Skip backed from the closet, the dusty bag in his hand. “Yeah. Look, do you mind if I use this for a couple of days?”
His uncle studied the bag. “Why do you want it?”
“I’m going to make a short trip, need it for shaving stuff and so on.” Skip knew from experience that a hitchhiker with any sort of luggage had a better chance of getting a ride than one without. The one without had a look of foot-loose mischief from which most drivers shied away. A bag, even a small one, implied possessions and a destination.
“Where are you going?”
“Oh, not too far,” Skip said vaguely, unzipping the bag and glancing into it.
“You’re giving up your classes?” Skip’s uncle went to his bed across the room and sat down lightly on its edge. For the first time Skip noted the steadily attentive manner; it made him uneasy. “I don’t think that would be the wise thing to do. Learning is money, Skip. It enables you to rise above the common herd. Look at me, grammar grade education, prison record; all I can get is the kind of slavery I do here. Work that nobody else would take.” His prying eyes were full of questions.
“Education isn’t the only thing,” Skip muttered.
“Well, what else is there?”
“A break.”
“You’re getting a break somehow? This trip is a break?”
Skip felt that his uncle’s persistence was drawing from him things he would have preferred not to divulge. He saw where that moment of incaution in the kitchen, that desire to hint and boast, had led. He looked at his uncle. “I can’t talk about it.”
“I think you’d better.”
“Huh?”
“I think you’d better explain. I’m real curious about this trip and whatever else you’re planning. And then, too, I might be able to give you some advice.”
Skip thought about it while he took a soiled shirt off a hook and dusted out the interior of the bag. His uncle had not been a successful thief, though he had once had the reputation of moving with a big-time mob. Long prison sentences had sapped his body, curdled his manner into silent submission, slowed his walk to a shuffle. “Ah, there’s nothing you could tell me.”
“Maybe not. Maybe so. Who’s in this with you?”
“Who’s in what?”
“This break you’re talking about.”
They were circling verbally. Skip wished he had made up a story for Uncle Willy, something like being invited to stay with Eddie for a couple of days. “Oh, a guy I know.”
“Eddie Barrett?”
“Yeah.” Skip threw the dirty shirt into a hamper in the bathroom, came out, began to look around for something to stick into the bag. There was no need to pack yet, but he didn’t want to have to sit down and face Uncle Willy and parry his questions.
Uncle Willy sat in silence as if thinking. Finally he said, “Is it a big thing? Something worth taking a risk for?” When Skip didn’t answer he went on, “Because Eddie might not be up to it. There might be a catch somewhere and Eddie could let you down.”
“Eddie’s okay.” Skip shrugged it off. “Anyway, he’s not carrying the ball. I am. It’s my baby.”
“In any job,” said Uncle Willy, “the least man, the man with almost nothing to do, can bitch you up. That’s what happened to me, that’s why I’m a two-time loser. That’s why, even if you told me all about it, I couldn’t go in with you or have the least thing to do with it.”
Skip said, “That’s right, you couldn’t. Three times and you’re out.”
“So you can tell me whatever you want.” Uncle Willy moistened his lips. “I can say what I think and that’s all. Right now I’m telling you, watch Eddie Barrett. He’s a punk kid in a lot of ways.”
“Yeah, maybe you’ve got something there.” Skip went into the bathroom and inspected his meager array of shaving stuff, as if making a note of what he needed to take.
“Now, where’s this trip you’re taking?”
“Las Vegas.” In an expansive mood, Skip began to tell Uncle Willy about Stolz and the money in old lady Havermann’s house.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Who is this girl, this Karen Miller?” Uncle Willy wanted to know.
“Old Mrs. Havermann never adopted her legally. Karen’s dad was a friend of Mr. Havermann in the old days before he made his money, and when Miller died Karen was left all alone, an orphan kid about ten years old, and the Havermanns took her in. Havermann died about a year later. Karen stayed on with the old woman, helped with the housework for her keep.”
“How does the old lady treat her?”
“Okay, I guess. Hell, she’s not her mother. She wants Karen to earn what she hands out to her.”
“No animosity there, you think?”
“No, Karen likes the old woman.”
“How does Stolz fit into the picture?”
“He was married to Mrs. Havermann’s daughter. They were divorced. The daughter—she’s around thirty, I guess—she lives back East somewhere. The old woman stayed friends with Stolz. Maybe he pays her something, I don’t know. Karen doesn’t think so. She thinks the old woman is kind of sweet on Stolz even if he is about fifteen years younger than her.”
Uncle Willy sucked his teeth and twiddled his thumbs thoughtfully. “You were right about going to check up in Las Vegas. That’s the thing to do. Make sure. You got a good look at Stolz through the window?”
“Ah, I’d know him anywhere,” Skip said.
“When are you leaving?”
“Day after tomorrow. That’s when Stolz is supposed to go. Karen will let me know for sure, of course, when it happens.”
“You might not run into him over there, you might have to inquire around, and you’d better handle that pretty carefully. Some of those boys in Nevada own those clubs sort of under the counter, so to speak. Silent partners. There’s a reason. Nobody with a record is supposed to have any piece of the gambling over there.”
“For Chrissakes, you think I’m a nut or something?”
“It takes thinking about, more than you might realize.”
“I’ll do okay.”
Skip came out of the bus depot, into the bright hot Nevada sunlight, and looked around for a cab to take him out to the Strip. Karen was sure that Stolz would be there by now, in one of the big hotels. She was sure that he had nothing to do with any of the downtown clubs, catering to the less-well-heeled and the more transient suckers. Old Mrs. Havermann and Stolz had never mentioned the name of the hotel where he was supposed to live and in which he had a share, but Skip and Uncle Willy had done a little figuring. Stolz had been coming to Mrs. Havermann’s house off and on for a little more than three years, according to Karen’s memory, and it would seem logical that he had acquired his gambling interests at about that time. Several of the biggest and most lavish hotels had opened since then, and these could be ignored, provided Stolz hadn’t switched his investment.
Uncle Willy thought it most likely that Stolz had bought into one of the older establishments. He had telephoned a friend who had Nevada contacts, and from the friend had obtained a list of probabilities. Skip carried the list in his pocket, along with the return bus ticket financed by Uncle Willy in a burst of generosity.
When a cab drew in to the curb, Skip read off the name of the first hotel on the list; the cabbie nodded. They rapidly left the downtown area for through boulevards heading west. Skip had been through Las Vegas several times. He was always interested, when passing through the Strip, to see the new hotels which were constantly being added to the long line on either side of the highway stretching toward Los Angeles. Great piles of million-dollar masonry, glass and brick, they rose like fantastic palaces set amid tropic gardens. He read the names: the Sands, the Sahara, the Flamingo, Desert Inn, the Dunes, Thunderbird; and the vision of their opulence filled him with excitement. Only the knowledge of his own flattened wallet kept him fr
om vainglorious dreams.
By seven that evening he was in the third hotel of the list Uncle Willy had prepared, and getting nowhere. He had found himself the recipient of cool evaluation by pit bosses, room clerks, and bar waitresses. Skip had no money to spend; he could only look. He knew that the category flat broke was pinned on him by the dealers within ten minutes of his entering the casinos. A stubborn anger had begun to burn.
He was at a crap table. The dice were in the hands of a thickset man with an alcohol flush, expensive clothes, diamond stickpin and solitaire. Two blond chippies clung to him, slipping ten-dollar chips into their gilt bags when opportunity presented. The man was loud, much the worse for liquor, and held up the game for long periods while he argued with one or both of the girls. What Skip took in was the attitude of the dealers at the table, the hovering pit boss: they wore fixed smiles and they ignored or pacified complaints from other players. Plainly here was big money working.
He waited and watched the stack of chips dwindle. All at once he found the man staring at him across the crap table.
“Hey, you?”
Skip was stupefied. “Who?”
“You. Young fella. You come around here.” He beckoned with a weaving arm. Skip looked around, too dumfounded to know what to do. He caught the eye of the pit boss, the faint nod that commanded him to obey. Skip went around the table and the old man pushed one of the chippies away roughly and pulled Skip in close. “Uh-huh. You remind me of my boy. Did remind me. I mean, he used to look like you.” The thickset man hiccuped loudly. “Foxy boy. In England now. Long way off.” He was fumbling chips and pushing them into Skip’s hands.
Skip wanted to stare at them; he knew they were worth ten dollars apiece and the old man had given him more than a dozen.
“Play ’em,” the thickset man commanded.
Skip put one down tentatively; the old man shot the dice; the dealer raked in the bets. The old man had brought in a two-spot, craps. Skip put down another chip.
“Naw,” the old man said. “Lookee here. Fix ’em up. You get nowhere piddling along.” He raked Skip’s hands clean and dribbled the orange chips across the green felt, betting the line, the big six and eight, come bets, everything. Skip’s brief riches were all spread out waiting for the throw. Skip felt breath die out in his lungs, his heart’s thumping. Maybe . . .
Craps again. The old man had neglected that particular item. Skip stepped back into the shadows, expecting to be dismissed, but the old man turned bloodshot eyes to search him out. “Hey, you!”
The chippie was staring into Skip’s face as if the least thing would set her to clawing his eyes. “I’m . . . I’m broke,” Skip muttered.
“Sure. Sure. I’ve been broke a million times,” the old man boomed. “Had to clean spittoons in Fairbanks, Alaska. Drove a mule team between Barstow and Daggett—one hundred and ten in the shade and there wasn’t any shade. Never knew what it was in the sun. Afeared to look.” He was throwing bills across the green felt to the dealer, who poked them into a slot in the table and replaced them with more orange chips. “What you want to remember, boy—luck’s gonna change. Nobody ever has bad luck all the time.”
Skip wanted to say, “You sure about it?” but he held his tongue. The old man had pulled him back to the table, given him a double fistful of the chips and was telling him how to play. Skip glanced at his shoulder, feeling pressure there. A girl’s palm was outspread. Skip shrugged and turned away. The girl said, “You little son of a bitch!”
“Get lost.”
“You’d better stay away from Mr. Salvatorre! These people at the hotel keep an eye on him!” she hissed at him.
“They’d better watch you,” Skip told her.
She didn’t leave. He was aware of her warm flesh, the perfume, the silver glitter of her hair. She had on a red sheath dress, cut so tight Skip didn’t understand how she could breathe. She wore a clutter of platinum bangles on her wrists. Her bare legs above gold sandals were chocolate-colored from the sun. “Nasty little man. You belong on skid row. Why don’t you go away and quit trying to crash the party?”
Skip didn’t answer. He was interested in what was happening to his money. The old man had given him over two hundred dollars, and now by a rapid calculation he found that he was down to eighty.
“Play up, boy, play up!” The old man leaned his belly on the rim of the table and chanted to the dice. Afterward he bought more chips.
An ugly feeling of disappointment surged through Skip. He wasn’t going to come out of this with anything. It was a con game, a racket. The old fool must be a shill, playing on house money. Or else he was a nut. Skip was himself too unpredictable and too insecure to endure eccentricity in others.
He was trying desperately to think of a way to back off with even a few of the chips left when Salvatorre suddenly decided he’d had enough of dice. Now it was time to try the slot machines. He dragged Skip along to another part of the big casino, ordered drinks for everybody in sight, passing out quarters and half dollars as fast as he could buy them from the change girl. The two blondes made Skip think of hovering vultures. They did everything but crawl into Salvatorre’s pockets. Skip noted that very little of what the old man gave them went into the machines. They rapidly switched the change back into bills and tucked the bills away into the bulging gilt bags.
The tempo around Salvatorre increased. The old man was almost in a frenzy. He had a half dozen slots going, was stuffing change into the girls’ hands and tossing Skip an occasional batch of quarters. Skip noticed that the pit boss in the distance was keeping an eye on things. It could be true that the old man was a valued and familiar patron.
All at once Mr. Salvatorre was staring into his empty hands in a way that was almost tearful. “Broke. I’m broke, boy,” he cried to Skip.
It was crazy. Skip knew that Salvatorre still had money in his wallet. One of the change girls glided up, smiling, to say, “Why, we’d be pleased to cash a check for you, Mr. Salvatorre.”
All around them the slots were clanging; Salvatorre shook his head as if unable to hear. She repeated what she had just said, but Salvatorre blinked his eyes sadly. “Broke. Going to call it a night.” He glanced around, noticed the bright-eyed chippie in the red sheath, saw Skip in the shadows. “We’ll have a nightcap, the three of us. Come on, we’ll go up to my room now; you’ll order whatever you want.”
Skip was wary, more than half disgusted. He saw the girl throw a victorious cat-smile at the other chippie, who appeared to take it philosophically and began to inspect the loot in her handbag. The girl in red then snatched Salvatorre’s arm. “Not him,” she mouthed, nodding toward Skip. “Let’s leave him out of it.”
It would have suited Skip; he had four or five dollars in quarters and half dollars and two ten-dollar chips. He had no desire to get better acquainted with the eccentric old man.
But Salvatorre roared a protest, threatening to dislodge the chippie on his arm. “Leave him here? Course not! Going to buy the boy a drink. Makes me think of my boy Al, over in England. Foxy boy, good boy, needs a drink.”
“Tell him you’re under age, darling,” the blonde purred to Skip.
“Twenty-two,” Skip said, unwilling to oblige her.
She showed her teeth at him.
The three of them went from the casino into the huge lobby. Outside, beyond great glass doors, was the pool, lit with pink light at its edges, surrounded by late swimmers and a few diners at the little tables in the dusky distance. Inside here was an air of carpeted quiet and the watchful eyes of two clerks at a desk in a niche across the way. Skip knew their gaze was for him, and he tensed with a sense of danger. The girl, that was expected, but they had cold stares for Skip. He might be up to something with their valuable Mr. Salvatorre, who had just provided a good chunk of the overhead for the day.
Skip stared back in defiance, but his heart wasn’t in it. There was po
wer here, concealed, it was true, under a show of hospitality, but nevertheless capable of swift and ruthless action. He had no illusions as to what would happen to him if he should try to slip off, say, with an added chunk of Mr. Salvatorre’s money.
In Mr. Salvatorre’s room the air-conditioning ducts hummed softly. There were flowers, bottles of good wine, a tray of snacks. Salvatorre ignored all this and rang for room service. The waiter came so quickly that Skip wondered if he had been stationed in the hall. “Drinks!” Mr. Salvatorre commanded, motioning toward the girl on the couch and Skip standing over by the windows.
The waiter looked patient and obedient; his attitude was one of simple politeness and not that of the cold hostility of the desk men.
“A stinger,” the blonde said languidly, stroking the fat side of the gilt handbag.
“A double Scotch with water back,” said Skip.
“Good boy!” the old man approved. “That’s what my Al would say. And waiter, I want Irish whiskey with Coca-Cola in it.”
Now that’s a drink for you, Skip thought in distaste. He listened to the sounds from outside, where swimmers were splashing in the pool and a girl was laughing in a high-pitched squeal. He thought of the old dun-colored house, Uncle Willy’s garage apartment, Mr. Chilworth and the amount of work he got from Uncle Willy for practically nothing; and he looked with disbelieving eyes on Salvatorre. How did a crazy old man like this acquire so much money?
He said tentatively, “You made it in mining, I’ll bet.”
“Some in mining,” said Salvatorre, nodding his head, sitting down by the blonde and playfully squeezing her knee through the red sheath dress. “Some in oil. All by accident, boy. A man owed me some debts and all he owned, all he had left, was some desert land out in the middle of nowhere. Worth nothing. So he gave it to me and I forgot it and I went on working until five years ago. Then came the oil. I was a butcher for more than thirty years.” He looked the girl over, as if she were some toy he meant to see perform before the evening was over. The blonde had taken a tiny vial of perfume from the overstuffed bag and was dabbing her ears and her palms with scent.
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