Slim Chance - A Las Vegas Adventure (c)

By Burt Peretsky

 

Chapters 23-27, the final chapters in the book!!!

 

 

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Chapter 23

What of the Red Sox?

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It was dark.  I was doubled over, lying on my side, inside something.   No, not just something.   As I regained consciousness, I realized where I was.   I was in the trunk of a car, probably inside the trunk of Miss Nomer.   My hands were still tied behind me; I was still gagged.   My head was killing me, and my jaw felt like it was broken.   I didn’t know how long I had been unconscious.   The car I was in was traveling fast, maybe about 65, maybe faster, maybe slower.   Who knew? 

 

Though I could feel every bump, the road felt smooth enough; it must have been a freeway.   I guessed Rte.  95, headed up through the desert toward Mt.  Charleston and the Test Site.   I had read about gangsters being taken for a ride into the desert, and they always seem to end up in the part of the desert that leads north out of the city up toward the God-forsaken areas headed toward Mt.  Charleston.   There, a hundred dirt-road turnoffs lead into a hundred mountain gullies, endless passes, and deserted ridges. 

 

I was certain that within a few minutes I’d be dead.   I wondered what death would feel like.   Would it be nothingness, like I’ve always suspected?   Or was I wrong?   Would I go to Heaven to be rewarded, or heaven help me, to Hell, to pay for my deeds on Earth?   What of my mother? 

 

What cruelty it would be to her, a violation of the natural order, a child dying before the parent.   What of her? 

 

And yes, you’ll be surprised at me, I thought of the Red Sox.   Would I ever see them play again on TV?   Can you imagine?   There I was, about to be murdered, about to be dead, and I was thinking of the Red Sox!   Go figure! 

 

I was determined that, unlike the Red Sox, I wouldn’t go down without a fight.   I resolved that since I couldn’t fight them with my fists and I couldn’t even spit at them, that when they opened the trunk to shoot me, I would kick whomever I could kick.   I’d have the element of surprise, at least, and at least I could go down like a man. 

 

As the car moved along, I tried to turn my body, so that when the trunk opened, I’d have the right angle to kick at someone. 

 

The heat, my injuries, and the cramped quarters nearly caused me to pass out several times over the next half-hour, but the thought of fighting back, even if was only to throw one or two futile kicks their way, kept me awake, if not alert. 

 

Finally, the car stopped, bringing it and me to a stillness in which I could hear my heart beating.   I listened intently for any sound that would prepare me for the moment I had prepared for.   I heard what sounded like another car’s door open and then close.   Then, one of Miss Nomer's doors opened.  I felt the car move slightly, but I didn't hear the door close again. 

 

They were coming for me now. 

 

A key was placed into the lock of the trunk.   I prepared myself to swing around and kick.   And I braced myself for the pain I knew I'd feel from the bullet that would take my life away. 

 

The trunk opened a few Inches, when suddenly a bright light shined into my eyes.   Simultaneously, a loud noise and a dust storm raged, seemingly from nowhere.   Then, a loud voice came from above.   I couldn't make out what the voice was saying. 

 

In my confusion, I thought I had died.   The light was heaven, the voice, God's. 

 

He spoke again.   “Stop right there!”

 

No, that wasn't God's voice.   It was a voice on a loudspeaker, coming from what sounded now like a helicopter right above me.    “This is the FBI!   Raise your hands above your head, and drop your weapons!”

 

The FBI!   Hallelujah!   I was saved! 

 

The trunk was open only a few inches.   I pushed my body around, so that I could get a look outside, but as I did, a shot rang out, then another, and another.   I ducked, or rather fell, back inside.   A bullet hit the lid of the trunk, inches – through the metal – above my head.   Then, another shot sounded, and something, or more likely somebody, fell on top of the trunk, slamming it shut again.   I was more frightened than before.   Just as I was going to be saved, I was going to be shot.   And I was in total darkness, again. 

 

I listened some more from the relative safety of what almost had – and still might – become my coffin. 

 

“Hold it, right there!”  That was a woman's voice.   “Drop it!    Drop it, I said.   This is the FBI.   You're under arrest!”

 

That sounded like Sandra.   It HAD to be Sandra! 

 

 

After a few more moments, the shooting and the shouting had stopped.   I could hear a male voice telling someone in almost businesslike fashion, “You have the right to remain silent ...”  Another was saying, “Spread 'em.   Up against the car …”

 

Then, I heard Sandra's voice, unmistakably Sandra this time.  “Slim, Slim, are you in there?   Are you in the trunk?”

 

I tried to yell to her, but I was still gagged, and all I could manage was a muffled grunt.   I kicked the side of the car, hoping she would hear me.   Either she did, or maybe she didn't, but it didn't matter, because a moment later, she turned the key and opened the trunk.   In the glare of lights from either the copter or from the headlights of one of the cars, I could see her face, the prettiest thing I had ever seen. 

 

"We followed you, Slim" were her first words to me, as she helped me out of the trunk. 

 

On my feet, I was more than a bit unsteady, and Sandra literally held me up with one hand, untying me with the other. 

 

"Boy, am I glad to see YOU," I said, "but how did you know where I was?  And where are we anyway?"

 

It occurred to me that we were standing in the dirt in some piece of desert somewhere.   A copter was sitting some 20 yards from us, its rotor still turning slowly.   Sure enough, it had been Miss Nomer in which I had been imprisoned.   Another car, a Mercedes, its doors stil I open, its lights on, its motor running, stood a few yards behind us.   I assumed that it was the car that Zarofsky and Amhad had been using.   As I looked around, I caught a glimpse of a blue flashing light in the distance, then two, then a couple more.   Metro or FBI, or, who knows by now, maybe the Coast Guard, was on its way to assist Sandra and her Feds.   The Feds, in the person of three other FBI agents, had Zarofsky and Amhad handcuffed and sitting in the dirt, leaning against the Mercedes.   Two of the agents stood over them, guns drawn and pointed toward their prisoners. 

 

"We're in the desert, Slim, about an hour north of the city," Sandra said.   "Are you okay?"

 

"I've got a hellavu headache," I said.   And for the first time since being hit, I reached for my jaw, finding it tender to the touch.  “And – ow!  – my mouth is killi ng me.   “Sandra leaned in toward me, looking at my jaw.   “It doesn't look bad, Slim, and I think I know a sure cure for sore mouths.”  She smiled.   And so did I. 

 

For the first time in the darkness, I noticed a body lying on its side near my feet.   I leaned over and saw it was Webster. 

 

"Is he?” I asked Sandra. 

 

"Dead?   Yep.   I think I was the one who got him.   He was the closest to where you were, Slim.   My concern was protecting you.”

 

That explained what had thumped down on the trunk, slamming it shut during the gunfight.    It was Webster, my “protector” to the end! 

 

After a little while, after I had recovered my balance and felt a bit stronger, Sandra walked me over to the helicopter.   She explained that, since I had to leave Miss Nomer where it was while the "lab boys" gathered evidence, I would go back to town in the copter with Sandra.   Zarofsky and Amhad would get a ride back with a police and FBI escort, while Webster’s ride was to be in a Clark County Coroner’s wagon. 

 

I had never been in a helicopter before.   Normally, I would have been apprehensive about riding in one, but on this particular night, nothing as tame as a helicopter could scare me. 

 

Once aloft and seated in the rear of the craft with Sandra, I asked, or rather yelled, to be heard above the rotor: “Do you know what they were up to?"

 

Sandra filled me in on what had been happening while I was playing tag with Webster and his pals.   On the helicopter ride back to town, she told me that, from the time that my office and apartment had been burglarized, the FBI had placed bugs in both places.   Everything that was said in either place, or on either phone for that matter, was being listened to by the Bureau, she said. 

 

“But where did you hide the bug at my apartment?" I asked, reminding Sandra that Webster and Amhad had torn the place apart looking for microphones. 

 

"That was the easiest bug we ever placed," she told me. 

 

"I had the Bureau put it in my wall.   We drilled a small hole through my side of the wall, almost but not quite penetrating through to your side.   These bugs are sensitive enough nowadays to pick up a whisper in your bedroom, you know."

 

"We’ll have to try it out some night,” I joked.   "That’s a good idea."  She smiled. 

 

And so did I.   And as I smiled, Sandra leaned over to me, ostensibly to be heard over the sound of the rotor.   I forget what she said next, because as she talked, she blew warm air into my ear.    Between her warm breath and the smell of her perfume and the thought that some night soon she and I might be whispering to one another in my bed – just to test the sensitivity of FBI listening devices, of course – I was getting horny! 

 

"We’re still fuzzy on some of the details” she said.    But, you helped us break one of the most important cases in FBI history.   We put most of it together only when we heard Zarofsky talking to you at your apartment."

 

"Was that Amhad, the famous terrorist?"  I asked. 

 

“The one and only!" Sandra yelled back in my ear. 

 

Sandra obviously didn’t go to Reno, as she had told me the day before.   "I stayed close to our surveillance people at the FBI office, day and night.   We had no idea that Webster was the inside man the Russians were using at the Vegas Castle.   Otherwise, we would have broken up the party at your place even before it got started," she said.   "Once Webster let the others into your apartment, we were at a disadvantage.   We couldn’t rush in for fear that you’d be killed.   They had no way of knowing it, but taking you for a ride into the desert was playing right into our hands.   This way, we could get them out in the open and be sure that no innocent bystanders would be hurt."

 

"What was all that bullshit about Louis Hassan being Amhad’s "cousin?" I asked.   “Was that like saying that they were both Arabs?   Or were they really cousins?”

 

Sandra nodded and smiled broadly.   "That’s what broke the case for us, Slim.   You see, Amhad and Hassan were cousins, actual cousins."

 

"Explain," I demanded. 

 

"The public knows Amhad strictly by his first name, the same name that the Arab world refers to him as – Amhad.   Guess what his last name is."

 

"Just a wild guess … is it Hassan, too?"

 

Still smiling, Sandra answered, "You're right!   In the Arab world Hassan is one of the most common names.   Imam Husain was the grandson of the prophet Muhammad, and a variety of Hassan's, Hussein's, and the like, are like Smith and Johnson are in this country."

 

"So," I asked, "did Amhad call Hassan 'cousin" simply because their last names were the same?"

 

"No.  In truth, they were cousins."

 

"But," I persisted, "Amhad killed his cousin?"

 

"You got it!  Amhad had his secret information, and he had no more use for cousin Louis after that.   And more important to Amhad than almost anything else was his own secret identity.   Hassan was one of the few people who could identify Amhad.   In Amhad's terms, then, Hassan was a dead man from that time on, cousin or not!”

 

The helicopter was landing in a field.   By the lights nearby, I could see we were adjacent to Sahara.   I could also see a half dozen cars pulled up on the curb.   One of them turned out to be Sandra's. 

 

"Do you want me to drive you home, or would you like to have a doctor look at that jaw of yours," Sandra asked. 

 

I looked at my watch.  It was 4:30AM.  "No, I'd prefer to go home, please."

 

As we drove, still more questions came to mind.   I asked Sandra why the FBI hadn't arrested Zarofsky and Amhad on the day before, when she learned from me about Hassan's murder. 

 

"We couldn't arrest them for the Hassan murder, Slim, especially considering Zarofsky wasn't even in town when it happened.   And we were pretty sure that Zarofsky and Amhad had still one more accomplice in town.   Bear in mind also that our Russian friend wasn't in town the day that Lefty was killed, either. 

 

"I'm sure," she continued, "that a little more digging by our boys will sew this case up nicely.   It was probably Webster that killed Lefty and Amhad that killed Hassan.    Webster was probably the one who framed your casino manager to take the fall for Lefty Needham's murder.”

 

"That fits," I contributed.   "Chief Casey told me that Webster was the one who did the spade work on Vic Milton's background check.   And that led to Metro's arrest of him."

 

I could see Sandra taking mental notes of our conversation.   She'd probably unload what I told her on her boss, later on. 

 

It was 5AM before Sandra and I returned to our apartment house. 

 

"Slim, I’ll say goodnight at the door, if you don’t mind.  You’ll be alright, now."

 

"But, Sandra," I teased, "suppose there’s others that the FBI doesn’t know about.   Who’ll protect me?"

 

“I’ll be right next door, Slim.   But I gotta tell you, I’ll be fast asleep!”  She smiled once again, ever so sweetly. 

 

I simply smiled. 

 

 

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Chapter 24

Sister Sandra Explains it All!

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In the morning, or should I say later in the morning, Sandra woke me with a phone call.   She offered to drive me to the hotel, and I offered to buy her lunch later in the day at the Little King.   She agreed. 

 

When she came to my door to pick me up, I gave her a kiss.   Okay, it was a kiss on the cheek, but it was a start! 

 

We didn’t talk much about the case during our drive to the Vegas Castle, but by lunch, I had a million questions about what had nearly cost me my life.   One of them was how Zarofsky and Amhad happened to get together. 

 

"I thought the Russians were our friends now,” I reasoned to Sandra.   We were finally able to eat at the hotel’s Little King coffee shop without violating any FBI-State Department agreement.

 

As I chomped on my open steak sandwich, Sandra alternately talked and nibbled on her chef’s salad.   Zarofsky, she said, was indeed a KGB officer, but he wasn’t too thrilled with the way the Soviet Union was buddying up to the capitalists.   “He apparently saw an opportunity for some free-lancing with Amhad, and from what we know from others, let us say, strategically placed in the Soviet apparatus, Zarofsky reasoned that by helping Amhad and his terrorists obtain a nuclear bomb that the international incident that would follow would force the Soviets to take a firm position against the US, backing what they would call the ‘freedom fighters’ of Amhad’s merry band.”

 

"Wow!” was all I could muster. 

 

Sandra continued.   Mercifully, she ignored my “wow!”   “As you heard Zarofsky tell you in your apartment, Hassan was working with osmium alloys.   That’s a metal light enough and strong enough to be used as a casing for a primitive nuclear device, one that involves an implosion to trigger it."

 

"I see."  I didn't see.   Sandra was beginning to lose me.   Maybe it was my lack of sleep. 

 

“With the use of this particular metal,” she continued, “the dynamite blast that would be used as the nuclear trigger would be distributed more evenly than with conventional metals or other alloys.   A more evenly distributed implosion would detonate the nuclear components of a bomb in a way that could result in a smaller, powerful bomb, ideal for terrorist operations,” she explained.

 

Yada, yada, yada…  I watched her mouth move; I heard what she was saying; nothing was coming through my infatuated state.   Wow!   She was SO bright!   She was SO beautiful!

 

"Zarofsky also wanted the osmium technology for the Soviets, because with it, his country's armed forces could develop smaller weapons, and smaller bombs can be delivered further with the same rocket thrust or in greater numbers on a single missile warhead.”

 

This was getting way too technical for me, so I changed the subject.  “ How did Lefty Needham get tied into all this?”

 

“Each time Zarofsky came to town,” Sandra answered, “he stayed at the Vegas Castle, so we asked Lefty to help us keep an eye on him.   Remember, we had promised the State Department that we wouldn’t harass the Soviets while they were on this so-called trade mission of theirs to study the Las Vegas casino industry.   At the time, we had no idea that Zarofsky was meeting secretly with Hassan.

 

"In return for Lefty’s help, we assisted him in paying some of the Castle’s bills.   Lefty apparently discovered more than either he or the Bureau bargained for.   On the morning of the day he died, Lefty called our office and said he had some pictures from one of the secret cameras he had installed in the Towers elevators.   The pictures were of Zarofsky and two other men – by that time, Amhad had come to town.   Lefty said he had converted a couple of the videotape frames into Polaroids, and that they clearly showed the faces of the other two men.   One of them could be seen giving Zarofsky a folder of papers.   That man, we know now, was Hassan.   The other man in the picture was Amhad.   Those pictures in the briefcase that Lefty gave you on the day of his death are all the evidence we needed to send Amhad and Zarofsky away for a long time."

 

Sandra paused for a moment to stab at a piece of ham in the salad she was eating. 

 

"We can also assume that Hassan was meeting periodically with Zarofsky and later Amhad at the Vegas Castle, giving them the metallurgical results of each nuclear test that used osmium in the bomb casing.   The only thing that puzzles us now," she added, "was why in the world they chose the Vegas Castle to meet in."

 

“ I think I can answer that one," I suggested.  “When I saw Hassan, he had a bowling ball with him.  He probably picked the Castle, because we have bowling alleys, and any local coming frequently to this particular Strip hotel wouldn't appear to be out of place."

 

We agreed that the bowling angle must have been Hassan's reasoning. 

 

“What about Webster?" I asked.   "Where did he fit into all this?"

 

“We didn't have any information about Webster before he found you, Slim.   He was probably the one who discovered Lefty's secret camera in the hotel Towers elevator.   You said that he was the Castle's expert on surveillance, and so he must have known that this particular camera was one of Lefty's.   You're right about Lefty being so paranoid about security.   He had secret cameras all over the place. 

 

"Webster and his friends must have figured out that their security had been compromised, and that Hassan's and Amhad's identities could be revealed through the pictures that Lefty had in his possession.   Webster probably bugged Lefty's phone and learned that he did have pictures and was going to hand them over to us.   Lefty then had to be killed.”

 

"And the burglary in Lefty's office?” I asked. 

 

"The burglary in Lefty's office was after the wall safe had been discovered by your housekeeping person.   The story about it was in the papers.   You recall the FBI's interest in the safe's contents, don't you?   We wanted those pictures, and we too thought they were in Lefty's safe.”

 

After another bite of salad, she continued: "We couldn't do what Webster must have done.   We theorize he broke into the safe to look for the pictures and videotape.   He also took the opportunity, we think, to remove the telephone bug he had planted on Lefty's phone."

 

"And you can also assume,” I noted, “that after my story on Lefty appeared in the paper," – I was picking up on her thoughts – "that one of them noted that Lefty, on the day of his death, had given me what he had called 'building plans.'  They reasoned correctly that what he had really given me for safekeeping were the pictures."

 

"Right," Sandra said.   "Lefty went off to see his girlfriend Carla at the restaurant.   He would have returned to the hotel and, we assume, picked up the briefcase from you and then would have headed to his meeting with one of our agents.   We figure it was Webster who read the story and put two and two together.   He figured – and we didn't even figure this – that you had the briefcase.   Webster broke into your office first and after finding nothing there, your apartment.   And, once he failed to find anything in either place, he probably figured you had turned in the pictures and would be testifying against them.    

 

Their attempt on your life, the first one, that is, was, we believe, carried out by Webster.    It was an attempt to eliminate a potential witness, just like they had done with Lefty.”

 

It all was coming together for me, "except," I asked, “how did Webster arrange to guard me last night?"

 

Sandra smiled.   "That was pure luck on his part, and as it turned out, for the Bureau, as well.   Your hotel security chief Casey was worried about you, and he asked his best man, Webster, to work overtime on the detail and to accompany you for the night.   And don’t you think good old Roger didn’t jump at the chance?   No pun intended, of course."

 

"Very funny, Sandra!   And you were listening in on everything that was said in my apartment?"

 

"Yep!”

 

"And Lefty was a hero?   He was helping the FBI on an espionage case?"

 

"Yep, again!   In fact, Lefty had been working for the FBI for nearly 15 years.   Lefty was one of our best and most valued informants, especially about Mob activities.   He knew everyone and everything that was going on in the Las Vegas underworld.   He was invaluable to us, and on many occasions, he was taking great risks to help us.   He’d do whatever he could for the Bureau, and that was a lot, for a great many years.   And in return, the Bureau would help Lefty from time to time.   For instance, we came up with a lot of money over the years, just so Lefty wouldn’t lose the Vegas Castle.   He was one of the worst money managers, you know."

 

I digested that for a moment or two in silence.   Lefty wasn’t a Mobster, after all.   On that score, I was right.   But, his story was a whole lot better now.   Lefty was a patriot, as it turns out, in fact a super patriot. 

 

It was then that I had an idea.   I asked Sandra, "Given that Lefty was working for the FBI, and given that he was killed working for the FBI, isn’t there anything the FBI can do to help the Castle?   Can’t you still help pay some of the bills?   After all, Sandra, you helped with them before his death.   Now, the hotel really needs the FBI.   Without it, the Vegas Castle is going to close, and 1200 people, including your next-door neighbor, are going to be without a job.   Most of them don’t have jobs to go to, and most of them have families, wives, husbands, and kids."

 

"I know, Slim.   I know.   But I’m sorry."  She shrugged.    "There’s nothing the FBI can do now.  We justified helping Lefty with the bills, because he had been working for us for years.   Before this case, years and years ago, he helped us repeatedly in our investigations of organized crime.   He kept tabs for us on many of the hoods that came here, to Vegas.   He acted the Mobster, so that he’d never be discovered. 

 

"Lefty Needham was a patriotic, honest, and may I add, brave American.   The Bureau and the country lost a good friend when Lefty died."

 

Another idea struck me.  "Sandra," I said, "would you, at least, allow me to tell the press just that much about Lefty?   Just the part about him helping the FBI all those years, how he helped you guys investigate the Mob, and how he helped you break this case and capture a nest of spies and terrorists?"

 

Sandra thought for a moment, then answered: "I guess so, Slim.   With Lefty dead and Amhad and Zarofsky in custody, I guess there’s no harm in talking about Lefty’s role.   You understand, you can’t get too specific.   But sure, you can tell the press basically what an important role Lefty played in FBI investigations of both organized crime and this espionage case.    But, please, no mention of the details of this case can be given to the press.   In fact, I may have told you more than I should have already."

 

"I understand, Sandra.  No details or specifics of this one, but I can talk about Lefty having worked with the Bureau for the past ...  how many years?"

 

"Since 1975, when he first came to town.   And, as far as I know, maybe since before then."

 

"Sandra," I asked, "would you be available to corroborate what I say, should the press have questions about Lefty?"

 

"Okay, Slim, I can do that.   But why is this so important to you?"

 

I sighed long and hard.   "I loved Lefty, Sandra, and I just hate to see people thinking that he wasted his life in crime, that he was a cheap hood.   He worked for the FBI.   Shit, he worked for our country for fifteen years at least.   He deserves recognition and praise for that.   I don’t have much time left as the PR guy for the Vegas Castle, and while that time is still mine, I’m going to set the record straight on the Castle’s last owner."

 

 

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Chapter 25

I Do Right by Lefty!

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"VEGAS CASTLE OWNER LED SECRET LIFE WORKING FOR FBI" said the eight-column front-page headline above the flagge of the Sunday Los Angeles Times.  Lucy O'Rourke, the lady who runs the Castle newsstand, held the paper over her head as I passed by.  "Nice going, Mr. Chance.  You sure told 'em," she yelled to me. 

 

After Thursday's lunch with Sandra, when I learned the whole truth about Lefty, I headed straight to my office.  I had work to do, and the work had nothing to do with trying to save the hotel.  That battle was lost.  The official word would come on Monday.  Notices were already being secretly printed in Personnel to be distributed on Monday to all employees, giving them the bad news.

 

No, my work was to try and save a reputation.  Lefty Needham's life was not the life of the Mobster that everyone thought he was.  Lefty was a genuine American hero.  He lived and he died in the service of his country as certainly as any war hero ever did.  I was one of the few people who knew that.  And I was the only person with the power to set the record straight on Lefty, once and for all.

 

As if fate had planned it, when I returned to my desk after being with Sandra, the message slip with the name and number of the reporter from the Times – the reporter who had been bugging me for the "definitive last piece on the Castle" – was sitting there on my desk, smack in the middle of the mess.

 

"Bob Hutchings, please.  This is Slim Chance, the PR Director at the Vegas Castle Hotel in Vegas, returning his call ...”

 

"Hello, Bob, this is Slim Chance of the Vegas Castle.  I think I have a ‘definitive final story’ for you on this hotel.  And I think you might want to use it for a Sunday feature ... "

 

After I was through with the Times, I called locally to the Review-Journal and the Sun.  With each of them, I asked for one of the reporters who I had done favors for in the past, and I suggested to each that what I had to tell them might best be held until it could be given good space, say on Sunday.

 

Both reporters agreed.

 

That was Thursday.  This was now Sunday.  What a PR guy I turned out to be! 

 

As I walked through the hotel lobby, the casino, and past The Moat, as I sat in the coffee shop or passed by the stores of our mini shopping arcade, Castle employees called out their congratulations to me.   Nearly getting myself killed had brought me quite a bit of notoriety in the press on Thursday, Friday, and even on Saturday among locals and especially with Vegas Castle employees.  But what was winning me congratulations four days later, on Sunday, was my landing of the big Times story on Lefty and the two big stories on the front pages of the R-J and the Sun.

 

"Good for you, Mr. Chance," Sidney, the head bellman, had said as he greeted me on my arrival.  "You sure cleared the air about Mr. Needham.  None of us on the bell staff ever thought he was Mob, you know.  None of us!”

 

I had come into the hotel that Sunday to update my resume on my office typewriter and to use the mimeo machine to run off a few copies.  But, my office was impossible.  I couldn’t get any work done on my resume, or on anything else.  The phone didn’t stop ringing with well-wishers calling to say they had seen the piece in the paper and that they were proud to have known Lefty.

 

Some claimed, like Sidney did, that they never thought Lefty was Mob.  Others, the more honest among them, said they were thrilled, but absolutely flabbergasted to learn the truth.  Several callers were people I didn’t even know.

 

Some said they were friends of Lefty’s.  Others said they didn’t know him but were moved by the story of his courage and his patriotism, and that they wanted someone associated with the hotel to know their feelings.

 

By midday. I had heard that the Clark County Commission was planning a Monday vote to award a special posthumous citation to Lefty, and not to be outdone, the mayor of Las Vegas was declaring Monday "Lefty Needham Day.”  Funny thing, the mayor didn’t have any real jurisdiction in the matter, as technically most of the hotels on the Strip, including the Castle, are outside the actual Las Vegas city limits.

 

Though all of this pleased me enormously, and though I had “done good” by the boss, as he might have said, the fate that was to befall the Castle, his Castle, was leaving a bittersweet taste.  Lefty would rest in peace.  The rest of us, thrown into uncertainty and unemployment, would have no peace.

 

Word was spreading among the employees of the Castle that the end would indeed be announced on Monday.  Casinos ought to be studied in communications schools as examples of how quickly stories can be passed around by word-of-mouth.

 

Of all the employees who would soon be out of work, I worried most about Tommy.  His mental condition was fragile, to say the least.  Over the past four weeks, he had been having the toughest time of anyone I knew at the Castle.  And, when Pat Andrea turned down his request to play the Castle as a benefit, it nearly destroyed Tommy.

 

It occurred to me that I hadn't seen him since Tuesday, the day that he got the word from Andrea's assistant.  Not seeing Tommy around the hotel for any length of time was unusual.  Though he didn't work days, hardly one passed without Tommy dropping in for a drink at The Moat and a chat with any of dozens of his "dear friends."

 

Since I wasn’t getting any work done anyway, I thought I’d buzz him and see if he was okay.  I asked the hotel operator to ring his home.

 

"I don’t think you’ll find him there, Mr. Chance," she said.  “We’ve been trying Mr. Lake at home for days now.   Mrs. Needham has been looking for him too.”

 

I let Tommy’s home phone ring about ten times.  The operator was right.  Though I knew it was useless, I had him paged him in the casino.  He didn’t answer the page, either.

 

I considered for a moment the possibility that Tommy could have committed suicide.  But as quickly, I dismissed the notion.  Tommy was too much the coward.

 

If anyone would know where Tommy was, it was Sidney.   Our head bellman and Tommy had been friends for 20 years.  I’d ask Sidney.

 

"I don’t know where he went, Mr. Chance," Sidney said, shouting into the phone at the front door to be heard over the din of cars on the Strip.  Still, I could still barely hear him.  "He left after the late show Tuesday night."

 

"Did he say anything to you?   Anything to anybody?”

 

“Yeah.  He said something to me that’s still bothering me," Mr. Chance.  He said, ‘See you whenever!’  And he had a suitcase with him too.  Where would he be going with a suitcase, Mr. Chance?   Got any idea?"

 

"No," I answered.  I truly didn’t. 

 

 

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

Chapter 26

“My Dear Friend, Tommy!”

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

 

The most difficult Monday of my life had arrived.   I was ready for the last staff meeting in Vegas Castle Hotel & Casino history, the last roundup!

 

I had taken my usual morning drive.  Out of curiosity, I had retraced the ride into the desert that Webster and his friends had taken me on.  It was good to see where I was going this time around.

 

I had smoked a half pack of Merits.  I had consumed four cups of coffee – one at home, one on the road with a couple of doughnuts from Winchell's, and two giant cups from the employee cafeteria.

 

Mondays were tough enough, but to begin the week on the sourest note imaginable, to have to get the official word of the closing of the Castle, and, in turn, to have to be the one to tell it to the world, my Monday was sure to be unbearable.

 

I was the first person in the conference room. I arrived about 12:30.  The meeting wasn't scheduled till 1PM.  After a few minutes, Vic Milton came into the room.

 

"Stick man! It's great to see you!" I called out.  I hadn't seen Vic since his arrest.  He had officially been on unpaid leave from the Castle for more than two weeks.  Although he didn't know it, George Purdy would inform him on this day that the Castle, in one of its last acts of generosity before he would be closing the hotel, that the Vegas Castle would reimburse Vic for those two weeks without pay.

 

"Hi, Slim.  It’s sure good to see you.  I think I owe you one.  Thanks to you, the D.A. dropped all charges against me on Thursday."

 

We shook hands warmly.  "I didn’t do anything," I said.  “Things were done to me.”

 

He smiled, showing a set of teeth that could have used a good dentist.  “I can buy that, Slim.  Things were done to me, too!”

 

We both laughed, and as we did, a few of the other department heads entered the room!  Each one welcomed Vic back to work, but where were they when he was arrested, I asked myself.

 

And then, as if the music of musical chairs had suddenly stopped, George Purdy entered the room, and everyone scurried to his or her seat.  Purdy had old friend Francis Weatherbee of the State Bank of Illinois with him.  While this was only the second time any of the department heads had seen Weatherbee, it was apparent that the Angel of Death had been recognized after only one sighting.  Purdy and Weatherbee went to the table’s head; I settled into my usual seat, on the curve of the long table, at Purdy’s left.  Weatherbee sat to his right.

 

After a moment of absolute silence and some perfunctory paper shuffling on Purdy’s part, he began:  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your promptness in coming today.”  Purdy looked terrible.  His face reflected the pain and agony that he and the hotel had been through in the past thirty days.  He wore his usual three-piece gray suit, but the solid navy tie bore its Windsor knot half-hidden by the collar of his white shirt.  Although the room was air-conditioned and rather cool, a drop of sweat sat on the top of Purdy’s left cheek, and the bottom of his glasses were slightly steamed.

 

“It’s certainly no secret to any of you what we have to announce today, but before we get into the announcement itself, please let me say a few things about the last month that we have all experienced.”

 

Over the next few minutes, Purdy looked and sounded like a new man, a born-again, bean-counter-no-more leader.  Here was a man who had been snatched from the world of mediocrity by the hand of fate and thrust into a role that few men could handle under the best of circumstances.  Purdy had taken the Castle through the worst of circumstances, the worst month of its history.  Although he had produced no miracles that would save the hotel, he had brought it through intact, its financial hemorrhaging finally stopped.

 

“And so,” he continued, “even though we now have the needless spending under control, the amount we pay in interest on mortgages and past loans – our debt service – is too costly for this property to make money as it's presently constituted.  Yesterday, August 1st, we fell 90 days in arrears on our mortgage payments.  We are now technically in default, and Mr. Weatherbee here,” he gestured to Weatherbee, “has served us this morning with the official notice.  We must close the hotel immediately.  This afternoon, Arlene and I’ll,” he gestured to Arlene Needham, “will sign the documents that will place the ownership of the Vegas Castle into the hands of its principal mortgagor, the State Bank of Illinois.  And Mr. Weatherbee has ordered that at midnight tonight, the Vegas Castle Hotel & Casino will close its doors until a buyer for it can be found.”

 

Weatherbee interrupted.  “I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” he said.

 

For a moment or two, the room was absolutely silent.  Herb Schwartz broke the silence.  "George, I think I speak for everyone here, when I say to you that the department heads of the Castle want to commend you for the terrific job you've done since Lefty died.  My people have drawn up plans to notify every guest.  During what remains of the day, we hope to have placed each of the 108 guests that are currently in Castle guestrooms.  Circus Circus will take most of them, and the Riviera can accommodate the others.”

 

Purdy thanked Schwartz for his encouragement.  He then asked each department head to report on what steps would be taken to bring hotel operations to a smooth halt in fewer than 10 hours.

 

 

As Housekeeping head Anna Leo talked about the final cleaning effort her staff would undertake, the conference room phone rang.  I was closest to it, so I answered.

 

“Slim? Is that you?”  It was Tommy Lake’s voice. "Yeah, Tommy,” I whispered, trying not to disturb the meeting.  “Where you been?  Where are you now?”

 

“I'm in the corridor outside the conference room, Slim.  I gotta get in there.  I got somebody who wants to talk to everyone.”

 

“Tommy,” I said, “this is not the time.  George has just given us the word.  We’re closing the place tonight.  We’re trying to work out the details now.  Can it wait?”

 

“No, Slim.  I said I got somebody here who wants to address the department heads.  Believe me, it can’t wait, Slim.”

 

Tommy sounded excited.  And I wasn’t getting anywhere arguing with him.  “Okay.  Come in, but stand at the back of the room.  In between reports, I’ll ask George if you and your guest can speak.”

 

What harm could there be now, I figured.

 

I returned to my seat, and in a moment, the door to the room opened.  There was Tommy, and there was – of all people – Pat Andrea!

 

Pat Andrea, himself!   Sonovabitch!

 

Everybody just simply stared.  Anna Leo, who had been standing and talking about how the sheets and towels would be inventoried, stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth agape as she stood motionless, eyes fixed, as all of ours were, on Andrea!

 

"Hi, everyone!”  Tommy said with a smile.

 

"Mr. Andrea!  Hello!"  George Purdy stumbled to his feet.  Turning to the rest of us, Purdy stuttered, "Ummm, everybody, th-th-this is P-pat Andrea, everybody."

 

I at least had the decency to pull over one of the chairs from behind my side of the table.  "Have a seat, Pat, please," I offered.

 

"I hope I haven't interrupted anything important," Andrea said.

 

"No, no," we all insisted, mumbling in unison.   Oh yes, nothing important!  Just doomsday!

 

Andrea continued, “It’s just that my friend Tommy here said you were having a meeting to announce the hotel's future.  And you see, I want to be part of that future."

 

He let that sink in for a moment or two.  And as it did, I realized that, sonovabitch, he had referred to Tommy as "his friend."  Was I hallucinating?

 

After a pause, he went on.  “My dear friend Tommy Lake came to my house a few days ago in Los Angeles to invite me to come back to the Vegas Castle, ladies and gentlemen, to come back to the Castle to play its showroom.  Now, I haven’t been here in nearly 15 years, you know.  And Tommy, who you folks ought to know is one of this country’s finest comedians ...”

 

Yep!  I WAS hallucinating!

 

Andrea continued, “Tommy asked me to play the Castle for free.  For free, mind you, as a benefit, to help save the place.  You know, like Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney.  ‘Hey, let’s put on a show in the old barn to raise the money for Mom’s surgery.’  He asked me to playa benefit for the hotel that I have refused to play in for fifteen years!  Can you imagine that?"

 

At that point, I could have imagined anything!

 

"I said no, ladies and gentlemen.  I didn’t want anything to do with the Vegas Castle."  Andrea’s face became serious.  Then, he smiled that famous smile of his, the smile that women across America had fallen in love with.  "But this guy Tommy, you gotta love him.  Tommy stuck to me like glue.  I couldn’t go anywhere this weekend without him following me and pestering me to play the Castle."  He turned to Tommy, by now standing next to and slightly behind him, and threw a phony punch Tommy’s way.

 

"And then yesterday," Andrea continued, "when I saw that piece in the Times, you know that piece on Lefty Needham.  Well, that changed my mind.

 

"I found Tommy after I read that story, and finding Tommy yesterday, I gotta tell you, wasn’t hard at all," he grinned.  "For Christ’s sake, he was camping, literally camping in a tent, in front of my house all weekend.  And I asked him if I could come to the Castle with him and talk to its people.  So, here we are. We just flew in."

 

Purdy, by now recovered enough to speak, broke in.

 

"You, of all people, don’t need an invitation to speak with us," Mr. Andrea.

 

"Well, thank you, sir.  You’re obviously the man in charge here, aren’t you?"

 

"Yes," Purdy said, "I’m George Purdy, the hotel’s controller.  This here’s Mr. Francis Weatherbee of the State Bank of Illinois.  They hold the mortgage on the hotel.  And this is Mrs. Needham, Mrs. Arlene Needham.  She and her husband, as you know, were the owners, and now technically, she is the sole owner."

 

"Then you’re just the people I’m looking for," Andrea said.  I not only have said yes to Tommy’s wonderful invitation, but I also want to buy the Vegas Castle!"

 

"You what?"  Purdy, Weatherbee, and I all blurted it out at the same time.

 

"Lock, stock, and barrel!" Andrea said.  "I want to buy the Vegas Castle," he repeated.  "It's for sale, isn't it?"

 

"But, sir," Weatherbee interjected.  "You don't know the price, you haven't inspected the property or the books, and you don't have any idea of the liabilities this place has.  Do you?"

 

"No," Andrea replied, "but whatever the deal is, I'm sure it can all be worked out.  I'll give you my business manager's number in LA.  You talk to him.  Whatever the price you folks agree on is fine with me."

 

I wasn't sure I was believing any of what was happening.  "Can I ask you, Pat…"  I always made it a point to address entertainers by their first, rather than their last names ... "Why after 15 years are you returning to the Castle, and why in Heaven's name are you now interested in buying it?"  Seeing Purdy suddenly looking my way with a "shut up, you idiot" look in his eyes, I quickly added, "Now, don't get me wrong.  We're delighted by your offer, all of us!"

 

"Why?" Andrea replied, bringing his hands to his hips and thrusting his chin up to the ceiling. "I'll tell you why in two words.  And you get your choice of which two words, at that:  'Lefty Needham' or 'I'm sorry.'”

 

“I'm afraid I don't understand,” I said.

 

The singer/star smiled broadly.  “When I was young, this hotel gave me my start,” he said. “It became my home away from home.  I made a lot of friends here over 20 years.  And no matter where I went in this wonderful country of ours, people always asked me about the Vegas Castle.

 

"And then, when Lefty Needham took over the Castle, my love affair with the hotel ended.  I've never told anybody this, but it ended, because I didn't want anything to do with the Mob.  Until yesterday's story in the Times, everybody thought Lefty was Mob.

 

"Being an Italian, I felt a special responsibility to my people to avoid any connections with organized crime.   And in all my life, throughout my entire career, I have kept my nose and my reputation clean.”

 

He paused, sighed, and then picked where he had left off:  "What kind of American would I be, if I repaid this great country of ours with activity like those Mobsters get involved in?  No, I never liked Lefty, because he was Mob, and they were doing things that brought disgrace to my entire way of life."

 

As he talked, he poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher in front of him.  After a sip, he continued.  "And now, I read in yesterday's paper that Lefty Needham, all these years, he was a better American than I was.  He was working for this country, and, may God have mercy on his soul, he died for this country.

 

"I'm embarrassed.  I let Lefty down, and I let down the Vegas Castle Hotel.  The least I can do now is to repay the debt I owe him and his hotel.  This place did so much for me, I can do nothing less for it, or for Lefty’s memory!

 

"Will you have me, ladies and gentlemen?  Can you let me correct a terrible wrong that I committed?  Will you allow me to say to the Vegas Castle and to Lefty, ‘I’m sorry’?" 

 

 

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

Chapter 27

“Liquid Laughing Gas, All Around!”

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

 

The showroom was packed with high rollers, Vegas VIPs, and show biz celebrities.  A veritable who’s who of the town’s most prominent people sat in the booths that formed two semi-circular tiers 30 and 40 feet from the stage.  In front, in the long banquettes angling out from the stage like spokes in a giant wheel, tuxedoed high rollers and their ladies sat trying to look important.  Except for the fact that Lefty wasn’t in the showroom, it was just like the old days.

 

Earlier in the night, a huge crowd had squealed with delight at each of the skyrocket bursts that blossomed over the twin towers of the Vegas Castle.  Reds, whites, and blues rained down on Lefty Needham’s, now Pat Andrea’s, hotel.

 

The fireworks over the Castle this Friday had taken on added import.  This was Pat Andrea’s opening night, his first at the Castle since 1975.

 

It was an important night for me, as well.  Earlier in the evening, I had held Sandra’s hand as we craned our necks looking at the sky show above us.  We stood among hundreds of people on the sidewalk in front of the porte cochere of the Castle.

 

A week before, nobody would have believed this night could have been possible.  I would have been especially skeptical.  For not only was I present for the rebirth of the Vegas Castle, but I was also here with Sandra Emerson, the most beautiful and desirable FBI agent in the world.  And wow!  It was a date, a real date, not one of those things where she says to me, “I'll meet you to talk about an espionage case.”  No indeed!

 

Every high roller in Vegas that night was at the Vegas Castle.  On the scale of important things in a city where nothing succeeds like excess, this opening night was the biggest of the year.  It was more than the return of Pat Andrea to the Vegas Castle; it was, in fact, the return of the Vegas Castle itself.  Again, this joint was jumping!  Again, the Castle was "the place to be!"

 

The last of the tables in the showroom had been filled, the doors closed.  Uncharacteristic for Las Vegas, a hush filled the showroom even before the lights went down.

 

"Ladies and gentlemen," an announcer's voice proclaimed, "the Vegas Castle Hotel & Casino is pleased to welcome you to the return of Pat Andrea, with comedian Tommy Lake and the Vegas Castle Orchestra.  Ladies and gentlemen, to open our show, the Castle's own ..... Tommy Lake!!!!”

 

Tommy never sounded funnier.  Even though I had heard the act a thousand times before, and they were the same jokes he delivered nightly at The Moat, I confess I laughed repeatedly.  Sandra, who hadn't been subjected to Tommy before, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself.  Pinky Dawson and her latest, at our table with Sandra and me, laughed through the entire act.  Pinky even got a kick out of the divorce jokes Tommy delivered.

 

And the crowd -- oh, how they loved Tommy -- they fell into hysterics at each one of his God-awful rim shots.

 

Who knows?  Maybe somebody had spiked the cocktails with liquid laughing gas.  Whatever, Tommy brought the house down.

 

After Tommy’s act, the lights again went low, and the Castle’s version of Johnny Pardo came back to the mike.  "Ladies and gentlemen, it gives the Vegas Castle great pleasure to welcome back to its showroom America’s favorite singer, Las Vegas’ number one entertainer, and the new owner of the Vegas Castle Hotel & Casino ... Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in giving a great Vegas Castle welcome to Mr. Pat .... Annnnnnnnndrea!"

 

A standing ovation greeted Andrea.  Even Tommy came to the side of the stage and stood there applauding.  I could see George Purdy, Chief Casey, Anna Leo, and Herb Schwartz at nearby tables with their respective spouses, and they were on their feet screaming, as well.  Among the non-screamers were Vic Milton and his date, some woman named Elaine Chase – I had fixed them up after explaining to Elaine that I was ready to move on.  They remained seated, gazing into each other’s eyes.  I couldn’t see for sure, but I believe they were holding each other’s hands, and those hands were resting in Vic’s lap.

 

Finally, Andrea quieted all the screaming, whistling, and applause.  His first number, the requisite upbeat opener, was his signature song, "Mr. Music."  On its completion, the crowd stood again, and again they cheered.

 

When he won control of the room this time, Andrea addressed the audience.

 

"Thank you.  Thank you, one and all," he began.  "It is a great pleasure, in fact an honor, to be back at my favorite hotel, in my favorite showroom, and with my favorite people."  Applause greeted that statement.  It was apparent that the crowd was squarely in Andrea’s hands.

 

From the back of the room, some guy yelled, "We love you, Pat.  Welcome back!"  Thunderous applause greeted that comment.

 

Pat started again: "As most of you know, I haven’t been here in 15 years.  And I think, because this was the place that helped make me who I am today, I think I owe you an explanation for my absence."

 

He paused and walked over to the piano that was behind him.  A pitcher of water and a glass were on top of the piano.  As he poured the water, he said, "What happened to me, the reason I stayed out of this hotel for so many years, is that I was suffering from prejudice."

 

He sipped some water. “Not the prejudice of mindlessly hating one race or one group of people.  No, were I guilty of that, I wouldn’t belong here today, in front of such wonderful people as you.  No. I was guilty of the original meaning of the word prejudice.  I had pre-judged someone.  I had pre-judged Lefty Needham.

 

"He was Mob, everyone said.  And so, I believed that he was Mob.  And because I believed him to be Mob, I didn’t want anything to do with Lefty Needham, or regretfully, this hotel."

 

The room was absolutely still.  Even the high rollers stopped thinking about themselves and were transfixed by Andrea’s every word.

 

"As an Italian, I carefully avoided everything that so badly and, in general unfairly, tainted my fellow Italian-Americans.  I studiously avoided any contact with anyone, Italian or not, associated in any way with organized crime.  And in so doing, I removed Lefty Needham from my life, and I removed myself from the Vegas Castle and this great city of my professional birth."

 

He sipped some more water.  The pause in his monologue was drenched in drama.  The audience was still.

 

"Two brave men showed me the light, or should I say three brave men, because Lefty certainly was a brave man.  Tommy Lake, my dear friend ... "  He said it again.  "wrote to me, asking for my help in saving this hotel, this institution, this historic building.  And then, this great comedian ... " I had to be hearing things.  "when I said no, wouldn’t take no for an answer.  He drove to my house trying to see me.  When I wouldn’t see him, and when my security people threatened him, Tommy stayed on, stayed in the neighborhood, using every chance, every opportunity he had to reach me.  Every time I drove anywhere, there was Tommy, approaching me, trying to get my attention, trying to present me with the facts that I so cavalierly failed to acknowledge.”

 

A smattering of applause began and ended abruptly. “No, go ahead, applaud.  Let’s hear it for Tommy Lake.   C’mon out here, Tommy!”

 

To a round of enthusiastic applause this time, Tommy reappeared on stage.  Andrea grabbed his hand and held it high over their heads.  The crowd was on its feet.  Tommy took a few bows and then had the good sense to exit stage right.  It was, he knew better than most, Pat Andrea’s show, after all.

 

“And finally, I owe a lot, and each of us associated with the Vegas Castle owes a lot to one other man, who I hope is here tonight.  “Holding his hand over his eyes to shield the spotlights, Andrea looked up into the audience. “Is Sl im Chance here?  Slim, Slim?  Please come on down to the stage.  Slim?”

 

A round of sustained applause broke out, as the spotlights turned onto the audience searching for -- oh my God, they were searching for me!

 

Finally, they found their mark, and I sheepishly rose to my feet.  The applause got louder.  I could hear people yelling to me, telling me to get onto the stage.  I looked down at my table, and Sandra was applauding too.  "Go on, Slim,” she said. “Get down on the stage.”

 

So I did.

 

Pat Andrea greeted me with a big hug.  The applause became deafening.  He held my hand up, as he had done with Tommy.  People rose to their feet, first a few in the front rows, and then everyone stood, cheering all the time.  After what seemed an eternity, Andrea quieted the crowd once more.

 

"For those of you who don’t know this man or what he did, let me tell you.  Slim Chance, here, broke up a ring of terrorists that was responsible for the murder of both Lefty Needham and one other man.  This was a ring that was operating out of this hotel.  They were ruthless, murderous animals, a Mob worse than even THE Mob! 

 

"And this man, Slim Chance, broke up that ring of murderers.  Single-handedly!  He saved some pretty important secrets for this great country; he saved countless lives from terrorism; he brought to light the truth about another great American, Lefty Needham; and his bravery in helping to protect all of us fellow Americans nearly cost him his own life."

 

More applause greeted that line.  I was beside myself with embarrassment.  As the crowd clapped, I turned to Andrea and shouted -- to be heard over the cheering -- "Okay, already.  Can't you let me go back to my seat?"

 

"Ladies and gentlemen," Andrea continued holding my hand even tighter now. "This man is the true hero of the hour, not me.  He not only saved our country from a murderous gang, but he also cleared the name of another great American.  Thanks to Slim Chance, Lefty Needham's name will be inscribed with the names of this country's honored war dead, with its Presidents, and with its most patriotic citizens.

 

"Come on out here again, Tommy.”  Lake obliged, and Andrea continued, one hand in Tommy's, the other holding mine.  "Ladies and gentlemen, I dedicate my return performance at the Vegas Castle Hotel & Casino to Slim Chance, Tommy Lake, and to the memory of Lefty Needham, true and great Americans all!”

 

From out of nowhere, it seemed, thousands of red, white, and blue balloons fell from above onto the stage, burying the three of us and the band behind us.  The audience screamed its delight.  It was a moment I'll never forget.  Tommy and I -- and Pat Andrea, to be sure -- had done it!  This was our moment of triumph.  If I never have anything else, I had this moment, this fame of my own, an accomplishment for someone else to write about.  Brando's "I coulda been someone” would never apply to me again.

 

And for icing on the cake, I had Sandra with me at this very moment of my triumph.  When finally I returned to my seat, and Andrea returned to his act, Sandra greeted me with the biggest, wettest kiss I ever had in my life.

 

And it remained the biggest, wettest kiss I ever had, right up until ...

 

Later that same night, thank you!

 

####