'I called them. They will get here as fast as they can,' said Ben, staring at his favorite thing on earth, his own roughly handsome face in the mirror, as he tried to get his bow tie just right. It was a red number, with little blue symbols of something or other on it. He'd got it at Sulka's, the last time he was in London with the Countess.
'Well, they better shake their asses,' Virginia said.
'They' were the squad of bellboys necessary to move the Virginia and Ben show from the Apollo Suite at the Arlington to a limousine to the Missouri-Pacific station for the 4:15, which would take them to St. Louis, where they would transfer to the Super Chief on its way back to Los Angeles. So many men were required because wherever Virginia went, she went in style, involving at least ten pieces of alligator luggage. Ben also traveled in alligator and in style, but he disciplined himself to a mere eight cases.
So eighteen suitcases were stacked in the living room of the Apollo Suite, awaiting removal. But Virginia hated to wait. Waiting was not for the Flamingo. It was for the other 99.999999 percent of the world. She decided she needed a cigarette. She walked out onto the terrace and the blinding Arkansas sun hit her. Her sunglasses were already packed. For some reason the sun against her face infuriated her more.
She stepped back into the room, nerves uncalmed by the cigarette. She didn't like to smoke indoors because the smoke clung to her clothes. She was in the mood for a fight.
'This place is a goddamn dump,' she said. 'Why did we come here? You said I'd meet picture people.'
'Sweetie, you did meet picture people. You met Alan Ladd, Dick Powell and June Allyson.'
'You idiot,' she said. 'They ain't picture people. They are Hot Springs people. Don't you understand the difference?'
'Alan Ladd is big in pictures!' protested Ben.
'Yeah, but his wife manages him and she watches him like a hawk. And she ain't about to help a li'l of thang like me! I felt her staring at me! She would have ripped my eyes out, except that if she'd tried, I'd have belted her in the puss so hard she'd see stars for a fucking year. And that Dick Powell, he's like Mr. Bob who ran the company store. Just a big of politician, slapping the gravy on every goddamn thing! I know his type; big on talk, nothing on getting it done. He'll smile pretty as how-de-do, but he ain't one bit interested in me! I want to meet Cary Grant or John Wayne. I want to meet Mr. Cooper or Mr. Bogart! These are little people. You can't get nowheres in L. A. with little people.'
Ben sighed. When Virginia lit up like this, there was no stopping her, short of an uppercut to the jaw, which he had delivered a few times, but she was wearing him down. You can only hit a gal so many times. He wished he had the guts to dump her, but in bed, when the mood was on her, she was such a tigress, so much better than anyone, he knew it was impossible.
'Well, I'm down here on business,' he said. 'I have a lot to learn from Owney. He has ideas.'
'That creep. He's about as British as my Uncle Clytell.'
'Sweetie, we'll be back in LA. in a couple of days. I'll buy you a new mink. We'll throw a big party. Stars will come.
But let me tell you! This has been very profitable for me. It's going to get better and better out there. You watch and see Where the next ten years take us. We will be so big?'
'You been saying that for six months and you're still the bughouse creep they sent to L. A. to get outta their hair and I still don't have a speaking part! Did you call your lawyer?'
'Well, honey, I?'
'You did not! You are still married to that bag Estelle! You're still Mr. Krakow! Mr. Krakow, would you like some eggs with your bacon and let's take the station wagon to Bloomingdale's, dear, they're having a sale! You ain't moved one step closer to no divorce. You bughouse kike, I knew you'd lie! You liar! You goddamn liar!
She turned, and snatched a $200 lamp off a mahogany end table, lifted it and turned toward him. She advanced, nostrils flaring, eyes lit with pure craziness.
But then his own sweet craziness skyrocketed out of control.
'Don't call me bughouse/' Ben shouted back. Nothing got him ticked faster than that. A white-hot flash of lightning zagged through his brain, taking all thought and reason from him. He stood, balled his fist and began to stalk his adversary, who approached savagely.
But a knock on the door signaled the arrival of the help, and with a snort, Virginia set the lamp down, opened the door and headed toward the elevator.
Virginia stared stonily at Hot Springs as it drifted by through the Caddy's window. In the broad daylight, it was just another crappy burg, like Toledo or Paducah.
'Virginia,' asked Owney, 'did you take one of our famous baths? Very soothing.'
'I ain't letting no nigger scrub me with a steel-wool mitt while my hairdo melts and my toes wrinkle up like raisins,' Virginia said.
'Ah, I see. Well, yes, there is that,' Owney replied.
Ben shot him a little look. It said, She's in one of 'those' moods.
Owney nodded, cleared his throat, and directed his gaze back to Ben.
'It's a humming joint,' said Ben. 'You really got something going here.'
'So I do. It's called the future.'
Ben nodded; it was clear that Owney saw himself not merely as a professional but as some sort of elder wise man, with rare and keen insights. That's why a lot of New York people regarded him as a yakker and didn't miss his pontifications and fake Englishisms a bit. But Ben was curious and had his own ideas.
'The future?'
'Yes. Do you see it yet, Ben? Can you feel it? It's like that Braque hanging in my apartment. You have to feel it. If you feel it, its meanings are profound.'
Ben's placid face invited Owney onward, and also suggested that Ben was stupid and needed educating, neither of which was true.
'The future. Ben, the wire is dead. The war killed it. It accelerated communications exponentially, old man. We used to control the wire because we controlled the communications. We were organized. We could get the race and sports data around the country in a flash, and no other organization, including the U. S. government, was capable of competing. Information is power. Information is wealth. But the war comes along and finally the government understands how important information is to running a global enterprise, and finally they begin to fund research. Once the genie is out of the bottle, there's no putting him back. The next few years will amaze you, Ben. This television? Huge. Person-to-person calling? Instantaneous, without operators or trunk stations. Super adding machines, to make the most arcane calculations the property of the common man. So our great advantage is gone, and with it the source of our wealth and power. We must change! Change or die! They couldn't see that in New York, but believe me, it is coming. Great change. One must ride it, not fear it, but be able to play it, don't you see?'
Ben nodded sagely. Once in 1940 with the Countess he had stayed at Mussolini's summer retreat and heard that bombastic baldy talk in a similar vein. The future! Tomorrow! Fundamental change!
What did it get him, but an upside-down ride on a meat hook at the end of a piano wire after the gunners got done stitching him, and old lady peasants spitting on his fat carcass?
'Yeah, yeah, I see,' said Ben innocently.
'Ben, the future is in casinos. That is where the great wealth will come. A city of casinos, a city we own and operate. That is what I'm trying to build here, slowly and surely, with the long-term goal of making gambling? gaming, we'll call it?legal in Arkansas. It's like a license to mint money. People will come in the millions. They can wander the trails in the afternoons, eat food that's cheap, see the shows?Perry Como and Bing Crosby are just a start?and that night enter a magic world and feel the thrill and the excitement that's formerly been felt only by high rollers and aristocratic scoundrels. They'll pay! They'll pay dearly! Ultimately we will become just another American corporation, like Sinclair Oil or Motorola or RCA. Ultimately, we will be America!'
'Talk, talk, talk!' said Virginia. 'You chumps, a Chicago mechanic could clip you and you wouldn't even see it coming. It ain't going to change, Owney. Them old bastards, they got too much riding on the way they do things. They'll kill you before they let you change the fucking rules, without batting an eyelash.'
They were talking so furiously nope of them noticed the black '38 Ford with two glum detectives following them a few car lengths back.
The train lay like a fat yellow snake, huge and wide and imposing. Its diesel streamline seemed to yearn for
