“Yes sir, we’ve been waiting for you,” the parking guy said. “The boss says you’re to get the treatment.”
“The treatment?”
“High-roller treatment. Full comp, friend of one of our honored guests, Mr. Silverman. By the way, Mr. Silverman said to tell you he’ll call your room after you get settled. He also said to tell you, ‘No word yet.’ I guess you know what that means.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Here, let me take your luggage, sir.”
He reached out for my duffel bag. I wasn’t about to part with the bag, not with the recorder in it. “Don’t bother. I’ll carry it myself.”
A blast of cold air hit me in the face when the valet opened the hotel door. The contrast of the scorching heat outside and the hotel’s artificially conditioned air perfectly mirrored the contrast between my real life and the fantasy world I now entered.
He ran to the registration desk to get my room key while I watched the patrons wandering about without a care. Some were dressed in formal evening wear, others in terrycloth robes and swimming suits. Women who looked as if they belonged on the cover of Vogue strolled arm in arm with men whose pictures would have been more at home on a wall at the post office.
“Your key, sir,” the valet said. “It’s a twenty-two suite. Compliments of the hotel, friend of Mr. Silverman,” he said again.
After he explained how to get to the room, I took a private VIP elevator to top floor. I opened the door, and the polished marble entry of the suite gleamed in the sunlight that pervaded the room. The west wall was all glass and the view was stunning. I held my breath for an instant and sidled into the room. A full-size bar that would rival the one at the Bistro Gardens in Beverly Hills lined the north wall. Built into the other wall were shelves that held a large TV and a stereo.
I dropped my duffel on the couch and walked into one of the two adjoining bedrooms. I wasn’t surprised to see an oversized fruit basket filled with all kinds of goodies and a bottle of Dom Perignon chilling in an ice bucket on the table.
I expected that, but what I didn’t expect was the ravishing blonde who sat on the round bed, her long and gorgeous legs crossed.
“Hi, I’m Candi,” she said.
“I bet you are,” I replied.
She had on a black, low-cut number with spaghetti straps that strained under the stress of the load. “The hotel sent me,” she said. “Thought you might be lonely. Can I fix you a drink, Jimmy?”
“A Coke, for me. Fix yourself anything you want. We’ll have our drinks in the other room.”
Candi stood. The spaghetti straps held. Amazing.
We moved into the living room, and she fixed the drinks at the bar. I took the Coke from her. She set her glass on the table and moved to the stereo.
“Jeez, they must have a bazillion tapes here. I’ll put on something romantic.” A moment or two passed. Sinatra’s voice warbled from the stereo speakers. She turned back to me. “All you guys like Frank Sinatra.”
I let the you guys remark pass. “Candi, sit down for a minute. We have to talk.”
She picked up her drink, took a hard pull, and eased over to the couch. A lot of thigh showed when she sat and crossed her legs again. “You don’t like me?”
“I don’t know you, but you’re very attractive.”
“Nancy with the Laughing Face” filled the room. Candi could stay and have a drink, but after one more song, she’d have to leave.
“You don’t like what I do for a living?”
“I don’t care what you do,” I said. “But I care what I do.”
The phone rang. I took a sip of my Coke and answered it.
“Jimmy, they told me you checked in.”
“Hang on, Sol. I’ll take the call in the other room.” I put him on hold, moved to one of the bedrooms and shut the door behind me. I grabbed the phone next to the bed and punched the blinking button. “Sol, what about Kruger?”
“Clean up and change, we’ll talk in the bar. I’ll meet you in the Casbar Lounge in twenty minutes.”
“Did they snatch him yet?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll explain when I see you downstairs.”
“Okay, but I’d like you to listen to the tape. I want you to tell me what you think. Later, when the cop comes on duty, we can play a portion for him over the phone. Maybe he’ll recognize Welch’s voice.”
“Sounds good. But, Jimmy, I don’t want to use the hotel phones for that. Don’t want to go through the switchboard. Know what I mean? Bring the tape with you to the bar. We’ll find a payphone.”
“See you in twenty minutes.”
I walked back into the living room. Candi was still there, sitting on the couch, sipping her drink. “Thanks for stopping by, Candi. It’s been fun,” I said.
She stood. “Maybe I could come back later? There’s a hot tub here in the suite, we could light some candles, sip some Champagne.”
“Tempting, but no thanks.”
She tossed back the remainder of her drink. Her hips did a little rumba as she strolled toward the door. She stopped about halfway, turned her head, and peered at me over her shoulder. “I guess I won’t see you again.”
“We’ll always have Paris.”
She left the room. The lock clicked as the door swung closed after her.
I thought about Candi as I showered. Did all high rollers-and friends of high rollers-find a cold bottle of Champagne and a hot blonde in their rooms after they checked in? I dressed, grabbed my duffel bag, and left the suite.
So this is what it’s like to be rich, I thought, as the VIP elevator descended: first-class service, and everybody addressing me by my name. Obviously, they knew Sol. He’s a true high roller; but how’d they know my name? They must have one hell of a system.
At the Casbar Lounge, I stood behind a horde of people clamoring to get in. Hands from the crowd waved twenty dollar bills. The Asian maitre d’ and a few of his assistants held their ground, like sentries at the palace gate, staving off the barbarians while the royalty dined sumptuously inside the walls. The maitre d’ charged through the crowd, grabbed my arm, and propelled me toward the entrance.
“Mr. Silverman is waiting,” he screamed.
Waiters zipped around the barroom with drinks and plates of mouth-watering appetizers balanced on their arms. It was exciting. Bursts of laughter and jubilant conversation all but drowned out the jazz combo in the background.
Sol, a napkin dangling from his neck, sat behind a table heaped with a potentate’s assortment of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. He stood to greet me with a baby back rib in one hand and a tall multi-colored drink in the other.
“Jimmy, my boy. Sit and enjoy.”
“What about Kruger?” I asked.
“He didn’t show at his bartending job, called in sick. Might have to stick another night. Sica’s boys will grab him the minute he arrives.”
“Oh, Christ. Are you sure he’ll show up?”
“He’ll show. Quit worrying.”
“Can’t they pick him up at his apartment?”
“He gave a phony address on his job app. Nobody knows where he lives. I got my guys trying to find his place. But there are no listings anywhere for the guy, utilities, phone, nothing in either name, Fischer or Kruger. We’ll have to cool our heels for a while.”
“In the meantime,” I said, “let’s go someplace quiet where you can listen to the tape.”
“Sure, as soon as I finish my drink.”
“Mitch, he’s the cop I told you about, might recognize Welch’s voice.” I looked at my watch: ten to seven. “We can call him as soon as he gets to work, the graveyard shift.”
“Then we have plenty of time.” Sol finished his drink and ordered another one.
A tall middle-aged man in an expensive suit walked up to our table, leaned down and whispered in Sol’s ear. Sol nodded once and the guy left.
“Who was that? What did he say? News about Kruger?”
“No, afraid not,” Sol said. “I should’ve introduced you. That was Johnny Hughes, casino manager-the real boss around here. The guy’s been in the gambling business since the early days. As a kid, he worked for Capone in Chicago. Knows how to take care of his customers.”