Don Winslow - A Long Walk Up the Waterslide

Walter Withers was out of luck.

He bombed at twenty-one-or “XXI,” as it was known in the Vesuvius Room-got burned by old VII at the dice table in the Molten Lava Pit, and was out-and-out killed by a steely-eyed gladiator holding three kings over VIII ’s in The Coliseum Poker Arena.

He did not make back Ron Scarpelli’s fifty thousand. Instead, he’d tapped his cash, maxed out both Visa and MasterCard, and been laughed at by the woman on the AmEx 800 line. She told him that not only could he not get another cash advance; he couldn’t even get a room unless she had a cashier’s check by noon.

He was on his last day in Pompeii.

He found a phone booth with a stool and perused the late games. Then he dialed Sammy Black’s number. Sammy would take his bet on account and maybe he could get well on San Diego with the points.

A recorded voice came on to tell him that the number had been disconnected.

That’s strange, he thought. I hope Sammy hasn’t been arrested.

He called the Blarney Stone and was relieved to hear Arthur’s live, familiar voice.

“Walter! How are you doing?”

It was refreshing to hear a little warm bonhomie again.

“All right, Arthur, all right. Listen, I tried to call Sammy just now, but his number has been disconnected.”

There was an uncharacteristic silence from Arthur.

“Uh, Walt, I thought you knew that,” Arthur said.

“How would I know that?”

Because you did the disconnecting, Arthur thought. But he said, “Walter, Sammy is dead, remember?”

“Dead! Good God, man, what happened?”

Arthur got it then, and he was offended. Withers was calling to make sure his alibi was intact.

“A guy walked into the bar and shot him,” Arthur said. “And Chick.”

Walter Withers was shocked. New York had achieved a promiscuity of violence that was simply unacceptable.

“Who would want to do a thing like that?” Withers asked.

“I don’t know,” Arthur said pointedly. “I was in the can.”

“How traumatic for you, Arthur.”

Arthur hung up thinking that Walter Withers was one cold-blooded cookie.

Walter hung up and tried Gloria again. Perhaps she had heard from Polly. If he could just get a lead on Polly, he could probably persuade Scarpelli to give him another advance on the expense money.

“Hi!” Gloria’s voice said brightly.

“Hello,” Withers said.

“I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right now,” Gloria’s voice continued, “but I would love to get a message from y-o-u. So leave one at the sound of the beep.”

“Gloria, it’s Walter again. I’m wondering if you heard from your friend. Please ring me. Please.”

He hung up and wandered into the lobby to score another free drink.

He approached one of the fabulous showgirls in the revealing togas and tried not to stare at her breasts as he requested a drink.

She looked down at him suspiciously and asked, “Are you really with the convention?”

“Certainly.”

“There’s supposed to be a three ambrosia per guest maximum,” she said. Then she saw his face crumple in disappointment and added, “I can give you a virgin ambrosia; it’s just tomato juice. A lot of the Triple-X people are in the program; maybe you should try it.”

Withers looked dolefully at the vegetable concoction.

“What am I supposed to do with it?” he asked. “Sacrifice it to the volcano?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” He sighed. “And no thank you.”

“I’m a friend of Bill’s,” she confided.

He looked unabashedly down her toga and said, “Bill must be a happy soul.”

She looked around quickly and handed him a real drink.

“You’re a kind person, Calpurnia,” Withers said.

“There’s a meeting in the Sandals Sandals room tonight,” she whispered. “You should check it out.”

“Are you and Bill going?”

“You’re a funny guy,” she said as she padded off to inflict hospitality on other guests.

“You’re a stitch,” Ron Scarpelli agreed. “Where’s my money?”

“Ron!” Withers exclaimed.

“Call me Mr. Scarpelli,” Ron growled. He was dressed for business: a three-piece white suit, black silk shirt open at the neck, gold chain, and white loafers, with no socks.

Ms. Haber, in a white tube top and white pantaloons, stood over his shoulder like an erotic backdrop.

“What are you doing here?” Withers asked.

“What am I doing here?” Ron shouted. “What are you doing here! You’re supposed to be out getting me Polly Paget!”

A few heads in the lobby turned at the name. Ms. Haber steered the two men to a banquette behind an enormous palm tree.

This gave Withers a few seconds to think. There was only one thing to do: Lie.

“That is precisely what I am doing,” he said quietly. He leaned closer to Scarpelli. “She’s here.”

“In Vegas?”

And keep lying.

“Right here in this hotel.”

“Is that why you called?”

Is that why I called?… Is that why I called?… Did I call?

“Yes,” Withers said.

Scarpelli leaned closer. The smell of Brut was overpowering.

“Why’d you hang up on me?” he asked.

“I was about to lose her,” Withers said. “Had to go. I’ve been on the trail ever since, so I couldn’t call back. That’s why I look so…”

“Shitty?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re making this up,” Scarpelli accused.

“Certainly not,” Withers answered.

“Ron,” Ms. Haber said, “if she’s in this hotel, is it possible she’s signing with the film people?”

Scarpelli looked genuinely alarmed.

“Hard-core?” he asked. “That’d be a terrible mistake. We’d pay her more for one spread than she’d make in a dozen movies!”

“All the major magazines are here, too,” Ms. Haber warned.

“Shit,” Scarpelli said. “Walt, we gotta make our move. Where is she?”

Where is she?… Where is she?… Let me think now… Where is she?

Polly Paget knelt in the front seat of the Laredo and applied the last touches of makeup to Candy Landis.

She inspected her handiwork and said, “Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

Candy looked into the rearview mirror.

“If she did, she’d have a heart attack,” Candy said. “I look like a whore.”

“Better,” Polly said.

Polly, on the other hand, looked like a young gym teacher with her newly shorn hair and unadorned face, over a University of Nevada/Reno sweatshirt, sweatpants, and tennis shoes.

Neal knocked on the window and Karen opened the door.

“Okay,” Neal said. “You and I are married.”

“Neal, we’re going to check into a hotel pretending we’re married? How cute.”

“Who am I supposed to be?” Candy asked.

Neal looked at the cohost of “The Jack and Candy Family Hour” for several moments before he found the nerve to answer, “Desire.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A pornographic film actress,” Neal said. “You, too, Polly.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“A pornographic film actress!” Candy repeated, her eyes wide. “Neal, I don’t know if I can…”

“It’s just for the paperwork,” he assured her.

“But aren’t I a little old?”

“Ah, you’re only as old as you feel,” Polly said. “What’s my name?”

“Amber Flame.”

“Amber Flame?”

“Shut up.”

Neal started to haul baggage out of the back of the Laredo.

“Polly,” he said, “lose the sunglasses. People take a second look at someone wearing sunglasses indoors, and we don’t want second looks. We’re just going to walk in, get in an elevator, and walk to our rooms. Don’t try to be sneaky; don’t try to be inconspicuous. Questions?”