 

Webster and Amhad grabbed me by my arms roughly and started to lead me out the door.   I struggled to resist.   The last thing I remember in my apartment was Amhad's fist headed toward my chin. 
 

-end of Chapter 22-