Michael Ridpath - Free To Trade

After walking round the Tahiti for a couple of hours, my mind became a blur of flashing dollar signs, lights and faces, all devoted to the pursuit of money. It made me uneasy. As I had said to Piper half jokingly, gambling was my job. Somehow the rush of adrenalin came more naturally when facing the winking green numbers on the screens at my desk than the relentless passing back and forth of money in Las Vegas. But perhaps I was just as trapped as the sad-looking individuals feeding the slots.

In a despondent mood, I had a sandwich and went to bed.

It was a great double act. Piper looking relaxed but dependable in a conservative lightweight suit. Art Buxxy, the showman, doing what he did well. It was a big moment for both of them. They had to secure $200 million from their audience.

Piper warmed up the crowd. In a reasonable, persuasive voice he talked in abstract terms about the remarkable financial opportunity that the Tahiti presented. There was talk of numbers, strategy, competitive analysis. Enough to make us think that the Tahiti was in safe hands, not enough to bore us. Despite the outward reserve, as he warmed up to his presentation, Piper did let some of the excitement he felt for the project show through. Standing there, tall, tanned, elegantly but conservatively dressed, speaking in a manner which was more suited to the Harvard Club than a casino, he gave his audience reassurance. Despite appearances, the Tahiti must be a respectable, conservative investment, or why would someone like Irwin Piper be involved with it?

Then it was Art Buxxy's turn. Buxxy was a small man with a nut-brown face, longish blow-dried grey hair and bundles of enthusiasm. He was hardly ever still, and when he was, it was for a melodramatic pause, to let the full consequence of what he had just said sink in. His abrasive, rough-edged manner jolted his audience after the smooth Piper, but within a minute his energetic charm had already bewitched us all. Selling was his calling, and the Tahiti was the love of his life. He used all his skills. He told us about his childhood as a cardsharping son of cardsharping parents. His poor-gambler-made-good story neatly combined several elements of the American Dream. He then launched into the details of how to run a casino. How to prevent croupiers from stealing money, how to spot card-counters, how to use databases to analyse high-rollers' personality profiles, and which promotional spend worked best. We were captivated. And I think most of us were sold.

They took us on a tour of the complex. Seen through Buxxy's eyes, the tackiness and the loneliness of a big casino disappeared. We saw the glamour, the glitter, the amazing technological effects. He took us to see the private rooms where the high-rollers played, wallowing in sophistication, power and money. By the time we had returned to the conference room where he had started his pitch, I could feel that the majority of the audience would write out a cheque there and then.

'Any questions?'

Silence. No difficult questions about Piper's background. No tedious questions about percentage drop of slots against tables, high-roller comps, or blue-collar busing costs. Even the most cynical investor was under the spell of the greatest casino on earth. At least temporarily.

I had thought through this moment carefully.

I stood up.

Piper's eyebrows pulled together slightly, in the barest trace of a frown. 'Yes?'

'I have two questions for Mr Piper.' The audience were looking at me with mild interest. My English accent jarred in the glitzy Las Vegas surroundings. Piper was staring at me hard. 'First -has the Nevada Gaming Commission scrutinised your previous investments?' The audience stirred a little, but not much. Piper stiffened. 'Second-can you comment on an investment you made in a clinic for executive stress in Britain?'

I sat down. The audience reaction was mixed. Some faces bore disapproval; I was a spoil-sport to try and take cheap shots at these great guys and their great casino. A few, including Madeleine Jansen, sat up and took notice.

Piper rose to his feet. He was as unruffled and urbane as ever. 'I would be happy to answer those questions. First, the Commission checks out all applicants for gaming licences very thoroughly. Second, I have a large portfolio of investments. I believe a few years ago these included some properties in England, but I don't have the details of them at my fingertips. Any other questions?' He looked around the audience quickly.

This was a dangerous moment for Piper. Until now he had had his listeners eating out of his hand. But he hadn't answered my questions properly. If anyone pursued him on this, then doubts might creep in. But I wasn't going to push it any further. I had achieved my objective. He knew I knew, and he knew I would tell. I looked over at Madeleine. She opened her mouth as if to ask a question, but she was too slow. Piper was already wrapping up the meeting. She gathered her papers together thoughtfully and looked over towards me, trying to catch my eye. I avoided her glance.

Half an hour later, I was having a cup of coffee in the atrium, when a bellboy came over to me. 'Excuse me sir, Mr Piper would like you to join him in his suite.' That didn't take him long, I thought, as I put down my cup and followed the bellboy to the elevators.

Piper's suite was on the top floor of the hotel. It was completely out of character with the rest of the Tahiti. There were no lurid scarlet furnishings, no mirrors or gilded fittings. There were a number of pieces of English antique furniture: a delicate sofa, six straight-backed chairs with embroidered covers, a small writing-desk and two or three deeply polished small tables. These rested on a large predominantly light blue silk carpet criss-crossed with intricate ancient Persian or Indian motifs. All this looked out of place against a large floor-to-ceiling window which overlooked the tall white structure of the next casino along, and beyond that the dusty greys and browns, interspersed with neon, of the city of Las Vegas. The desert could be seen stretching away in the distance.

Piper was alone in the room. He beckoned me to a seat. I perched on the flimsy-looking Georgian sofa, whilst he sat in one of the high-backed mahogany armchairs. Gone was all the civilised politeness. Piper was angry.

'What the hell do you think you were doing out there?' he said. 'I am not some two-bit bond salesman you can play games with. I am a powerful man in this town. I've got money, and I've got lawyers. And if you mention Bladenham Hall one more time, or even allude to it, I will sue. I will sue you for so much that your great-grandchildren will still be paying off your debts a hundred years from now.'

Piper, angry, was impressive. For a moment he had me on the defensive. If I had upset such a powerful man, I had surely made a mistake. The moment passed.

'I thought you would be interested in this,' I said, untucking the newspaper I had been carrying under my arm. It was a copy of the Sun of several years ago. On page two, just opposite Bubbly Belinda Baring All, was the headline 'City Slickers' Saucy Retreat'. Under this was a photograph of Bladenham Hall and an article about how a Mr Irwin Piper was helping police with their enquiries. Lurid insinuations of businessmen indulging in sex orgies followed.

Piper went purple. 'If you dare show that to anyone, I'll have my lawyers right on to you immediately. That is if I don't tear you apart myself.'

Paradoxically, Piper losing control helped me stay calm. He didn't seem quite so powerful. 'By "your lawyers", you presumably include Debbie Chater?'

'Hah! She's the one who told you is she? I'll sue that toad Denny as well.'

'She no longer works for Denny Clark,' I said.

'I don't care where she works. If she breaches lawyer-client confidences, she is in deep trouble.'