Гарольд Роббинс - The Raiders

The ranch house was in distinct contrast to the hacienda house near Cordoba. The hacienda house had style. The ranch house had fashion. Las Vegas had neither. The Seven Voyages was a plastic dump.

"I'll take over the top floor, all of it, for the company headquarters," Bat said to Chandler within five minutes after they met.

"I explained to your father, that'll cost money," said Chandler.

"I may need part of the fourth floor, too," said Bat.

Chandler shrugged. "You're the boss."

"I'm glad you understand that. Angie will be my father's personal and confidential assistant when he's in town, mine when he's not. The rest of my personal staff will be coming in from Los Angeles and Mexico City."

"Whatever you say, boss."

"Don't call me boss."

"What do you want me to call you?" Chandler asked.

"Until we know each other a little better, you can call me Mr. Cord," said Bat. Then he grinned and walked over to where Chandler was sitting and slapped him on the shoulder. "I figure we'll know each other better in about fifteen minutes, and then you can call me Bat."

As soon as Chandler was out of the suite and on the private elevator, Bat turned to Angie and said, "I'm hot. I want to go swimming. You have a bathing suit handy?"

"Uh ... Sure. In my room."

"See you at the pool in ten minutes," said Bat.

She appeared in a white two-piece swimsuit and white high-heel shoes. Swimsuits that exposed the navel and a little below were just beginning to appear in the States and were being called bikinis, and Angie attracted stares as she crossed the pool deck and sat down beside Bat at an umbrella table.

"You are a luscious woman," he told her. "If you didn't have a relationship with my father — "

"If I didn't have a relationship with your father, I'd be glad to have one with you," she said soberly. "Let's understand, though, what that relationship is. I love your father. I don't suppose he loves me, at least not the way I love him, but I do love him; I don't just sleep with him."

He put a hand on hers. "I asked you to meet me down here because we have to establish some new rules. I've hired a company in Los Angeles to come here and sweep the hotel for hidden microphones and the like. Until that's done, no business talk in the offices or rooms. Also, none on the telephones until I have new lines installed."

"Someone said you're tougher than your father."

"Not at all. Not a question of tough. Question of realistic. When you called my father and told him Hoffa had been here, he was grateful. I have to wonder if Chandler doesn't know you made that call."

"If he did?"

"It puts you on his shit list," said Bat.

"I'm on it anyway."

"It's something more than just personal," Bat said. "Las Vegas is immensely attractive to organized crime, and they're moving in more and more. In times past, guys were making money by skimming the casino take. Now it's something more. Have you heard of the term money laundering?"

"I've heard of it," said Angie.

"A lot of secret money from a variety of rackets is laundered in Las Vegas. Some of it is being laundered in Cuba now. Money laundering makes casinos all the more important to the rackets."

Angie nodded. "You know I did time in a federal pokey, don't you?"

"I do know that, Angie. If my father doesn't worry about it — which obviously he doesn't — then I don't either. So far as I am concerned, we can forget all about it."

"Thank you, Bat," she said softly. "Anyway, I learned more about this kind of thing than I wanted to know."

"Anyway," said Bat, "we are going to have to watch out."

"Bat ... they are dangerous," she said solemnly.

When Bat's bug sweepers worked the fourth and fifth floors of The Seven Voyages they did find hidden microphones. Several of them were hidden in the telephones. Others were behind pictures, in the bases of lamps, in the upholstery of chairs, and in the box springs of beds. The telephones were tapped, as he had expected. The bug sweepers killed all the bugs and removed all the taps. They left devices that would detect new ones. Bat contracted with them to return at irregular intervals to sweep again.

He said nothing to Chandler about the bugs and taps, and Chandler said nothing to him. It was remotely possible — very remotely possible — that Morris Chandler didn't know. Bat considered having Chandler's office swept but decided not to.

He settled into the fifth-floor suite his father had occupied two years before. Toni flew out from Washington to spend a week with him. She disliked Las Vegas as much as he did.

"It's about as cheap a place as I've ever seen."

"Actually, it's one of the most expensive places I've ever seen."

"How long will you be here, Bat?"

"Only as long as I have to be."

He saw Morris Chandler every day, but in October Chandler asked for an appointment and came up to talk with him.

"A couple of guys coming in from the East want to meet with you."

Bat shrugged. "I'll meet with just about anybody. Who do you have in mind?"

"A couple of men with money to invest," said Chandler.

"Do you want to tell me who they are?"

"Mr. David Beck and Mr. James Hoffa," said Chandler. "Mr. Beck is the president of —"

"Dave Beck is president of the International Teamsters. Jimmy Hoffa is his bag man. I know who you mean."

"The union has hundreds of millions of dollars in its pension fund," said Chandler. "It is looking for investments. Knowing that you and your father want to build another casino-hotel in Las Vegas — "

"They want to be partners," said Bat. "Not likely. I'll meet with them. But partnership ... Not likely."

Bat called New York, and four days later, Jonas arrived. The next day, Beck and Hoffa arrived and were taken up to the fifth floor.

Bat had no difficulty in seeing Jimmy Hoffa for what he was and would have recognized him for it if he had read nothing about him. He'd met the type in the army: scrappy, cocky little street bullies. Some of them had smarts, too. Hoffa did. Hoffa was a street tough, and he was short-tempered and quick with his fists, but he was shrewd. Dave Beck was something else: a fat thug, a straw-hatted waddling hunk of grease.

Morris Chandler treated them with oily respect. He introduced them to Bat and suggested which chairs they might like. He had already ordered a cart of liquor and snacks.

Little time was wasted on small talk. Beck came to the point.

"Your company is operating what is probably the most profitable hotel-casino in town," he said, speaking directly to Jonas. "We understand you want to build another one and maybe a third one. Obviously you have expertise. You have the connections that get the gaming licenses. We have capital. The Central States Pension Fund is looking for secure investments with more than conservative return. Some of your money ... And some of ours ... Some of your savvy ... And some of ours ..."

"I control my businesses," said Jonas.

"I control my union," said Beck. "Like, you've never had any problem with drivers refusing to back trucks up to your docks because they don't exactly meet safety standards. Inter-Continental Airlines has some real problems with non-standard loading docks, but we've never made an issue of it. You see what I mean? One hand washes the other."

"One hand washes the other," Jonas agreed. "Before we could do business, though, you'd have to wash your hands."

"What the hell's that mean?" barked Hoffa.

"To start with, Tony Pro," said Jonas.

"Whatta ya mean by that?"

"Tony Provenzano," said Jonas. "He may be a great guy, but I don't want to do business with him. There are others."

"Are you gonna tell me who I can associate with?" asked Beck angrily.