Mickey Spillane - Lady, go die

Overall, it had any gambling joint in the city shaded. I took my hand off the light and let the unshielded beam play over the tables. Sharron Wesley had sunk a fortune into this operation. The tables had Chicago trademarks, the best money could buy. Craps tables stood along the west wall, flanked by numerous roulette wheels and cages.

There were six faro layouts and assorted poker tables with automatic card-shuffling machines built in. I threaded my way through to where six rows of slot machines were huddled in the corner, all two-bit jobs, the jackpots still full.

On each end, and in the middle, were the banks. They were built like movie cashier booths, with one exception: the glass partitions were an inch thick. Behind the opening where the money and chips changed hands, a piece of heavy steel was inlaid into the counter. Any dough that went out had to be passed around it. The thing was practically foolproof. The Wesley dame had taken no chances on being stuck up. The cashier could stay behind there without a worry-no bullet would get through that glass, and neither could the door be opened. A time lock arrangement took care of that.

The dial of the lock registered “open.” I pulled on the steel door and it swung out. Inside was a telephone, a stool, a huge money drawer, a container for chips and, on the floor, a handkerchief. The drawer was empty. I picked up the tiny frilly hanky and took a close look at it. In one corner was the initial “G,” and the thing still held the faint, musky aroma of expensive perfume.

With the handkerchief, I picked up the phone to see if it was alive. A buzz came from the receiver so I cradled it. I backed out of the booth and stuck the handkerchief in my side pocket. I couldn’t see what good the thing would do me, but you never can tell.

A dusty smell was in the air, not the smell of disuse, but that of a place not recently cleaned. The protective covers of the tables were covered with a fine coating of dust and sand particles. Not much, but just about as much as would settle in a week.

This place was certainly no amateur joint, nor was it the indulgence of a rich man’s whim, or rich woman, either. This nifty little casino had every hallmark of the real thing. Those wild parties in Sidon I had heard rumors about were juicy orgies of gambling.

This house was run for one reason-to make money. But why, I couldn’t figure. Sharron Wesley had supposedly inherited a cool million or more from her late husband.

A hard-living dame like that ex-chorine could go through money fast enough, that was a cinch, but a million is a lot to spend and she hadn’t had that much time yet. Still, I guessed there was no reason why she shouldn’t go into business for herself, to keep afloat among the money set.

Oh, hell, that idea was out the window-that bimbo didn’t have enough brains in her yellow-haired head to put together a sophisticated gambling operation like this one on her own steam.

Somebody had been backing her.

The darkened opening of a foyer led from the casino area. I looked in, then-through the archway on one side-spying the bar, a big horseshoe-shaped affair. Damn! This lodge-type area alone could accommodate a few hundred at a sitting. Sharron Wesley had been no piker when she built this indoor amusement park.

Stools were arranged in orderly fashion around the bar with tables-for-two set against the wall. The whole place had been swept and put in order after the last party, which hadn’t been so long ago, either. You’d think a place like this would be put in for the summer crowd, but that didn’t seem to be the case. This was a year-round operation that must have catered strictly to the city slicks who came out to throw their dough around, and away.

Under the bar, I found a bottle of Scotch, removed the cork and took a short pull. Good stuff. I put the cork and the bottle back. The walls in this place had been finished in knotty pine, giving the room a healthy outdoor odor. I made my way completely around the bar, then took the foyer to the side door.

A cloakroom was built into the wall with enough hangers for the Stork Club and then some. Next to the cloakroom was a second-floor staircase. I shone the light on the steps-they, too, were dust-covered. So much for servants. If anyone was up there, they must be hibernating. No one had used the staircase in a week, at least.

Nevertheless, I took no chances. I judged the approximate number of steps to the top and went up, walking as close to the bannister as I could, to avoid letting any telltale squeaks announce my presence.

The top landing was covered by a Chinese rug thick enough to muffle any sound. The corridor led to one main room that occupied half the entire upper floor-a ballroom. A stage that could have accommodated Glenn Miller’s band took up the far end, and a fully functioning bar ran along one wall, while a sea of little round tables with chairs surrounded a waxed and polished beach of hardwood, a dance floor larger than the usual night club variety.

The other rooms were bedrooms. No one lived in them-they seemed to be designed to provide couples with a comfy trysting option; or maybe high-end prostitution was part of the party fare Sharron Wesley offered. At one end of the hall was a three-room apartment. This was the first place that looked well used. A glamorous, silver-framed portrait of Sharron was displayed on a baby grand. Around it were a dozen smaller framed photos, all of men.

These had been Sharron’s quarters, all right.

It was beginning to dawn on me how she operated. She lived here, but she lived alone. And while this apartment was nice enough, it was bizarre to think that the wealthy widow of E.J. Wesley existed in only three fairly small rooms in her own lavish mansion. This was how the help lived, at least they did if their rich boss wasn’t a bastard.

Nowhere in the well-appointed but relatively small apartment could I find evidence of male occupation, which wasn’t like her at all. None of those guys with their pictures on the baby grand had toothbrush and pajama privileges. Nor could I find any servant’s quarters. Whenever Mrs. Wesley gave a shindig, she must have imported a full staff of servants from the city to do the arranging and the cleaning up.

The guest list must have been a carefully selected bunch. If they weren’t, news of this joint most certainly would have found its way to county or state officials and there would have been hell to pay. Admittance then, would be by invitation only, a swell way to attract the suckers and snobs. Very hush hush or you were kicked out on your well-off fanny, maybe worse. If they did squawk, they’d only leave themselves open for a gambling charge.

Neat.

I opened a few drawers and poked around a bit, but there was nothing of unusual interest. After completing a tour of the rooms, I walked downstairs and around to the new kitchen to complete the circuit. I had my eyes open all the way and I know where to look, but I never found what I wanted.

In that whole damn house there wasn’t one sign of a safe.

I had looked in all the usual places and unusual, as well, behind pictures, under desks, checking for loose carpet. No safe.

If Sharron Wesley didn’t have one in the house, she must have buried it somewhere on the property. One thing was certain, money wasn’t being banked or stored where a check could be kept and income tax dragged out of it. An illegal den like this didn’t dare operate that way. There was the likelihood that she had a partner in the venture, and he hauled the dough back to the city. But the parties were probably Friday/Saturday affairs. And I doubted a bank run would happen daily, eighty miles out on Long Island like this. A Nassau County bank, perhaps, but that was still a drive. Any operation like this needed a safe for overnight purposes, at least, and I could not find one.