Ross Thomas - Chinaman’s Chance

Simms put his oval cigarette out carefully after having smoked no more than a quarter of an inch of it. He leaned back in his chair and made a steeple of his fingers and gazed thoughtfully over them at Overby. A small, nearly whimsical smile came and went from his almost chiseled lips.

“Otherguy Overby,” Simms said, and shook his head in a small gesture of appreciation that was almost mocking, but not quite. “To use a phrase that I intensely dislike, almost a legend in your own time — at least” — and Simms gave his head a small nod toward the window — “ ‘out there.’ ” From the tone, Overby realized that Simms was quoting him, even mocking him a little now. Overby smiled, but said nothing. It was getting interesting.

“We did some checking on you, of course,” Simms said, examining the steeple that his fingers still formed.

Overby produced another small smile, but again said nothing. He too had long ago learned the many uses of silence.

“And your syndicate of ‘investors,’ ” Simms went on with another small shake of the head. “Run Run Keng, Jane Arden, Pancho Clarke, Gyp Lucas, et al.” Simms sighed happily. “As merry a band of freebooters as one could hope to find anywhere.” He paused and smiled again. “And, I should add, our kind of people.”

“Yours and Imperlino’s,” Overby said.

“That’s right. Mine and Mr. Imperlino’s.”

“So what’re you and Imperlino selling that up until now has cost me ten thousand dollars for nothing more than a cup of coffee and a seat by the fire?”

Simms seemed to consider Overby’s question quite seriously for several moments. “I suppose,” he said thoughtfully, “what we’re really offering is licenses to steal. Interested?”

“Very.”

“What about hotels, Mr. Overby? Are you also interested in them?”

“I’ve lived in a lot of them.”

“We’re going to build in this town on ten acres of the finest beach property left in the world what may very well be the world’s largest hotel. We’re not quite sure about that because there may be one in Moscow that has a few more rooms. Do you know the Bayside Amusement Park?”

Overby nodded.

“That will be the site. We already have clearance from the Coastal Commission, we have the necessary environmental-impact studies completed and approved, and we, of course, have the necessary financing.”

“So what’s left, the hatcheck stand?” Overby said. “There’s no money in that anymore. The linen service? The ladies? The booze?”

“All very small change, Mr. Overby. Very small indeed. Of course, you haven’t quite thought it through. When one builds a hotel of five thousand rooms, one has to fill it with paying guests. So what do we have to offer? An excellent hotel with a fine beach, immaculate service, wonderful food, and Disneyland not much more than an hour away. But one can get all that in Miami Beach or a number of other places. No, what fills a hotel is conventions, Mr. Overby, people getting together once a year or so to trade information, elect new officers, find new jobs, get away from their wives or husbands, and also, perhaps most important of all, have a little excitement. And that, Mr. Overby, is what we intend to provide: excitement.”

“What kind?”

Simms rose. “Let’s go over to my desk and I’ll show you something.”

When they reached his spindly-legged desk, Simms opened a large leatherbound folder — about the size of those that commercial artists keep their samples in. The first page was a detailed map of the downtown section of Pelican Bay.

“Here we have the amusement park where the hotel will go up,” Simms said, using his finger as a pointer. “And here, just across the street from it, we have this four-block area that’s now largely made up of second-rate apartments, small, marginal businesses, and one-family homes, most of them deteriorating. With the city’s official blessing and the enthusiastic backing of the local newspaper and the various civic groups, including the labor unions, we’re going to raze that entire four-block area.”

“And put up what?”

“Whatever people dream about in their wildest fantasies.”

“You mean a whorehouse that’s four blocks square?”

“Not all fantasies are sexual, Mr. Overby, although we will, of course provide sex in all of its many delightful forms. But what we’re really going to provide is sin without sorrow and thrills without danger. Good, wholesome licentiousness, one might say, with no regrets.”

Overby thought about it for a moment. Finally he said, “Either you are or you aren’t. You can’t have it both ways. Either it’s going to be real or it’s going to be a gyp.”

“A good point. An excellent point, in fact. But take a look, Mr. Overby, and then decide.”

Simms turned another page in the folder. It was a street scene done in skillful watercolors, and Overby somehow knew that if he went down that street with its small sidewalk cafés, its intriguing-looking doorways, its cobbled pavements, he would find all sorts of stimulating, possibly erotic things to do and see. He lifted his eyes from the rendering and stared at Simms for a moment, thinking, The fucker’s not all flash after all.

Simms turned another page. This time the scene was again vaguely European, but more tawdry, more decadent. “Berlin in the ’30s,” Simms said. “The first one was Paris in the ’20s, the Pigalle section — idealized, of course. You can go from Paris to Berlin” — Simms started turning more pages — “to Singapore to Hong Kong to Marseille to London’s Limehouse to San Francisco to New Orleans to New York to wherever you have ever dreamed of going. It will all be within this four-block-square area, and whatever you have dreamed of finding in those places you will find here — carefully sterilized for safe consumption.”

“Gambling?” Overby said.

“Our one problem. Gambling is against state law except for draw poker, which California, with its usual omniscience, has recognized as a game of skill, not chance. But real gambling will come to California, sooner probably than any of us think. The voters will decide that they’d rather have legalized gambling than confiscatory property taxes. It’s wonderful, don’t you think, how flexible one’s lifelong convictions usually are?”

“Sure,” Overby said. “Wonderful. But what’s still bothering me, is there going to be any action or not?”

“Action?” Simms said, as if he liked both the sound and the taste of the word. “You will see things that you have only heard whispered rumors of before — not you, of course, Mr. Overby, but the average person. Let your imagination run rampant; it will all be there.”

Overby bored in again. “Can I get laid, for example?”

“Laid? Laid. If during your wanderings down these delightful streets you spy a young woman who strikes your fancy, you need only whisper to her the number of your hotel room. And she will whisper back the time. And then, at that exact time, she will appear as if by magic in the comfortable surroundings of your room — perhaps accompanied by a friend, if you should so desire. Yes, Mr. Overby, you can indeed get laid.”

“What about the law?”

“The law, Mr. Overby, will be present to protect the customer. Nobody will get rolled, nobody will get mugged, nobody will have his pockets picked or his body harmed — except, of course, through his own self-indulgence. The policemen on duty will, in fact, cheerfully steer the adventurous into even more intriguing pursuits.”

“Dope?”

“Perhaps an opium den or two — the height of wickedness, don’t you think?”

“Real opium?”

“Who’s to say — as long as the beautiful young Chinese girls prepare the pipes?”