Микки Спиллейн - The Delta Factor

Looking out at the gaudy runways of the streets flanked by the glistening white façades of the hotels and casinos, it was hard to picture that four miles away on the tip of the peninsula was the graveyard of the living called the Rose Castle and inside was a man named Victor Sable and someplace in there I had to reserve a room for myself.

I tried my luck in four of the places, playing lackadaisically at the crap tables, picking up a couple of hundred bucks behind the shooters. It was still too early for the big action, most of the trade in catching the Las Vegas-style supper shows. But the mental climate was far from Vegas. There was something furtive about this place. It was subtle fear you could almost feel and smell, something in the attitude of the stickmen and croupiers. There were too many hardcases busily engaged in doing nothing except inspecting the crowd, noticeable bulges pulling their tuxedos out of shape, strangely military in their carriage, with hostile eyes their smiles couldn’t conceal.

The most peculiar thing was the absence of the little people. Unlike similar cities, there were no shoeshine boys, no hookers working the bars, nobody trying to shake you down for a few coins on the street. What few I saw went about their business with their heads down and did it quickly. Twice, I deliberately approached them, ostensibly to ask for directions. One said he didn’t speak English and the other simply pointed and held up two fingers for the blocks I had to travel, looked around him nervously, then scurried off.

When it was time to meet Kim I walked to a cabstand and asked the driver to take me to the Regis. When he pulled out from the curb I asked him, “When do things move around here, buddy?”

“Soon, señor. Once the heat of day has passed.”

“Recommend anyplace special?”

His shrug said one place was the same as another.

“How about the games? They straight? I’d hate to drop a bundle on a rigged wheel.”

This time his eyes caught mine in the mirror. “The government sees to it that all things are run honestly.” It was like reciting a well-memorized line.

“Quite a place. What was it like before?”

Once more I met his eyes and they were a little cagy. “Very different, señor. There has been a great improvement.”

“For the better?”

“Oh, si, señor. Much better now. There is no more poor. The government has seen to that.” It was another pat line. I was wondering if he ever drove through the slum area that bordered all this opulence.

The gaming rooms of the Regis avoided the Las Vegas look. The effect was more of early-twentieth-century splendor, the place swathed in heavy draperies and thick velvet carpeting, presided over by huge crystal chandeliers whose prisms threw weird spectrums on the tables below. There was a Diamond Jim Brady atmosphere and you could almost hear the money rustle in the thick wallets of the patrons. Currency from a dozen countries was being changed at the counters into stacks of chips, and multilingual hostesses circulated with bubbling bottles of champagne. Dress was mixed between casual and formal, with money being the only common denominator.

I wasted a half hour losing at stud poker, then hit a streak and added seven hundred to my pot before I moved on. What I wanted to establish was the attitude of a restless newcomer trying on things for size before getting into anything big, not caring one way or another whether I won or lost. Either way, I tipped the dealers a big bite so they’d have me spotted for another go around before I tried another pitch.

Kim came in just before nine o’clock and joined me at the roulette wheel. Once again she got those looks, and murmurs of appreciation ran around the table and the envious eyes sized me up when she took my hand like a loving wife was supposed to. I could pick out a couple of them who would have tried a continental approach to making a play for her, but I was just a little too big and my face was the kind that said I wouldn’t go for that bit at all without crippling somebody, so there were regretful shrugs and they went back to the game.

When I lost out on a dozen turns I took Kim over to the bar, ordered a couple of drinks for us and said, “How’d you make out?”

“Purchasing power buys a lot of things around here. Incidentally, I put everything upstairs.”

“They shake the place down yet?”

“Thoroughly but efficiently. Ordinarily, you’d never notice it. They’re very proficient.”

“I expected that. What did you pick up?”

“A confirmation of our information,” she said. “The government is nominally run by a president and his cabinet who were forced on the people by Carlos Ortega’s machine. They’re merely figureheads who have to do as they’re told. It’s the same old pattern. The people get a look at prosperity and have hopes of sharing in it, but it’s all eyewash. Ortega controls the Army and they control the population. It all happened in a subtle takeover instead of a revolution, but it was just as effective.”

“Then why doesn’t Ortega just assume control?”

“Because he wants world approval, for one thing. He likes money and he likes power, but of the two, he’ll take money first. He’s got a gold mine going for him here and if ever the balance swings in the wrong direction he’ll be able to get out with a fortune the very same way the other dictators did.”

“But enough money and he can swing the power package too,” I stated.

“Exactly. Right now the government funds are depleted because they overextended themselves on their building program. Domestic taxes are murderous and if it weren’t for the hard course the Army takes there might be open rebellion.”

“That won’t work.”

Kim shook her head and sipped at her drink. “I don’t know. There’s a peculiar feeling running through the people I spoke to. They seem to like this figurehead president. Although he can’t do anything, he’s one of them and on their side. He’s bucked Ortega twice and made it stick and my bet is that Ortega would have had him erased if it wouldn’t have put him on the spot. Given one opportunity, or confidence that he’d be backed up by the right governments, and he’d pull the cork.”

“That fits the Commie trend.”

“I don’t know. We backed them down in Cuba and they may not want to jeopardize their present status by going that far out for an inconsequential place like this. The other Latin American countries might toughen up at that. No, I think the Reds are playing it cute and waiting it out. If Ortega makes it on his own they’ll side with him. If he falls, they’ll bypass this situation.”

“And that brings us to Victor Sable.”

“Ortega’s ace in the hole, Morgan. He can bargain with him. Both sides want him badly and Ortega’s waiting until the price is right.”

“Damn, we should have moved in with troops to start with.”

“And risk a global war? Then the Commies would back up Ortega. They’d have the propaganda advantage for one thing and a ready-made secondary government to support him for another. Besides, it would give them the excuse to pull a power play in the other hot spots in Asia where the lines of communication favor them.”

I finished the drink and waved the bartender over for a refill. “And old Morgan gets tapped to be the patsy.”

“Somebody has to do it,” Kim told me. “You were just a natural for the part.”

“Gee, thanks, kid.”

“No trouble at all,” she smiled sweetly. “Consider it an education in global politics and a rebate on your jail sentence.” She let the smile go wider, then suddenly grimaced when I kicked her shin with the side of my shoe.

She didn’t stop smiling, but she did say, “Ow… you bastard.”