mall,” Cole said. Smiling. “A shopping mall . . .”
A chirpy female voice cut in: “Are we going shopping?”
It was Cindy Lou, barefoot on the stairs, in a pink baby doll, not sheer but you could see her little nipples trying to poke through; she’d slept in, too. Her strawberry blond hair, Thedy Sue’s hair, was tousled sexily.
“Are we?” she repeated, leaning against the banister. “Going shopping?”
“I think maybe we are,” smiled her pa.
6
SUNDAY NIGHT , at 11:37 (give or take a second), Nolan sat up in bed, two pillows propped behind him, the lamp next to the bed on; he was reading Las Vegas travel brochures, looking for a bargain. There were three travel agents in the Chamber of Commerce, so he’d get a discount either way. But he wanted the best package.
He hadn’t been to Vegas in years, and it would be an interesting trip; he probably wouldn’t recognize the Strip—he heard the casinos were side by side there, now, jammed together, no breathing room. He had mixed emotions about that—he’d always liked having some space between casinos, liked the sprawl of that, glittery sin leisurely strung out along a desert road. But he had no argument with success, or the change it brought. Progress was progress; money was money.
The best package seemed to include the Flamingo, which almost made him smile. All roads led to the Family. He’d met Bugsy Siegel once; he’d come in the Rush Street Club with Campagna. Hell of a nice guy, Siegel was; charming. Campagna, on the other hand, Little New York himself, while nice enough, seemed menacing in that quiet way that meant the worst. Nolan had known, just looking at them, that neither of these guys was anybody to cross.
He’d also been to the Flamingo in the fifties several times, ’51 the first time; but that was several years after the Family cashed Bugsy’s chips in. The Fabulous Flamingo, Bugsy’s dream, his pink palace which gave birth to the modern Vegas Strip, was in the red, in the early days, and word was he was skimming to sink dough back in the joint, cheating his Family friends/investors, like Accardo and Ricca and, out East, Lansky. So they killed him.
It would be fun to go back to the Flamingo, with all its memories. And it seemed to be the best buy, too.
The Vegas trip was Sherry’s idea; she’d never been there and it sounded exciting to her. She deserved a vacation, so he figured why not—you only live once. What she was having trouble understanding was Nolan’s attitude about gambling: he didn’t. Not in Vegas, not in any casino, with the exception of poker, if he was in the right mood. Any other game was out of the question. Nolan never thought about it, but his life was lived by a strict set of rules, and one of the strictest was: You never play against the house.
Nolan put the travel brochures on the nightstand and turned off the lamp; he sat in the dark, naked under the covers, hands folded on his plump belly, which looked plumper than it was, contrasted with the rest of his lean, scarred, muscular frame.
He was waiting for Sherry. This was the ritual, on the nights they made love, which was perhaps every other night, except in her period, of course.
She would say, “I’ll meet you in the bedroom in five minutes.” He would say fine, and would slip downstairs to shower in the can, off the guest bedroom. She would be upstairs, readying herself. Bath; diaphragm; makeup; perfume. The perfume was this hundred-and-fifty-buck-an-ounce shit from Beverly Hills, which even with his fifteen percent discount from Petersen’s was a crock. His Christmas gift to her last year. It did smell good.
Within the specified five minutes, Nolan would be between the sheets; nothing but him and his Old Spice, powder and after-shave both. Another ten to fifteen minutes would pass, during which he would either read or think. He didn’t mind the wait; he liked time to himself, and with all the hours he was putting in at
A chirpy female voice cut in: “Are we going shopping?”
It was Cindy Lou, barefoot on the stairs, in a pink baby doll, not sheer but you could see her little nipples trying to poke through; she’d slept in, too. Her strawberry blond hair, Thedy Sue’s hair, was tousled sexily.
“Are we?” she repeated, leaning against the banister. “Going shopping?”
“I think maybe we are,” smiled her pa.
6
SUNDAY NIGHT , at 11:37 (give or take a second), Nolan sat up in bed, two pillows propped behind him, the lamp next to the bed on; he was reading Las Vegas travel brochures, looking for a bargain. There were three travel agents in the Chamber of Commerce, so he’d get a discount either way. But he wanted the best package.
He hadn’t been to Vegas in years, and it would be an interesting trip; he probably wouldn’t recognize the Strip—he heard the casinos were side by side there, now, jammed together, no breathing room. He had mixed emotions about that—he’d always liked having some space between casinos, liked the sprawl of that, glittery sin leisurely strung out along a desert road. But he had no argument with success, or the change it brought. Progress was progress; money was money.
The best package seemed to include the Flamingo, which almost made him smile. All roads led to the Family. He’d met Bugsy Siegel once; he’d come in the Rush Street Club with Campagna. Hell of a nice guy, Siegel was; charming. Campagna, on the other hand, Little New York himself, while nice enough, seemed menacing in that quiet way that meant the worst. Nolan had known, just looking at them, that neither of these guys was anybody to cross.
He’d also been to the Flamingo in the fifties several times, ’51 the first time; but that was several years after the Family cashed Bugsy’s chips in. The Fabulous Flamingo, Bugsy’s dream, his pink palace which gave birth to the modern Vegas Strip, was in the red, in the early days, and word was he was skimming to sink dough back in the joint, cheating his Family friends/investors, like Accardo and Ricca and, out East, Lansky. So they killed him.
It would be fun to go back to the Flamingo, with all its memories. And it seemed to be the best buy, too.
The Vegas trip was Sherry’s idea; she’d never been there and it sounded exciting to her. She deserved a vacation, so he figured why not—you only live once. What she was having trouble understanding was Nolan’s attitude about gambling: he didn’t. Not in Vegas, not in any casino, with the exception of poker, if he was in the right mood. Any other game was out of the question. Nolan never thought about it, but his life was lived by a strict set of rules, and one of the strictest was: You never play against the house.
Nolan put the travel brochures on the nightstand and turned off the lamp; he sat in the dark, naked under the covers, hands folded on his plump belly, which looked plumper than it was, contrasted with the rest of his lean, scarred, muscular frame.
He was waiting for Sherry. This was the ritual, on the nights they made love, which was perhaps every other night, except in her period, of course.
She would say, “I’ll meet you in the bedroom in five minutes.” He would say fine, and would slip downstairs to shower in the can, off the guest bedroom. She would be upstairs, readying herself. Bath; diaphragm; makeup; perfume. The perfume was this hundred-and-fifty-buck-an-ounce shit from Beverly Hills, which even with his fifteen percent discount from Petersen’s was a crock. His Christmas gift to her last year. It did smell good.
Within the specified five minutes, Nolan would be between the sheets; nothing but him and his Old Spice, powder and after-shave both. Another ten to fifteen minutes would pass, during which he would either read or think. He didn’t mind the wait; he liked time to himself, and with all the hours he was putting in at
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