Read Online JC2 The Raiders by Harold Robbins - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Harold Robbins
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a table in a glass-fronted box overlooking
the stage. The glass tipped forward at an angle, so as to cast bright
reflections on anyone looking up from the dining floor or the stage,
rendering anyone inside invisible. Their table was covered with heavy
white linen. It was set with heavy silver and crystal glasses. A
bottle of bourbon and one of Scotch sat in the middle. A bottle of
champagne sat in an ice bucket to one side.
A special bottle, label soaked off, sat at Chandler's place. He
poured a little green liqueur from the bottle into a glass and added
a touch of water. The clear liquid clouded. "Absinthe," he
explained. "Illegal. I have to get it from Asia. Taste I
acquired in New Orleans before it was banned. You're welcome to try
it. It's said to damage the brain."
"I've tasted it," said Jonas, "and I'll have another
taste. My grandmother made cookies with that taste: anise."
"Licorice," said Chandler.
"I'll pass it up," said Nevada.
The box was like the airport where they had landed: an accommodation
for men who wanted to enjoy some of the pleasures of Las Vegas
without being seen.
The first show opened a few minutes after they sat down in the box.
It opened with energetic dancing by twenty chorus girls wearing
brightly colored feathers. Gypsy Rose Lee followed, delivering a
series of quick one-liners to the audience as she danced and stripped
all but naked. As she took her bows and departed stage left, a
spotlight focused on a man standing stage right, his arms folded, his
chin dropped. "Well!" he said. He was Jack Benny, and he
took the stage for a thirty-minute monologue. Gypsy came out to join
him at the end.
"Uh, Miss Lee, I want to ask you. ... Do you
feel ... I mean ... embarrassed to be out here on the stage in
front of all these people ... naked ?"
"No, Jack. Do you?"
The show closed with another appearance by the chorus girls.
Dinner was on the table. Having had steak at the airport, Jonas had
ordered fish, which he ate with glasses of the champagne. He ate
sparingly. He felt himself running down. Except for the brief sleep
he got at Nevada's, he had been on the move without sleep for twenty
hours. He was only forty-seven years old: too early for a man to
begin losing his stamina.
"That's a fine show," said Jonas to Morris Chandler.
"Costs a fortune," said Chandler. "But
let me tell you why places like this make money the old Western-style
gambling joints never dreamed of. When we get people in here, we get
'em for days . They gamble. They swim in the pool. They gamble.
They eat and drink. They gamble. They see a show. They gamble. They
sleep a few hours in a very nice room and start the whole deal over.
It's a vacation . And let me tell you, we take a whole lot more
money off people who come for a vacation than we do off professional
or compulsive gamblers who come in here and go nowhere but the
tables. They're smart. They know how to play. They usually don't drop
much. But the house builder from Milwaukee brings the little lady,
settles into The Seven Voyages, and they do all the stuff. She plays
the slots, he plays the tables, and they drop a bundle. And you know
what else? They leave here feelin' good about it. They had a good
time."
"Sounds good," said Jonas noncommittally.
"Let me tell you something else," said Chandler. "If
the builder from Milwaukee loses too much, he may come around asking
for credit. He wants to sign a note. At this point we ask him how
much he's lost and how much he can afford to lose. We usually find
out he brought with him all he can afford to lose. So we tell him no.
Sometimes I've given a guy a couple hundred to get him and the little
lady home."
"So next year he comes back," said Jonas.
"Besides which, I want him to tell all his friends back home
what a swell bunch of guys we are."
"Short course in how to run a casino," Jonas laughed.
Though he hadn't intended to, he found himself liking this man, this
curious combination of craft and calculation with
the stage. The glass tipped forward at an angle, so as to cast bright
reflections on anyone looking up from the dining floor or the stage,
rendering anyone inside invisible. Their table was covered with heavy
white linen. It was set with heavy silver and crystal glasses. A
bottle of bourbon and one of Scotch sat in the middle. A bottle of
champagne sat in an ice bucket to one side.
A special bottle, label soaked off, sat at Chandler's place. He
poured a little green liqueur from the bottle into a glass and added
a touch of water. The clear liquid clouded. "Absinthe," he
explained. "Illegal. I have to get it from Asia. Taste I
acquired in New Orleans before it was banned. You're welcome to try
it. It's said to damage the brain."
"I've tasted it," said Jonas, "and I'll have another
taste. My grandmother made cookies with that taste: anise."
"Licorice," said Chandler.
"I'll pass it up," said Nevada.
The box was like the airport where they had landed: an accommodation
for men who wanted to enjoy some of the pleasures of Las Vegas
without being seen.
The first show opened a few minutes after they sat down in the box.
It opened with energetic dancing by twenty chorus girls wearing
brightly colored feathers. Gypsy Rose Lee followed, delivering a
series of quick one-liners to the audience as she danced and stripped
all but naked. As she took her bows and departed stage left, a
spotlight focused on a man standing stage right, his arms folded, his
chin dropped. "Well!" he said. He was Jack Benny, and he
took the stage for a thirty-minute monologue. Gypsy came out to join
him at the end.
"Uh, Miss Lee, I want to ask you. ... Do you
feel ... I mean ... embarrassed to be out here on the stage in
front of all these people ... naked ?"
"No, Jack. Do you?"
The show closed with another appearance by the chorus girls.
Dinner was on the table. Having had steak at the airport, Jonas had
ordered fish, which he ate with glasses of the champagne. He ate
sparingly. He felt himself running down. Except for the brief sleep
he got at Nevada's, he had been on the move without sleep for twenty
hours. He was only forty-seven years old: too early for a man to
begin losing his stamina.
"That's a fine show," said Jonas to Morris Chandler.
"Costs a fortune," said Chandler. "But
let me tell you why places like this make money the old Western-style
gambling joints never dreamed of. When we get people in here, we get
'em for days . They gamble. They swim in the pool. They gamble.
They eat and drink. They gamble. They see a show. They gamble. They
sleep a few hours in a very nice room and start the whole deal over.
It's a vacation . And let me tell you, we take a whole lot more
money off people who come for a vacation than we do off professional
or compulsive gamblers who come in here and go nowhere but the
tables. They're smart. They know how to play. They usually don't drop
much. But the house builder from Milwaukee brings the little lady,
settles into The Seven Voyages, and they do all the stuff. She plays
the slots, he plays the tables, and they drop a bundle. And you know
what else? They leave here feelin' good about it. They had a good
time."
"Sounds good," said Jonas noncommittally.
"Let me tell you something else," said Chandler. "If
the builder from Milwaukee loses too much, he may come around asking
for credit. He wants to sign a note. At this point we ask him how
much he's lost and how much he can afford to lose. We usually find
out he brought with him all he can afford to lose. So we tell him no.
Sometimes I've given a guy a couple hundred to get him and the little
lady home."
"So next year he comes back," said Jonas.
"Besides which, I want him to tell all his friends back home
what a swell bunch of guys we are."
"Short course in how to run a casino," Jonas laughed.
Though he hadn't intended to, he found himself liking this man, this
curious combination of craft and calculation with
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