Bolan was not overly concerned about "standing out" in such an environment nor did he have any particular respect for the ability of the mob's local forces to effectively limit his activities there. Later, of course, when the reinforcements began pouring in… later there would be plenty of cause for concern. At the moment, Bolan had a quiet and relatively safe chore to perform… at the request of an old friend.
Two days earlier he had acquired a room in a modest tourist home at the north edge of the city and had provided himself with "temporary wheels" — a three-year-old Pontiac convertible purchased at a bargain from a luckless victim of the city's major industry. From this base, the Executioner had scouted the enemy, acquired useful intelligence, and launched the strike which had netted him Carl Lyons in lieu of the $250,000 skim shipment he was targeting on.
Now he was sending the convertible into a leisurely foray along the Strip. Dark glasses — practically standard equipment in this part of the world, even at night — and fake sideburns considerably altered his appearance. He wore a light blue suit of the new double-knit stretch fabric. Snuggled to his side beneath the coat was his favored weapon, the hot little 9mm Beretta autoloader he'd acquired while in France, nicely concealed in the snapaway leather, but ready to spring upon demand.
It was 2 A.M. and the Strip was swinging. Just ahead and rising regjally from the lesser glow of the neon maze was a dazzling display of electricity and color marking the internationally famous hotel and casino which was Bolan's goal of the moment. Actually the goal was the man on the billboard in letters three feet tall, "America's hottest comic Tommy Anders" headlining "the hottest show in town."
Bolan surrendered the convertible to an eager crew of parking attendants and followed the foot-traffic inside. The lobby was not what one would expect of a multi-million-dollar hotel. A small registration desk, notably neglected at this hour except for the presence of two sharp-eyed clerks, occupied an inconspicuous spot where the trails diverged — one leading to the three hundred rooms and fifty bungalows clustered about the pool-patio area; another angling off past banked rows of slot machines into the lounge, or bar, where one may sip whiskey at a dollar-ten a serve and play nickel and dime bingo; still another and much broader path led into the casino and beyond to the theatre-dining room.
At a small desk, nearer the door, hovered three men wearing uniforms of the Clark County Sheriff's Department. They were, Bolan knew, off-duty cops retained by the casino for security purposes. Bolan went directly to this desk and laid out the Beretta and an assortment of plasticized cards. "How's it going?" he asked casually.
"Quiet, sir, very quiet," replied the deeply-tanned young deputy who seemed to be in charge of the desk. He scrutinized the cards, flashed a glance at Bolan's face, and said, "Fine, sir. Thanks for checking in."
Bolan retrieved his cards and returned the Beretta to her leather. "Anybody else inside?" he asked.
"Two of your people checked in abou< thirty minutes ago," the deputy informed him. "WhatV up?"
"Routine jazz," Bolan muttered. "The weekly jitters, I guess." He nodded at the other deputies and strode into the casino.
The gambling crowd was relatively thin, a normal condition for this hour of the day with a show in progress in the dining room. Devoid of the casual gamblers, the atmosphere within the casino was tense and decidedly unfunlike. This was the hour of the "high rollers," as well as the compulsives and the heavy losers trying desperately to get back into the money. Pit bosses roamed restlessly about their areas, chatting with inactive dealers at the no-play tables and hustling shills about to keep up the pretense of activity.
Bolan went on through and presented a card at the entrance to the dining room. A near-capacity crowd was on hand and completely in the hands: of the masterful personality of the man in the spotlight, "America's hottest comic."
A harried maitre d' in formal black-tie grimaced at Bolan's card and snapped, "This is impossible. I haven't a table within opera-glass range of the stage."
"Forget the table,"' Bolan said, and wandered into the sea of diners.
Anders was at stage-center, front, holding a hand-mike and pacing about a small area defined by a red spotlight. Even from this distance Bolan could see the band-aids on his face and a puffy lump beneath one eye. Above and behind him, fanned out like a deck of cards, were the inevitable showpieces" — the technically nude, leggy and beautiful chorus girls who typified the Vegas aura of sexuality. They simply stood there like mannequins — living props reflecting the barrage of multi-colored spotlights roaming their sections of the stage.
Bolan stuck to the aisle nearest the wall and went on around and through the doorway leading backstage. It was regular big-theatre back there, with the usual hustle and bustle of activity. A rock group were taking places and getting set up behind a curtain, stagehands were moving energetically about and preparing the next act, half-clad showgirls wandered about, and through it all the amplified Brooklyn accents of Tommy Anders reigned over the delighted reactions from the audience.
Anders had been in the business quite a few years and had always enjoyed a comfortable following. He'd appeared in a couple of minor movies and had recently been popping up on a variety of television shows, but this 'Vegas stand" had, according to the show business reporters, narked the beginning of a whole new era for this "acknowledged master of stand-up comedy," a biting satirist who wrote his own monologues, his most famous lines being directed at the sacred cows of America' enthnic sensitivities.
"I'm not no ethnician, but…" had become an Anders trade-line, an identity piece which shared honors with his other lead-in, "Now I'm not anti-ethnic, but…
Bolan, half-Polish, had heard and chuckled over many of the routines… and now he was standing in the wings in the reflected glow of a mostly-nude showgirl and listening to the familiar voice declare "Now listen, I'm not anti-ethnic, but… (pause to allow an anticipatory giggle from the audience)… but I hear they're making a new gangbusters movie in Hollywood. You all remember Eliot Ness and The Untouchables. Listen Ness would get picketed in Hollywood today. Believe it. This new gangbusters flick? The working title is The Unfortunates. They're changing the name: of the criminals to protect the producers. That's right don't laugh Mike Mazurk: has the leading role. He plays a brilliant and brutal FBI agent Sure Georgi Rafi is the big brains at the Hall of Fuzz he's the police commissioner. God's truth. Donald O'Connor is the heavy He's a frustrated song and dance boss who's getting hounded out of his skull by these ratfini feds who keep bugging his rooms and watching him through movie cameras. Yeah, they've got all thi: illegally-obtained evidence showing the boss feeding i SD to a knocked-up stoned, fourteen-year-old prostitute His sister. No, she's not one of the unfortunate; Donald O'Connor is, he's the guy fighting this illegal-evidence game.
"You think I'm kidding. Listen, I hear that Paramount has agreed to change the title of The Godfather They're going to call it The Stepfather. A group of militant atheists objected to the use of religious propaganda in an entertainment medium. I'm not kidding. I'm not no ethnician.
"Paramount already dropped the word Mafia from the dialogue, and I hear they're giving all the characters Anglo-Saxon names. They're working on the author now, Mario Puzo. Want 'em to change his name to Marion Push. You laugh, but I'm entirely serious. That's the way it is in America today.
"I was talking to Leonard Slye just the other day. He's been in trouble with the Violence Commissioner. Over his horse. Yeah, you've all heard of the Wonder Horse. Leonard's gotta change the horse's name. Trigger is a violent name, it gives the kids ideas. Leonard changed his own name years ago, of course, to Roy Rogers, you all remember that. Listen, don't laugh, this's no ethnical joke. Image is a very big thing in this country today. It's a matter of freedom, and civil rights and box office. Can you imagine, on your theatre marquee, Leonard Slye and Trigger, the Wonder Horse? Course not. From now on you'll be seeing Roy Rogers and Leonard, the Peaceful Equine.