Mario Puzo - Fools die

So I said to Cully, “Yeah, you’re right. But I can’t leave for a couple of days.”

Now he really looked me over. Then he shrugged. He picked up the check and signed it and got up from the table. “See you guys around,” he said. And left me alone with Jordan.

We were both uneasy. Neither of us wanted to be with the other. I sensed that we were both using Vegas for a similar purpose, to hide out from the real world. But we didn’t want to be rude, Jordan because he was essentially an enormously gentle man. And though I usually had no difficulty getting away from people, there was something about Jordan I instinctively liked, and that happened so rarely I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by just leaving him alone.

Then Jordan said, “How do you spell your name?”

I spelled it out for him. M-e-r-l-y-n. I could see his loss of interest in me and I grinned at him. “That’s one of the archaic spellings,” I said.

He understood right away and he gave me his sweet smile.

“Your parents thought you would grow up to be a magician?” he asked. “And that’s what you were trying to be at the baccarat table?”

“No,” I said. “Merlyn’s my last name. I changed it. I didn’t want to be King Arthur, and I didn’t want be Lancelot.”

“Merlin had his troubles,” Jordan said.

“Yeah,” I said. “But he never died.”

And that’s how Jordan and I became friends, or started our friendship with a sort of sentimental schoolboy confidence.

– -

The morning after the fight with Cheech, I wrote my daily short letter to my wife telling her that I would be coming home in a few days. Then I wandered through the casino and saw Jordan at a crap table. He looked haggard. I touched him on the arm, and he turned and gave me that sweet smile that affected me always. Maybe because I was the only one he smiled at so easily. “Let’s eat breakfast,” I said. I wanted him to get some rest. Obviously he had been gambling all night. Without a word Jordan picked up his chips and went with me to the coffee shop. I still had my letter in my hand. He looked at it and I said, “I write my wife every day.”

Jordan nodded and ordered breakfast. He ordered a full meal, Vegas style. Melon, eggs and bacon, toast and coffee. But he ate little, a few bites, and then coffee. I had a rare steak, which I loved in the morning but never had except in Vegas.

While we were eating, Cully came breezing in, his right hand full of red five-dollar chips.

“Made my expenses for the day,” he said, full of confidence. “Counted down on one shoe and caught my percentage bet for a hundred.” He sat down with us and ordered melon and coffee.

“Merlyn, I got good news for you,” he said. “You don’t have to leave town. Cheech made a big mistake last night.”

Now for some reason that really pissed me off. He was still going on about that. He was like my wife, who keeps telling me I have to adjust. I don’t have to do anything . But I let him talk. Jordan as usual didn’t say a word, just watched me for a minute. I felt that he could read my mind.

Cully had a quick nervous way of eating and talking. He had a lot of energy, just like Cheech. Only his energy seemed to be charged with goodwill, to make the world run smoother. “You know the croupier that Cheech punched in the nose and all that blood? Ruined the kid’s shirt. Well, that kid is the favorite nephew of the deputy police chief of Las Vegas.”

At that time I had no sense of values. Cheech was a genuine tough guy, a killer, a big gambler, maybe one of the hoods who helped run Vegas. So what was a deputy police chief’s nephew? And his lousy bloody nose? I said as much. Cully was delighted at this chance to instruct.

“You have to understand,” Cully said, “that the deputy police chief of Las Vegas is what the old kings used to be. He’s a big fat guy who wears a Stetson and a holster with a forty-five. His family has been in Nevada since the early days. The people elect him every year. His word is law. He gets paid off by every hotel in this town. Every casino begged to have the nephew working for them and pay him top baccarat croupier money. He makes as much as the ladderman. Now you have to understand the chief considers the Constitution of the United States and the Bill of Rights as an aberration of milksop Easterners. For instance, any visitor with any kind of criminal record has to register as soon as he comes to town. And believe me he’d better. Our chief also doesn’t like hippies. You notice there’s no long-haired kids in this town? Black people, he’s not crazy about them. Or bums and pan handlers. Vegas may be the only city in the United States where there are no panhandlers. He likes girls, good for casino business, but he doesn’t like pimps. He doesn’t mind a dealer living off his girlfriend hustling or stuff like that. But if some wise guy builds up a string of girls, look out. Prostitutes are always hanging themselves in their cells, slashing their wrists. Bust-out gamblers commit suicide in prison. Convicted murderers, bank embezzlers. A lot of people in prison do themselves in. But have you ever heard of a pimp committing suicide? Well, Vegas has the record. Three pimps have committed suicide in our chief’s jail. Are you getting the picture?”

“So what happened to Cheech?” I said. “Is he in jail?”

Cully smiled. “He never got there. He tried to get Gronevelt’s help.”

Jordan murmured, “Xanadu Number One?”

Cully looked at him, a little startled.

Jordan smiled. “I listen to the telephone pages when I’m not gambling.”

For just a minute Cully looked a little uncomfortable. Then he went on.

“Cheech asked Gronevelt to cover him and get him out of town.”

“Who’s Gronevelt?” I asked.

“He owns the hotel,” Cully said. “And let me tell you, his ass was in a sling. Cheech isn’t alone, you know.”

I looked at him. I didn’t know what that meant.

“Cheech, he’s connected,” Cully said significantly. “Still and all Gronevelt had to give him to the chief. So now Cheech is in the Community Hospital. He has a skull fracture, internal injuries, and he’ll need plastic surgery.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“Resisting arrest,” Cully said. “That’s our chief. And when Cheech recovers, he’s barred forever from Vegas. Not only that, the baccarat pit boss got fired. He was responsible for watching out for the nephew. The chief blames him. And now that pit boss can’t work in Vegas. He’ll have to get a job in the Caribbean.”

“Nobody else will hire him?” I asked.

“It’s not that,” Cully said. “The chief told him he doesn’t want him in town.”

“And that’s it?” I asked.

“That’s it,” Cully said. “There was one pit boss that sneaked back into town and got another job. The chief happened to walk in and just dragged him out of the casino. Beat the shit out of him. Everybody got the message.”

“How the hell can he get away with that shit?” I said.

“Because he’s a duly appointed representative of the people,” Cully said. And for the first time Jordan laughed. He had a great laugh. It washed away the remoteness and coldness you always felt coming off him.

Later that evening Cully brought Diane over to the lounge where Jordan and I were taking a break from our gambling. She had recovered from whatever Cheech had done to her the night before. It was obvious she knew Cully pretty well. And it became obvious that Cully was offering her as bait to me and Jordan. We could take her to bed whenever we wanted to.

Cully made little jokes about her breasts and legs and her mouth, how lovely they were, how she used her mane of jet black hair as a whip. But mixed in the crude compliments were solemn remarks on her good character, things like: