The white Cadillac limo attracted his attention. Even before he took a look at the license plate to make sure, he was sure that it was areal limo, as he thought of it, as opposed to one of the livery limos, or one operated by one of the casinos to make the high rollers feel good. For one thing, it wasn't beat up. For another, it did not have a TV antenna on the trunk. Most important, it wasn't a stretch limo, large enough to transport all of a rock-and-roll band and their lady friends. It looked to him like a real, rich people's private limo, an analysis that seemed to be confirmed when the chauffeur got out wearing a neat suit and white shirt and chauffeur's cap and quickly walked around the front to open the curbside door.
The first person to get out was a female Caucasian, early twenties, five feet three, 115 pounds. She wore her shoulder-length blond hair parted in the middle, a light blue linen skirt, a pullover sweater, and a jacket-type sweater unbuttoned. There was a single strand of pearls around her neck. She did not have a spectacular breastworks, but Officer Oakes found her hips and tail attractive.
A male Caucasian, early twenties, maybe 165, right at six feet, followed her out of the limo. He was wearing a tweed coat, a tieless white shirt, gray flannel slacks, and loafers. Oakes thought that the two of them sort of fit the limo, that something about them smelled of money and position.
The chauffeur took a couple of bags from the limo trunk and handed them to the American Airlines guy. Then he went to the young guy, who handed him the tickets. Then the young guy looked at Officer Oakes, first casually, then gave him a closer look. Then he smiled and winked.
It was ten to one that he wasn't a fag, so the only thing that was left was that he had made Oakes as a cop. Oakes didn't like to be made, and he wondered how this guy had made him.
The chauffeur got the tickets back from the American Airlines guy, handed them to the young guy, and then tipped his hat. The blonde went to the chauffeur and smiled at him and shook his hand. No tip, which confirmed Oakes's belief that it was a private limo.
The chauffeur got behind the wheel and drove off. The blonde and the well-dressed young guy walked into the terminal. The more he thought about it, Oakes was sure that he was right. The guy had made him as a cop on the job.
Another limo, this one a sort of pink-colored livery limo that looked like it was maybe five thousand miles away from the salvage yard, pulled into the space left by the real limo.
A real gonzo got out of it, a white male Caucasian in his late twenties or early thirties, maybe five-ten and 170, swarthy skin with facial scars, probably acne. He was wearing a maroon shirt with long collar points, unbuttoned halfway down to expose his hairy chest and a gold chain with some kind of medal. He had on a pair of yellow pants and white patent-leather loafers with a chain across the instep. He had a gold wristwatch and a diamond ring on one hand, and a couple of gold bracelets around the wrist of the other.
He got out and looked around as if he had just bought the place, made a big deal of checking the time, so everybody would see the gold watch, and then waited for the limo driver to get his bags from the trunk. Cheap luggage. He waited until the guy had carried his bags to the American Airlines counter, then pulled out a thick wad of bills, hundreds outside, and then counted out four twenties.
"Here you go, my man," the gonzo said.
A limo, no matter at what hotel you were staying, was no more than fifty bucks, so the last of the big spenders was laying a large tip on the driver. The gonzo had apparently done well at the tables.
The Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce, Oakes knew, would be happy. There was no better advertisement than some gonzo like this going home and telling the other gonzos what a killing he'd made in Vegas.
Officer Oakes's attention was diverted from the gonzo by the sound of a strident female voice, offering her anything but flattering opinion of the gentleman with her. Drunk probably, Oakes decided.
He stepped into a doorway, unzipped his Marina Hotel amp; Casino plastic bag and took out the radio and called for a uniformed officer to deal with the disturbance at American Airlines Arrival.
By the time the uniforms, two of them, got there, the female Caucasian, five-three, maybe 135,140, brown hair, had warmed to the subject of what a despicable, untrustworthy sonofabitch the gentleman with her was, and Officer Oakes put the blonde with the nice ass, the gonzo, and the good-looking young guy he was sure had made him as a cop from his mind.
Matt caught up with Penny as she marched through the airport and took her arm.
"Is that really necessary?"
"I've got to make a phone call," he said.
He guided her to a row of pay telephones, took a dime from his pocket, dropped it in the slot, gave the operator a number, told her it was collect, that his name was Matthew Payne, and that he would speak with anyone.
"Who are you calling?" Penny asked, almost civilly.
"My father."
"Why?"
"Because I was told to call when I was sure the plane was leaving on schedule," Matt Payne replied, and then turned his attention to the telephone.
"Hello, Mrs. Craig. Would you please tell that slave driver you work for that American Airlines Flight 6766 is leaving on schedule?"
There was brief pause and then he went on:
"Everything's fine. Aside from the fact that I lost my car and next year's salary at the craps tables."
There was a reply, and he chuckled and hung up.
"Why did you call your father?" Penny asked.
"Because I thought he would be better able to deal with a collect call than yours," Matt Payne replied, then took her arm again. "There' s what I have been looking for."
He led her to a cocktail lounge and set her down at a tiny table in a relatively uncrowded part of the room.
A waitress almost immediately came to the table.
"Have you got any Tuborg?" Matt Payne asked.
The waitress nodded.
"Penny?" he asked.
"I think a 7UP, please."
"Sprite okay?"
"Yes, thank you," Penny said. Then, turning to Matt: "You were kidding, right, about losing a lot of money gambling?"
"As a matter of fact, I made so much money, I don't believe it."
"Really?"
He took the Flamingo's check for $3,700 from his pocket and showed it to her.
"My God!"
"And that's not all of it," he said.
"What were you playing?"
"Roulette."
"Roulette? What do you know about playing roulette?"
"Absolutely nothing, that's why I won," Matt said.
She smiled. The anger seemed to be gone. He had a policeman's cynical thought.Is she charming me?
"When did you get here?" Penny asked.
"A little after ten yesterday morning."
"Then why didn't you come get me yesterday?"
"Because I was told to get you this morning," he said. "Mine not to reason why, et cetera, et cetera."
"So instead you went gambling."
"Right. I quit half an hour before the limousine came back for me." When he saw the look on her face, he went on solemnly, "Las Vegas never sleeps, you know. They don't even have clocks."
"I really wouldn't know. I didn't get to go to town."
He did not respond.
"You really gambled all night?" she asked.
"I took a couple of naps and a shower, but yes, I guess I did."
"Well, I'm glad you had fun."
"Thank you."
"You were the last person I expected to see," Penny said.