Aaron thought that was a somewhat extravagant statement, but he saw what Golding was getting at. Legal gambling would draw crowds from the whole West Coast-even the whole country.
However, he wanted nothing to do with gambling. If he could have stopped the rough poker games that his current clientele insisted accompany their laden plates, he would have. He wassmart enough to know that it wouldn’t be the food but the gambling that was going to bring the crowds in. But they had to eat, didn’t they? Tourists from California and Utah (Mormons to the contrary notwithstanding) and then from farther and farther away would want more than the plain meat and potatoes that was all the railroad workers and construction workers were perfectly happy with.
He also was wary of any connection with the “businessman” from Brooklyn or his like. As diplomatically as he could, he turned the offer down.
Nevada’s repeal bill went through the legislature, the governor signed it and the antigambling law was history. The town began to change drastically. The Strip became more colorful every week as another entrepreneur entered the race for tourist money. Aside from his worries about Max, Aaron was happy. The restaurant was getting a real reputation; tourists were filling the tables and often waiting in line to get in. He had some steady customers, who swore Aaron’s food was the best this side of-wherever they came from. Aaron was so busy he hardly had time to write to Molly, but he sent her brief (and tantalizing) notes, telling her she would really like Las Vegas now. The town was becoming civilized. The restaurant was doing real well, and it was fixed up beautiful; she’d love it. He got a postcard back from Virginia Beach, where she’d gone with her mother and Aaron’s oldest sister for a vacation. “Having wonderful time,” it said. Period. Well, he didn’t wish he was there, either.
In spite of Max’s fears (and to tell the truth, Aaron’s as well) Lucky Golding didn’t seem to resent the turndown. When the hotel was finished and opened with a grand blowout, he hired Max as a bellboy. The job wasn’t hard, he was a strong young man. The tips were generous and he got to mingle with-well, carry the bags of, say “Yes, sir,” and “Thank you, Madam” to-celebrities he had only read about in the tabloids or seen on the movie screen. Aaron kept at him about not doing anything really dumb, like trying to sell reefers to the guests or giving them tips on how to win at the tables (as if he knew). “You’re dealing with dangerous people here,” the big brother said. “Golding is pretty low to the ground, but so is a rattlesnake. You may think he’s your friend, but he couldn’t care a button for you, you’renobody. He’d only notice you if you did something stupid, and then, watch out!” Max would nod solemnly, which hardly made Aaron feel any better.
Golding opened his casino in the hotel, and sent his guests to Aaron’s Eats for dinner. That was fine with Aaron. His restaurant had a growing reputation now, little brother had brought him luck, and he was grateful. He was happy to be a citizen of this thriving town.
Of course, there were still street brawls and holdups. When the fifteen-month-old daughter of one of the railroad workers went missing, Aaron, along with the other volunteers, spent two full nights searching for her. They didn’t find her. Theories flew through the air and landed in the local newspaper: She had run into the desert and had died of sunstroke. She had fallen down a well. She had been taken for ransom (although no ransom had been demanded). Ugliest of all was the solution put about by a handful of rabble-rousers and directed at the few Jews who lived in Las Vegas and the Jewish tourists now coming in from the West Coast: The medieval canard that Jews kidnapped and killed Christian children in order to drink their blood at secret religious ceremonies was resurrected. “Well of course, you never know” started to be heard in the bars and grocery stores.
The missing child was discovered unharmed; she had wandered off and been picked up by a farmer who was trying to scratch out a living in the countryside beyond the town. She was too young to be able to tell him who she was, and it was several days before he trotted into town on his horse holding the little girl in his arms. By that time rumor had done its work.
And then one early morning Aaron arrived at the back door of Aaron’s Eats to find every window broken, shards of dishes littering the dining room, and Max, who usually worked at the restaurant on his day off, lying beaten and bloody amidst spilled and scattered food from the now-empty pantry shelves.
Aaron didn’t stop to check whether his brother was alive or dead. Max couldn’t be dead-he was the little brother. Aaron ran out into the street, waving at the sparse traffic coming down the Strip, howling “Help! Police! My little brother!” A milktruck stopped and the milkman and Aaron picked up Max’s limp body-he was still breathing, but painfully-and drove to the town’s only hospital.
Max had been badly beaten. He had two broken bones, three missing teeth, and a bad concussion. But the doctor was optimistic. Aaron blamed himself, letting his brother get mixed up with the gangsters from Brooklyn. But why? Why? Because he’d turned Golding down? Why?
He’d damn well find out-and right away. The doctor said he’d call him if there was any change, and he raced on foot to the hotel. There he frightened the desk clerk into giving him Golding’s suite number, and when the man stammered it out (and was subsequently nearly fired for doing it) Aaron didn’t wait for the elevator; he ran up the stairway to the fourth floor and pounded on Golding’s door.
It was opened by one of the grim bodyguards, who was just about to punch him-or possibly shoot him-when Golding appeared, wearing a bathrobe.
“What is it?” he demanded. “What the fuck do you want? Why are you breaking into my room, waking me up-are you crazy?”
“Yes, I’m crazy. Crazy to find my restaurant wrecked and my little brother almost dead on the floor.”
Shock showed on Golding’s face. “What! What are you talking about?”
“Don’t lie to me,” Aaron shouted. “I don’t care what your apes here do to me, you’ll be sorry! That’s my little brother you’ve nearly killed-maybe he is killed!” And he suddenly sank sobbing to the carpet.
Golding turned to his bodyguards. “Do you know what happened?”
They both shook their heads.
“I gotta find out. Maybe it’s that Dutch Horburg-maybe he thinks we’ve got a hand in that restaurant. Keep him quiet until I get some clothes on. But don’t hurt him! Understand?” They nodded.
When Golding had gotten the story out of the enraged and terrified Aaron, he seemed to puff up and become not only larger, but taller. “You think I would do that?” he demanded. “You think I’m such a goniff that I’d do that to a young boywho made a mistake? What kind of a mistake so terrible could a bellboy make? Steal a shirt maybe? Even say he insulted a guest-you think Golding doesn’t have enough guests he couldn’t lose one or two? You think I’d do something like that? I ought to get you beat up for that. Sure I’d yell, that’s what you do when you’re mad. Listen, if somebody cheats me, if somebody rats on me-he’d feel it. But a young kid like your brother can’t do Golding no harm even if he tried-you think I’d do something like that? I’m a monster?
“Come on!” he took Aaron roughly by the arm.
“Where?”
“We’re gonna go back to your restaurant. Figger out who did that!”
He said something Aaron didn’t catch to his bodyguard, and almost dragged Aaron out of the hotel and down the street. When they got to Aaron’s Eats, Golding pointed to the front of the building. Covering most of the wall were huge letters, white paint dripping down from them. JEW BABY RAPIRS! they screamed. BABY KANIBLS! KILL JEWISH KANIBLS!