not, awake or asleep, alive or dead for all Elizabeth knew. Every station had to be treated with exactly the same leisurely solicitude, even if the stewardess knew the next five didn’t want to be bothered and the sixth was waving a twenty with one hand and an empty glass with the other. Standard procedures had to be followed and there was always a logical reason for them that had to do with statistics. Organizations did things with the long run in mind. It was only individuals that jumped at momentary advantages, took short-cuts, made mistakes. Then Hart was talking to her.
“It’s not as bad as all that,” he was saying. “You look pretty depressed for somebody who’s going home.”
“It is as bad as all that,” said Elizabeth. “I could tell we were getting closer to it. I could feel it. And now we’ll go back and the whole thing will be buried in the files.”
“Sure,” he said.
“What do you mean?” said Elizabeth. “Is it as simple as that? No results because they didn’t feel like letting us do a real investigation? That’s great.”
“I mean that we did what we were supposed to do—we looked around and got some information on two different matters, and it’ll go into the files and maybe contribute to the handling of those matters. That’s what it’s all about.”
“Matters?” said Elizabeth. “Jesus.”
“You can’t think in terms of solving these problems yourself. What you do is contribute to a systematic information-gathering effort, and you’d better realize that or you’ll find yourself being unhappy and frustrated most of the time. Maybe a decent dinner would cheer you up. We’ll be in Washington at five thirty and I could pick you up at eight. I might have enough clout to get us a late reservation at Le Provencal or Sans Souci on a Wednesday. I’ve always made a point of grossly overtipping just in case of an emergency like this.”
She smiled as kindly as she could. “No thanks,” she said. “I’m tired and I want to see what I can do tonight about the way I look before I stagger back to work in the morning.”
He didn’t seem daunted. There was something to be said for men who didn’t seem daunted, she decided, but it wasn’t enough to change anything. She listened as he tried to make his way back to neutral ground as gracefully as he could: “It’s a solitary hamburger for each of us then,” he grinned. “Some other time.”
“Some other time,” she agreed. But would there be another time, she wondered. There was a mystery to these things too. Sometimes something happened and sometimes nothing happened. Whatever controlled it was too subtle and indistinct to make rules about. She settled back in the seat and watched the approaching stewardess. There was no reason not to have a drink, she thought. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Thursday morning. He stared into the mirror and worked his fingertips over the skin of his cheeks. It wasn’t too bad. He was still young enough to heal quickly, he thought. In another day or two the suntan and the soft life would take care of the worst of it, and he was beginning to think there might not be a scar. He lingered in the shower for fifteen minutes, trying to decide how to manage the next stage of it. There was too much he didn’t know. He dressed carefully and inspected the results. Not bad—a real estate man from Phoenix having a little side trip on the way home from a business meeting or a winter vacation, if it weren’t for the bruises. But the sunglasses helped.
At the end of the hallway he waited for a moment to see if another door opened, but there was no sign of anyone. It would be the maid, probably, who would be under orders to ring someone she thought must be an assistant manager as soon as Room 413 was unoccupied. He took the stairs to the casino and moved through the crowds in the direction of the front entrance. The telephones here were too closely flanked by slot machines. There was no way of telling who today’s watchers were, or even if there were some electronic eavesdropping system. It didn’t matter because if they could videotape every hand at every blackjack table they could probably pick up a number dialed on the house phones too, and there was no way for him to know what happened to the tapes afterward.
On the street he stopped to buy a newspaper at a vending machine, then walked into Uncle John’s Pancake House. He waited at the door to see if the watchers were following closely enough to be seen, then went to the telephone booth and placed the call.
He counted six rings before the voice on the other end said, “Dapper Dry Cleaners.”
“Mr. De la Cruz, please,” he said.
A voice shouted “De la Cruz” over the hum of machinery.
“Cruiser, I don’t want to talk long, so listen. I have a little work I need to subcontract—maybe two days’ worth and nothing noisy, so it can be any rummy as long as he doesn’t stand out. Can you sell it for me?”
“Well, hello to you too, amigo. I heard somebody seen you but I didn’t believe it. Bring me some shirts.” The line went dead. He said good-bye to the dial tone and went back to the line of patrons waiting to be served for breakfast.
He sat down at the counter and ate quickly, scanning the paper. It wouldn’t do to keep the Cruiser waiting too long: his other interests might take him away from the laundry. As soon as he could get out without seeming hurried, he was back on the street.
It didn’t look as though the maid had been to his room yet; at least she hadn’t cleaned it. He built a pile of his dirty shirts and fitted the hotel’s plastic bag around it. Once outside he walked the two long blocks to the Flamingo to lead whatever watchers there might be far enough from their cars before he got into a taxi. To his disappointment he didn’t see anyone rushing for a car as he drove off. That had been one of Eddie’s favorites: “Always look as though you’re doing one thing and do another; but do it smooth. Don’t look as though you changed your mind. A stupid watcher will commit himself too early and walk right up your ass. If they’re set up to cover you with a switch they’ll usually look at each other, just like one was handing you off. They can’t help it.” But that was only if they weren’t good. If they were, you might see them and you might not.
When he came through the entrance to the laundry he could see the Cruiser waiting for him in the center of the dry-cleaning section. Clothes on hangers suspended from the conveyer track on the ceiling whisked past the Cruiser’s dark, slouching form like frantic ghosts. Abruptly the moving track stopped and the dresses and coats swung forward once, then backward, then stopped too, and hung opaque like a curtain. The Cruiser stepped from among them.
“Hello, amigo,” he said, snatching the bag and shaking the shirts out onto the counter. “What’s happening?”
“Just some watching until tomorrow night. Nothing special.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred do it?”
“What’s the bonus?”
“Another four for the best. One if I’m just sure he was awake and nobody saw him.”
The Cruiser smiled and thumped the counter once with his fist and said, “Sold” and then returned to sorting shirts. “What’s the name?”
“Harry Orloff. He’s in the phone book. Want something up front now?”
The Cruiser nodded his head. “All but the bonus.”
He looked up as he took the four hundred. “You know I can’t do anything without something to at least flash at them, amigo. And if you’re not around Friday when I deliver these shirts—I’m not saying you wouldn’t want to pay, but things happen—I’d be out that much. I gotta live here, man, and—”
“It’s all right. Just get on it as soon as you can. I’d like the shirts at seven on Friday. That okay?”
“Sure, amigo. See you then. Earlier if there’s something to talk about. You at Caesar’s?”
“Yes. Four thirteen.”
“Okay,” he said, and disappeared behind the hanging curtain of clothes.
When he was back on the street he glanced at his watch. It was 11:30 already. The best time to return to the Strip would be after twelve when the first of the DC 10’s and 747’s from the East arrived and dumped their hundreds of passengers at McCarron Airport. Every day the taxis streamed onto the Strip to deposit them,
